I’m Lys! Uses She/her pronouns, Born in 2000, INFP, Aries sun, Gemini rising and Capricorn moon! Also French ✨
I love Halsey, they’re my favourite artist, I’m kind of a weeb, listens to kpop, reads, plays video games. I’m a loser kinda gal. Anyways…. I’m a beginner writer!! so my writing may be a bit awkward.
Here, have my mediocre writing 🫶
𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕
RESIDENT EVIL
FINAL FANTASY VII
YAKUZA
TRIGUN STAMPEDE
Works Reading Reviews
Dividers by @uzmacchiato & @firefly-graphics. images found on Pinterest!
: ̗̀➛ synopsis ! -- working as the Leon S. Kennedy's secretary would've been anyone's dream, but it's a bit difficult to enjoy your job when the guy doesn't like even a little bit of fun. You try to joke around with him, but all he does is respond coldly and short. So what better way to soften him up than cutely decorated letters that entail all the things he needs to know about ? It's cute, and informative! You just hope he doesn't throw them out..
: ̗̀➛ cw ! -- f!reader x boss!leon, slight teasing, mainly just a slow burn of fluff and cuteness,, enjoy
: ̗̀➛ a / n -- this idea has been on my mind for a while
: ̗̀ 'Good morning Mr. Kennedy!'
written in bold, colorful letters, his name in the prettiest cursive that he's seen. every letter that you've sent - that could've been an email - had a specific, colorful theme that would change every week.
every one contained his schedule, what he should be working on, and any new deals that were coming up. even as he read carefully, his eyes kept drifting towards the small cutouts and doodles that were carefully glued and stuck onto the sides, making the lined paper more interesting to look at.
"She must've spent a while on this one.." he murmured to himself, carefully folding the letter back into the envelope it came in, sliding it in his drawer filled with every other letter you had sent. to be honest, he enjoyed seeing the splash of color within the bland meetings and business deals. it made everything a bit more easier to handle.
he started to look forward to your letters, even though emails would still be sent to him. he looked at the emails afterwards, your letters came first.
the lights in his office were dimmed, just how he liked it. it eased his headaches. he heard the door creak open, another wave of pain shooting through his head. "I told you all, I'm not your teacher and I cannot keep teaching you how to operate a compu.." he shut himself up when he saw you, everything in his head going quiet. your big smile somehow brightened the room.
"Good morning Mr. Kennedy!" and somehow, the way you said it was the exact tone he'd read in his head at every beginning of the letters. "I have amazing news! So about that leak in the break room? I managed to get a guy who would fix it today, and that's super fortunate because-" "Hey, hey." Leon holds up his hand, taking in a deep breath.
"I hate to cut you off, but I have the worst headache right now and I probably should've called in today, but if you could just.. give me a minute?" he really did hate cutting you off, he liked hearing you talk about everything you managed to get done and the things you liked, and hearing his packed schedule from you just sounded better.
but right now, everything just sounded like nails against a chalkboard. "Oh!" you nod in understanding, slowly backing out of his office. "Totally, no need to apologize. I'll be back in a bit!" you wave as you shut the door behind you, now with a new mission in mind.
as the mechanic you hired fixed the leak under the sink, you quickly make a cup of coffee just how Leon likes it. you always carry some aspirin just in case someone may need it. your office was right next to Leon's, and just as big. your own personal desk, beautiful windows, and a very comfortable couch you manage to take small naps on without getting in trouble.
Leon was nice enough to let you put stained glass in your office! a splash of color was all everything needed, in your opinion. the clutter on your desk seemed to never end, scraps from today's letter still spread across the wood. old paint and glue told tales of old scrapbooking and junk journals, all displayed on your shelves. some say that stepping into your office was therapeutic, and that they loved just walking inside and standing around.
shifting through your drawers of colored pencils and tapes, you finally found your aspirin. you grabbed a coffee cake from your mini-fridge and made your way back to his office. the second the door opened, he hid something under the desk, hitting his hand in the process. "Shit." he hissed in pain, rubbing his knuckles. "Hey.." Leon's gaze fell onto your hands, chuckling. "Is that for me?" he motioned you closer, watching you set down everything on his desk.
"Mhm! Everything is so neat, unlike mine." you smile at him, handing him the small bottle of aspirin. "Here, this one is halfway empty, so it'll only do but so much.. still, I want you to have it. Don't want you having a headache the whole day, hm?" he slumped back in his chair, running a hand over his head. he watched you open the coffee cake, a smile on his face. "I could kiss you." he whispered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I never said anything." a stupid move, he thought. a slip of the tongue, his mouth moved before he could think. he popped the pill in his mouth, grabbing the coffee and taking a swig. groaning in relief, he nodded. "Thank you, a lot." he stared at you for a moment, noticing your blank stare as you held the coffee cake.
"..What?"
"You need to eat something with the pill, not just the coffee." "You can't be.."
"Leon Scott Kennedy."
he nodded in defeat almost immediately, grabbing the small cake from your hands. "Yes ma'am." he corrected himself, slowly taking a bite as he looked away from you. he'd never admit it, but you were the only one he'd listen to.
with a smile on your face, you picked up the pill bottle and walked around to his side of the desk. "Perfect! Now I will just put this here, and.." as you opened his drawer, your heart suttered.
there they were, every letter you sent him, all neatly piled in there. the envelopes were opened, so he did read them all. a warm blush spread across your face as you smiled. "Oh, Leon.."
"It was just- It was only polite for me to- sheesh.." he put his head in his hands. if you were to see his face, he wouldn't be able to live it down. "I believe I need another minute, Ms. Secretary." he cleared his throat, turning his chair away as he loosened his tie.
with a soft smile, you gingerly set the bottle in the drawer and slowly closed it. "Whatever you say, Mr. Boss." the nicknames were meant to be a tease, but now, they felt intimate.
after that day, the nicknames were common. workers would notice you two bantering with each other, and rumors immediately started about a workplace romance going on between the two of you.
little did they know it was only the beginning.
aww, how cute.
imma make like 3 more chapters on this guys trust.
✦Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x doctor!reader
✦Summary: Statistically speaking, a plastic surgeon is not the most useful doctor during a zombie outbreak. Unless the zombies need a face lift. Unfortunately, a bioterror attack hits your hospital anyway. Now you’re stuck surviving a viral outbreak with a tired government agent who keeps getting injured and showing up at your apartment like a very dangerous stray cat.
✦Content: 18+, Canon typical violence, eventual smut, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, PTSD, trauma recovery, fluff, angst, emotional intimacy, romantic tension, strangers to friends to lovers, domestic, nightmares
Masterlist
AO3
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
Summary: Leon falls victim to the cat distribution system.
As an emergency vet, you have strict rules about giving out your personal number to clients. But when a soaking wet, broad-shouldered man walks into your clinic holding a shivering neonate kitten like it's a live grenade, you make an exception. Strictly for cat emergencies, of course.
(It does not stay strictly for cat emergencies. Not when he keeps using "suspicious sneezes" as an excuse to see you)
Content: Sick animals, grief and loss, burnout, alternating POV, no Y/N, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, gentle romance, Leon becomes a cat dad, flirting, awkward Leon, domesticity, reader is a veterinarian, realistic vet med content
DM or Comment to join the taglist
The rain is a relentless, gray sheet that turns the Washington D.C. outskirts into a blurred watercolor of brake lights and misery.
Inside his Porsche Cayenne, Leon S. Kennedy feels the familiar, hollow hum of a post-mission comedown. His suit is wrinkled, his tie is loosened to the point of uselessness, and the smell of stale coffee and government-issued paperwork seems to have seeped into his very pores.
The debriefing had been a disaster. Four hours of bureaucrats in sterile rooms asking him to quantify the "unquantifiable horrors" he’d seen in a damp basement in Eastern Europe.
They want data; Leon just wants a drink and a decade of sleep.
"Note to self," he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carries over the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers. "Next time Hunnigan calls with an 'easy' reconnaissance job, tell her I’ve retired to open a bakery. At least bread doesn't try to grow extra heads."
He’s doing sixty on the slick highway, his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel light but practiced. His mind is already drifting toward the bottle of aged bourbon sitting on his kitchen counter—his only roommate in an apartment that’s too quiet and too clean.
It’s a dangerous headspace to be in. In his line of work, the moment you start looking forward to the end of the night is the moment something bites you.
Suddenly, the world narrows.
A flash of neon orange darts into the cone of his high beams. It’s small—too small for a deer, too erratic for a trash bag.
"Son of a—!"
Leon reacts before he thinks. It’s a muscle memory honed by years of dodging charging Ganados and careening through Raccoon City in a stolen cruiser.
He slams the brake pedal, the ABS system pulsing violently beneath his boot. The car skids, its tires screaming in a high-pitched protest against the wet asphalt. The back end fish-tails, a graceful but terrifying slide that Leon corrects with a sharp, disciplined jerk of the wheel.
The car lurches to a halt, the engine idling with a low, mechanical pant. Leon’s heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he usually reserves for when a Tyrant is breaking through a drywall.
"Great. Just great," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "If I’ve totaled the suspension for a squirrel, I’m never living this down."
He throws the car into park and steps out. The rain hits him instantly, soaking through his dress shirt and plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He rounds the front of the car, expecting to find a mess on the road. Instead, he sees a tiny, shivering lump huddled against the front passenger tire.
It’s an orange kitten. It couldn't be more than five weeks old, its fur spiked into pathetic, sodden needles. It looks less like a predator and more like a very angry, very wet dandelion.
Leon stares at it. The kitten stares back with wide, watery eyes, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched mew that sounds like a rusty hinge.
"You’ve got a real sense of timing, kid," Leon says, crouching down. The water is already pooling in his expensive shoes. "Of all the lanes in all the world, you had to walk into mine."
He reaches out, and the tiny creature tries to hiss. It’s a valiant effort, really—a miniature display of bravado that makes Leon’s chest ache with an unexpected, sharp tug of empathy.
He knows what it’s like to be small, cornered, and surrounded by things much larger and meaner than you.
"Easy. I'm not a zombie. Well, not on the weekends, anyway," he murmurs.
He sheds his suit jacket—the one that cost him more than an average paycheck—and scoops the kitten up. The creature is so light it’s terrifying; he can feel every individual rib beneath the soaked fur. It’s vibrating with a bone-deep chill. Without a second thought, he swaddles the kitten in the heavy fabric of his jacket, shielding it from the downpour.
Back inside the Porsche, the heat is blasting, but the kitten is still shaking. Leon sets the bundle on the leather passenger seat, watching as a tiny, pink nose pokes out from the lapel of his jacket.
"Come on, little guy," Leon mutters, his voice softening in a way he hasn't heard in years. "Don't clock out on me yet. I didn't almost wreck my favorite car just for you to quit now."
He taps the GPS on his dashboard with a frantic, wet finger. 24-hour emergency vet.
"Alright, hold on," he says, shifting the car back into gear. He glances at the kitten, who has now curled into a ball inside the jacket, looking exceptionally small against the vastness of the interior.
"I hope you like German engineering, because we’re about to break some speed records."
As he pulls back onto the highway, the bourbon is forgotten. His focus is entirely on the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of the orange fur beside him. For the first time in a long time, the mission isn't about saving the world or stopping a virus.
It's just about making sure one small thing makes it to tomorrow.
──────•✦•──────
The clock on the wall of the treatment area mocks you. It’s 3:00 AM, the literal witching hour of veterinary medicine, where the cases are either bizarre, tragic, or a headache-inducing combination of both.
You take a sip of coffee that has reached a temperature and consistency best described as "over-brewed sludge," feeling it burn a slow path down your throat. It’s the only thing keeping your eyes open.
"The tulips really did a number on him," you mutter to Sarah, your lead tech, as you both stare down at a sedated domestic shorthair in cage four. "Bloodwork looks like a disaster zone. His liver’s basically thrown in the towel and headed for early retirement."
Sarah sighs, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses. "Are we starting him on the lactulose titration now?"
"Yeah," you say, your fingers dancing across the sticky keyboard of the workstation with a weary, mechanical rhythm. "And hang the fluids. I’ve already typed in the orders. Honestly? I could use a Propofol coma myself right about now. Just ten minutes of medically induced silence. Is that too much to ask of the universe?"
The chime of the front bell rings—a sharp, cheerful ding that feels like a physical blow to your sleep-deprived brain.
"The universe says yes," you grumble, pushing off the counter.
You catch a glimpse of the security monitor. Standing in the lobby is a man who looks like he just crawled out of a shipwreck. He’s soaking wet, broad-shouldered, and wearing a look of such raw, high-octane panic that your professional instincts override your exhaustion.
"Well," you mutter, adjusting your stethoscope around your neck. "This is going to be interesting."
You head out to the lobby, the smell of wet pavement and expensive leather hitting you before you even reach him. He’s striking—harsh jawline, blonde hair plastered to his forehead in messy clumps, and eyes a startling, piercing shade of blue that seem to be vibrating with adrenaline. He’s cradling a high-end suit jacket like it’s made of glass.
"Exam room one," you say, your voice blunt but not unkind. You don't wait for him to move; you lead the way, the squelch of his boots following behind you.
Once the door clicks shut, he gingerly places the jacket on the stainless steel table. "I found him on the highway," the man rasps. His voice is deep, underscored by a slight tremor he’s trying very hard to hide. "He almost... I almost hit him. I think he’s dying."
"Let’s see the damage," you murmur. You carefully peel back the wet fabric, expecting a gore-fest. Instead, you find a tiny, orange scrap of fur that lets out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak.
Your hands, practiced and steady, move over the tiny body. You grab a warm, chlorhexidine-soaked gauze to wipe away the road grime and grease. You check the gums—pale, but pinking up. You listen to the heart—fast, but steady. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Just a very cold, very hungry little life.
"Good news, sir," you say, looking up at him. "He’s not dying. He’s just a dramatic, malnourished neonate."
"Leon," he corrects instantly, his voice slightly breathless. "Just... Leon."
You blink, then tap your ID badge with a tired, playful smirk. "Okay, Leon. We can do first names. It saves time in an emergency." You go back to drying the kitten with a soft towel. "He’s probably five weeks old. He’s thin, he’s got a bit of a chill, but he’s remarkably intact for someone who took on a car and won."
Leon sags against the counter, his hands shaking as he runs them through his wet hair. The relief on his face is so profound it makes your chest twinge with a rare spark of empathy. Usually, people are just annoyed about the bill. He looks like he just saw a ghost be resurrected.
"So, what happens now?" he asks. "You... you have a shelter? Or a rescue?"
You stop scrubbing and give him a long, grim look. "It’s kitten season, Leon. Every rescue within a three-state radius is currently overflowing. They won't take a bottle-baby right now. If I send him to the city shelter, his chances are... well, they aren't great."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the sound of the rain lashing against the exam room window. You watch the conflict play out across his face—a man clearly burdened by a world of "heavy" things, staring at a three-ounce kitten. He rubs his temples, looking at the orange scrap that is currently trying to burrow into his damp shirt.
"I don't know the first thing about cats," he admits, a dry, self-deprecating humor touching his lips. "I'm more of a... tactical entry kind of guy. Not a 'nanny' guy."
"You managed to not squash him with a car," you shrug, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a starter kit. "That’s a passing grade in my book."
He sighs, a long, defeated sound that ends in a nod. "Fine. I’ll take him. What do I do?"
For the next ten minutes, you give him the 'Neonatal 101' crash course. You pack a box with formula, tiny bottles, and a snuggle-safe heating pad. You show him how to hold the kitten—belly down, never on his back—and how to test the temperature of the milk.
"And here’s the best part," you say, a mischievous glint in your tired eyes. You pick up a cotton ball and dip it in warm water. "Since he’s this small, his mom would usually lick him to make him go. Since you are now the mom, you have to stimulate him to go to the bathroom after every meal."
You hand him the cotton ball. Leon stares at it as if you’ve handed him a live grenade with the pin pulled.
"I have to... what?"
"Stimulate," you repeat, suppressing a grin. "Gently. It’s glamorous, I know. Welcome to parenthood, Leon. Try not to get any on the suit."
The moment of levity is shattered when Sarah’s head pops through the door, her expression grim. "Doc, we’ve got a hit-by-car ten minutes out. It’s a Golden Retriever, multiple fractures, looks like he’s in shock. We’re prepping the crash cart."
The shift in your energy is instantaneous. The playful vet vanishes, replaced by the clinical commander. You reach for a pen stuck in your pocket and use it to shove your messy hair up into a makeshift bun, tightening the knot with a sharp tug.
"Copy that. Get the O2 ready and start a warm saline bag," you say, already moving toward the door. You look back at Leon, who is standing there holding a box of formula and a terrified-looking orange kitten.
"Leon, he's stable. Take the kit, go pay the tech at the front desk, and get that cat into a warm bed," you say, your voice now a sharp, professional staccato as the adrenaline begins to flood your system. "I’ve got a real crisis coming through those doors. Good luck. Don't be a stranger if he stops eating."
You don't wait for a goodbye. You're already sprinting toward the treatment area, the "Propofol coma" forgotten.
──────•✦•──────
The apartment is a monument to a man who expects to leave it at a moment’s notice and never return.
It’s located in a quiet corner of D.C., all cold granite countertops, brushed steel, and a sofa so ergonomically perfect and devoid of character it might as well have come with the lease. There are no photos on the walls. No stray mail on the entry table. The air usually smells of nothing but filtered ventilation and the faint, metallic tang of the gun oil he uses to clean his gun.
Now, it smells like kitten formula and desperation.
Leon sits on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating the deep grooves of exhaustion etched into his face. He sets an alarm for 02:00. Then 04:00. Then 06:00.
"Great," he mutters, his thumb hovering over the save button. "I've gone from tactical extractions to a scheduled piss-watch for a creature that weighs less than a standard-issue magazine. My career trajectory is really peaking."
He looks down at the shoebox he’s lined with one of his softest, most expensive hoodies. Inside, the orange kitten—whom he has tentatively dubbed 'Cheeto' in a moment of sleep-deprived weakness—is a vibrating ball of fluff.
The 02:00 alarm blares with the subtle grace of a flashbang. Leon is upright in half a second, his hand flying toward the nightstand before his brain registers that he’s not in a trench in Edonia. He’s in a climate-controlled bedroom, and the only 'hostile' is a hungry five-week-old feline.
He stumbles into the kitchen, his movements stiff. The process of heating the formula is an exercise in agonizing precision. He uses a meat thermometer to ensure the liquid is exactly 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. If it’s 98.4, he’s convinced the kitten will get hypothermia; if it’s 98.8, he fears he’s essentially serving lava.
"Okay, kid. Chow time. Don't make it weird," Leon whispers as he gathers the kitten into his lap.
His hands—hands that have steadied a sniper rifle in high-wind conditions and punched through the reinforced glass of Umbrella laboratories—are shaking slightly. He holds the tiny plastic bottle like it’s a detonator with a frayed wire.
When the kitten finally latches, a frantic, rhythmic tug-tug-tug vibrating through the silicone nipple, Leon finds himself holding his breath.
"Easy there, tiger. It’s a buffet, not a race," he says, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. "You eat like a zombie at an all-you-can-eat brain buffet."
The "glamorous" part comes next. Leon stares at the box of cotton balls you had handed him with that knowing, mischievous glint in your eyes. He can still see your face—the way your hair was a mess, the way you didn't even flinch when he walked in looking like a drowned rat.
You had looked at him like he was just a guy, not a government asset, not a survivor. Just a guy with a cat.
"Stimulate," he repeats your words, his voice a flat, dry monotone. "She said it would be fun. She lied. I’m definitely filing a complaint with the veterinary board for emotional distress."
He performs the task with a grimace of intense concentration, murmuring apologies to the kitten the entire time.
By day three, the "sterile" nature of the apartment has surrendered. There are half-washed bottles in the sink. A trail of discarded paper towels leads from the sofa to the trash. A stray sock, mangled by tiny needle-teeth, sits in the middle of the hallway.
Leon should be annoyed. He should be furious that his sanctuary has been breached by an orange chaos-agent. But as he sits on the sofa at 4:30 AM, watching the sun begin to bleed over the D.C. skyline, he realizes his internal monologue has gone quiet. The anger—that low-simmering hum of PTSD that usually keeps him company in the dark—has been drowned out by a tiny, motorized purr.
The kitten crawls up his chest, stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, and tucks its head directly under Leon’s chin. The fur is soft, smelling faintly of the soap you’d used to clean him.
Leon freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before he slowly, tentatively, rests a hand over the kitten’s back. He feels the tiny heart beating against his own.
For the first time since the world ended in a rain of missiles over Raccoon City in 1998, the crushing weight in his chest feels... lighter.
"I think the vet might be onto something, Cheeto," Leon breathes into the quiet room, his eyes heavy with a sleep that feels, for once, like it might be dreamless. "But don't tell her I said that. She already thinks I’m a pushover."
He closes his eyes, the minimalist apartment finally feeling like something it has never been before: a home.
──────•✦•──────
The fluorescent lights of the clinic are humming at a frequency that is starting to feel like a drill against your temple.
You’re leaning your lower back against the cabinetry of the pharmacy station, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee like it’s a holy relic.
"I mean it, Sarah," you mutter, watching your tech draw up meds with terrifying efficiency. "One more pyometra. Just one more emergency spay where the uterus looks like it might burst, and I’m done. I’ll donate my scrubs to a thrift store and start a new life. Maybe I’ll go into accounting. Numbers don't bleed on your shoes or try to bite your face off.'"
"You’d be bored in a week," Sarah chirps, not even looking up. "Besides, you love the drama. Oh, speaking of drama—look who’s back."
The front bell dings. You peer around the corner. It’s Leon.
He looks like he’s been through some shit. The rugged, leading-man handsomeness is still there, but it’s buried under a layer of profound sleep deprivation. He’s got dark, bruised circles under his eyes that rival your own, and his blonde hair is a mess of spikes. But then you look at his hands.
He’s holding that plastic carrier with a level of tenderness that is honestly offensive. It’s like he’s carrying a box of nitroglycerin.
"Room two," you tell Sarah, snapping into a professional mask that is mostly held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
You walk into the exam room and find him standing by the table, looking at the carrier like it’s a bomb he forgot how to disarm.
"Back for more punishment, Leon?" you ask, your voice dropping into that comfortable, blunt cadence. "You look like you’ve been living in a war zone. Which, granted, is a normal Tuesday for a kitten owner."
"He doesn't stop," Leon rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that makes your nerve endings tingle. "I followed the schedule. I monitored the intake. But he just keeps screaming. Is he broken?"
"It’s called meowing, Leon. It’s how they demand your soul." You reach into the carrier and scoop out the orange scrap. He’s already gained weight; his belly is a round, healthy little pear, and his eyes are bright. "Wow. Look at you. You’ve actually kept him alive. I’m impressed. Most guys usually give up by the third bottle feeding."
"I don't like failing assignments," Leon mutters, though there’s a flicker of a lopsided smile on his face as he watches you examine the tiny creature.
You perform the check-up, checking the heart rate and the lungs, all while Leon stands way too close. He smells like woodsmoke and laundry detergent, a combination that is currently frying your brain.
You praise him for the kitten’s hydration levels, and you see his shoulders drop about two inches in relief.
As you move to pack the kitten back into the carrier, Leon starts firing off a string of hyper-specific, borderline neurotic questions.
"The water for the formula—I’ve been using a thermometer to keep it at exactly 98 degrees. Is 98.5 too high? Does it cause thermal shock? And the cotton balls—are the quilted ones too abrasive for his skin?"
You stare at him. This man is currently worried about the abrasive quality of a CVS-brand cotton ball. It’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and your filter—already weakened by a twelve-hour shift—completely disintegrates.
He’s hot, your brain shrugs. He’s a good dad. And you haven't been on a date in ages. Just do it.
"Leon," you interrupt, putting a hand on his arm to stop the frantic flow of questions. The muscle beneath his sleeve is hard as a rock, and the heat of him makes your palms itch. "Stop. You’re doing great. The cat is thriving. You, however, look like you're about to have a stroke."
He pauses, looking a little sheepish. "I just... I don't want to mess it up."
"You won't." You reach over to the counter, grab a neon-pink sticky note and a pen, and scribble your personal cell number on it. You press the note into his large, calloused palm, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Look," you say, flashing him a playful, slightly crooked smirk. "If you have any more midnight panics about formula ratios or quilted vs. non-quilted cotton, just text me. Strictly for cat questions, of course. My expertise is limited to things with four legs, but I can talk you off a ledge."
Leon stares at the pink paper in his hand like it’s a piece of top-secret intel. He looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a second, the sarcastic vet and the stoic man are just two people standing in a cramped room with a tiny cat.
"Strictly for cat questions," he repeats, his voice low and a little amused.
"Obviously," you say, walking him toward the door. "I'm a professional, Leon. Now get out of here and go take a nap before you face-plant in the lobby."
As he walks away, you lean against the doorframe, watching the swing of his shoulders.
"What was that?" Sarah asks, appearing out of nowhere with a smirk.
"Professional consultation," you mutter, taking a final, cold sip of your coffee.
Oh god, what did I just do? If he texts me a picture of his cat's poop at 2:00 AM, I'm never living this down.
──────•✦•──────
Leon is a man who understands protocol. He understands mission parameters, chain of command, and the strict rules of engagement. So, when you handed him that sticky note with your number on it, his brain filed it under a very specific, very restricted category: Emergency Technical Support.
He spends the better part of forty-eight hours staring at the digits, convinced that a woman like you—someone who handles life-and-death crises with a sarcastic quip and a steady hand—has better things to do than talk to a government-sanctioned blunt instrument like him.
You’re light, and full of life, and you probably have a social circle that doesn't involve handler-reports and ballistic testing. In Leon’s mind, you are firmly out of his league, occupying a world that isn't stained by the things he’s seen.
But then, the kitten—Cheeto—starts doing things. Weird things.
His first text is sent at 11:30 PM. He attaches a grainy photo of the kitten standing in the middle of the hallway, arched like a Halloween decoration, scuttling sideways with a chaotic energy that Leon can only describe as "biological anomaly."
Leon: He’s moving at a forty-five-degree angle and his tail looks like a pipe cleaner. Is this a neurological tremor? Do I need to bring him in for an MRI?
Your reply comes three minutes later, and Leon feels a pathetic jolt of electricity at the buzz in his pocket.
You: Leon, he’s just playing. It’s called crab-walking. He’s trying to look big and scary. Is it working?
Leon looks at the kitten, who has just tripped over its own paws and face-planted into the carpet.
Leon: I’m terrified.
By Thursday, the anxiety reaches a fever pitch. Leon is sitting on his bed, watching the kitten knead a fleece blanket with a rhythmic, intense focus. He doesn't text this time. He calls. He needs a professional voice to talk him off the ledge.
"He's vibrating," Leon says the moment you pick up, his voice a deadpan, military monotone that betrays the fact that his eyes are currently dinner-plate wide. "The whole cat. He’s vibrating and poking the blanket with his claws. It’s some kind of repetitive motor reflex. Is he having a seizure? Should I be checking his airway?"
He hears you let out a long, melodic breath on the other end—a laugh you’re trying to stifle.
"Leon," you say, and the way you say his name makes him grip the phone a little tighter. "He's making biscuits. He's purring. It means he's happy. It means he thinks the blanket is his mom."
Leon looks down at the orange fluff currently 'baking' against his thigh. "Making biscuits. Right. So it’s a culinary instinct, not a medical emergency. I’ll cancel the medevac."
"Please do," you chuckle. "Go to sleep, Leon."
But sleep doesn't come easily. The climax of his "cat-dad" neurosis hits at 1:00 AM on Saturday. Cheeto had been particularly enthusiastic about his bottle, guzzling the formula until his stomach was a hard, round little marble. Afterward, the kitten had simply... collapsed.
He’s sprawled out on his back, limbs limp, unresponsive to Leon’s frantic prodding.
Leon’s heart is in his throat. He hits the FaceTime button before he can talk himself out of it.
The screen flickers to life, and suddenly, you are there. You’re in your pajamas—something soft and mismatched—and your hair is a magnificent, messy bird’s nest that tells him he definitely just woke you up. You look soft, blurry around the edges, and devastatingly beautiful in the low light of your bedroom.
"Leon?" you mumble, squinting at the screen. "Is everything okay?"
"He’s unresponsive," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, intimate rasp of genuine distress. He turns the camera toward the kitten. "He’s just... lying there. I tried poking his paw and he didn't even hiss. I think I broke him."
You lean in closer to the camera, your eyes scanning the image. Then, you smile. It’s a gentle, warm expression that makes Leon’s apartment feel ten degrees warmer.
"Just a milk coma, Leon," you explain softly. "Look at that belly. He’s just full. He’s passed out in a food haze. He’ll be up and terrorizing your curtains in two hours."
Leon sags back against his headboard, the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in its place. He covers his face with one hand, letting out a jagged sigh.
"I'm a disaster at this," he admits, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. "I've faced things that—things that shouldn't exist—and I'm losing my mind over a cat that's just... full."
"It's because you care," you say. There’s no mockery in your tone, no punchline. Just a simple statement of fact that cuts right through his armor. "Most people would have just ignored him on that road, Leon. You didn't. You’re a good man. Even if you are a neurotic cat-dad."
Leon lets the words sink in. A good man. He hasn't felt like one in a long time. Usually, he’s just a weapon that the government points at problems.
"A 'cat-dad,'" Leon repeats, a dry, self-deprecating smirk appearing as he looks back at the screen. "Is there a badge for that? Or do I just get a lifetime supply of lint rollers and a permanent coating of orange fur on all my tactical gear?"
You laugh—a real, bright sound that echoes through his quiet bedroom. Leon finds himself staring at the screen, watching the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way a stray lock of hair falls over your forehead.
He realizes, with a sudden, jarring clarity, that he’s stopped looking at the kitten. He’s just looking at you.
The silence stretches, becoming something heavy and electric. Leon realizes he’s spent the last forty-eight hours coming up with increasingly flimsy, ridiculous reasons to see your name light up his phone.
He isn't worried about the cat anymore. He’s worried about how much he doesn't want to hang up.
"You look tired," he says softly, his thumb tracing the edge of the phone. "I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry for the... milk coma false alarm."
"It’s okay, Leon," you say, your voice dropping to a sleepy, tender murmur. "Call me anytime. Even if it’s just for biscuits."
As the screen goes black, Leon stares at his own reflection in the glass.
He’s a mess. He’s a DSO agent who just got called a "good man" by a woman who makes him feel like he’s eighteen again, before the world turned into a horror movie.
He looks at the sleeping kitten and then at the phone.
"You've failed miserably, Kennedy," he whispers to the empty room. "You’re definitely flirting now."
──────•✦•──────
The daily text updates from Leon have become the highlight of your grueling, twelve-hour rotations—a digital breadcrumb trail of "cat-dad" neurosis that you’ve come to rely on more than caffeine. What started as a clinical safety net has morphed into a steady stream of orange-furred chaos. You find yourself smiling at your phone in the middle of the surgery prep, looking at a blurry photo of a kitten stuck in a tissue box.
But lately, the digital interaction isn't enough for him.
"He’s back," Sarah, your tech, sings out from the pharmacy area. She leans against the doorframe with a devious, toothy grin. "The hot brooding guy with the orange accessory is in the lobby. Third time this week. What’s the 'emergency' today? A crooked whisker? A suspicious meow?"
"Shut up, Sarah," you mutter, though you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. You instinctively reach up to smooth a stray hair back into your ponytail.
"Oh, please. You’re wearing the 'fancy' scrubs and you actually used mascara today. I see you," she teases, checking the clipboard. "He’s here for... a bag of gastrointestinal kibble. The kind we sell for a 20% markup that he could literally Prime-deliver to his door in four hours."
You roll your eyes, grabbing a clean lab coat. "Maybe he just likes supporting small businesses."
"Maybe he likes supporting your specific business," she retorts, following you toward the lobby. "The girls in the back have a pool going. Twenty bucks says he asks for your number by Friday. Fifty says he’s already got it and he’s just a massive coward."
"I don't think 'coward' is in his vocabulary," you whisper, though your heart is doing a rhythmic thud against your ribs that feels suspiciously like a drumroll.
You push through the double doors and there he is. Leon stands near the display of prescription diets, looking entirely too large and too handsome for a sterile veterinary lobby. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his blonde hair perfectly tousled despite the humidity outside.
"Leon," you say, your voice landing in that sweet spot between professional and playful. "Don't tell me. He’s developed a sudden, life-threatening allergy to his own tail?"
Leon turns, and the way his blue eyes light up when they land on you makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. He looks incredibly cool until he opens his mouth, and then that slight, charming awkwardness leaks out.
"He sneezed," Leon says, his voice a serious, low rumble. "Three times in a row. It was... rhythmic. I thought it might be the early stages of a respiratory collapse. Or a dust mite allergy."
You walk over, taking the carrier from him. Your fingers brush against his—just for a second—and you feel the static electricity zip up your arm. You peek inside at the kitten, who is currently busy trying to eat a loose thread on his bedding.
"He looks like he’s on death’s door, truly," you say, your voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "The 'rhythmic sneezing' was likely just him being a cat, Leon. But since you’re here, I suppose I can perform a very expensive, very rigorous five-second nose check."
"I also needed food," he adds quickly, gesturing to the shelf. "The bag I have is... getting low. Maybe."
"You have half a bag left at home, don't you?" you ask, tilting your head, a smirk playing on your lips.
Leon stays silent for a beat too long, his gaze dropping to your name tag before meeting your eyes again. "I like the atmosphere here," he says, a bit of that one-liner bravado returning. "Very... clinical. Good lighting."
"Right. Everyone comes to the vet for the 'ambiance' of barking dogs and the smell of anal glands," you retort. You lead him to the counter, ringing up the overpriced kibble. You’re acutely aware of the techs watching from the window, probably exchanging silent high-fives.
You feel a pang of doubt as you hand him the receipt. A guy like this—rugged, mysterious, probably used to high-octane thrill-seekers—couldn't possibly be interested in you.
You’re a woman who spends her days getting peed on by Chihuahuas and her nights smelling like antiseptic and wet fur. You’re exhausted, your under-eye circles are permanent residents, and your social life is a graveyard.
But then Leon reaches out, his hand hovering over yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he takes the bag.
"Thanks," he says softly. The way he says it isn't like a client. It’s a low, intimate vibration that makes the bustling clinic fade into the background. "I’ll... let you know if the sneezing returns. Or if he looks at me funny."
"I'm sure you will," you say, your bluntness softened by a gentle, tired smile. "Go home, Leon. Your cat misses you."
As he walks out, his stride confident and his shoulders broad, you lean against the counter and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Twenty bucks!" Sarah yells from the back. "He’s totally into you, Doc! He’s just waiting for the cat to give him the green light!"
You just shake your head, looking down at the counter where he stood. You find yourself hoping the kitten sneezes again tomorrow. Just once. Just to be safe.
──────•✦•──────
The air in the treatment area is thick with the scent of antiseptic, metallic blood, and the heavy, lingering stillness of the recently departed. You’re standing over the stainless steel prep table, your hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in your knees as you pull the heavy plastic of a cadaver bag over a sweet, senior Greyhound who just couldn't fight any longer.
"If the shift keeps up like this, we're going to run out of freezer space," your tech, Marcus, sighs, his voice flat with the kind of gallows humor that keeps hospitals running at 2:00 AM.
"Don’t," you whisper, zipping the bag with a sharp, final schlick. "I hate this part the most. Every time. Packing up someone’s best friend in a glorified trash bag. It’s a hell of a way to say goodbye."
You lean your forehead against the wall for just a second, letting the grief wash over you and then drain away. You have to stay empty. If you let the "sad" stay in your lungs, you’ll drown.
Then, the front bell doesn't just chime—it screams. Someone is leaning on it.
You’re moving before you even think, your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. You burst into the lobby and stop dead.
It’s Leon. But the charming, awkward "cat-dad" who buys too much kibble is gone. In his place is a man who looks like he’s standing in the middle of a war zone. His face is pale, his eyes are blown wide with a jagged, frantic terror, and his chest is heaving.
He isn't holding a carrier. He’s holding the orange kitten against his chest, his large hands trembling so violently you can see the tremors from the doorway.
"Please," Leon chokes out. The sound is raw, a jagged piece of glass in his throat. He thrusts the limp, tiny body toward you. "I can't—don't let him die. Please. Not him too."
The kitten is a wet rag. His breathing is a shallow, agonizing rasp—the "guppy breathing" that makes every vet’s blood run cold.
You swear under your breath and snap into action the internal "vet-mode" slamming into place. You snatch the kitten and sprint back through the swinging doors. "Marcus, get the O2 cage prepped! I need a 24-gauge IV and a dose of dex. Now, move!"
For the next twenty minutes, you are a machine. You slide the needle into a vein thinner than a piece of thread. You listen to the crackle in the tiny lungs—pneumonia. Aspiration, likely. The kitten is tucked into the oxygen-rich plexiglass box, a tiny, fragile heartbeat under a mountain of IV lines and telemetry wires.
You finally step back, wiping a smear of blood off your thumb. You look toward the door. Leon is standing in the entryway of the treatment area, looking utterly lost. He’s hovering in the "no-man's land" between the lobby and the sterile zone, his hands still curled as if he’s holding a ghost.
"He’s in the cage, Leon. Steroids, antibiotics, and oxygen," you say, your voice softening as the adrenaline begins to ebb. "It’s touch-and-go. The next six hours are the decider. You should go home. Get some sleep. I’ll call you the second anything changes."
Leon doesn't move. He just looks at the floor and then slides down the wall, his long legs stretching out across the cold linoleum directly in front of the kennel bank.
"I'm staying," he says. It’s not a request. It’s a directive.
"Leon, I have four other critical patients in here trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not exactly a five-star hotel," you say, trying to inject a bit of your usual dry bite into the air to break the tension.
"I don't care," he mutters, leaning his head back against the cages.
You leave him there because you have to. You spend the next three hours wrestling with a diabetic ketoacidosis cat and a bloated Doberman. Every time you pass the kennel ward, you see him sitting on the floor like a dejected kid, watching the rhythmic puffing of an orange kitten in a plastic box.
Around 5:00 AM, you find a lull. You walk over and nudge his boot with your clog.
"Leon. Seriously. The floor is disgusting, and you look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. Go home."
He looks up at you, and the sheer weight of the shadows under his eyes hits you. "Sometimes," he says, his voice a low, hollow echo, "I feel like I can't save anyone. Not my teammates. Not the people I’m sent to protect. And now... not even a cat."
You feel the breath hitch in your throat. You slide down the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. The warmth of him is startling against the sterile chill of the room.
"You and me both, Leon," you sigh, staring at the rows of monitors. "The 'God complex' they give us in vet school is a lie. Most days, we’re just finger-plugging a leaking dam."
Leon looks at you, his gaze intense. "Sorry. I shouldn't... this has been a hell of a shift for you, hasn't it?"
"They all are," you say, leaning your head back. "Some just have more body bags than others."
──────•✦•──────
Your shift officially ends at 7:00 AM. Your relief vet walks in, and you should leave. You should go home, take a scalding shower, and sleep for a week. But you don't. You go to the break room, grab two lukewarm coffees, and walk back to the floor.
You sit down next to Leon again.
"You're still here," he notes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"I’m a glutton for punishment," you mutter, handing him the cup.
For the next hour, the barriers crumble.
You find yourself telling him about the "soul-crushing" parts—the people who bring in their pets to be euthanized because they’re moving, the neglect cases that make you want to break things. But then you tell him about the good parts—the dog that woke up after three days of a coma, the kitten that beat the odds.
Leon listens with a terrifyingly focused intensity. He doesn't interrupt. He just watches you speak, his blue eyes mesmerized by the way you navigate the darkness of your profession without letting it turn you cold.
"You’re a lot stronger than you look," he says softly.
"I'm not strong, Leon. I'm just stubborn," you retort, nudging him with your shoulder. "But thanks. You’re not a bad listener."
──────•✦•──────
Leon is no stranger to stakeouts.
He’s spent weeks in cramped vans eating lukewarm rations, and he’s spent months in damp trenches waiting for a target to blink. But this? Sitting on a stool that’s three inches too short for his frame, staring into a plexiglass box at a creature that weighs less than his handgun? This is the most grueling mission of his career.
Over the next week, the clinic becomes Leon’s base of operations. He shows up at the start of your night shift and doesn't leave until the sun is high enough to make his eyes ache. He’s become a fixture in the kennel ward—the tall, brooding man in the leather jacket who looks like he could snap a neck but spends four hours straight whispering to a kitten with a congested nose.
You become the highlight of his vigil.
Whenever the clinic settles into that eerie, midnight lull, you find him. You don't just check the charts; you check on him. You start bringing him half of your sandwich—usually something with way too much sprout-to-protein ratio for his liking, but he eats it like it’s a five-star meal because you made it. You sit on the floor next to his stool, your shoulder occasionally brushing his knee, and the contact sends a low-voltage jolt through his system that he’s doing a poor job of ignoring.
"You look like you're trying to intimidate the pneumonia into leaving," you murmur one Tuesday at 3:00 AM, sliding a container of pasta toward him. "I hate to tell you, but bacteria doesn't care about your 'scary agent' eyes."
Leon takes the plastic fork, his thumb grazing yours in the exchange. He lingers for a second too long, his gaze dropping to your lips before he catches himself and looks back at the kitten.
"I’m just providing overwatch," Leon grunts, though his tone is fond.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into the quiet, heavy things. You talk about the "little miracles"—the paralyzed dog that wagged its tail for the first time today, the elderly cat that finally started eating. You speak with a weary, glowing passion that Leon finds intoxicating.
He realizes he’s spent years surrounded by people who are hollowed out by their work, but you? You’re tired, sure, but your heart is still terrifyingly intact.
The weight of his own secrets starts to feel like a physical burden. He’s used to being a ghost, a name on a redacted file. But sitting here in the dim light of the clinic, with you looking at him like he’s someone worth knowing, the lie feels like a wall he’s tired of leaning against.
"I don't just do 'security,'" he says suddenly. The air in the room shifts. He stares at the oxygen monitor, his voice dropping into that professional, gravelly register. "I work for the DSO Division of Security Operations. Directly under the President."
He waits for the shift in your expression. He’s seen it before—the way people’s eyes go cold when they realize he’s a professional dealer of death, or the way they start prying for gruesome details like he’s a character in a movie. He explains the bio-terrorism, the BOWs, the constant cycle of violence that has defined his life since the night he drove into Raccoon City as a rookie cop.
He braces for the disgust. For you to realize that his hands, the ones that have been helping you bottle-feed a kitten, are stained with things you couldn't imagine.
Instead, you just take a slow bite of your sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. You look at him with a gentle, tired smile that makes his breath hitch.
"So, you fight bio-weapons," you muse, leaning your head back against the cold kennel. "I guess that means we have the same primary skillset."
Leon blinks, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Which is?"
"We both try really hard not to get bitten on the clock."
Leon stares at you. He waits for the punchline, for the horror, but all he sees is your playful, sparking gaze. A laugh bubbles up in his chest—not the dry, sarcastic bark he uses to deflect trauma, but a genuine, soft sound that echoes off the metal cages. It’s a sound he hasn't heard from himself in years.
"That’s... one way to put it," he says, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The heavy weight he carries every day feels, for a moment, like it’s been halved.
"I'm serious," you say, laughing softly as you nudge his arm. "I've seen the teeth on a grumpy Malamute, Leon. I think I could handle a zombie."
"Don't test that theory," he says, but he’s smiling now—a real, lopsided Kennedy smirk.
He looks at you, and the tension that’s been simmering for weeks suddenly boils over. The ward is quiet, the only sound the hum of the oxygen machine and the soft rain against the window. You’re close—close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes and the way your scrub top dips at your collarbone.
Leon reaches out, his hand hovering near your face before he loses his nerve and settles for tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on the skin there, warm and soft, and he sees your breath hitch.
"You're a strange woman," he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy longing.
"And you're a very dramatic cat-dad, Leon," you whisper back, not pulling away.
For a second, the mission, the BOWs, and the world outside don't exist. There’s just the smell of antiseptic, the hum of a kitten’s recovery, and the terrifying realization that he’s falling for you faster than he ever fell into a trap.
──────•✦•──────
The dawn light is a sickly, pale yellow as it bleeds through the clinic’s high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the surgical bays. You feel like a ghost inhabiting a body made of lead and caffeine. Your neck cricks as you stand up from the floor, your joints popping in a rhythmic protest that sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Leon is still there. He’s slumped on that too-small stool, his head bowed, his hands clasped between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for a verdict from a hanging judge.
"Alright," you murmur, your voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. "Let’s see if the little guy is ready to join the land of the living."
You walk over to the incubator. The hum of the oxygen concentrator has been the soundtrack to your week, a mechanical heartbeat that you’ve grown to loathe. You unlatch the plexiglass door with a soft click.
Inside, the orange scrap of fur is no longer a limp rag. He’s sitting up, his head wobbly, his copper eyes half-open.
"Hey, tough guy," you whisper. You scoop a tiny dollop of calorie-dense recovery mousse onto your finger and hold it to his nose.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a tiny, sandpaper tongue darts out. Then another. He starts to lap at your skin with a desperate, frantic hunger. A weak, high-pitched mew vibrates through his chest—a sound of life, demanding and stubborn.
"He’s eating," you breathe, and the sheer, ridiculous relief of it makes your vision blur for a second. "He’s actually eating. The little bastard made it."
You turn to Leon, a triumphant, sleep-deprived grin plastered on your face. "He’s actually eating. He’s—"
The words die in your throat.
Leon has stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the kennel ward. He’s staring at the kitten, but his face isn't the stoic mask of a government agent. His jaw is trembling, just a fraction, and his eyes—those piercing, icy blue eyes—are brimming with tears that he’s desperately trying not to let fall.
He looks shattered. Not because of the danger, but because of the hope.
Oh, Leon, you think, your heart doing a slow, painful squeeze. You really were ready to lose everything again, weren't you?
You don't think. Thinking is for people who aren't running on thirty minutes of sleep and pure empathy. You are about to do something wildly unprofessional. You don't care.
You step across the linoleum, closing the distance between you and the man who fights monsters, and you wrap your arms around his waist.
Leon goes rigid instantly.
It’s like hugging a statue carved from granite. He stays perfectly still, his breath hitching, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides. He feels like a man who expects a blow to follow the touch—someone whose only experience with physical contact in the last decade has been a struggle for survival or a professional handshake. It’s jarring, feeling the tension radiating off him, a high-voltage wire ready to snap.
"It’s okay," you mumble against his chest, squeezed tight. "He’s okay. You can breathe now."
Slowly, agonizingly so, the statue crumbles.
You feel a shudder rip through him, a deep shift of his shoulders. Then, his weight collapses into you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin, and his arms finally come around you.
They are heavy. They are massive. He wraps them around you with a crushing, desperate strength, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You can feel his heart thudding against your collarbone—slow, heavy, and raw.
He doesn't say anything, but the way he clings to you tells you everything. He isn't just relieved about the cat. He’s drowning in a decade of loneliness, in the weight of the bodies he couldn't save. He’s so touch-starved it feels like he’s trying to absorb the warmth of your scrub top through his skin.
It’s not just "he’s hot and I’m tired." It’s the feeling of two people who spend their lives in the trenches finally finding a place to put their packs down.
Your hands move up his back, rubbing small, soothing circles into the expensive fabric of his shirt. You feel the dip of his spine, the hard muscle of his shoulders, and the way he lets out a long, shaky exhale into your hair.
"You're okay," you whisper again, your voice softening, losing its sharp, sarcastic edge. "He’s got you."
Leon pulls back just an inch, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. He doesn't let go. He looks down at you, his lashes wet, his face mere inches from yours. The air between you is thick, charged with the scent of his woodsy cologne and the clinical tang of the ward. His gaze drops to your mouth, and for a second, the world stops spinning.
"I don't... I don't know how to do this," he rasps, his voice a broken low-frequency hum.
"Do what? Hug? You're doing a C-plus job, Kennedy," you tease, though your voice trembles. "A little less 'death-grip' and a little more 'gentle human interaction' next time."
He lets out a watery, huffed laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I think I've forgotten what 'gentle' feels like."
"Well," you say, closing your eyes and leaning into him, savoring the solid, terrifying warmth of him. "Stick with me. I’ve got plenty of practice. Usually with Golden Retrievers, but I think I can make an exception."
He squeezes your waist, a silent, grateful pressure. In the quiet of the dawn, with a recovering kitten purring in the background, you realize you’re in a lot of trouble. Because Leon Kennedy isn't just a client anymore—he’s someone you’d fight a world-ending virus just to keep holding onto.
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s smartphone vibrates against the granite countertop with the persistence of a terminal alarm. He doesn't need to look at the ID to know it’s Hunnigan.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor; the moment his life gains a shred of stability—symbolized by an orange kitten currently trying to disembowel a feathered toy—the DSO decides it’s time for him to jump out of a plane.
"Yeah, Ingrid," Leon sighs into the receiver, his eyes tracking the kitten's chaotic movements. "Tell me it's a seminar on file organization. Tell me I’m being sent to Hawaii to count palm trees."
"It's a hot-zone extraction in the Balkan periphery, Leon. Transport leaves in four hours," Hunnigan’s voice is crisp, devoid of the sympathy he’s looking for.
"Four hours. Right. I’ll just tell the cat to order pizza and lock the deadbolt behind me," he mutters, his mind racing.
Panic, cold and sharp, stabs at him. He can’t leave Cheeto. Not after the pneumonia, not after the nights spent on a linoleum floor praying for a meow. The idea of a stranger from a boarding app—some teenager who might forget the water bowl or leave a window cracked—makes his skin crawl. He finds himself dialing your number before he’s even processed the thought.
When you answer, Leon’s cool persona is nowhere to be found. He’s just a man with a cat and a very specialized, very annoying career.
"I have a problem," he says, skipping the pleasantries. "Work called. I'm being... deployed. A week, maybe more. Do you know a medical boarder who doesn't mind a kitten with a God complex and a lingering cough?"
He hears you pause on the other end. "Leon, it’s short notice. Most medical boarding is booked out through the month. Is it somewhere... dangerous?"
"It’s never a spa day," he says dryly. "Look, if I have to, I’ll—"
"I’ll do it."
Leon freezes. "What?"
"I can stay at your place. I'm overqualified and I can keep an eye on his lungs. Besides," you add, your voice taking on that playful, blunt edge he’s grown addicted to, "your apartment probably needs a woman’s touch. Or at least someone to throw away the three-week-old takeout."
"You'd... stay here?" Leon asks, his throat suddenly tight.
──────•✦•──────
An hour later, you’re standing in his foyer. Leon is dressed in his tactical gear—dark, reinforced fabrics and heavy boots—looking every bit the agent he tried to describe to you. He holds out his keychain. The metal is warm from his palm. As he drops the keys into your hand, his fingers linger against your skin.
It feels like a surrender. He’s giving you the keys to his sanctuary, the only place on earth where he doesn't have to look over his shoulder.
"The alarm code is 1998," he says, a flicker of dark, self-deprecating humor in his eyes. "Try not to set it off. The response team is... unfriendly. And if he stops eating, call me. I don't care if I'm in a tunnel. Make them patch you through."
"1998? Creative," you remark, looking at the keys. "Go save the world, Leon. I’ll make sure the kitten doesn't burn the place down."
He lingers at the door, the weight of the mission pulling at him, but the sight of you standing in his living room—framed by his sterile, gray walls—makes him feel like he’s actually leaving something behind for once.
"Don't eat all my cereal," he says, a lopsided smirk appearing. "It's the only thing I have left."
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s apartment is exactly what you expected: a high-end, minimalist cave that screams 'I don't plan on being here for long.'
The furniture is expensive but looks like it’s never been sat on. The fridge contains three bottles of high-end bourbon, a jar of pickles, and enough Gatorade to hydrate an army. It’s a gorgeous space, but it’s inhabited by a ghost who clearly spends his life waiting for the next disaster.
"Alright, Cheeto," you sigh, dropping your bag on the granite island. "Let’s see if we can make this place look like a human actually lives here."
Over the next week, you start a quiet insurrection against Leon’s minimalism. You buy a soft throw blanket to cover the "ergonomic" sofa. You bring over a small succulent that Leon will almost certainly forget to water. You organize the chaos of his mail and make sure the kitten’s toys aren't just limited to "stray socks."
It becomes a semi-regular occurrence. Every time Leon gets the call, you get the keys. You’ve mastered the 1998 alarm code and you know exactly which floorboard creaks near the bathroom. You send him daily updates—photos of the kitten sleeping on his discarded hoodies, or videos of Cheeto "hunting" his toys.
When he’s home, you linger. You’ll stay for an hour after he returns, leaning against his kitchen counter while he tells you—in vague, redacted terms—about where he’s been. You find yourself liking the routine. The way he looks at you when he walks through the door, his eyes scanning you first before they even find the cat.
"You moved the blender," he notes one evening, leaning against the doorframe, looking exhausted but softer than you’ve ever seen him.
"I put it where a normal person would use it, Leon," you retort, not looking up from your phone. "You had it stored like it was a classified weapon."
"It's a high-RPM motor," he deadpans. "It’s practically a turbine."
You laugh, and you see his shoulders drop an inch.
The messages between you two have evolved from 'Is he breathing okay?' to 'Saw this and thought of you' and late-night Facetimes where you talk about nothing and everything. You’re becoming a permanent fixture in a life that was never meant to have any.
──────•✦•──────
The wind in the mountains is a serrated blade, cutting through his tactical layers and biting into his skin. Leon is crouched in a blind, his rifle steady, the world around him a monochrome blur of snow and gray rock. His breath mists in the air, his fingers numb despite the heated gloves.
It’s the kind of environment where his mind usually goes to dark places—to the faces of the people he’s lost, to the smell of burning plastic in Raccoon City, to the weight of the kills he’s had to rack up to keep the world spinning.
But today, his mind wanders somewhere else.
He thinks about you. He thinks about you sitting on his couch, probably wrapped in that fuzzy blanket you "donated" to his living room. He thinks about the way his apartment smells like your shampoo instead of gun oil when you’re there. You are currently three thousand miles away, probably complaining about a difficult client or a dog that wouldn't stop barking, and the thought is his only anchor to reality.
He pulls his phone from a secure pocket, shielding the screen from the wind. He has one bar of satellite signal. A photo from you has managed to crawl through.
It’s a picture of you on his bed—the kitten curled up on your stomach, both of you looking half-asleep. It’s a domestic, quiet image that has no place in his world of bioluminescent horrors and political assassinations.
"Hunnigan’s going to kill me if she sees I’m using secure bandwidth for cat photos," Leon mutters to himself, a tiny, genuine smile cracking his frozen face.
He wouldn't admit it to you—not yet, maybe not ever—but he’s stopped dreading the "end" of the mission. He used to hate coming back to the silence of his flat. Now, he finds himself checking his watch, calculating the hours until he can walk through his door and hear your voice.
He doesn't just have a cat to come home to anymore. He has a presence. He has a reason to stay sharp, to stay fast, to stay alive.
"Target in sight," his comms crackle.
Leon shifts his grip, his eyes focusing. He feels steady. The cold doesn't matter. He has a cat-sitter to get back to.
"Copy that," Leon whispers, his thumb flicking the safety off. "Let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a date with some bad takeout."
──────•✦•──────
The shift didn’t just break you; it ground you down into a fine, bitter powder and scattered you across the linoleum.
It started with a car crash that sent two mangled retrievers into your bay and ended with a client screaming at you that you were a "heartless gold-digger" because you couldn't perform a miracle on a sixteen-year-old cat for the price of a drive-thru burger.
You’d spent four hours in emergency surgery, your hands slick with blood and your back screaming in protest, only for the monitor to flatline anyway. You’d had to tell a ten-year-old boy that his best friend wasn’t coming home, and then you’d been reprimanded by management for the "negative impact on wait times" caused by you taking five minutes to cry in the supply closet.
By the time you let yourself into Leon’s apartment, you’re less of a human and more of a walking bruise. You don't even turn on the lights. You just drop your bag, kick off your clogs, and collapse onto the sofa—the one with the soft throw blanket you bought—and bury your face in your hands.
The kitten, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, trots over and lets out a concerned chirrup. He kneads your thigh, his tiny claws snagging on your scrubs, before curling up against your chest.
"I hate it, Cheeto," you sob into his orange fur, the tears finally bursting the dam. "I hate the people, I hate the blood, and I really, really hate the wait times."
The front door clicks. The 1998 alarm code beeps—one, nine, nine, eight—and then the heavy thud of boots hits the floor. You don't even look up. You’re too deep in the salt and the snot to care that the owner of the house is back early.
Leon freezes in the entryway. Even in the dim light of the city skyline peeking through the window, he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, there’s a nasty, dark bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, and he’s limping slightly. He looks like a man who just survived a war, only to find a different kind of casualty in his living room.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low, startled rumble. "What—is the cat okay? Did something happen?"
"The cat is fine," you choke out, wiping your nose with your sleeve and failing miserably at looking composed. "Everything is fine. I’m just... Go away, Leon. You look like you need a medic and a gallon of ibuprofen."
He doesn't go away. He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud and walks over, his movements stiff and cautious. He looks wildly out of his depth, his hands hovering at his sides as if he’s trying to remember the manual for 'Human Comforting 101.'
"You’re crying," he notes, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register.
"Astute observation. They really do pay you for the big brain, don't they?" You let out a jagged, watery laugh. "I just had a shitty day, Leon. A patient died after four hours of me playing God, and then some guy called me a bitch because he had to wait forty minutes for his dog's ear cleaning while I was doing CPR. I’m just... done."
Leon stands there for a beat, the blue of his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying intensity. He’s seen trauma, he’s seen death on a global scale, but seeing you falling apart on his couch seems to rattle him more than a BOW ever could.
"Move over," he says.
"Leon, you’re bleeding on my 'donated' blanket—"
"Move over," he repeats, firmer this time.
You slide over, and Leon sinks onto the sofa next to you. He smells like gunpowder, cold rain, and woodsmoke. He doesn't say anything at first; he just reaches out, his large, scarred hand hesitating before he pulls you tentatively toward him. You collapse against his side, your head landing on his shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and starts to stroke your hair. His touch is awkward—clumsy, even—as if he’s afraid he’ll break you, but it’s the most grounding thing you’ve ever felt. You grab the front of his torn shirt and just sob, letting all the bitterness and the exhaustion pour out of you and into his expensive, ruined gear.
"It’s just... so much sometimes," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I try so hard, and it’s never enough. The world just keeps biting."
"I know," Leon says, his voice vibrating against your temple. "Believe me, I know. But you did your job. You showed up. That’s more than most people can say."
He keeps stroking your hair, his calloused fingers snagging slightly on the tangles, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't try to "fix" it with a one-liner or a tactical solution. He just holds you. You realize, as your breathing finally starts to level out, that this is the first time in your life someone has held the weight for you instead of you holding it for everyone else.
"You look like hell, Leon," you mumble against his chest, feeling a flicker of your usual bluntness returning through the haze of grief.
"You should see the other guy," he retorts, a ghost of a smirk in his voice. "Actually, don't. He’s currently a smudge on a highway in Sarajevo."
You let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh, and you feel his arm tighten around you.
"See? There she is," he whispers.
You stay like that for a long time—a battered agent and a broken vet, curled up on a minimalist couch with a kitten sleeping between you.
In the quiet of the apartment, the monsters and the body bags feel a million miles away. You’re still tired, and your heart still aches, but as Leon rests his chin on top of your head, you realize that maybe the "ghost" has finally moved out of this apartment.
And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're fighting the dark alone.
──────•✦•──────
The transition from "emergency technical support" to "semi-permanent fixture" happens so gradually that Leon doesn't even see the trap until he’s happily walking into it.
It starts with you dropping by after your shift to "check the kitten's weight," and then somehow you’re staying for a coffee, and then—suddenly—you have your own designated spot on his couch and a spare toothbrush in the guest bath.
Leon finds himself leaning against the kitchen island, watching you move through his kitchen with a grace that is utterly at odds with the clinical chaos of your day job. For years, this kitchen has been a graveyard for styrofoam containers and a shrine to a single bottle of high-end bourbon. His culinary skills are limited to reheating things and not burning the water.
"You know, the FDA suggests that a human being cannot actually survive on a diet of ninety percent spicy tuna rolls and ten percent Scotch," you remark, your back to him as you chop fresh parsley with a rhythmic, practiced speed.
Leon takes a slow sip of water, leaning his hip against the counter. "I’ll have you know I also eat the occasional multivitamin. And once, a piece of fruit that I'm reasonably sure wasn't plastic. I'm practically a health nut."
"You're a disaster," you retort, but the look you throw him over your shoulder is fond, lacking the sharp bite of your usual sarcasm.
You’ve taken over his stove, and for the first time since he moved in, the apartment doesn't smell like filtered air and gun oil. It smells like sautéed garlic, crushed basil, and browning butter. The scent hits Leon with a physical force, dragging up buried memories of a childhood —the sound of heavy pots clanking, the steam on the windows, the feeling of a home that was loud and full.
It’s a sensory overload that makes his chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia he wasn't prepared for.
"Is that... actual garlic?" Leon asks, his voice dropping into a low, slightly dazed register. "I forgot it came in cloves. I thought it was just a powder that lived in the back of the pantry until it turned into a solid brick."
"God, you're pathetic," you laugh, sliding a pan of chicken onto the burner. The sizzle is loud in the quiet room. "Go sit down. You look like you're having a religious experience over a bulb of garlic."
"I might be," he mutters, though he doesn't move.
He likes watching you. He likes the way your hair starts to frizz slightly from the steam and the way you’ve tucked your ID badge into your back pocket.
He realizes, with a dry, self-deprecating twist of his gut, that he’s become addicted to this. To you. The mission-driven part of his brain—the part that usually keeps him scanning for exits and checking his six—has gone completely quiet. He feels safe. Not "perimeter secured" safe, but actually safe.
He walks over, ostensibly to reach for a glass, but he lingers in your space. He’s still a touch awkward with the physical stuff, his hands hovering near your waist before he settles for gently bumping his shoulder against yours.
"Smells better than my grandmother's Sunday gravy," he admits, the honesty feeling like vulnerability. "And she would have hit me with a wooden spoon just for thinking that."
"Well, don't tell her ghost I'm trying to upstage her," you say, nudging him back. Your smile is gentle, and Leon feels the last of his professional walls crumbling. "I just figured since you're busy saving the world, someone should make sure you don't succumb to scurvy."
"It's a noble cause," Leon says, his blue eyes softening as they fix on you.
"Just doing my civic duty, Agent," you tease.
Leon watches you stir the sauce, and he feels a surge of protectiveness so fierce it surprises him. He spends his life in rooms with people who want to tear the world apart, but here, in the dim light of his kitchen, you’re putting things back together. You’re making a home out of a man who thought he was just a weapon.
"You're staying for dinner, right?" he asks, and he hates how much he hopes the answer is yes. "The cat gets lonely if you leave too early. And I... Well, I'm not great at talking to the furniture."
"I'm staying, Leon," you say, reaching out to pat his hand. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
Leon breathes out a sigh he feels in his very marrow. He looks at the garlic, the herbs, and the woman currently occupying his heart's center of mass, and he decides that if this is a trap, he never wants to be rescued.
──────•✦•──────
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. On the screen, some generic action flick is playing at a low volume—something about a heist that Leon has already found sixteen tactical flaws in—but he isn't watching the movie.
He’s watching you.
You are out cold. Your head is tilted back against the cushion at an angle that looks like it’ll require a chiropractor by morning, and your breathing is deep and rhythmic. On top of you, Cheeto—who has graduated from a palm-sized scrap to a lanky, teenage chaos-agent—is sprawled across your stomach like a heavy, orange weighted blanket.
Leon sits in his armchair, a glass of bourbon sweating in his hand, and feels a strange, terrifying tightness in his chest.
He should wake you up. He should tell you that the movie is over and offer to call you an Uber. That would be the professional, just friends thing to do.
"Right," Leon whispers to the empty room, his voice a dry rasp. "Because I’ve always been so great at following the 'sane' path."
He sets his glass down with a soft clink and stands, his joints popping. He gently nudges the cat aside. Cheeto lets out an offended mrrp but settles into the crook of the sofa, watching with wide, glowing eyes as Leon slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.
He braces himself, expecting you to be dead weight, but as he lifts, he’s struck by how light you feel—and how perfectly you seem to slot into the space against his chest. You let out a tiny, sleepy sigh, your head rolling naturally into the hollow of his neck, and Leon freezes. His heart kicks against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't make this weird, he thinks, his internal monologue screaming in a way it never does during a fire-fight.
He carries you down the short hallway, his boots silent on the hardwood. His bedroom is the inner sanctum—a place that usually feels like a cold, utilitarian bunker. But as he lays you down on the mattress, the room feels different. It feels occupied.
He pulls the heavy duvet over you, tucking the edges in with a focused, military precision. He lingers there for a moment, his hand hovering over your face. He can't help it; his thumb grazes your temple, smoothing away a stray lock of hair, before his knuckles lighty brush the warmth of your cheek. Your skin is soft, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred texture of his own hands.
"Rest up, Doc," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "You’ve earned it."
He backs out of the room, closing the door with a click so soft it’s almost silent. When he turns around, Cheeto is standing in the middle of the hallway, tail twitching, staring at him with unblinking, judging eyes.
"What? I’m being a gentleman," Leon grunts, stepping past the cat toward the sofa. He doesn't go back to his chair. Instead, he collapses onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The cat hops up onto his chest, pinning him down and staring directly into his soul.
"I’m a DSO agent," Leon tells the cat, his voice flat and defensive. "I’m stoic. I’m professional. I’m a guy who deals with world-ending threats and international conspiracies. I definitely don't have a 'crush' on the veterinarian who makes me eat kale salad."
Cheeto blinks slowly, looking entirely unimpressed by the lie.
Leon sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. The lie is thin. It’s paper-thin and tearing at the seams. He lies there in the dark, listening to the silence of the apartment. For years, he’s filled this silence with the burn of cheap whiskey, the hum of a background news cycle, and the crushing weight of old regrets—Raccoon City, Krauser, the faces of people he couldn't pull out of the fire.
But tonight, the silence feels... full.
He thinks about the way you’ve invaded his space. The way you cook him actual meals because you know he’d live on protein bars and spite if left to his own devices. Most of all, he thinks about the night you fell apart on this very sofa, and how holding you felt more important than any mission he’s ever been assigned.
He realizes then, with the terrifying, crystalline clarity of a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, that he isn't just "interested."
He is completely, hopelessly, and dangerously gone for you.
It’s a catastrophic tactical error. He’s spent his entire adult life running from attachments because in his world, attachments are liabilities. Attachments get turned into leverage. Attachments get you killed. But as he looks at the closed door of his bedroom, knowing you’re safe inside, he knows the truth.
He’d burn the whole world to the ground—he’d take on an army of Ganados with a pocket knife—just to make sure you wake up tomorrow without a care in the world.
"Great," he mutters, his hand dropping to scratch Cheeto behind the ears. "I’m officially a Hallmark movie protagonist with a body count. Hunnigan is going to have a field day with this."
The cat purrs, finally satisfied, as Leon closes his eyes and accepts his defeat.
──────•✦•──────
The air in Leon’s apartment has changed.
It’s no longer just the scent of high-end bourbon and your lavender shampoo; it’s thick, electric, and heavy with the kind of "will-they-won't-they" energy that usually precedes a season finale. Every time you’re near him, the space between you feels like a magnetic field, pulling you toward him until you can practically hear his heart thudding in sync with your own.
You’re not an idiot. You’ve seen him look at you when he thinks you’re not looking—that soft, guarded yearning that makes your own chest tighten. You’ve felt the way his hand lingers on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. He’s a DSO agent, a man who survived Raccoon City and global bio-terrorism, but apparently, asking a veterinarian on a date is the one mission that has him completely paralyzed.
And then, there’s the cat.
"You know, I was thinking," Leon starts, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually makes your knees feel like they’re made of cotton candy. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his blue eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out toward your arm. "I’ve been meaning to ask you—"
CRASH.
You both jump. Cheeto, now a lanky, orange blur of destruction, has successfully swiped a half-full glass of water off the side table. The glass doesn't shatter, but the water spreads across the hardwood in a slow, mocking puddle.
Leon closes his eyes, his hand dropping back to his side. He lets out a long, weary sigh that suggests he’s currently contemplating buying a kennel.
"He’s just expressive, Leon," you say, struggling to keep the smirk off your face. You grab a roll of paper towels, your internal monologue providing a dry commentary. Mission failed, Kennedy. The orange menace has you beat.
Ten minutes later, the puddle is gone, and the tension is back, sweltering and inescapable. You’re sitting on the sofa, and Leon is beside you, closer than usual. The movie on the TV is just background noise now. He turns toward you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from your neck.
"Anyway," he says, his voice a breathy murmur. "What I was trying to say before we were so rudely interrupted by the feline Special Forces... is that I’ve really appreciated you being here. Not just for the cat. For me."
He begins to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a promise. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that screams finally.
"I was wondering if—"
Suddenly, there is a soft fump sound, followed by the sensation of four pounds of orange fur landing directly on Leon’s face.
Cheeto hasn't just jumped; he has launched himself from the top of the bookshelf with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He is now perched on Leon’s head, his tail flicking rhythmically against Leon’s nose.
"Are you kidding me?" Leon’s muffled voice comes from beneath the cat.
You burst out laughing. You can't help it. The legendary Leon S. Kennedy is currently being used as a landing pad by a cat who still hasn't figured out how to bury his own poop correctly.
"It’s not funny," Leon grumbles, gently detaching the cat and setting him on the floor. Cheeto just looks at him, lets out a smug little mrrp, and starts grooming his shoulder like he didn't just ruin the most romantic moment of the year.
"It’s a little funny, Leon," you wheeze, wiping a tear from your eye. "I think he’s gatekeeping you. He knows you’re about to make a move and he’s not ready for a stepmother."
"I am a professional," Leon says, straightening his shirt, though his ears are a distinct shade of pink. He looks adorable—awkward, frustrated, and so deeply human it makes your breath hitch. "I have survived international conspiracies. I have navigated minefields. I can handle a five-pound orange domestic shorthair."
"Can you, though?" you tease, leaning back and watching him with a playful, expectant look. "Because so far, the score is Cheeto: two, Leon: zero."
Leon looks at the cat, then back at you, a lopsided, determined smirk finally breaking through his frustration.
"The night is young," he says, his voice regaining some of its cocky, one-liner edge. "And eventually, that cat has to sleep."
"Good luck with that," you retort, your heart singing even as your inner skeptic sighs. He’s going to chicken out again. I’m going to have to be the one to do it, aren't I?
You watch him settle back into the couch, his eyes fixed on you with a renewed focus. The tension is still there, humming under the surface, but now it’s tempered with the hilarious reality of your domestic life. You realize you don't mind the interruptions. If anything, they make the quiet, stolen moments feel even more earned.
You just hope the cat doesn't decide to launch a third offensive when things finally get interesting.
──────•✦•──────
The dinner is kind of a disaster.
Leon has spent the last hour trying to act like a normal human being, which is difficult when his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage like an escaping experiment. He’s made pasta—the one dish he can’t screw up—and the table is set, the wine is poured, and you are sitting across from him looking so devastatingly beautiful in the low light that he’s forgotten how to use a fork.
The air between you is thick enough to choke on. Every time your eyes meet his, Leon feels like he’s standing on the edge of a skyscraper with no parachute. He clears his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped tight.
"So," he begins, his voice dropping into that low, serious register he uses for briefing the President. "I was thinking that maybe—"
Clank.
In one fluid, chaotic motion, the cat—who has apparently developed a taste for expensive Pinot Noir—swipes a paw at the wine bottle. Leon lunges, catching it before it tips, but the moment is shattered. The cat lets out a defiant meow and begins to weave through Leon’s ankles, tripping him as he tries to sit back down.
Leon’s patience, a resource he usually has in abundance when dealing with global catastrophes, officially hits zero.
"That's it," Leon mutters.
He doesn't hesitate. He scoops up the lanky, protesting orange blur with the efficiency of a man clearing a room. He strides to the hallway, ignores the indignant squawk from the feline, and gently but very firmly sets the cat on the other side of the door. He shuts it with a definitive thud and turns the lock.
Silence. Blessed, complete silence.
Leon turns back to you, leaning his back against the door. He’s breathing a little hard, his blonde hair a mess, and his face is flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove. He rubs the back of his neck, the "cool agent" mask finally crumbling into a thousand pieces.
"I face bio-terrorists for a living," he starts, his voice rough and stripped of its usual bravado. He looks at his boots, then finally, desperately, at you. "I’ve survived things that defy the laws of physics and biology. But asking you out is officially the most terrifying thing I've ever done. My heart rate is higher right now than it was when I was being chased by a ten-foot-tall man in a trench coat."
He takes a step toward you, his hands trembling just enough for him to notice. "I don't want to just be the guy with the cat anymore. I don't want to be the guy who only sees you when things are bleeding or when I’m being deployed to some hellhole. I want to be... yours. If you’ll have me."
He braces himself. He’s ready for a "let’s just stay friends," or a polite laugh, or even a tactical retreat. He’s spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the mission to fail.
But you don't say a word. You just stand up, and the look in your eyes makes Leon’s knees go weak. You cross the kitchen in three purposeful strides, your gaze locked on his.
Scritch. Scritch. MEE-OWW!
From behind the door, the cat begins a frantic, rhythmic assault on the wood, accompanied by a series of yowls that sound like a siren. Leon flinches, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
"Dammit," he curses softly, his shoulders sagging.
He never finishes the sentence. You reach out, your hands snaking up his chest to grab the collar of his shirt. With a strength that catches him entirely off guard, you pull him down toward you.
You can feel the exact moment Leon’s brain goes entirely offline. There is no more DSO. No more missions. No more orange cats trying to sabotage his life. Beneath your hands, his chest seizes with the shock of a man who has finally stopped running and found exactly what he was looking for.
He freezes for a millisecond, his body going completely rigid. He is so utterly unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't involve violence or a medical triage that he genuinely doesn't know what to do with his hands. But then, a low, fractured groan vibrates from deep in his chest, and the dam breaks.
His hands, clumsy and hesitant at first, suddenly scramble to find purchase at your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kisses you back with the terrifying, unbridled hunger of a man who has been starving in the dark for years. It’s a searing, desperate collision that tastes like red wine and the heavy weight of shared secrets.
You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your shirt, gripping you like a lifeline. Months of suffocating tension, of late-night FaceTime calls and lingering, aborted touches, all shatter in this frantic, messy connection.
He feels you smile against his mouth, and he forces himself to pull back just an inch, his breathing ragged as he rests his forehead against yours. He’s delightfully dazed, his blue eyes blown wide and glassy, completely stripped of his cool-agent armor.
"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I’ve been waiting for you to do that since I gave you my number."
Leon blinks, his mind clearly struggling to process the information. A slow, lopsided smirk finally pushes through his shock, accompanied by a faint, boyish flush on his cheeks. "You have? I thought... I thought that was really just for cat questions."
"You are so incredibly clueless," you laugh, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back down by his collar.
"Maybe," Leon breathes, his hands tightening possessively around your waist, completely ignoring the cat that has begun to scream and scratch at the hallway door. "But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."
He kisses you again, and the second kiss is even better than the first.
Where the first was a desperate, panicked collision, this one is a slow, deliberate exploration. He’s a man carefully mapping out a territory he never thought he’d be allowed to claim. His initial awkwardness melts into a heavy, intoxicating rhythm.
Leon’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they slide up your spine, settling warmly at the small of your back. He pulls you in tighter until you can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest.
He’s so profoundly touch-starved that it aches; he chases your lips when you pull back to catch your breath, his mouth hot and insistent, sliding a hand up to cradle the back of your neck so he can tilt your head exactly how he wants it. His thumbs trace small, rhythmic circles against your skin.
Your inner monologue, usually a sharp-tongued critic, has finally been silenced. About fucking time, you think, your fingers tangling into the soft, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. I was starting to think I’d have to perform a personality transplant to get you to make a move.
The moment is perfect. It’s cinematic. It’s everything a slow-burn romance should be.
And then, there’s the scratching.
Scritch. Scritch. Mrow?
The sound of claws on wood is followed by a heavy thud against the door, as if the cat has decided to use himself as a battering ram. The rhythmic, indignant yowling has escalated into a sound that can only be described as a feline operatic tragedy.
You huff a laugh into Leon’s mouth, the vibration of it making him let out a low, frustrated groan. You reluctantly pull back just an inch, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. He looks absolutely wrecked—pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen, and a dazed expression on his face that you’re definitely going to tease him about later.
"He's going to tear through the drywall, Leon," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful.
Leon leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Let him scream. I’ve survived interrogations in darker rooms than this hallway. I can outlast him."
"He’s a cat, Leon. He has nothing but time and spite."
With a reluctant sigh, you disentangle yourself from his arms—feeling the immediate, cold void where his body heat was—and walk over to the door to pull it open.
Cheeto doesn't even hesitate. He streaks into the kitchen, his tail puffed out to the size of a bottle brush. He doesn't go for the food bowl. He doesn't go for the toy. He marches straight to the space between you and Leon, sits down, and begins to lick his paw with a level of smugness that is almost impressive.
"See?" you say, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms. "He’s the third wheel we never asked for."
Leon watches the cat, then looks at you. The adrenaline of the confession is still fading, replaced by a soft, domestic glow. He walks over, invading your personal space again, and traps you against the counter with a hand on either side of your hips. He’s smiling now—that lopsided, cocky Kennedy smirk that usually means he’s about to say something incredibly cheesy.
"You know," he says, his voice dropping into a low, teasing rumble. "I just realized something. As a professional, I have to ask... is this even allowed? Isn't it a little unethical to be dating a patient's owner? I feel like there’s a code of conduct for this."
You stare at him, a deadpan expression flat on your face. Oh, here we go. Tactical awkwardness at its finest.
"Leon," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "The 'patient' is currently trying to eat his own tail. And his 'owner' is a man who carries a handgun to the grocery store. I think the ethics board has bigger fish to fry than us."
"I'm just saying," he continues, his blue eyes dancing with mischief as he leans in closer, his nose brushing yours. "I’d hate to be the reason you lose your license. 'Vet caught in scandalous affair with local cat-dad.' The headlines would be brutal."
"You are such a dork," you mutter, though you can feel the stupid, helpless grin breaking through your defenses.
"I have my moments," he murmurs.
"Shut up, Leon," you say softly, the playfulness fading into something warmer, something real. You reach up, grabbing the front of his shirt again to bridge the tiny gap he’s left between you. "And kiss me again. Before the cat decides to jump on the ceiling."
Leon doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a renewed confidence. This time, there’s no hesitation, no tactical stalling—just the quiet, certain knowledge that the empty apartment isn't empty anymore.
And as the lanky orange cat finally settles on the floor to watch you both, Leon realizes that for the first time in his life, he isn't just surviving a day.
𝕮𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕭𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖚𝖕 ✦ rookie cop!Leon S. Kennedy x Oliveira!Reader ✦ Rating: E✦
𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 You can barely hear over the pounding bass at the party as you down your second drink of the night. Just when you are going to escape to your room to lock the door and hide, you spot the hottest guy dressed as a cop, fueled by alcohol and courage you don't hesitate. You drag him back to your room, eager to help him unwind and have a little fun. In your alcohol-hazed state, you don't notice that his badge looks a bit too authentic under the dim hallway lights, or that his gun sits too heavy against his hip to be some cheap knockoff from Party City.
Leon was dispatched to shut down a rowdy frat party getting out of hand on Halloween, but he's still just a rookie. Too young and fresh-faced, with no real authority behind his barked orders. The partygoers assume he's just another college kid taking his costume to the next level, and they laugh him off. Frustrated that nobody will listen, he turns to leave and call for backup, until he gets distracted by a pretty woman in a harlequin costume, her smile bright and inviting as she reaches for his hand.
Warnings/Notes: Canon Divergence (If Leon actually became a rookie cop instead of traumatized™ AU), I love Carlos and just wanted to include him, Inaccurate Spanish probably (I'm sorry...I'm a no sabo kid who only knows broken Spanish), MDNI, Explicit Sexual Content, P in V Sex, Unprotected sex, Dirty talk, Creampie.
You're sprawled across your bed in your room, The afternoon sun is warm against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight as you stare up at the ceiling. Your phone is pressed to your ear as you try to have a conversation with your brother, while Claire rummages through your closet in the background, the hangers clattering together.
“No, Carlos, I'm telling you, this professor is absolutely insane,” you say, frustration leaking into your voice as you switch the phone to your other ear. “He assigned a twenty-page problem over the weekend. Twenty pages! Who does that?”
Before Carlos can respond, likely with some brotherly comment about how easy you have it, Claire launches herself onto your bed with zero warning. The mattress bounces violently, nearly making you drop your phone, and you let out a startled yelp as your legs flail slightly.
“Jesus Christ, Claire!” you protest, scrambling to sit up, but she just grins up at you, completely unapologetic, her eyes bright with mischief.
“Hi Carlos!” she sings out, loud enough that there's no way he didn't hear her through the receiver.
You hear your brother's laugh through the speaker, warm and familiar and tinged with a distinct kind of amusement that usually means he's enjoying your suffering. “Hey Claire! How's it going?”
Then you catch Chris's voice in the background, muffled but unmistakable, booming and cheerful. "Is that my Claire bear!? Tell her I said hi!"
You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, a gesture that runs in the family. "Chris says hi," you relay flatly, even though Claire definitely heard him perfectly well; she's practically vibrating with excitement.
"HI Chris!" Claire shouts toward your phone, then makes herself comfortable on your bed, stretching out like she owns the place. She kicks off her shoes, tucking her legs underneath her, clearly planning to stay for the long haul.
You sigh and pull the phone away from your ear for a second, giving Claire your best annoyed look. "Do you mind? I'm trying to have a conversation here."
Claire just smirks, completely unbothered by your irritation, and starts scrolling through her contacts on her phone, the visual distracting you slightly.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the call, deciding to switch to Spanish, hoping for at least a little privacy from Claire and probably Chris's prying ears. “¿Qué tal va entrenando el nuevo?" (How's training the new rookie going?)
Carlos scoffs so hard you can practically see him rolling his eyes through the phone. “Ay, no, ni me hagas hablar. El nuevo nomás es un niño bonito, ya. Está demasiado entusiasta y me sigue a todas partes como perrito perdido. Es bien cagante.” (Oh, don't get me started. The rookie is just a pretty boy, that's all. Too enthusiastic, follows me around like a lost puppy. Annoying as hell.)
You can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It's so like Carlos to complain about someone eager to learn. “Ay, qué tierno. Pero si a ti te gustan los perros, Carlito. Siempre has querido uno.” (Aww, how cute. But you like dogs, Carlito. You've always wanted one.)
“Ya cállate,” (Shut up,) he grumbles, but you can hear the smile creeping into his voice despite his best efforts.
There's a pause, and you hear some shuffling on his end, like he's grabbing a coffee in the break room. "Oye, ¿tienes planes para esta noche?" (Hey, do you have any plans for tonight?)
"No, ¿por?" (No, why?) You say, rolling to the side slightly to watch Claire type away, already suspecting where this is going.
"¿Cómo que “por”? Es Halloween." (What do you mean why? It's Halloween.) Your brother says incredulously, probably rolling his eyes as you hear the rustle of a fast food wrapper in the background.
You roll your eyes back at him even though he can't see you, the gesture purely reflexive. "Ohhh, no. I'm just staying in tonight. Gonna study, maybe watch a movie."
Carlos hums, and you can tell he doesn't quite believe you but he's not going to push it. "Bueno, está bien. Nomás ten cuidado si cambias de opinión." (Well, okay. Just be careful if you change your mind.)
"Siempre lo tengo," (I always am) you say, which is a complete lie and you both know it. You are tied with the twins, Mateo and Rafael, for the Oliveira sibling most likely to find trouble, though you usually do it accidentally.
Carlos chuckles, a low, warm sound. "Sí, claro. Oye, antes de que se me olvide, mamá quiere que los dos vayamos a la casa este fin de semana." (Yeah, sure. Hey, before I forget, Mom wants both of us to come to the house this weekend.)
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "¿Este fin de semana? Carlito, tengo un examen el—" (This weekend? Carlito, I have an exam on—)
"Ya le dije eso." (I already told her that.) he interrupts, his voice taking on that long-suffering tone he uses whenever he talks about your mother's stubbornness. "She said you can bring your books and study there. She just wants to see us. Dice que ya ni la visitas." (She says you don't visit her anymore.)
The guilt is a sharp and familiar feeling that bubbles up in your chest and settle deep in your stomach like a rock. Your mom has always been good at that, the gentle guilt trip that makes you feel like the worst daughter in the world for simply trying to get an education.
"Está bien, está bien. Iré." (Okay, okay. I'll go.) You sigh, defeated. "¿A qué hora?" (What time?)
"Como a las dos. Y también dijo que lleves a Claire, si quiere ir." (Around two. And she said to bring Claire if she wants to come.)
"Le voy a preguntar." (I'll ask her.) You pause, looking over at Claire as she perks up listening more closely now that her name has come up in the conversation. "¿Va a estar Chris?" (Is Chris going to be there?)
"Probablemente. Ya sabes cómo es, siempre aparece cuando hay comida gratis." (Probably. You know how he is, always shows up when there's free food.)
You laugh, already ready with a quip. "Como tú." (Like you.)
"Oye, yo ayudo a cocinar. " (Hey, I help cook.) Carlos protests, sounding offended. "Tú nada más llegas, tragas y ya." (You just show up and eat.)
"¡Mentira! I helped last time!" (Lie!) you shout defensively. No way you're taking that slander lying down, your brother is a lying piece of shit.
Sure, there were times when you came over and ate while your seven brothers were forced to help Mamá cook. But that was what was expected, you were the youngest and the only girl. Mamá treated you like a true princess amongst peasants.
But you could distinctly remember all the times that asshole Carlos just came over and took a nap on Mamá's floor or argued with Luis and Rafael about fútbol while you were elbow-deep in masa, actually helping.
"Sí, ayudaste a comerte tres platos de arroz con pollo." (Yeah, you helped eat three plates of chicken and rice.) He scoffed.
You're about to respond with a witty retort about his cooking skills when Claire suddenly sits up, abandoning her phone. She starts gesturing frantically at you, pointing at her watch and mouthing something you can't quite make out. Her eyes are wide and insistent, and she's practically bouncing on your mattress with pent-up energy.
You wave her off with your free hand, trying to focus on Carlos, but she's persistent, making increasingly dramatic gestures that involve a lot of pointing, flailing, and eyebrow waggling.
"Okay, okay, I gotta go," you tell Carlos, switching back to English with a resigned sigh. "Claire's having some kind of crisis or something."
Immediately, Carlos's tone shifts into full big-brother protective mode. You can practically hear him straightening up, his voice going serious. "Wait, before you go. Be careful tonight, okay? It's Halloween you know there is lots of drunk idiots out there."
"I'm not going anywhere—" you start to protest.
"I'm serious," he interrupts firmly. "No stupid decisions. No drinking too much, and if some guy tries anything—"
"Carlos," you cut him off, laughing despite yourself, warmed by his concern. "I'm fine. I promise I'll be careful. Love you, bye!"
You hang up before he can launch into a full-blown lecture about personal safety and the dangers of college parties, and toss your phone onto the pillow. You turn to Claire, who's now grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Sooooo,” she says, drawing out the word with obvious glee. “The frat is throwing a massive party tonight for Halloween, and you'll be attending with me.”
You groan, flopping back dramatically on your bed and throwing an arm over your eyes. “Claire, no. God, no. Those parties are disgusting. The guys are gross and handsy, it's always way too loud, someone always breaks something expensive, and there's inevitably vomit somewhere.”
“Exactly! That's what makes it fun!” She grabs your arm and shakes it insistently. “Come on, you never go out anymore. You're always holed up in here studying or talking to one of your brothers. Just come for a little while? Please?”
You peek at her from under your arm, taking in her pleading puppy-dog eyes and pouty lip. She knows exactly what she's doing; she's weaponized that face since you were freshmen.
“Fine,” you concede with a heavy, put-upon sigh. “But I'm staying for like five minutes, max. Maybe ten if the music doesn't suck, and the second I get bored or some drunk guy tries to grind on me, I'm locking myself in my room and you're not dragging me back out. Deal?”
Claire squeals and throws her arms around you, nearly crushing your ribcage. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! Okay, we need to figure out your costume right now. What are you thinking? Sexy cat? Sexy nurse? Sexy devil? Ooh, or sexy—”
“If you say the word 'sexy' one more time, I'm backing out of this entire thing,” you warn, but you're already smiling despite yourself, unable to resist her infectious enthusiasm.
Claire just laughs and bounces off the bed, already heading for your closet with determination in her eyes. “Okay, okay. How about... harlequin? I saw this amazing costume at the store and I think you'd look incredible in it. Red and black, kind of edgy, super cute...”
You sit up, resigned to your fate. “Fine. Lets go.”
Leon's jaw is so tight it starts to ache as he clenches his jaw muscle, he pulls the patrol car up to the curb in front of the frat house. The house is currently emitting a bassline so loud he can feel it rattling, even from inside the cruiser. The house looks like bad news waiting to happen, windows pulsating with erratic strobe lights, shadows of way too many bodies packed against the glass, the faint but distinct scent of spilled beer drifting even through the closed windows of the cruiser.
He keyes the radio, keeping his voice steady despite the knot of tension in his stomach. "Dispatch, this is unit seven-two-three. We're on scene at 588 raccoon road for the noise complaint. It's... active."
Static crackles back at him, the dispatcher sounding bored. "Copy that, seven-two-three. Keep us updated. Use discretion if it's just college kids being college kids."
Discretion. Right.
Leon reaches for the console, his fingers hovering over the switch to trigger the lights and sirens. Nothing clears a street faster than the wail of a siren, It’s the universal language of "you're busted." But before he can flip the switch, Carlos's hand shoots out from the passenger seat and clamps over his wrist.
"Whoa, whoa, hold up there, rookie," Carlos says, his voice lazy and thick with sleep. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes already half-lidded. There's a smirk playing on his lips that Leon has learned to dread. "You can handle this one solo, right? Good training experience."
Leon stares at him. "Carlos, there's got to be at least a hundred people in there. Maybe two hundred. It's a full-blown rager."
"And you're a cop," Carlos interrupts, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. "You got the badge and gun. You got this. Just go in, flash the badge, tell them to shut it down. Easy peasy."
"Shouldn't we both go in? Standard procedure for crowd control—"
But Carlos is already reaching for the seat lever, tilting it back until he's practically horizontal. He pulls his cap down low over his eyes, effectively ending the conversation. "I'll be right here if you need backup. Just knock on the window. If I don't wake up, throw a rock at it." he hears Carlos mumble something in Spanish, his voice muffled by the cap over his face.
Leon freezes as he understands every word. Four years of high school Spanish, two semesters in college meant he'd been quietly comprehending about seventy percent of Carlos's muttered complaints since day one. It was annoying but Leon had kept his mouth shut, not wanting to make things more awkward than they already were. Thank you, Mrs. Benitez, he thinks.
Within thirty seconds, a soft, rhythmic snoring is emanating from the passenger seat. Leon sits there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, trying to decide if he's more frustrated or impressed by his partner's ability to fall asleep literally anywhere at anytime. They'd been paired up for three weeks, and while Carlos was undeniably a great cop, he also had a frustrating habit of treating Leon like a glorified intern who needed to learn "the hard way."
"Unbelievable," Leon mutters under his breath, unbuckling his seatbelt with a sharp snap. He steps out and shoves the door closed harder than necessary, hoping the slam might jostle Carlos awake, It doesn't. He checks his reflection in the car window, uniform crisp, hair neat, badge polished. He looks the part as he squares his shoulders back.
The front door is propped open with a traffic cone, Leon steps over the threshold and is immediately hit by a wall of sensory overload.
The house is packed wall-to-wall with bodies, the heat radiating off the crowd suffocating. The air is thick, a toxic cocktail of cheap beer, sweat, vapor clouds from smokes, and an overwhelming amount of body spray. Music blasts from speakers hidden somewhere in the living room.
He takes a breath, puffing out his chest, and raises his voice to a shout. "Attention! This is the police! This party is over! Everyone needs to—"
A guy dressed in a yellow banana suit stumbles past him, reeking of tequila. He shoves a red solo cup into Leon's hand, sloshing warm liquid over his fingers. "Dude! Sick costume, bro! You look so legit! Did you rent that or buy it?"
"I'm not—this isn't a costume," Leon tries to explain, but the banana guy is already gone, swallowed back into the throng of dancing bodies.
Leon grimaces, sets the cup down on a nearby table that is sticky with unknown substances, and tries again. He projects his voice, using his "commanding voice". "Everyone needs to evacuate the premises! You're in violation of noise ordinances and public intoxication laws!"
A girl in a sexy nurse outfit consisting of mostly red lace and a plastic headpiece giggles and drapes herself over his shoulders, nearly spilling her drink down the front of his uniform shirt. "Oh my god, you're so hot. Can I get a pic? Hold my drink!"
"Ma'am, please, I'm an actual police officer—"
She's already pulling out her phone, posing and completely ignoring his words. Leon gently but firmly extracts himself from her grip, his frustration mounting with every second. He pushes further into the house, moving against the flow of the crowd.
"Excuse me! Police!" he tries to flag down a group of guys playing beer pong in the hallway. "I need you to end the game and clear the area."
"Dude, chill!" one of them laughs, high-fiving his partner. "It's Halloween! Live a little!"
They offer him a ping pong ball. Leon bats it away.
"Please, just turn the music down," he implores a guy standing near a massive amplifier.
The guy just grins and reaches out, patting Leon on the cheek condescendingly. "Nice try, bro. Nice gun, by the way. Very realistic."
"It's not a prop!" Leon snaps, finally losing his cool. "And if you touch me again, you'll be spending the night in a cell, 'bro'" But his voice is lost, drowned out by a sudden drop in the music that makes the crowd scream in delight.
He makes his way toward what he thinks might be the source of the music, hoping that if he can just kill the power, people might actually hear him. But the deeper he gets into the house, the more impossible the task seems. The hallway is a bottleneck of bodies, the air is getting harder to breathe, and he's starting to realize this is a losing battle.
Nobody is taking him seriously. Not one person. He’s too young, and he knows it. "Baby-faced," Carlos calls him, usually while laughing over a burger. At twenty-one, he barely looks old enough to be out of high school, let alone be a police officer. The academy had been brutal, the physical training grueling, and even after graduating at the top of his class, he still gets mistaken for a cadet half the time.
And now, surrounded by people his own age, people who should, by all rights, be respecting the uniform, he's just another partygoer. He feels the frustration boiling over in his gut, turning into something closer to resignation. He's one guy. He can't arrest two hundred people by himself.
He pulls out his radio, thumbing the talk button. "Carlos, I need backup in here. This is out of control. Nobody's listening to me." Static hisses back at him.
"Carlos? Carlos, you awake?" More static. Leon closes his eyes and counts to ten, just like they taught him in de-escalation training. When he opens them again, nothing has changed. The party is still raging, the bass is still shaking the floorboards, people are still ignoring him, and his partner is likely back in the car dreaming about donuts.
He's turning toward the door, defeated, already ready to turn and shake Carlos awake and force him to help him, when he sees her.
She's standing near the makeshift bar set up in the kitchen doorway, and even in the chaos of the party, she stands out. The harlequin costume hugs her curves in a way that makes his mouth go dry, the fabric a dizzying pattern of red and black diamonds. Her makeup is dramatic and bold, black mask, painted-on smile, dark lipstick, and she looks confident and completely in her element.
But it's not just the costume that catches his attention. It's the way she's looking at him. Most people have looked through him, or at him like he's a joke. But her? She's looking right at him. Her eyes lock onto his from across the crowded, noisy room, and for a second, the rest of the party fades away.
She smiles, and it's not the mocking, drunk giggles and grins he's been getting all night. Leon forgets what he was about to do. He forgets the radio in his hand, the noise complaint, the sleeping partner in the car. He just stands there, rooted to the sticky floorboard.
She pushes off the doorframe and starts walking toward him, cutting through the crowd like she is parting the sea, and Leon's heart does a strange, nervous little flip.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ .
︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶
The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, each thump reverberating through your ribcage like a second heartbeat. You tip back your cup, letting the vodka-spiked punch burn down your throat, your second drink, and already the edges of the room are starting to blur in that pleasant, fuzzy way that makes everything seem just a little bit brighter, a little bit easier.
You were just about to make your escape. Five minutes have definitely passed, probably closer to twenty, and you've done your duty as Claire's friend. You've shown up, you've had a drink, you've nodded along to conversations you couldn't hear over the music. Now it's time to retreat to your room, lock the door, put on some TV, and pretend the chaos downstairs doesn't exist, but then you see him.
He's standing near the front of the room, and God, he's gorgeous. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dirty blonde hair that falls just right across his forehead, soft and cute baby-faced jawline, and these incredible blue eyes that you can see even from across the crowded space. The cop costume fits him like it was custom-made, navy blue shirt that stretches across his chest in all the right ways, tactical pants that hug his thighs, utility belt slung low on his hips with handcuffs dangling from one side.
Even from here, you can tell the costume is high-quality. Not like the cheap polyester crap most guys throw on. This looks real, detailed, almost professional. The badge on his chest catches the light, gleaming in a way that seems too authentic for Party City, not that you could actually put that together in your drunken haze anyway.
He looks frustrated, his jaw is tight, his brows furrowed, and he's trying to talk to people who keep brushing him off. You watch as someone hands him a solo cup and pats him on the back, and the expression on his face is priceless, a cute bewildered and annoyed frown on his face, his eyes shining like he might cry out of frustration.
The alcohol is warm in your veins, and suddenly the idea of hiding in your room seems a lot less appealing than talking to the hottest guy at this party, and before you can second-guess yourself, you're moving. You weave through the crowd of drunk college students in various states of costume, sexy nurses, zombies, a guy in a large spider costume, and make your way toward him.
He's turning away, reaching for something on his shoulder, a radio? Wow, he really committed to this costume, when you slide up next to him.
“Hey,” you say, pitching your voice loud enough to be heard over the music. You flash him your brightest smile, the one that always worked on your brothers' friends. “Nice costume.”
He turns to look at you, and up close he's even better. Those blue eyes are striking, framed by golden lashes, and there's a slight flush to his cheeks that makes him look younger than you first thought. Maybe your age, actually. Early twenties at most.
“Thanks...” he says, but there's something distracted in his tone. His eyes flick back to the crowd, then to you again. “Um sorry...Listen, I'm actually—”
“You look way too serious,” you interrupt, emboldened by the alcohol and the way his gaze keeps lingering on you. The harlequin costume was definitely the right choice; you can see his eyes tracking the diamonds that curve over your body. You step a little closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look up at him. “You should relax. Have some fun.”
His lips part like he's about to protest, and you notice they're really nice lips. Full, perfectly shaped and you wonder what they'd feel like against yours.
“I'm serious,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. The muscle beneath the fabric of his uniform shirt is solid and very distracting, he has really nice biceps you think to yourself. “When's the last time you actually enjoyed yourself at one of these things?”
He blinks at you, and you can see the exact moment his brain seems to shut down like a windows screen. His mouth opens, closes, and then he swallows hard. You track the movement of his throat, the Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Your eyes drift lower, catching on the cute little moles that sprinkle his neck, a constellation you want to map out with your mouth, that you would never tire of tracing. You're utterly fascinated and captivated by him.
“I... I'm not really here to enjoy myself,” he manages, but his voice is a little rough.
“Well, that's a shame,” you murmur, stepping even closer until there's barely an inch of air separating your bodies. You can smell his cologne now, something clean and masculine that smells a million times better than the stale beer and sweaty smell of the party. “Because I was hoping you might want to get out of here.”
You reach out and toy with the stiff collar of his uniform shirt, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck pressing your finger to the mole hiding just under his collar. You feel him shiver, a full-body reaction he can't hide. Then you press your chest flush against his, letting him feel the softness of your curves against him. You look up at him, fluttering your lashes, putting on your best innocent act, your heart beating a mile a minute in your chest.
His eyes widen slightly, and the flush on his cheeks deepens to a very pretty pink that spreads all the way down his neck. “Are you—are you asking me to—”
“To come upstairs with me?” you finish for him, your voice dropping to a low and intimate register that he has to lean down to hear you over the thumping bass. You slide your hand down his chest, over the badge resting on his chest, letting your fingers trail down his tensing sternum to rest dangerously close to his gun belt. “Yeah. I am.”
“Why?” he breathes, looking down at you like he’s afraid you’re a hallucination conjured up by his exhaustion and frustration. A siren songing him to crash against your shores.
“Because you’re the hottest guy here,” you say simply, your hand traveling back up his chest to lay right between his pecks, your thumb stroking the fabric right over his heart, feeling it race. “And you look like you need to relax.” You stand on your tiptoes and brush your lips against the soft line of his jaw. “My room's upstairs,” you say, your voice dropping into a lower sultry tone. The alcohol makes you bold; makes you reach out and tug gently on his wrist. His skin is warm under your fingers. “What do you say, officer? Want to help me unwind a little?”
He just stares at you like you've spoken a different language entirely, maybe that was his thing, you could totally break out the Spanish if that was his thing. You weren’t below using it especially if it got him to follow you upstairs. You can see the conflict playing out across his face, confusion, surprise, and lust warring with what's you don't know is his sense of duty.
His lips part, and you can see him forming the word "no." his eyes flick toward the door and you think you've lost him, but then his expression shifts. His jaw clenches slightly, and you swear you see a flash of frustration cross his face, not at you, but at something else you couldn’t see. Leon's eyes come back to you, and the conflict is still there, but there's a resignation mixed with recklessness now.
His hand turns in your grip, his fingers tangling with yours, and he lets out a breath that sounds almost defeated.
"Okay..." he says quietly, so quietly you almost don't hear him over the music. There's a helpless and innocent but entirely too excited expression on his face that makes your stomach flip, he's got this eager puppy energy that is making you go absolutely crazy.
Victory surges through your body, and you feel as if you just won the hot boy lottery as you grin and start pulling him toward the stairs, weaving through the crowd. A few people glance your way, you catch Claire's eye across the room, and she gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up that makes you want to die of embarrassment.
You guess you doth protest too much when she had to practically force you downstairs, now look at you disappearing upstairs with a guy only after twenty minutes. You owed it to her big time and if this went as well as you hoped it would, you would be buying her the largest coffee you could tomorrow.
The noise dulls as you climb the stairs, the bass fading to a manageable thump beneath your feet. Your room is at the end of the hall, and your hands are shaking slightly as you fumble with the door handle.
“Sorry, it's kind of a mess,” you say as you pull him inside, though honestly your room is probably the cleanest space in the entire frat house. Textbooks are stacked neatly on your desk, your bed is made with your favorite comforter, and the only real clutter is the pile of rejected costume options Claire had pulled from your closet earlier.
You close the door behind you, and the quiet is almost jarring. You can still hear the party, but it's more muffled now, and in here it's just the two of you and the sound of your breathing.
He's standing in the middle of your room, looking around with an almost dazed expression. The lighting is softer here, just your bedside lamp casting everything in a warm glow, and you can see more details now. The way his hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it in frustration.
“Soooo,” you say, stepping closer. Your heart is pounding now, alcohol and pure want thrumming through your veins. “What's your name, officer?”
He looks at you, observing you.
“Leon,” he finally says. “My name is Leon.”
“Leon,” you repeat, testing his name on your tongue as you step close enough that your chest almost brushes his, and you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “I'm glad you came upstairs with me, Leon.”
His hands hover at his sides, like he's not sure what to do with them. “Wait—I should probably tell you something—” But you're done with talking, you've been watching his mouth for the past five minutes and you need to know what it feels like. You rise up on your toes and kiss him. For a second, he freezes, going completely still like he's forgotten how to move.
Slowly his hands come up to cup your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and his lips are even better than you imagined. Soft but firm, moving against yours with an urgency that makes your knees weak. You grab onto his shirt for balance, feeling warmth of his body beneath the fabric.
You kiss him harder, sliding your tongue along the seam of his lips, and he opens for you with a groan. The taste of him floods your mouth and you want more, need more. Your hands slide up to his shoulders, then into his hair, and it's just as soft as it looks. He makes another noise when you tug slightly, and you file that information away for later. When you finally pull back, you're both breathing hard. His lips are swollen and pink, his eyes dark with want, and the bulge in his pants is very, very obvious.
“Bed,” you breathe, you don't give him time to overthink it, as your hands find his belt, and you walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed. One firm push and he goes down, sitting heavily on the mattress with a surprised exhale that's absolutely adorable.
“Wait—” he starts, but you're already dropping to your knees between his legs, fingers working at his belt buckle with determination.
The metal clinks as you pull it free, and his breath catches audibly. You can see the conflict written all over his face, those blue eyes wide and uncertain, his lips parted like he wants to protest but can't quite make himself form the words. His hands hover in the air, trembling slightly.
“Just relax,” you murmur, your voice low and sweet as you pop the button on his pants. The zipper follows with a soft hiss, and you tug the fabric down to reveal dark boxer briefs underneath. He's hard, the outline of his cock strains against the fabric, thick and mouth-watering, you can't help the pleased hum that escapes your throat.
“Hold on I think I made a mistake, I really shouldn't—” Leon's voice cracks slightly, his hands finally moving to catch your wrists, but his grip is gentle, hesitant, like he doesn't really want you to stop. “This isn't—I'm, I—”
You look up at him through your lashes, letting your lower lip push out in an exaggerated pout. “What's wrong? You don't want me to suck your cock?”
His face goes scarlet, bright red from his neck all the way up to his ears, and the sight is so delicious you almost moan out loud. You lean forward and press your lips against his cock through his boxers, letting your hot breath warm over the dark fabric.
“Fuck—” He whimpers, his hips jerking involuntarily off the bed. You kiss him again, slower this time, dragging your mouth along the length of him. He's thick and you can feel him twitch against your lips, your tongue darts out, wetting the fabric, and Leon makes a strangled noise that goes straight between your legs.
“Do you want me to stop?” you ask, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. He stares down at you, chest heaving, face still flushed that gorgeous shade of red. His hands are trembling where they rest on your wrists, and you can see the exact moment he decides.
“I...” He swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “No.” he says defeated, and your grin is wicked as you lean back in. You press open-mouthed kisses along his length through the fabric, sucking gently, getting the cotton wet with your saliva. Leon's breathing is uneven as he pants, his thighs tensing under your hands.
You look up at him as you work, maintaining eye contact while you mouth at his cock. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, and he looks absolutely destroyed already and you've barely done anything. It's intoxicating, the power you have over him right now.
“Please,” he breathes. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug them down teasingly. His cock springs free, and God, it's even better than you imagined.
“Oh,” you breathe, wrapping your hand around the base. “You have such a pretty cock.” And you mean it. He's thick and flushed, the head already dark pink and leaking. He curves slightly upward, and the vein running along the underside is prominent. He's neatly trimmed, clearly takes care of himself, and the whole package is honestly mouthwatering.
Leon makes a choked sound at your words, his cock jumping in your hand and leaking more precum. A pearly bead forms at the tip, and you watch, fascinated, as it threatens to drip down his shaft.
You laugh softly, delighted. “You're so responsive,” you murmur against his heated skin. “It’s cute.” you tell him, stroking him slowly.
He's a mess already, face red and breathing hard, trembling under your touch. Most guys you've been with try to act all cocky and too confident for their own good, and honestly it kinda gives you the ick. But Leon? Leon is open and honest in his reactions, and it's refreshing as hell. You lean in and press a soft kiss to his tip, right where that bead of precum has formed. The taste bursts across your tongue, salty and musky and you hum in appreciation.
Leon's whole-body jerks, a broken moan falling from his lips, and his hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands but not pulling.
“Oh god,” he whimpers, and the sound makes you clench around nothing. “That feels—you're—”
You kiss him again, then drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft, following that throbbing vein from base to tip. His thighs are shaking now, muscles jumping under your free hand. You swirl your tongue around the head, dipping into the slit to gather more of that addictive taste, and Leon actually lets out a cry. His hips twitch like he wants to thrust up but he's holding himself back, trying so hard to be good and not force his cock down your throat.
“It's okay,” you tell him, pressing kisses along his length. “You can fuck my mouth; I want you to.”
And with that, you seal your lips around the head of his cock and suck. The taste of him floods your mouth as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks and working your tongue along the underside of his shaft. Spit leaks from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin and making an absolute mess, but you don't care. You push yourself further, taking him until he hits the back of your throat. The stretch makes your eyes water, your throat constricting around him, and Leon moans and whimpers uncontrollably.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck—” Leon's babbling now, his voice high and strained. His thighs are tense under your hands, muscles jumping with every bob of your head. “That's—you're—holy shit—”
You pull back until just the tip rests between your lips, then swirl your tongue around the head. His hips buck involuntarily, driving himself deeper, and you let him, relaxing your throat to take more.
“Sorry, I'm sorry—” he gasps, but his hand tightens in your hair, contradicting the sweet way that he is apologizing.
You hum your approval and take him as deep as you can, your nose nearly brushing the hair at his base. The sound he makes is desperate, a moan mixing with a quiet sob, and you feel a rush of power knowing you're the one reducing him to this.
You pull back with a gasp, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a lewd string, then dive back down. The wet, obscene sounds fill your quiet room, combines with Leon's increasingly desperate whimpers. You work the base your hand following your mouth while the other slides up his thigh, feeling the way his muscles quiver beneath you wandering hands.
You pull off of him with a soft pop. “You're so hard,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of his shaft. “Does it feel good, officer?”
“Don't—” He chokes on the word, his head falling back. “Don't call me that right now, please—” But you can see the way his cock jerks at the title, the way more precum leaks from the tip. You lap it up with a flick of your spit slick tongue, and Leon's moan bounces off your bedroom walls.
Your free hand slides up his stomach, fingers scratching through the trimmed blond hair of his happy trail. The texture is coarse against your fingertips, and you feel his abs flex and jump under your touch.
He's so responsive and it is driving you absolutely crazy. You’ve given head before, but it's never felt like this. Never made your pussy throb with need, never made you feel throbbing and warm just from the taste of someone on your tongue. But Leon is different in every way from most frat guys who end up at these parties, the way he whimpers and trembles under your touch, makes you want never to let him leave your bed.
Tears well up in your eyes, partly from choking on his cock but mostly from sheer arousal. Your makeup is definitely running now, black streaks probably running through the makeup on your cheeks, but you don't care. You just want more of him.
Your other hand slides down your body, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. You're absolutely soaked, your arousal coating your inner thighs, and when your fingers find your clit you have to moan around Leon's cock.
“Jesus—” Leon's voice breaks. “Are you—are you touching yourself?”
You pull off to look up at him, your lips still brushing his tip. “Uh-huh,” you breathe, circling your clit with slick fingers. “You make me so wet, Leon.”
His cock jumps, leaking more precum, and you lap it up eagerly before taking him back into your mouth. You set a rhythm now, bobbing your head while your hand works what you can't fit, your other hand buried between your legs.
“Such a good boy, Leon.” His face somehow gets even redder, and you grin before taking him back into your mouth.
You slip two fingers into yourself, your walls clenching around them as you imagine what Leon's cock would feel like instead. The thought makes you moan, the vibration traveling through his length, and Leon actually sobs.
“Wait, wait—” His hand tugs at your hair, not hard enough to hurt but urgent. “I'm gonna—if you keep doing that I'm gonna—”
You pull off just enough to look up at him, your lips still brushing his tip. “Gonna what?”
He's panting, his chest heaving, sweat beading at his temples. Those blue eyes are glazed with pleasure, pupils blown wide, and he looks absolutely wrecked.
“Come,” he admits, “I'm gonna come.” The confession sends a thrill through you, heat pooling low in your belly. You want that. Want to taste him, feel him lose control, know that you did this to him.
“Then come,” you say simply, before you double down, sucking harder, taking him as deep as you can while your fingers are finding your clit. The sensation of his cock heavy on your tongue and your own fingers pumping inside yourself, has you teetering on the edge. You scratch your nails through his happy trail again, a little harder this time, and Leon's whole body goes taut.
You look up at him through tear-blurred vision, and the sight of him, his face is flushed, his mouth open in a silent moan, sweat beading at his temples, above you is going to push you over the edge.
You moan around him and that all it takes for Leon to snap, his hips jerk up, driving himself into your mouth as his hand fists tight in your hair. You relax your throat and let him, working him with your tongue as he fucks into the wet heat.
“Fuck, fuck, I'm—” His warning dissolves into a strangled groan as he comes across your tongue and the back of your throat. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat as much as you can, choking on him while tears stream down your face and your fingers pump in and out of your dripping pussy.
You're making such a mess, spit and precum coating your chin, your hand between your legs absolutely drenched. You swallow around him greedily, not wanting to waste a drop, your own fingers working faster between your legs.
The taste of him, the sounds he's making, the way his cock twitches in your mouth, all coalesce into a tight ball deep in your core before it all crashes over you and you come too, moaning around his length as pleasure floods through you. Your walls clench tightly around your fingers, your whole body shaking.
Leon collapses back on your bed in a boneless heap, gasping his chest heaves up and down, his uniform shirt twisted and rumpled. You pull off slowly, licking your lips as you sit back on your heels. His cock is still half-hard, glistening and sensitive, and when you press one last kiss to the tip, Leon actually whimpers. Withdrawing your hand from between your legs, your fingers are slick and shining, and without thinking, you bring them to your mouth and suck them clean.
Leon peeks at you from under his arm, his face still flushed, his hair a mess. Staring at you like you're some kind of goddess. “Jesus christ…,” he breathes, his cock giving a small twitch of interest despite having just come. “You’re—that was—”
You grin, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. Your makeup is definitely ruined, mascara streaked down your cheeks, lipstick smeared everywhere. You probably look like a mess But from the way Leon is looking at you, you've never felt more beautiful.
You stand up, legs still a little shaky from your orgasm, and Leon watches you with dazed blue eyes as you reach for the laces of your corset. His gaze tracks every movement of your fingers as you slowly undo them, letting the garment fall away.
Your breasts spill free, nipples already hard and aching, and Leon makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Next come the shorts, shimmied down your hips along with the fishnets and soaked panties. You kick them aside, standing completely naked in front of him except for the smudged harlequin makeup and the little jester hat that's somehow still sitting upon your head.
“Fuck,” Leon breathes, his eyes roaming over every inch of exposed skin. His cock is already stirring again, hardening from where it rests against his stomach.
You crawl onto the bed, straddling his hips, and push him back against the mattress. He goes easily, his hands coming up to rest on your waist like he can't help himself.
“I want you inside me,” you murmur, leaning down to capture his lips. This kiss is different from the first, deeper, more confident, flavored with the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Leon groans into your mouth, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You roll your hips, grinding your bare pussy against the rough fabric of his rough pants. The friction against your sensitive clit makes you gasp, breaking the kiss.
“Need this off,” you pant, tugging at his shirt.
Leon sits up enough to help you pull it over his head, and oh god, he's beautiful. Lean muscle, defined abs, a light dusting of golden hair across his chest that trails down in that perfect happy trail you'd scratched through earlier. You run your hands over his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds beneath your palm.
“Pants too,” you demand, helping strip him completely.
“This is such a high-quality costume,” you comment breathlessly, running your fingers over the uniform before you toss it aside carelessly.
“Actually—” Before he can respond you are straddling him as you grind down hard on his cock, sliding your slick folds along his length, and whatever Leon was about to say dissolves into a helpless moan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. “That feels—you're so wet—”
You are absolutely dripping, coating his cock with your arousal as you rock against him. The head catches on your clit with each roll of your hips and you whimper at the sensation.
“You feel so good,” you breathe, bracing your hands on his chest.
Leon's looking up at you his face flushed and his lips parted. “You're incredible,” he manages. “I can't—I've never—”
You grind down harder, cutting off his words with another moan. His cock slides through your folds, getting absolutely soaked, and you can feel him throbbing against you.
“Need you inside me,” you whimper, reaching down to position his pink tip at your swollen entrance.
His eyes go wide, his grip on your hips tightening. “Wait—do you have—I don't have a condom—”
“I'm on the pill,” you say quickly, too desperate to care about the details. You need him now, need to feel him stretching you open, filling you up. “Please, Leon. I need you.”
He searches your face for a moment, before he nods, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay.”
You sink down slowly, taking just the tip, and you both moan at the sensation. He's thick, stretching you wide and you have to pause to adjust to his girth. Leon's hands grips your hips as he slides into you, watching your face as you adjust to his size, your breath hitches lips parting on a soft gasp. Which makes something primal stir deep in his chest.
“You're so tight,” Leon grits out, his abs flexing as he fights the urge to thrust up. You sink down another inch, then another, taking him slowly until he's fully seated inside you. The stretch feels so good, almost too much but not quite, and you feel absolutely full.
“Oh my god,” you whimper, your head falling back. You're already rolling your hips before you can fully adjust to the feeling of him being buried deep inside you. You look at him, panting and breathless from just a few rolls of your hips, and the pleading blissed out look on his face makes you want to tease him.
“I've been such a bad girl, officer,” you purr breathlessly, your lips brushing against his. “Are you going to punish me?”
Leon's whole body goes rigid. “Don't—” he warns again, but you can already feel his cock twitching inside you. You grin wickedly, running your hands down his arms where they're lying beside him. “Maybe you should use those handcuffs on me, officer. Make sure I don't try to escape.” You purr before you trail your fingers back up his arms to rest on his chest, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch, and lean up to whisper in his ear.
“What's wrong?” you ask innocently, rolling your hips in small tight circles in his lap. “Isn't that what cops do? Detain bad girls who break the rules?”
“Jesus Christ,” Leon mutters, and then he's kissing you again, hard and demanding. Leon's hips snap upward hard, driving into you so deep you gasp.
“Fuck—don't—” he mumbles, the rhythm you had set faltering. “Don't call me that when I'm—when we're—” Leon groans interrupting himself, his hips continuing to thrust into you shallowly, each one making you gasp. You can feel his cock jumps inside you, the way he somehow gets even harder. He likes it, even if he's embarrassed to admit it.
Leon's breathing grows heavier. The control that he had been maintaining ever since you found him downstairs was slipping, you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his muscles cord beneath sun-kissed skin dotted with those distinctive moles.
"Common, Officer," your voice lilts higher, sing-song and deliberately provocative. "Maybe you should—oh fuck—" Leon's hands tighten on your hips and suddenly the world is spinning. He flips you onto your back with surprising strength, your head hitting the pillow as he settles between your thighs raised on his knees. The shift in position makes his cock slide even deeper, as you gasp at the sensation.
"You think this is funny?" he pants, his voice rough and strained. "Teasing me like this?"
"A little," you admit breathlessly, then laugh when he drives into you particularly hard, his hips snapping forward with force. The laugh dissolves into a moan as pleasure sparks through you, an all-consuming fire that starts from your toes spreads up your chest to settle there and warm you from the inside.
"But you love it—oh god—you love when I call you that. Don't you?" you say breathlessly. He can't deny it, not when his cock is rock hard inside you, throbbing with need. His jaw clenches, and you can see him trying to formulate words, trying to match your teasing energy.
"Gonna—" he grits out, his voice lacking the usual cockiness that is to be expected from most guys who come to these frat parties, "—gonna fuck that attitude right out of you."
There's no real bite to his bark. The words almost uncertain, like he's testing them out, trying to play along but not quite sure how. It's endearing, actually, his inexperience with dirty talk, the way he's clearly attempting to match your energy but fumbling slightly. And it only turns you on more, knowing that he's trying, that he wants to give you what you want even if it doesn't come naturally.
"Promise, Officer?" you tease, your legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back.
"Fuck—" He groans, his voice slightly strangled and tense, as you feel his whole body tense. Suddenly he's pulling almost all the way out, just the tip of his cock still inside you, and then he slams back in hard enough to make you whimper. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks in his skin.
" Ahhh—Yes! That feels so good," you gasp out, and the praise seems to ignite something in him. Your words spur him on like nothing else could. Leon's hands slide down to hook under your knees, and in one fluid motion he folds you completely in half, pressing your thighs back toward your chest. The new angle drives him deeper, so deep you can feel him in your stomach, and he slams into you with a force that punches the air from your lungs.
“Leon, oh god, Leon—” You're babbling now. Emboldened he sets a brutal pace, each thrust powerful and deep, his hips pounding into you hard and deep. The wet sounds of your coupling fill the room, the slick slide of his cock in your drenched pussy, the slap of skin on skin, the creaking of the bed beneath you, all mixing with your breathless moans and his desperate groans.
Each thrust is harder than the last, and you love every second of it. your hands fisting in the sheets as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You can't help the high-pitched whimpers that escape, your voice climbing higher and higher. "Ah—ah—ah—Leon—!" Each drive of his hips forces another sound from you, helpless little cries that match his rhythm perfectly.
He's breathing hard above you, his face flushed and his hair falling into his eyes the pupils blown wide with lust as he watches you writhe and moan beneath him. The shy, flustered guy from earlier is gone, replaced by a man on a single-minded mission. Sweat beads on his forehead, a drop trailing down his temple, and his arms shake slightly with the effort of holding himself up, but he doesn't slow down or ease up.
Each thrust drives you further up the bed, the headboard starting to knock against the wall. Tears spring to your eyes from the overwhelming sensation, the stretch and fullness and break neck pace. Your hands reach up desperately, fingers grasping at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer as he drives you into the mattress.
Leon leans forward, folding you tighter, and his mouth finds your breasts. He kisses the soft swell of them before his lips close around one peaked nipple. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud, then he sucks, hard, drawing it between his teeth. Your back arches and he releases your nipple with a wet pop, only to lavish the same attention on the other breast. His teeth graze the tender flesh, biting as you cry out, and leaving dark red marks all over the curve of your breast.
“Fu—fuckfuck—You're so pretty,” he pants, his voice rough. His words send heat flooding through you, and you clench around him again. Leon hips stutter as he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he moans, his arms slide around you, pulling you closer, crushing you against his chest even as he continues to thrust into you. His hips snap forward particularly hard and you cry out.
“You feel so good,” he groans, his grip on your knees tightening. Your hands slide up into his hair, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling and gripping tight as you pull his face closer to yours.
“Look at me, Leon.” you demand. He lifts his head, and the eye contact is intense. Those blue eyes are dark with lust, glazed over with pleasure and unshed tears, and you pull him down into a kiss. Your mouths crash together messily, his tongue sliding against yours as his cock continues to fill you over and over.
When he finally pulls back to breathe, you chase him, pressing kisses to his neck, kissing, sucking, teeth scraping over those moles. He’s so beautiful like this, completely lost in pleasure, and you want to memorize every detail. You bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, then soothe it with your tongue before moving to another spot, Hickies blooming across his throat like petals.
Leon's hand suddenly fists in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he pulls you to angle your face toward his again.
"Leon," you breathe against his mouth. His hand slides from behind your knee to grip your thigh, holding you open as he pounds into you with renewed vigor. The change has you crying out into his mouth, your whole-body trembling.
“I'm close,” you whimper against his lips. “Leon, I'm so close—”
“Me too,” he admits, his voice strained. He buries his face back in your neck, his moans getting higher and more desperate. “I can't—I'm gonna—”
“Do it,” you encourage, your walls starting to flutter around him. “Please, Leon. Want to feel you come inside me.”
Leon's whole body goes taut, every muscle locked and trembling, his hips slam forward one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix as he empties himself. You feel him throb and twitch inside you, hot thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, painting your walls white. It triggers your own orgasm like a chain reaction, and you come with a sharp cry, your back arching off the bed as pleasure races through your blood like liquid fire.
Your thighs quiver where they're still folded up by your chest, your entire body hypersensitive and singing with pleasure. Leon's weight presses you into the mattress, as you both come down from that high peak. Finally, he lifts his head, those blue eyes hazy and satisfied. He slowly straightens up, still buried inside you, and lets your legs gently unfold from their bent position, settling on the mattress beside his thighs. Leon leans back further, his gaze traveling down your body with obvious appreciation, your flushed skin, your marked breasts, Where you're still connected. Then his hand presses flat against your lower belly holding you down gently but firmly as he slowly pulls out.
You both watch as his cock slides free, twitching and glistening with both of your combined release. The moment he's fully withdrawn, his cum starts to leak out of you, thick and white as it drips from your swollen throbbing pussy.
"Fuck," Leon breathes, transfixed by the sight.
You grab his wrist with one hand, feeling his pulse jump beneath your fingers. Your other hand travels down your body, past your navel, between your thighs. Your fingers slide through the mess there, his cum mixed with your own wetness, slick and warm. You gather some on your fingertips, watching as you pull your hand away and a string of combined release connects your fingers to your pussy, stretching thin before breaking.
Leon's eyes are locked on your hand as you bring those glistening fingers up to your mouth. You maintain eye contact as your tongue darts out, licking the cum from your fingertips.
"Jesus Christ—" Leon groans, his head falling back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, his cock twitching visibly. You can't help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest, delighted and a little smug at his reaction. The sound makes him look back down at you, and he leans down his hand sliding up your sternum to cup your jaw. His mouth captures yours in a deep kiss. He can taste himself on your tongue and he doesn't care, if anything it makes him kiss you harder, his tongue sliding wetly against yours.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing heavily again, as he collapses gently on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on you, holding you close. Your fingers card through his hair gently now, and you can feel his heart racing against your chest.
“Holy shit,” Leon mumbles into your neck.
You laugh breathlessly, the sound turning into a content sigh. “Yeah. Holy shit.”
The music downstairs that had turned into white noise as you fucked was cut off abruptly. The sudden silence is jarring, and then you hear it, people yelling, feet scrambling, the unmistakable sound of a party dispersing in a panic.
“COP! COPS ARE HERE!”
Your blood runs cold and Leon who had been admiring and kissing the red bruises across your breast stops, his head snapping up from where he had been resting, his eyes going wide with panic. “Shit—”
“POLICÍA! Everyone out, now!” The voice booms from downstairs, a very familiar gruff voice barking orders.
Oh no. Oh no no nononono—
“Everyone out! Party's over! Let's go, move it!” The same voice says as you hear people groaning and scattering, boots and heels scratching and thumping against the floorboards to vacate the premise. Your blood runs cold as you debate trying to escape yourself even though this was your room and your frat house. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—” you mumble under your breath, and Leon looks up at you with his brow furrowed.
That's Carlos, your brother Carlos.
“Get up, get up!” you hiss, scrambling out from under Leon. He jumps up naked, his full body now on display, which would have been hot if you weren't currently panicking about being caught with your pants down, quite literally, by your brother. You grab his clothes from where they're scattered across your floor, his uniform shirt, his pants, his belt and shove them into his arms.
“Closet! Now!” you whisper urgently, pushing him toward it.
“Wait, I should just—” Leon starts, but you're already shoving him inside.
“No! My brother will literally kill you! Get in!” You whisper yell shoving him towards your closet frantically.
Leon's face goes pale as he almost trips over the rug in your room. “Your what?”
“My brother Carlos! Get in the closet, now!” you hiss, shoving his uniform shirt into his arms and practically dragging him across the room. “Now, Leon, please!”
He stumbles after you, still mostly naked, clutching his clothes as you yank open your closet door and push him inside.
“Don't make a sound,” you whisper urgently, and slam the door shut just as you hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, Carlos's voice getting closer as he barks orders at fleeing partygoers.
You have maybe five seconds. You look down at yourself, completely naked, covered in sweat, makeup smeared everywhere, and you can literally feel cum dripping down your inner thighs.
The doorknob rattles, then stops.
"What the fuck? Why is this door locked?!" Carlos's voice comes through the door. "Oye, I know your in there! Open the door!" You hear him curse and grumble under his breath about the door.
Rattle rattle rattle. The doorknob is turning violently now, and there's more banging. Fuck.
You grab the first t-shirt you can find, one of Carlos's old RPD academy shirts that you stole years ago and yank it over your head. and a pair of sleep shorts that you shimmy into, not bothering with underwear because there's no time. You're just running your fingers through your completely fucked-out hair when your door flies open the hinges snapped clean.
"What the FUCK, Carlos?!" you snap, your heart still racing and your temper rising as your older brother acts like an idiot, breaking doors he probably won’t fix.
"Well, you weren't answering! Why didn't you open the door?" He yells back.
"Have you thought maybe I was RESTING MY EYES, you dick?!" you shout back exasperatedly.
Carlos stands in the doorway, radio crackling on his shoulder. His dark eyes sweep the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times, and you try very hard to look casual and not like you were just getting railed by a guy thirty seconds ago. Your hair is a mess, your makeup is smeared all over your face, and you're pretty sure you're still flushed from sex.
"Mhm. Right," he says slowly, his eyes narrowing.
"Resting your eyes," Carlos repeats, not believing a word.
"Yes. Resting. My. Eyes." You say innocently running your fingers through your hair, trying to appear casual as the silence between you stretch’s out leaving a gaping hole in the conversation.
You clear your throat crossing your arms as you sway in place and try and look everywhere but his face. “Any way, Carlitoooo, What's up?” you say, trying for casual and landing somewhere around 'extremely suspicious.' And ‘up to no good’.
Carlos's eyes narrow. “What's up? There's a massive party downstairs that we got called to shut down, and I find you up here locked in your room not answering me and looking like—” He gestures at you. “What the hell happened to your face, you look like a mapache.” (Raccoon.)
“Halloween makeup,” you say quickly, wiping at your cheeks. “It's supposed to look like this.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn't look convinced. His gaze travels around your room, taking in the rumpled bed, the discarded harlequin costume on the floor. He steps into the room, and you resist the urge to step back. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” he says slowly, suspicion dripping from every word.
“I am out of trouble!” you protest. “I was just relaxing in my room. See? Totally innocent.”
“Yeah, right,” Carlos mutters, his gaze tracks over you, your mussed hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your t-shirt is inside out. “Sure, looks like you were relaxing.” He says sarcastically but he's not looking at you anymore. He's looking around your room, his cop instincts clearly on high alert. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. Please don't look in the closet, please don't look in the closet!
You force a laugh. “Okay fine! I did go to the party but only for a minute! Claire was very insistent but I was just—” Carlos isn't listening, his attention has caught on something on the floor near your bed. Your stomach drops as you watch Carlos's gaze land on a badge by your bed.
"No no no—" you breathe, already moving to intercept him, but Carlos is already bending down. His hand closes around the object and you watch, frozen in horror, as he straightens up slowly. The badge catches the lamplight. Leon's badge. The one that must have fallen from his uniform when you'd frantically stripped him earlier, too desperate and drunk to care where his clothes landed.
Carlos turns it over in his hand, studying it with an expression that makes your blood run cold. You watch his jaw clench, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. The silence stretches out, thick and suffocating.
"You—," he says quietly, and that tone, that dangerous, too-calm tone that you know from years of being his little sister, makes your stomach drop even further. This is worse than yelling. So much worse.
"Carlito—" you start, your voice coming out small and guilty.
"Where is he?" Carlos asks, still in that terrifyingly quiet voice. His dark eyes lift from the badge to scan your room, taking in the rumpled sheets, your inside-out t-shirt, the general chaos of post-sex disorder.
"Where's who—" you try weakly.
"Don't." He holds up the badge, and the gesture is sharp enough to make you flinch. "Where. Is. He."
You open your mouth, close it, your mind racing for some explanation that doesn't involve admitting what you both already know happened here. But before you can formulate anything remotely coherent, Carlos is moving past you toward the closet.
"Carlos, wait! No—" you start, trying to block him, but he just gently moves you aside with one arm. The ease with which he does it only emphasizes how futile your resistance is.
"Carlos, please, just listen—" you try again desperately, but it's too late. Carlos yanks the closet door open with enough force that it bangs against the wall.
Leon is standing there in just his boxers; his uniform clutched against his chest like some kind of shield. He's staring down at the floor like he's trying to will himself into disappearing, maybe hoping if he doesn't make eye contact this will all turn out to be a nightmare he can wake up from. His face is bright red, not just his cheeks but his whole face, the flush spreading down his neck and across his chest. His normally neat hair is a complete disaster, sticking up in every direction from where your fingers had been buried in it. And there visible in the lamplight, are the very obvious scratch marks running down his neck and chest, angry red lines from your nails. Purple hickies bloom across his throat and collarbone, marking him thoroughly.
The evidence of what you've done couldn't be more obvious if you'd written 'I just had sex' across his skin in permanent marker.
"Hey," Carlos says, his voice dropping even lower, dangerously calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "How was the party?"
Leon's throat bobs as he swallows hard. His knuckles are white where he's gripping his uniform. "...It was fine, sir," he manages, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Fine," Carlos repeats flatly.
"Yes, sir." Leon mumbles the words to the floor, still refusing to look up. He looks like a guilty dog caught chewing on his owners’ shoes. If he had a tail, you're pretty sure it would be tucked firmly between his legs right now.
You can see a muscle ticking in Carlos's jaw, the telltale sign that his blood pressure is rising. The vein in his temple starts to pulse visibly. His hands clench into fists at his sides, the badge still clutched in one of them, and you can practically see him counting to ten in his head, trying to maintain that iron clad control.
"Carlito, listen—" you start, stepping between them with your hands raised placatingly.
"You," Carlos points at you without looking away from Leon, his finger stabbing the air, "stay out of this."
"Carlos, wait—" You step forward anyway, switching to Spanish without thinking, the way you always do when you're panicking. "No es su culpa, es mía. Yo lo arrastré aquí arriba, él ni siquiera—" (It's not his fault, it's mine. I dragged him up here, he didn't even—)
"¿Sabías que era policía?" (Did you know he was a cop?) Carlos interrupts, his eyes snapping to you with laser focus. There's something in his expression you can't quite read, disbelief, maybe, or hope that this is all some terrible misunderstanding.
You freeze, the words dying in your throat. "¿Qué?" (What?)
"El rookie. Mi compañero." Carlos gestures first to himself, then to Leon in a sharp, stabbing point. "¿Sabías que sí es policía de verdad?" (The rookie. My partner. Did you know he's an actual cop?) He speaks slowly, enunciating each word carefully so you'll understand, and somehow that makes it worse.
The words hit you like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head. The room seems to tilt slightly as the full implications crash over you. You turn slowly to look at Leon, who's still staring at the floor with that guilty, miserable expression.
"Wait," you say, your voice coming out strangled as you switch back to English. Your brain is struggling to process this information. "You're... the rookie that Carlos is training? You're actually a cop? Like, a real cop?"
Leon finally looks up, and the guilt written across his face confirms everything. Those blue eyes are full of apology and shame.
"I tried to tell you," he says quietly, his voice rough. "But you just... kept kissing me."
"Oh my god." Your hands fly to your face, covering your burning cheeks. The memories come flooding back, him trying to say something, you cutting him off with your mouth, too drunk and horny to listen. "Oh my god, I just—I just fucked an actual police officer who was here to shut down the party—"
"Are you KIDDING me?!" Carlos roars, and there it is, the yelling you'd been expecting from the start, probably audible throughout the entire house.
"I mean—I didn't know!" you protest, your face burning with embarrassment so intense you think you might actually combust. Your hands are still covering your face, as if that might somehow make this less mortifying. "¡Pensé que era un disfraz de Halloween!" You gesture wildly at Leon, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. "¡Míralo, tiene veintiún años! ¡Pensé que era estudiante!" (I thought it was a Halloween costume! Look, he's twenty-one! I thought he was a student!)
"¡Sí es policía!" Carlos says flatly, his voice dropping back to that dangerous calm. "Mi compañero." (He IS a cop. My partner.) He makes a vague gesture with his free hand that somehow encompasses the entire disastrous situation.
Your face burns hotter. You're pretty sure you've never been this embarrassed in your entire life, and that's saying something. "No sabía," (I didn't know,) you say weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds even as the words leave your mouth.
Carlos stares at you like you've grown a second head. "¿No sabías?" (You didn't know?) His voice climbs in volume and pitch. "The badge! The gun! Hellooo!" He gestures wildly, his hand coming dangerously close to smacking you in the face.
"I was drunk! I wasn't paying attention to details!" you yell back, smacking his arm away from you harshly. Carlos smacks your arm back in retaliation, the gesture comes automatic to him after years of childish fights with his sister. Even in a situation like this, he can't help himself, you're siblings, after all, and some habits die hard.
"Clearly!" Carlos runs both hands over his face, dragging them down slowly. When he drops them, he looks like he's aged ten years in the past minute. There are lines around his eyes you've never noticed before, and his expression is one of profound exhaustion.
"Okay, in my defense," you start, your voice getting higher and more frantic, "he's really hot and he seemed really into it and I didn't—I mean I thought—oh god, this is so embarrassing—"
"Okay! EW!?" Carlos's face contorts in disgust. "Shut up! I don't want to hear about—" He makes a cutting gesture with his hand. "Just STOP."
He turns back to Leon, deliberately not looking at him in the eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere over the rookie's shoulder. "Rookie. Get dressed. We're leaving." His voice is clipped, professional, the tone he uses when he's trying very hard not to lose his shit. "You've got exactly two minutes before I drag you out of here in your underwear."
"Yes, sir," Leon says quickly, already fumbling with his pants, nearly dropping them in his haste.
The full weight of what you've just done crashes over you as you look at Leon, really look at him. The marks you left on his skin, the way he can barely meet anyone's eyes, the trembling in his hands as he tries to get dressed. "Oh my god. Oh my GOD." You cover your face with your hands again, your voice muffled. "I dragged a cop away from his job to—oh my god, I'm going to jail. I'm going to jail for obstruction of justice or—or—solicitation or—"
"You're not going to jail," Carlos sighs, and he actually sounds tired now instead of angry.
"I'm sorry—" Leon mumbles, his voice small and guilty and apologetic as he struggles with his shirt buttons. His fingers are shaking too badly to get them through the holes.
"I corrupted an officer! I—" You're spiraling now, pacing back and forth across your small room, your hands gesturing wildly. "Carlos, I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I swear I didn't know, if I had known I never would have—I mean, not that he's not attractive, he's very attractive, but I wouldn't have—oh god, does this mean I'm going to have a record? Will this affect your career? Oh my god, what if you get in trouble because of me—"
"I know! I KNOW—I believe you, Jesus, stop pacing, you know I hate that." Carlos says, and he actually sounds tired now instead of angry. He's watching you freak out with the resigned expression of someone who's seen you do this exact thing many, many times before. "You're giving me a headache."
Suddenly the door bursts open and Claire rushes in, breathless and wild-eyed. "I'm sorry, I tried to stop him before he—" She stops dead in the doorway, her mouth falling open as she takes in the scene.
Claire's eyes are wide as saucers as she processes everything: you in your inside-out t-shirt and sleep shorts, clearly disheveled and still flushed, your hair a disaster; Leon standing in the closet in his boxers looking like he wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole, his chest covered in scratch marks and hickies; and Carlos looking like he's contemplating early retirement and possibly homicide, the badge still clutched in his white-knuckled fist.
"Oh," Claire says slowly, a grin starting to spread across her face despite the palpable tension in the room. "Oh wow."
"Claire, not now—" you start desperately.
"Is that a cop?" Claire points at Leon, her grin widening.
"Yes!"
"Did you fuck a real cop?" Her voice is climbing with barely suppressed glee.
"I DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS A COP!" Your voice cracks on the last word, going up a full octave.
Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough that it has to hurt. "Dios mío, dame paciencia," (My God, give me patience,) he mutters under his breath.
"This is..." Claire starts, then stops, that grin spreading even wider across her face despite the obvious tension crackling through the air. "Actually, this is incredible. I need all the details later. Every single detail. Don't leave anything out."
"Claire!" you screech.
"What? I'm just saying, you picked a literal cop! Like what are the odds? That's actually impressive—"
"OUT," Carlos says flatly, his voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes even drunk frat boys shut up and listen. It's his cop voice, the one that brooks absolutely no argument. He points at the door with the kind of authority that comes from years of dealing with bullshit on the streets. "Now."
Claire holds up her hands in surrender, backing toward the door, but she's still grinning like the Cheshire cat. You can hear her laughing as she heads down the hallway, and then her voice drifts back. "Oh my god, wait till I tell Chris—"
"CLAIRE!" you and Carlos yell at the same time, your voices overlapping in perfect sibling harmony born from years of shared exasperation. Her laughter echoes as it fades down the stairs, and you can hear her voice getting farther away.
Carlos turns back to Leon, who's managed to get his pants on and is fumbling with his shirt, his fingers still shaking slightly as he tries to button it. He keeps missing the holes, his coordination shot to hell. The scratch marks you left down his chest are clearly visible in the gaps between buttons, angry red lines that stand out starkly against his pale skin.
"Rookie," Carlos says, his voice still that dangerous calm that's somehow worse than yelling. "Two minutes. Meet me downstairs. And for the love of God, make yourself presentable." His eyes flick briefly to the marks on Leon's neck, and his jaw clenches even tighter.
"Yes, sir," Leon says quietly, still not meeting Carlos's eyes. He's staring at his shirt buttons like they're the most fascinating thing in the world. His face is still bright red, the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing under his collar.
Carlos looks at you one more time, shaking his head with an expression that's equal parts disappointment and resignation and something that might be reluctant understanding. It's the look he's given you a thousand times before, when you got caught sneaking out at sixteen, when you crashed his car at seventeen, when you called him drunk from a party at eighteen. The look that says 'I love you but why do you do this to me?'
Then he walks out, and you catch him muttering in Spanish under his breath as he goes. You can make out "mi hermanita" (my little sister) and "el pinche rookie" (the damn rookie) and what sounds like several creative curse words you're pretty sure you've never heard him use before, combinations that would make your grandmother cross herself. The door closes behind him, and suddenly it's just you and Leon. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, can hear the distant sounds of the party dispersing downstairs, people still scrambling to leave.
“I'm so sorry,” you both say at exactly the same time.
Leon looks up, surprised, his hands freezing on his half-buttoned shirt. “Why are you apologizing? I'm the one who—”
“I literally dragged you up here!” you interrupt, your hands flying to your hair and tugging at the tangled strands. “You were trying to do your job and I just—I seduced you! Oh my god, I seduced a police officer on duty.”
“I could have said no,” Leon says quickly, finally stepping fully out of the closet as he continues buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. “I should have said no, but...” He trails off, his face flushing even deeper. “You were very... persuasive.”
You cover your face with your hands, groaning. “This is so embarrassing. oh my god, I can never look Carlos in the eye again.”
“I know,” Leon says miserably. He's pulling on his boots now, his movements jerky and rushed, nearly losing his balance and having to catch himself on your dresser. “I'm probably getting fired for this—”
“Don't say that!” You drop your hands, looking at him with genuine concern and guilt churning in your stomach. “It's my fault, I'll tell Carlos that, I'll explain everything—”
“No,” Leon says firmly, standing up and buckling his belt. All his equipment clinks as he adjusts it, the very real handcuffs and gun that was definitely not from Party City. “You're not taking the blame for this. I'm an adult. I made my own choices.”
He runs a hand through his hair, trying to make himself look somewhat presentable, but it's a completely lost cause. His hair is still thoroughly messed up from your fingers, sticking up in about five different directions.
“This is my fault I knew better…I’m sorry, I really did try to tell you,” he says softly, finally meeting your eyes. His expression is guilty but also tinged with a fond look.
You think back through the alcohol-hazed memories of the party. Him saying “I'm not really here to enjoy myself” and “I'm actually—” before you'd kissed him. Him trying to explain “I should probably tell you something—” before you'd dragged him upstairs.
“Oh my god, you did,” you breathe, the realization hitting you like a truck. “I just kept... interrupting you. With my mouth.”
“Yeah.” A small, slightly hysterical laugh escapes him. “You're very good at that...”
Despite everything, the embarrassment, the mortification, the fact that your brother just caught you, you feel your lips twitch into an involuntary smile. “I can't believe I called you 'officer' while we were—” You cut yourself off, your face burning even hotter than before. “Oh god, I kept doing it too. Multiple times.”
Leon's face goes bright red, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Please don't remind me. Every time Carlos calls me 'rookie' I'm going to think about—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.
“I'm so sorry—”
“Stop apologizing,” he says, and then he's crossing the room to you in three long strides. His hands come up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, wiping away some of the harlequin makeup even further. “For what it's worth? That was... amazing. Incredible. Best night of my life, actually, even if I'm probably about to get the lecture of my life from your brother.”
You lean into his touch, your hands coming up to rest on his wrists. You stare at each other for a moment, the absurdity of the situation hitting you both at the same time, and then you both start laughing.
“This is insane,” you say between giggles, your shoulders shaking.
“Completely,” Leon agrees, and then he's kissing you again. It's soft and sweet and tinged with desperation because you both know he has to leave, that Carlos is waiting downstairs probably getting more pissed off by the second.
When he pulls back, you're both breathing a little harder. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, wanting to stay versus knowing he has to go. His radio crackles to life, making you both jump.
“Rookie! if you're not down here in thirty seconds, I'm coming back up there,” Carlos's voice comes through, sounding extremely annoyed and also slightly threatening. “And I'm bringing the employee handbook with me so we can review the section on professional conduct.”
Leon sighs and reaches for his radio, pressing the button. “Copy that, sir. On my way down now.” He clips the radio back to his shoulder and looks at you one more time. His hand comes up again, thumb brushing over your bottom lip to clean up some of the smudged lipstick.
“Can I...” He hesitates, looking suddenly uncertain. “Can I see you again? When I'm not, you know, on duty and supposed to be working?”
Your heart does a little flip in your chest. “You want to see me again? After all this?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I do,” Leon says, a huff of disbelief escaping him. He runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “It would be the stupidest mistake of my life if I didn’t.”
Leon's smile is genuine and a little bit shy. You can't help but smile back, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Yeah, I'd really like that.”
“Good.” He steps back into your space, just for a second, and steals one more quick kiss. It’s brief, chaste compared to what you were doing earlier.
You scramble for your dresser, your heart racing. Your fingers fumble for a pen and a bright pink sticky note in the drawer. You scribble your number down, the digits messy and frantic in your haste, the ink slightly smudging at the edges. Then you press your lips firmly to the corner of the paper, leaving a perfect, lip print right next to your name.
You rush over to him, closing the distance in two steps, and grab hold of his belt loops. You tug him closer, pulling him flush against you until you can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Here,” you breathe as you slide the note into the front pocket of his pants. Your hand lingers in the warmth near his hip, your fingers exploring the heavy fabric. Your knuckles graze the fly, brushing deliberately against the outline of his cock, and you feel him twitch against your hand, a reflex he can’t control.
He goes bright red, his breath hitches audibly in his throat, his eyes widening as he looks down at you with that same look on his face hat’s been driving you crazy all night.
“Don't keep me waiting, Leon,” you whisper, leaning up to press a kiss to the line of his jaw.
“I won't,” he chokes out, his voice strangled. “I promise.”
He looks at you for one long second, memorizing your face, and then he reluctantly steps back and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle, looking back at you over his shoulder. “By the way? You look really cute in that harlequin costume.” And then he's gone, slipping out into the hallway. You listen to the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall, the heavy thud of his boots on the stairs fading together with the last stragglers leaving the party.
You stand there touching your lips, trying to process everything that just happened in the last hour. You groan and flop back on your bed, staring at the ceiling.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ .
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹
Downstairs, Leon finds Carlos waiting by the patrol car, arms crossed over his chest, his expression carefully unreadable, that blank look that reminds Leon of the quiet before a thunderstorm. The street is mostly clear now, just a few stragglers stumbling away into the night, holding each other up as they weave down the sidewalk. The last of the partygoers are dispersing, some calling taxi, others walking in groups toward the dorms. The bass from inside the house has finally stopped, leaving an almost eerie quiet in its wake.
"Sir, I—" Leon starts as he approaches, but his voice cracks slightly, betraying just how nervous he is. He clears his throat, trying again. "I can explain—"
Carlos holds up one hand, cutting him off with the gesture alone. "Get in the car, rookie."
"Yes, sir." Leon's response is automatic, ingrained from months of training. He moves around to the driver's side, his legs feeling slightly unsteady.
They both climb in, Leon sliding behind the wheel again. He fumbles with the keys for a moment before getting them into the ignition, his hands still shaking from adrenaline and mortification and the lingering aftereffects of what he'd just done. He starts the engine, the familiar rumble somewhat comforting, and pulls away from the curb carefully. He's hyperaware of every movement he makes, every turn of the wheel, desperate not to give Carlos any more reasons to be disappointed in him tonight.
They head back toward the station, the streets mostly empty at this hour. The silence in the car is deafening, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio and the sound of the engine. Leon can feel Carlos's eyes on him periodically, assessing him, and it's taking everything in him not to squirm in his seat like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Except instead of cookies, it was Carlos's sister. His baby sister. Who Leon had just thoroughly fucked in her bedroom while Carlos was downstairs breaking up the party.
The silence stretches on, Leon counts them in his head, each one feeling like an eternity. His mind is racing, trying to formulate some kind of explanation, some way to make this better. Five minutes of complete silence pass before Carlos finally speaks.
"My sister," he says flatly.
"I know, sir." Leon's voice comes out small.
"My little sister."
"I know, sir." Leon's hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn bone white, he can feel the leather creaking under his grip.
Carlos is quiet for a long moment, and Leon risks a glance over. His partner is staring out the windshield, jaw clenched so tight Leon can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. The streetlights pass over his face in intervals, illuminating the hard set of his features.
"I..." Leon swallows hard, his throat clicking. He can feel his face burning again, the flush creeping down his neck. "She was very determined, sir." The words come out before he can stop them, and he immediately wants to take them back because they sound like he's making excuses, like he's blaming her when this is all his fault.
"Yeah," Carlos mutters, and there's something almost resigned in his tone. "She gets that from our mom." Leon isn't sure if he was supposed to hear that last part, it's said so quietly, almost to himself. They drive in silence for another minute, passing through an intersection. A few late-night pedestrians cross in front of them. Leon keeps his eyes fixed on the road, not daring to look over again.
Finally, Carlos sighs, long and heavy and world-weary, like he's aged ten years in the past hour.
"Did you at least use protection?" he asks, and he sounds so tired, like this is just one more thing on a very long list of things he has to deal with tonight.
Leon's face goes absolutely scarlet. He considers lying but Carlos would see right through it in a heartbeat, the man's a detective for a reason.
"Sir—" he starts weakly.
"Rookie..." There's a warning in Carlos's voice now.
"...No, sir." The admission comes out barely above a whisper.
Carlos drops his head into his hands with a groan, his elbows bracing on his knees. "Jesus Christ." He drags his hands down his face slowly. "I'm going to have to have a conversation with her about that too, aren't I? The safe sex talk. With my baby sister." He cuts himself off to make an exaggerated gagging sound.
"I'm really, really sorry, sir," Leon says miserably, and he means it with every fiber of his being. "If I could go back and make different choices—"
"Would you?" Carlos interrupts, looking over at him sharply. His dark eyes are piercing, searching Leon's face for something.
Leon opens his mouth to say yes, of course he would, but the word dies on his tongue. He thinks about your smile, the way it had lit up your whole face when you'd looked at him, your laugh, how you'd kissed him and touched him, like you couldn't get enough, like you needed him as much as he'd needed you. The way you'd felt wrapped around him, the sounds you'd made, the way you'd said his name.
"I..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to lie.
Carlos stares at him for a long moment, and Leon can practically see the gears turning in his head, processing this new information. His expression shifts through several emotions too quickly for Leon to track, surprise, and finally resignation.
"You like her," Carlos says finally. It's not a question, it's a statement of fact.
"Yes, sir. I really do." The words come out steady, honest. "I know the timing is terrible and the circumstances are worse, but... yeah. I like her. A lot."
"And she clearly likes you, apparently." Carlos makes a vague gesture with one hand, encompassing everything that happened upstairs. "Enough to drag you away from your job and—yeah."
He continues to stare at Leon, and Leon forces himself to meet his eyes. He owes Carlos that much at least, to face him head-on.
Carlos turns back to face forward, watching the streetlights pass by through the windshield. The orange glow illuminates his profile, and Leon can see him working through something, coming to some kind of decision.
"You hurt her, rookie," Carlos says quietly, "and I don't care how good you are at your job or how much potential the Captain thinks you have. I will make you disappear. They'll never find your body. Understood?"
"Understood, sir." Leon says sincerely. "I wouldn't—I won't. I promise."
"And if you ever, ever abandon your post to hook up with anyone again, my sister or otherwise," Carlos continues, his voice taking on that authoritative hard tone, "I will personally make sure you're on parking duty for the next ten years. You'll be writing tickets for expired meters until you retire."
"Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir." Leon's hands are still tight on the wheel, but some of the tension is starting to ease from his shoulders.
"Good." Carlos pauses, then adds with a slight smirk, "Also, you have — y’know all over you. Might want to grab a turtleneck from the trunk before we get back to the station.”
Leon's hand flies to his neck automatically, fingers finding the tender spots where you'd definitely left your mark. Multiple marks. He can feel the raised skin, the slight sting when he presses. "Oh god."
"Yeah." Carlos finally cracks a small smile, just a tiny upturn of his lips. "The guys are going to have a field day with this."
"Great," Leon mutters, already dreading the inevitable ribbing he's going to get. He can already hear the jokes, the comments, the endless teasing. They pull into the station parking garage, the fluorescent lights harsh after the relative darkness of the drive. The familiar concrete walls and painted lines should be comforting, but Leon just feels a sense of impending doom. Carlos is right, the second anyone sees these marks, it's over. His reputation as the serious, by-the-book rookie is going to be completely shot. As they get out of the car, Carlos claps him on the shoulder, the gesture somehow reassuring despite everything.
"Welcome to the family, rookie," he says, and there's something almost fond in his tone now, underneath the exasperation and the lingering frustration. Like despite everything he's not actually that upset about this development.
Leon's eyes go wide, his head snapping around to look at Carlos. "Sir?"
"Yeah. There's no escaping now." Carlos grins, and it's slightly evil, the expression of an older brother who's just realized he has new ammunition. "Hope you're ready for Sunday dinner. My mom's going to want to meet you officially now. Can't have some random guy sleeping with my sister without meeting mama."
"I—what?" Leon's voice comes out strangled. “Sir, I don't think—"
"Too late, Kennedy. You made your bed." Carlos's grin widens. "Now lay in it." He waves a hand. "Hope you like tamales." Leon stands there in the parking garage, still in his wrinkled uniform and realizes that his life just got infinitely more complicated.
The radio crackles to life, breaking the silence in the idling patrol car.
"Unit seven-two-three, this is dispatch. You still in the vehicle, Oliveira?" Elliot's voice comes through, slightly staticky but clear enough.
Carlos doesn't stir from where he's slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted back against the headrest, arms crossed over his chest. His breathing is slow and even, not quite snoring, but definitely out cold.
"Unit seven-two-three, come in," Elliot tries again, sounding slightly more insistent.
Still nothing. Carlos shifts slightly in his sleep, his head rolling to the side, but his eyes stay firmly shut.
"Carlos, I know you're in there, man. Don't make me send someone to check on you."
The radio goes quiet for a moment, then Elliot's voice returns, louder this time, almost shouting through the speaker. "OLIVEIRA! Wake your ass up!"
"¡Qué!" Carlos jerks awake with a start, his hand automatically going to his weapon before his brain catches up and he realizes it's just the radio. "What...Elliot, what the hell, man?"
"There you are," Elliot sounds amused now. "Thought you'd fallen into a coma or something. You still in the car?"
Carlos rubs his eyes, trying to orient himself. "Yeah, I'm—" He stops, blinking as his vision clears and he actually looks around. He'd parked beside the house, and now that he's actually paying attention, actually seeing it instead of just closing his eyes for what was supposed to be a quick rest...
The house is lit up like a damn carnival. Every window glows with colored lights, orange and purple, classic Halloween. He can see silhouettes moving past the windows, way too many people crammed into what's clearly not a small space but definitely not big enough for this kind of crowd. The bass from the music is audible even through the closed car windows, a steady thump-thump-thump that he can feel in his chest.
And there, on the front lawn, slightly crooked but unmistakable even in the dark: Greek letters. ΑΔΠ.
Alpha Delta Pi.
"Mierda," Carlos mutters, sitting up straighter. His eyes narrow as he stares at the house, pieces clicking into place in his still-sleep-foggy brain.
This is your house. Your sorority house. The one you share with Claire and a dozen other girls. The house you'd specifically told him would be quiet tonight because "I'm not doing anything for Halloween, Carlito." Clearly your sorority had other plans...you little liar.
"Carlos? You there?" Elliot's voice crackles through again.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," Carlos says, still staring at the house with a growing sense of annoyance. He'd believed you, actually believed you when you'd said you were staying in, he thought you were probably watching movies with Claire, definitely not throwing or attending any massive parties that would require police intervention.
"Finally. Jesus, Carlos, I've been trying to reach you for ten minutes. Where's your rookie?" Elliot asks. "He was supposed to check in."
Carlos checks his watch. Shit. The rookie's been in there for almost an hour. What the hell has the rookie been doing in there for an hour? How hard is it to break up a party and clear people out?
Unless...Carlos's mind starts running through possibilities, none of them good. Maybe the rookie ran into trouble. Maybe some drunk frat guy decided to get aggressive. Maybe there are way more people in there than it looked like from the outside and Leon got overwhelmed trying to manage the crowd. Maybe he's in there trying to handle some kind of situation and needs backup but his radio got damaged or worse.
"I gotta go check on my partner," Carlos says into the radio, already reaching for the door handle. "Rookie went in to shut down a party and he's been gone too long."
"Want me to send backup?"
"Nah, I got it. Probably just taking him a while to clear everyone out. I'll call if I need anything."
"Copy that. Stay safe."
Carlos pushes open the car door and steps out into the cool night air. The music is definitely louder out here, and he can hear voices now too, laughter, shouting, the general chaos of a college party in full swing.
He starts toward the house, there are still quite a few people on the front porch and lawn, red cups in hand, some of them in elaborate costumes. A girl dressed as a sexy cat nearly stumbles into him, giggling as her friend pulls her away. A group of guys in matching superhero costumes are doing shots on the porch steps.
He reaches the front door and doesn't bother knocking. The music is too loud for anyone to hear it anyway. He pushes it open and steps inside, and the wall of sound and heat hits him immediately. The house is packed, bodies everywhere, the air thick with sweat and cheap beer and too much cologne.
Carlos takes a deep breath, plants his feet and reaches deep in his chest. "POLICÍA! Everyone out, now!"
The effect is immediate, the music cuts off mid-beat like a record scratch, someone yanking the plug or hitting stop on the speakers. For a moment there's complete silence and everyone is frozen in place like a paused movie, then chaos erupts.
"COP! COPS ARE HERE!"
"Shit shit shit—"
"Go go go!"
People scatter like cockroaches when the light turns on. They're running for every exit, front door, back door, windows, anywhere they can escape. Solo cups hit the floor, alcohol splashing across hardwood. Someone knocks over a table in their haste to get out.
"Everyone out! Party's over! Let's go, move it!" Carlos bellows, stepping aside to let the flood of panicked college students stream past him. He spots a few familiar faces, kids he's busted before at other parties.
They pour out of the house in waves, some still clutching their drinks, others abandoning everything in their rush to escape. Carlos doesn't try to stop them, he's not here to arrest anyone, just break up the party, find his rookie, who is apparently somewhere in this mess, and finally most important make sure his sister was okay, maybe lecture her a little.
"Let's go, people! Nothing to see here!" He moves further into the house, his boots crunching on spilled chips and god knows what else. The living room is a disaster zone, furniture pushed against the walls, decorations hanging from every surface, a fog machine still pumping out mist in the corner.
Where the hell is the rookie?
Carlos makes his way through the now-empty house, checking rooms as he goes. Kitchen, empty except for a truly impressive amount of alcohol lined up on the counters. He counts at least four handles of vodka, three cases of beer, and more wine bottles than he cares to count. The bathroom, he pushes the door open, takes one look at the state of it, and immediately closes it again. He doesn't even want to know what happened in there.
He heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. His hand trails along the bannister, which is sticky with something he's trying not to identify. The second floor is quieter, most of the party having been contained to the first floor. The music and voices from downstairs are muffled up here, creating an almost eerie contrast.
He starts checking bedrooms, pushing doors open without knocking, kicking couples out of rooms if they didn't live there. Empty. Empty. Locked, probably someone passed out inside. He makes a mental note to come back to that one if he doesn't find Leon soon.
He pauses in the hallway, trying to remember which room is yours. It's been a while since he's been up here, you usually meet him outside or downstairs when he picks you up for lunches, not wanting him to see the inevitable mess of your room. But he's pretty sure it's... that one. The door at the end of the hall with the fairy lights strung around the frame, the ones you'd insisted on putting up freshman year when he'd helped you move in.
He remembers that day clearly. The whole Oliveira clan had shown up to help, him, your mother, your six other siblings. Dante and the twins had spent more time flirting with your sorority sisters than actually moving boxes, and Carlos had eventually dragged Dante out by his collar, while you'd laughed so hard you'd snorted.
Carlos approaches your door, and that's when he notices it. The doorknob is locked, why would your door be locked? Unless you're in there and you don't want to be disturbed...
Carlos's jaw clenches. If you're in there with some guy, if you brought someone back to your room he's going to....He tries the doorknob again, rattling it harder. Still locked.
He can hear movement inside, the sound of scrambling, something hitting the floor, definitely someone in there.
"What the fuck? Why is this door locked?!" His voice comes out louder than he intended, frustration bleeding through. "Oye, I know you're in there! Open the door!"
Carlos curses under his breath, a string of Spanish expletives that would make his mother wash his mouth out with soap. He rattles the doorknob again, more violently this time, his patience wearing thin.
"Open this door right now, or I swear to God—"
The doorknob continues to refuse to open, and Carlos's frustration spikes. He's tired, he's annoyed, he still hasn't found his rookie, and now his little sister is locked in her room doing God knows what with God knows who, and.....Fuck it.
Carlos takes a step back, plants his foot, and kicks the door right next to the lock. The wood splinters with a satisfying crack, the lock mechanism breaking free from the frame. The door swings open hard enough to bang against the wall, the hinges protesting but holding.
You're standing in the middle of the room, and Carlos takes in the scene with instincts that have been honed by the police force over the years.
You're wearing one of his old RPD academy shirts, the one you'd stolen years ago and never given back despite his repeated requests. It's inside-out, he can see the tag sticking out at the neck, and it's clearly just been thrown on in a hurry. Your hair is a complete disaster, tangled and messy, there is smudged makeup all over your face, and there, on your neck, just visible above the collar of the shirt, is the unmistakable mark of a hickey.
"What the FUCK, Carlos?!" you snap, your eyes wide and your voice sharp with a combination of shock and anger. "You broke my door!"
"Well, you weren't answering! Why didn't you open the door?" He yells back, his voice rising to match yours. The vein in his temple is starting to pulse, and he can feel his blood pressure climbing.
"Have you thought maybe I was RESTING MY EYES, you dick?!" You gesture wildly at your bed, which is clearly rumpled, sheets twisted and pillows askew. Resting your eyes, Right.....Did his sister think he was stupid.
...actually wait don't answer that—
✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦
….you don’t understand, I’m so happy with how this came out! I have the biggest crush on re2 Leon, he's so cute! I hope you don't mind that I included Carlos, I love that big shaggy dog alot! lol
I immediately started planning a continuation for this because I neeeeed to write that family dinner where Leon gets grilled by seven protective older brothers lol
Side note Did you know Carlos has six brothers! Tonio and Pedro are the only ones who are named so I took the liberty to name the rest, and yes Luis is from re4 and Dante is from DMC. (Here's the whole line up in order of age: Antonio, Pedro, Carlos, Luis, Dante, and finally the youngest of the boys, Rafael and Mateo, the twins. The Oliveira siblings most likely to find trouble...on purpose.)
✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦
This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦
note: okay so this has been sitting in my google drive for, like, a year??? I also already had published it on AO3, so here it is (it has multiple parts, I am in the process of writing the second chapter and so on). Also note that I imagine this taking place in between Vendetta and Death Island (yes it's a pic of RE9 Leon, I know, but who cares we love him) good reading <3
-1-
Leon had never been very lucky with love. For the last 16 years, he’d been pining after the same woman, had some short term relationships, or just some that never began in the first place.
He remembers himself a few months ago, rock bottom at the bottom of a bottle. If it wasn’t for Chris or Rebecca, he’d still be in that state. Yet he still had progress to make in that aspect. And on the road to recovery, he realised how lonely he actually felt, he did go out more with coworkers, or friends. But it couldn’t fix the cold spot in his bed, or the bare and silent apartment he’d come back to.
And honestly he wasn’t one for hook-ups with random women either, sure he was getting tired of relying on his hand for relief, but he still needed to feel something for the woman, take her to dinner first, a few dates, then we could talk. As a result, he installed a dating app after some coaxing from Rebecca.
So here he was, early, standing in front of a small and cute café, fairy lights and plants decorating the interior by what he could see from outside. The front door and window frames were pastel pink and green, the chairs and windows outside were the same pastel colors. On the other side of the window were different sweet and salty treats on display. He quite honestly felt out of place here, tall and brooding, dressed in dark clothes. Yeah, not sure if he should be here.
But well you had asked him out here. He was surprised, thinking he’d be the one asking you out on a date first, but well guess not.
You’d texted the brunette, saying you’d be a bit late. Usually being late to a date would be a red flag, but well he didn’t know much about red, green and beige flags, it was his first time on a dating app, and quite honestly wasn’t much on social media.
10 minutes passed by, he was beginning to think you were never going to show up, until you did. Speed walking towards him. You came to a stop in front of him, and damn you were even cuter than in the photos on your profile. He would have wanted to take a minute to check you out, but also didn’t really want to seem like a creep.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late! Hopefully you didn’t wait long” you wore a sheepish look, probably wasn’t your first time being late for something. He can’t help but give a slight smirk “I almost thought you were gonna be a no-show”, you gasp and respond with the same teasing edge “I’d never! who do you take me for?”. Leon lets out an amused huff, then looks around, dragging his baby blues back to you “So, are we going in or…?” you nod a few times, then lead him inside, then to the counter, two friendly looking baristas working, one of them greets you and gives you some time to choose what to order.
You go for a hot Chaï latte with a slice of their dark chocolate strawberry tart, while he chooses a simple cup of black coffee and a new york style cheesecake slice.
You both decide on sitting inside the cafe, as today is a bit windy. You decide on a table in the corner, away from the other patrons, better to talk. While waiting at the table for your orders, you look around a bit awkwardly, probably searching for something to say. He can’t help but think you look adorable with that thinking face on. He takes it upon himself to start the conversation. “Seems like you come here often, right?” you turn towards him “yeah! I come here with my friends from time to time, it’s a pretty chill place and the food and drinks are good! Do you go to cafes a lot?” “not really no, I’m more of a bar person actually”, you let out a ‘ooh’ and he wonders if he answered that right. Because, in a sense, it might make himself sound like a drunkard (well, he’d been there). He almost wonders if he should add something to make it better until you open your mouth again “hmm, bars are fun if you’re in good company, it’s been a while since I went to one actually” oh okay, seems like it didn’t bother you actually, thank god. “I could bring you to one the next time we see each other if you want”
“Oooh so you’re already thinking of bringing me on a second date uh?” you bring your drink to your lips with a smile, oh, so you were a tease uh? He likes that. The conversation goes smoothly, it's so easy talking to you for some reason. Leon really thought that it would be awkward, considering he hadn’t been on a date in ages, but you were a delight, and you had some things in common surprisingly. You both love movie watching, love dogs but have a soft spot for cats, and he just couldn’t look away once you got more comfortable, and started yapping away about your interests, he felt a bit out of the loop sometimes, not understanding some phrasing, expressions… He should really begin to pay a bit more attention to what millennials and Gen Z were saying on social media. But nonetheless, he felt attracted to you.
God Kennedy, you better not fuck up… hours pass of just talking, you showing pictures of the family dog back home, or showing him random shit to illustrate some special interest you were talking about. Seeing your eyes lit up because he was actually paying attention to what you were saying, was a sight he wanted to keep to himself.
His head propped on his hand as he gazed at you, the baristas were giggling behind the counter at how this intimidating grown man looked at this little lady sat across from him.
At one point one of them comes to the table, informing them that they were closing for the day.
You and Leon bring the plates and cups back to the counter, you, seemingly pleased to see your date actually trying to help, ticking an imaginary box in your head. You wave goodbye to the baristas and step back into the cold wind outside. Leon notices you put your hands in your pockets for warmth. “Are you cold?” You look up at him, telling him you’re okay. And he can’t help but admire the two pretty eyes looking at him. Geez, he felt like a younger version of himself he thought he’d lost a long time ago. He felt….weird. But chose to ignore that feeling for now. Until you open your mouth,
“Sooo, wanna plan a second date?”
He’s startled for just a second, until his surprise quickly forms into a pleased smirk,
“How could I not bring such a beautiful girl like you on a second date?”
Divider by @uzmacchiato. Images found on Pinterest
Synopsis: Some headcanons & Boyfriend material with Leon!
Tags: Leon (RE2) x Fem!Reader, established relationship, no apocalypse au, soft and silly stuff!
Note: He's such a sweetheart! He deserved to be happy so much, and I know he'd be the best boyfriend ever tbh ):
Bf!Leon who definitely gives the best hugs. His arms are warm, and he holds you gently, burying his face in your neck.
Bf!Leon who sweats a lot in the summer and refuses to let go of you while you sleep.
Bf!Leon who always gets up early to admire you while you sleep. He gently runs his thumb down your cheek, grinning like a fool.
Bf!Leon who insists on cooking you breakfast. Even if he burns the toast by getting distracted by kissing you in the morning light.
Bf!Leon who loves kisses. They're always soft, short kisses, followed by a sweet smile on his lips. Do you walk by him? Kiss. Do you exchange glances? Kiss. Before going to sleep or when you wake up? Kiss.
Bf!Leon who is late for work just to stay with you in bed for five more minutes.
Bf!Leon who comes home tired from work and throws himself at you, needing a hug to recharge his batteries. It doesn't matter if you're on the couch, in the kitchen, or lying down, he's simply looking for comfort.
Bf!Leon who takes a minute during his break just to call you during lunch, just to say he misses you.
Bf!Leon who proudly talks about his girlfriend to his superiors at the police station, who look at him with a smile, calling it "puppy love."
Bf!Leon who leaves notes before leaving for work. "Be careful today :)" "Eat well today!!!" "I love you, bye." Silly little notes stuck on the fridge or the bathroom mirror.
It's just a silly idea that came to me, I just need to hug him so much ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა
i can clock ai writing so fast. it’s painfully obvious (and bad) . if you need a bot to do your creative writing that’s honestly pathetic. the whole point of writing is to feel something and a machine can never replicate true human emotion.
Summary: Leon Kennedy is the wildest rockstar of the decade, and he’s living up the fame as well as he can, with drugs, models, and parties. But you, a new rockstar who has been fighting their way up to the top, hate to see a handsome jerk get away with anything he wants just for being handsome, you won’t ever admit you do think both him and his songs are masterpieces though.
So when the opportunity comes, Leon challenges you into making a song together, and maybe you’ll both find out you guys aren’t really as bad as how you thought you were.
Or in other words, Rockstar Jerk Leon falling in love for the first time ever and trying not to screw it up
An: hey guys! How have you been!! I’m sorry I’ve been so inactive, I had exams last week, and this took me a while to finish actually, I’ve been literally working on it for the whole week, so I really hope you like it! Also, I wanted for reader to be a bassist here cause I think bassists are amazing, like Victoria De Angelis, or Alejandra Villarreal, the bass in the picture is mine actually, anyway, pls enjoy this one and let men know if I made any mistakes, if you’d like for a part two, or if you liked it in general!
The hum of the after party was a physical thing, a low frequency vibration that traveled up through the polished concrete floor and into the bones of anyone still sober enough to feel it. For you, sipping a drink in your hand with a death grip, it felt like the anxious thrum of your own nervous system. This wasn’t your world. The air was a cloying cocktail of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the faint, sweet sour tang of spilled champagne. It was the smell of success, and to you, it smelled like a lie.
“Just ten more minutes,” Helena whispered, materializing at your elbow like a guardian angel in a leather jacket. As your stylist, and best friend, Helena was your sole anchor in the sea of industry sharks and social climbers.
"Remember you still have to do some networking," she said, air quoting the word with a grimace. "Or, as our manager so eloquently put it, 'Be seen with the right people! Which apparently includes him."
Him. Leon Kennedy. The epicenter of the room's gravitational pull. Halogens guitarist and lead singer, a complete genius if they asked you, and a complete waste of life. He was holding court on a plush velvet couch, a half smile on his face as a model giggled at something he hadn't really said. He looked the part of the ruined angel: ripped, faded jeans, a threadbare cardigan over a band tee, his blonde hair falling into eyes that the press called "stormy" but you just called "drugged out."
A cliché, you thought, the bitterness a familiar taste in your mouth. A beautiful, talented, self destructive cliché.
"A very bankable cliché," Helena said, as if reading your mind. "His last album sold two million copies. Drunk."
"That's the tragedy, isn't it?" You muttered. "He's brilliant. And he's pissing it all away because he's bored."
You watched him throw his head back and laugh at something a blonde in a sequined dress said, the motion exposing the long, pale column of his throat. There was a raw, animal magnetism to him that even you couldn't deny. It was in the way he moved, a loose limbed grace that suggested he was only partially tethered to the earth. It was infuriating.
"He's a mess," you stated, not for the first time.
"A charming, mess who sells out stadiums," Helena corrected. "His riff on ‘bleach veins' is legendary. Even you can't deny that."
Before you could retort, the mess in question detached himself from his admirers and ambled over. The crowd seemed to part for him instinctively.
“Y/n," he drawled, his voice a gravelly thing that sounded like too many cigarettes and too little sleep. "Didn't think this was your scene. Here to write a think piece about the decay of modern rock?"
You forced your expression to remain neutral, a smooth mask over the sudden spike of irritation. “Just observing the wildlife, Kennedy. Lollapalooza’s in six months. Wanted to see if the rumors were true.”
“What rumors? That I’m a delight to work with?” He grinned, a flash of white that was disarmingly charming. It was a weapon, you knew he knew how to use.
“That you can still form a coherent sentence after 9 PM,” you said, your tone flat. “It’s been up for debate.”
He laughed, a short, genuine bark of sound that, annoyingly, didn’t seem forced. “Cute. I’ve been listening to your new single. All that angsty pop punk and heartbreak balladry. It’s… sweet. Really connects with the teens.”
The condescension was a physical blow, precisely aimed. Your music, the product of sleepless nights, of fighting to be heard in practice rooms full of condescending men, of carving your own sound. was everything his comment dismissed as trivial, feminine, less than.
“At least I write from a place that isn’t chemically altered,” you fired back, your knuckles white around your glass.
Something shifted in his eyes. The smirk didn’t vanish, but it became fixed, a mask over a flicker of something real and wounded. It was gone in a second, but you saw it. A hit. A direct hit.
“You think you know what’s real?” he asked, his voice dropping, losing its performative laziness. He leaned in slightly, and the scent of him, whiskey, cheap soap, and something uniquely Leon invaded your space. “You think your… therapy notes set to a bassline are the truth?” He shook his head, a loose strand of hair falling over his eye. “I’ll tell you what’s real. A song. You and me.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “A song?.”
“Yeah. We have to co write a song. From scratch. Together. And we perform it at Lolla.”
You stared at him, certain you’d misheard. The arrogance was staggering. “You’re insane. Clinically.”
“Scared?” he challenged, his eyes glinting with a competitive fire you recognized all too well. It was the same fire that had kept you going through a hundred rejections. “Scared people will see you can’t hang in the big leagues without your studio magic and producer overlords?”
It was the wrong thing to say. The absolute worst thing. It tapped directly into every insecurity, every snide comment from a sound engineer, every backhanded compliment from a journalist. Your pride, the stubborn, fierce engine that had propelled you from open mics to headliner status, roared to life, drowning out the logical part of your brain screaming that this was a terrible idea.
“Fine,” you spat, the word leaving your lips before you could stop it. “But I’m not carrying your hungover ass. And we do it my way. Sober.”
Leon’s smile was triumphant, a predator who’d just cornered his prey. “Deal,” he said, his voice a low purr. “This is going to be fun.”
— —
The door to the studio slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the soundproofed room. Leon winced, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He was two hours late, and he felt like death warmed over. The world was too bright, too loud.
You were already there, of course. You stood in the center of the room, your bass guitar slung over your shoulder, your posture straight. You didn’t say a word. You just looked at him, your expression a perfect blend of acknowledgment and annoyance, as if saying you were already expecting this behavior from him. It was a look he was intimately familiar with, one he’d seen on the faces of managers, bandmates, and his father… He hated it.
“Traffic,” he grunted, slinging his guitar case onto a worn amp.
“It’s 2 PM on a Tuesday,” you said, your voice flat.
“Like I said. Traffic." He fumbled with the latches on his case, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy. He needed a drink. Or a pill. Something to take the edge off this vibrating hangover and the piercing clarity of your gaze.
He pulled out his favorite Fender, the sunburst finish scarred and sticky from years of use. Without another word, without even tuning properly, he launched into it. A riff he’d been fiddling with for weeks, massive, aggressive, a wall of distorted sound meant to intimidate and dominate. It was all power chords and pent up fury, a musical middle finger. He played it through, the noise filling the room, drowning out the static in his head. When he finished, he finally looked at you, a challenge in his bloodshot eyes.
There, he thought. Try and pretty that up.
You watched him, your head tilted. You hadn’t even flinched. You simply adjusted the zebra strap on your bass, and let your fingers rest on the fretboard. You stood silent for a few seconds, making up at an immediate speed what you were coming up with next.
What came out of the amplifier wasn’t an answer to his aggression; it was a conversation. A melodic bassline that wove through the spaces in his riff, a nimble, dancing counterpoint to his brute force. It was intricate, beautiful, and it completely changed the mood of the song from one of pure destruction to something else, something tense, yearning, and dangerously alive.
He stopped playing, the sudden silence ringing. “What are you doing?” he asked, annoyance flaring. “That’s not the vibe.”
You looked up from your guitar, your eyes meeting his with. “It is now.” You played the line again, cleaner this time, and he hated that he could hear it. He could hear how good it was.
You glared at each other across the room, the air crackling with unspoken insults. The first session devolved into a two hour stalemate of clipped suggestions and outright rejections. He hated your lyrics. You called his chord progressions derivative. It was a disaster.
But a small, sober part of him, a part he usually kept buried deep, was intrigued. You hadn’t been intimidated. You’d listened, truly listened, and then you’d spoken back in a language he understood. It had been a long time since anyone had done that.
— —
The shift didn’t happen all at once. It was a slow, glacial grind of forced proximity and mutual, if reluctant, respect. You moved from the sterile rehearsal studio to his messy apartment, littered with guitar picks, poetry books, and empty bottles. Then to your place, which was neat, organized, with a dedicated space for your “magic notebook” of lyrics.
The 3 a.m. voice notes started accidentally. He’d been up, unable to sleep, the ghost of a melody haunting him. He’d recorded a rough idea on his phone and, without thinking, sent it to you. He’d expected a scathing reply in the morning.
Instead, he woke up to a response. Your voice, soft with sleep, humming a harmony over his melody. “Try a G there instead,” you’d mumbled. “It’s less predictable.”
He did. It was.
One afternoon, at your apartment, he was changing a string on his guitar. He opened the case, and there, taped to the inside, was the faded, creased photograph. A man with a hard face and Leon’s same blue eyes, scowling at the camera. He hadn’t realized you were watching.
“Your father?” You asked quietly from the kitchen island.
He snapped the case shut. “Yeah.”
“You don’t talk about him.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” The old defensiveness rose in his throat. But your silence wasn’t accusatory, it was just… waiting. He found the words coming out, rusty and unused. “He left. Before the first record deal. Said I was wasting my life. Now he shows up at Christmas, expecting tickets.” He shrugged, a gesture that felt too casual for the ache it concealed. “The money’s great, but the silence is fucking expensive.”
You didn’t offer platitudes. You just nodded.
A few weeks later, the time for you to open up a little bit more came up as well, he was complaining about the pressure he’d been under because from, his label, for some months now.
“They want a single. Something with a hook, but 'authentic"
He said, making air quotes with his fingers. The word 'authentic' sounded like a curse in his mouth. "They don't get that you can't schedule authenticity."
You understood that pressure, but yours came from a different place. "Try being told to 'smile more' in your photo shoots," you retorted, not looking up from the notebook where you were scribbling. "Or that your stage presence would be 'more appealing' if you wore more sequins and less leather."
Leon was quiet for a moment. "That's... fucked up."
"It's the industry," you shrugged, but the shared understanding, however small, felt like a crack in the ice.
He looked at you then, really looked. He saw the shadows under your eyes, the weight you carried in the set of your shoulders. He saw the fight you had to wage every day just to stand in a room and be taken seriously. He, who had been handed his platform on a silver platter because he was a “tortured male genius,” felt a sudden, sharp pang of shame.
The hatred was gone. In its place was a frustrating, profound respect. You were the real thing. You were a better artist than he’d been in years.
You showed him a verse you’d written, lyrics that were poetic and painfully vulnerable.
He read them, his face unreadable. "Still think that sound like therapy notes," he said, but the usual bite was gone. It was almost... observational.
"Yeah? Well your lyrics sound all like confusing angst," you fired back, but it lacked its previous heat. "People can project whatever they want onto them because they don't actually say anything."
Instead of getting angry. he iust looked tired. "Maybe there's nothina to say”
— —
After the mutual acknowledgement and sentiment of respect you had for each other, things had changed, you started getting coffee. Not as a session, just because. In public. The paparazzi loved it. “RIVALS OR ROMANCE?” the headlines blared. You ignored them, hunched over a small table, arguing about bridge progressions. Sitting in a quiet corner of a café, away from the paparazzi who were now constantly speculating about your "collaboration," it felt startlingly normal. He was quieter without an audience, his wit drier, his observations sharper.
He showed you his stacks of worn poetry books, Bukowski, Plath, Rimbaud. “It’s where I steal all my best lines,” he joked, but it was a confession.
You smiled, a real, unguarded smile that made something in his chest tighten. “I know, I loved your first EP," you admitted stirring the foam on your latte.
"The one you guys self released before you got big. 'Venus in ripped jeans.' I had it on repeat for a year."
He looked genuinely surprised, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "That was a lifetime ago."
"I Iiked it," you said softly. "it felt real."
He was quiet for a moment, studying his black coffee. "It was," he said finally. Then he looked up, and the mask was completely gone. You were just looking at Leon. Not Kennedy, the rockstar. Just Leon. "I forgot that for a while. What that felt like."
In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be the person she’d heard on that EP. The one who did it for the love of the noise, not the noise of the fame.
He was cleaning up his act. He showed up on time, his eyes clear. The scent of whiskey was replaced by the simple smell of soap and coffee. He was trying. For the music. And, you dared to hope, for you
— —
A few days later, you guys were in your garage studio. It was past midnight. The song, your song, was almost finished. It was a monster, a beautiful, snarling creature born of your arguments and your 3 a.m. confessions. It had his raw, melodic rage and your intricate, vulnerable heart.
You were both exhausted, buzzing on caffeine and creative adrenaline. Sheets of paper covered in scribbled out lyrics were scattered across the floor. He was showing you a change in the final verse, his hand brushing against yours as he pointed to a line.
The touch was electric. The air in the room, already charged, seemed to crystallize. The hum of the amplifier faded into a distant buzz. He looked at you, and you looked back, your guard completely down. In your eyes, he saw the same frustrating respect, the same shared language, the same dizzying attraction he’d been fighting for weeks.
All the noise in his head, the doubt, the self loathing, the incessant need for a distraction, it all went silent.
He didn’t think. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, to shatter the moment with a cutting remark.
You didn’t.
He kissed you.
It wasn’t a frantic, rockstar kiss. It was soft. Questioning. A silent communication more profound than any lyric you’d written. Your lips were warm, and you tasted of coffee and mint. Your hand came up, not to push him away, but to curl into the fabric of his cardigan, holding him there.
When you finally broke apart, the world rushed back in, the hum of the amp, the faint smell of dust and old wood, the reality of what had just happened.
He searched your face, his heart hammering. “Y/n, I…”
You didn’t let him finish. You just shook your head, a small, wondering smile on your lips, and pulled him back in for another.
Of course. Here is the continuation of the story, delving into the peak of their happiness, the devastating public betrayal, and the immediate aftermath from both of their perspectives.
— —
For a few weeks, you felt like you were living inside a sun drenched dream. The world, which had always been a battlefield of sharp edges and constant striving, had softened. The colors were brighter, the music on the radio sounded sweeter, and every morning you woke up with a lightness in your chest that felt suspiciously like joy.
Leon was… different. The late night voice notes continued, but they were no longer just about song snippets. They were silly impressions, a line of poetry he’d read that made him think of you, the sound of rain against his window that he wanted to share. He showed up to your sessions, now more often in your cozy garage than the sterile studio, on time, his eyes clear, his focus sharp. The ghost of whiskey on his breath was replaced by the scent of fresh coffee and the crisp, clean smell of his soap.
He was still Leon, sarcastic, brooding at times, with a dark sense of humor that could startle a laugh out of you, but the performative edge was gone. This was the man behind the crumbling wall, and he was infinitely more captivating.
One afternoon, as you were lazily entwined on your couch, deconstructing a Beatles song just for fun, he said quietly, “I forgot what this felt like.”
“What?” You asked, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
“Just… liking it. The music. Not the show, not the circus. Just the making of it.” His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm. “You made me remember.”
The words sank into you, warm and profound. You had done that. You had pulled him back from the brink. The thought was intoxicating, a heady mix of pride and affection. You were saving him. The narrative was so perfect it felt preordained.
But not everyone shared your heart eyed view.
The public, of course, was ravenous. Paparazzi shots of you leaving a coffee shop, his hand resting on the small of your back, were splashed across every entertainment site. The headlines were a mix of shock and glee: "Rock's Bad Boy Tamed?" and "Are Kennedy and y/n the Music World's New Power Duo?"
It was during a fitting for the upcoming Silver Sound Awards, with Helena meticulously adjusting the straps of a stunning, deep emerald gown, that the first note of reality pierced your bubble.
"You're sure about this, y/n?" Helena asked, her voice carefully neutral as you pinned a fold of fabric.
"About the dress? It's perfect, Helena. You're a genius."
"Not the dress," Helena said, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "Him. You're... all in, and he's Leon Kennedy, his track record is a mile long. "Just... be careful.” Helena sighed
"I am being careful," you said, a smile playing on your lips. "I'm happy, Helena. Is that a crime?"
"No, of course not, It's just..., you're my best friend. I don't want to see you get hurt when his... habits call him back."
"He's different with me," you insisted, the conviction bright and fierce in your chest. "He's sober. He's present. You haven't seen him when we're working. The real him is still in there, and he's incredible."
Helena’s expression was soft but skeptical. "I hope you're right. I really do. But that 'real him' has a lot of demons, and they're not just going to disappear because he's found a nice girl."
Before you could retort, the doorbell rang. Your face lit up, all arguments forgotten.
"That's him!"
— —
For Leon, the world had not so much softened as it had finally come into focus. The constant, static hum of anxiety that had been his baseline for years had quieted to a manageable whisper. The need for the pills, the booze, the meaningless noise, it was all fading, replaced by a clarity that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
You were his anchor. In your ordered, passionate world, he found a stability he’d never known. Your garage studio, with its well loved books and organized chaos, was a sanctuary. Your belief in him was a mirror held up to the person he used to be, the person he desperately wanted to be again.
The public outings were a strange new world. He was used to the flashes, the shouted questions, the performative aspect of it all.
But with you by his side, it felt different. It wasn't a performance. When he put a hand on the small of your back to guide you through a crowd, it wasn't for the cameras; it was because he wanted to touch you. When he laughed at something you said during an interview, it wasn't his stage laugh, it was real.
His manager was thrilled. "This is gold, Leon! The bad boy and the rock angel. The press eats this up. It's perfect for the Lolla hype."
Leon hated the reduction of it, the way your connection was being packaged and sold. But a selfish part of him didn't care. If this was the price for having you, he'd pay it. He'd pay anything
He found himself thinking about the future, a concept that had always seemed like a foreign, frightening country. Maybe you could tour together after Lollapalooza. Maybe youn could make an entire album. The dreams were fragile, delicate things, and he held them close, afraid they might shatter if he looked at them too hard.
— —
The Silver Sound Awards were the biggest night of the year, and this time, the buzz around you and Leon was deafening. Not only were you nominated for Best Rock Song for your blistering single "lullaby for what we were," but your rumored relationship and your upcoming Lollapalooza collaboration had made you the industry's "it" couple.
Your managers, seeing a golden marketing opportunity, had arranged for you to walk the red carpet together, technically, you bringing Leon as your couple for the night since he wasn’t nominated
Standing beside the limo, the flashbulbs already creating a continuous, strobing daylight, Leon felt a familiar knot of anxiety in his stomach. This was his natural habitat, and yet it had never felt more alien. He looked at you, you were breathtaking in a gown that blended rock with old Hollywood glamour, something Helena had no doubt masterminded. But you looked nervous, your knuckles white as you clutched your small purse.
“Hey,” he said softly, leaning close so only you could hear over the roar of the crowd. “They’re just people with cameras. And you’re the most real person in this whole damn circus.”
You looked up at him, and a genuine smile broke through your nerves. “Says the ringmaster.”
He grinned. “Tonight, I’m just your plus one.”
On the red carpet, you were magnetic, you held hands, you smiled for the cameras, you leaned into each other as you answered questions.
"Y/n! Leon! Over here! How is the collaboration going?"
Leon squeezed your hand and brought the microphone to his lips. "It's the most challenging and rewarding work I've ever done," he said, and his voice was sincere as he looked at you.
"She pushes me, makes me remember why I started doing this in the first place." The reporters ate it up. You felt a blush creep up your neck, your heart swelling until you thought it might burst.
"And are the rumors true? Is this more than a musical partnership?"
You looked at Leon, a silent question in your eyes. He gave a barely perceptible nod, tv thumb stroking the back of your hand. Yes.
You turned back to the reporter, a confident smile on your face. "Our relationship is... multifaceted," you said, the carefully chosen word sending a fresh wave of camera flashes popping around them. "But the music will always come first."
It was a perfect performance, except for you, it wasn't a performance at all. It was the truth.
Inside the opulent auditorium, the atmosphere was electric. You were seated at a table with a few other artists. Leon could feel the envious and curious glances from all around. He squeezed your hand under the table.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” you admitted. “It’s a tough category.”
“You’ve got this,” he said, and he meant it, your song had been a cultural touchstone for months, a raw, feminist anthem that resonated everywhere. It deserved to win.
“I’m going to get us some drinks,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Champagne for my winner.”
“I haven’t win anything yet” you replied with a loving smile
“Don’t be modest, the trophy is yours” he said with a smirk, you beamed at him, your nerves about the award momentarily soothed by his faith in you.
"Hurry back." You said as you watched him walk away.
He made his way through the throng of glittering people, a sense of uncharacteristic optimism buoying him. This was it. This was your night. The comeback kid and the reigning queen. The narrative was perfect.
— —
From the stage, the presenter, a veteran rock star, opened the envelope for Best Rock Song. The camera cut to the nominees. Your face, a mask of polite expectation, filled the jumbotron. Leon, standing at the edge of the bar, held his breath.
“And the Silver Sound Award goes to…” the presenter drawled, milking the moment. “’Neon Echoes,’ by Chase Sterling!”
The applause erupted. The camera swiftly moved from your face, where a flicker of profound disappointment was quickly schooled into a gracious smile, to the ecstatic, younger male artist leaping from his seat a few tables over. Chase Sterling. His song was a catchy, formulaic rock pop fusion that had been shoved down everyone’s throats by radio conglomerates for the past eight weeks, eight weeks, that’s how long it had been on, It was the safe, commercial choice.
Leon felt the optimism drain out of him, replaced by a cold fury on your behalf. It was political. It was bullshit. He watched as you clapped politely, your posture perfect, but he could see the tension in your shoulders from across the room. You were used to this, the industry’s sexism often disguised as something else, but being used to it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
He needed to get back to you. He needed to be with you. To tell you it didn’t matter, that the award was a piece of metal and the real victory was the work, the art, the fucking amazing song you had written, until-
"Well, look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, what the angel finally tamed?"
The voice was slick, familiar, and sent a jolt of unwelcome nostalgia through Leon's system, he turned to see Jake, an old "friend" from his early, wild days in the scene.
Jake was a fixture, a hanger-on who thrived in the chaos of parties and backstage excess. He was also, notably, the one who had first introduced Leon to Ava Wong.
"Jake," Leon acknowledged, his tone neutral.
"Heard you've gone domestic, man," Jake said, slapping him on the back a little too hard. "Y/n? She's hot, man, I’ll give you that, but damn, Kennedy. I never pegged you for the settling down type. You used to be a king of chaos."
The words landed like stones in the still pond of Leon's new life. King of chaos. It was a title that felt both shameful and, terrifyingly, a little thrilling.
"People change," Leon muttered, taking the champagne flutes.
"Do they?" Jake leaned in, his voice dropping. "Listen, a bunch of us are hitting a place in the Hills, a real party. None of this industry snoozefest, the old crew. Ava's going to be there." He leaned in conspiratorially. "She asks about you, you know. Misses the... real you. The one who wasn't afraid of a good time."
The words were a key turning in a rusty lock. The real him. The phantom itch for chaos stirred in his blood. The tranquility he found with you was beautiful, but it was also foreign. It felt like wearing someone else's skin. Was this peace, or was it a cage? Did he deserve this quiet happiness, or was his destiny, his art, tied to the beautiful, destructive noise?
"I don't know, man," Leon said, hesitating. "I'm... with y/n."
"So bring her!" Jake said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "But come on, one night. For old times' sake. See if you still remember how to have fun." He winked.
“Don't let that rock punk princess clip your wings, man, you’re a fucking eagle, eagles don't do picket fences."
Jake melted back into the crowd, leaving Leon standing there, holding two glasses of champagne, his heart hammering against his ribs. The old itch, the one for something stronger, something that would blur the sharp edges of this existential fear, began to awaken.
He was with you in an instant, his hand on your back. “They’re idiots,” he whispered, his mouth close to your ear. “Your song defined the year. That one will be forgotten in six months.”
You gave him a grateful, sad smile. “It’s fine. Really.”
But it wasn’t. He could feel the frustration radiating from your, and as he comforted you, Jake’s invitation echoed in his head. The real him. A part of him, the broken, self sabotaging part, wondered if this loss was a sign. That his world, the chaotic, messy, real world was calling him back.
— —
For three days, he fought the impulse. He buried himself in you, in the scent of your hair, in the quiet rhythm of your life together. But the doubt was a seed, and Jake had watered it. The pressure from his label for a "grittier" new album, the ghost of his father's voice telling him he was wasting his life, the terrifying feeling that he was an imposter in this happy, normal life, it all coalesced into a single, stupid decision.
He didn’t know why he lied, it wasn’t like you forbid him from doing whatever he wanted, Jesus, no, you were so perfect, you were amazingly trusting, you trusted him, maybe he lied because he wanted to feel like you were different from the life he was orbiting back to, you weren’t part of the kingdom he ruled, or maybe simply because deep down, he already knew it was a bad choice, even if he kept repairing himself over and over again it would be a simple hang out with old friends.
He told you he had a late night studio session with his band. The lie tasted like ash in his mouth.
— —
Jake’s penthouse was a sensory assault. The bass was so loud it felt like a physical pressure. The air was thick with the sweet, skunky smell of weed and the sharp tang of expensive liquor. Bodies writhed under pulsing neon lights. It was a temple to his former life.
And there was Ava. She was a statue come to life, draped in black silk, her beauty as cool and sharp as a diamond blade. Her eyes found his the moment he walked in.
“Leon,” she said, her voice a purr. “I knew you’d come.”
He accepted a drink from a passing tray, whiskey, neat. The first burn was a homecoming and a betrayal.
The night became a blurry, nauseating smear. He drank to quiet the voice in his head that screamed wrong, this is all wrong. He drank to feel like he belonged in the chaos, to prove he could still handle it, still, as if he had ever actually handled it. He was dimly aware of Ava’s presence, a constant at his side.
The high was immediate and annihilating. It drowned the voices, the pressure, the fear. It was the silence he craved, but a chemical, hollow silence. He was floating, untethered. At some point, Ava was next to him on a low couch, her body pressed against his side. The room was spinning.
"See?" she murmured, her lips close to his ear. "This is where you belong. No expectations. No one to disappoint."
Her words slithered through the chemical haze, finding purchase. She leaned in, her mouth brushing against his neck. It was a cold, possessive touch.
A jolt, half revulsion, half panic, shot through him. No. This was wrong. This was everything he was trying to leave behind. He jerked back, his movements clumsy and exaggerated by the substances in his system.
"Get off," he slurred, his voice louder and ruder than he intended. He shoved at her, not hard, but enough to create space. "I didn't... I don't want this."
Ava's smile turned icy. "Really, Leon? Then why are you here?"
Why was he here? The question echoed in his fractured mind. He stumbled to his feet, the room tilting dangerously. "I gotta... I gotta go." The rest of the night was a black hole. He didn't remember leaving, or how he got home.
The last thing he remembered was the flash of a camera phone, and then, nothing.
— —
You sat in your pristine, sunlit kitchen, a cup of tea going cold in front of you. You’d been woken at 7 a.m. by the frantic buzzing of your phone, a relentless, panicked vibration that had torn you from a dreamless sleep. Helena, was on the line, her voice tight with a controlled panic you had never heard before.
"There's... there's been something that's blown up online. About Leon. I need you to stay off social media, okay? Don't look at anything. I'm on my way over."
An hour, sixty minutes of terrifying, silent limbo, your hand trembled as you opened a browser, your thumb hovering over the icon for a gossip site. Don't look, Helena had said. But not knowing was a special kind of torture.
You got up, moving on autopilot to the kitchen, the silence was deafening, youlasted ten minutes before the anxiety won, you typed "Leon Kennedy" into the search bar.
The results loaded, and the world dropped out from under you.
"KENNEDY'S RELAPSE! Back in the Arms of Ex Ava Wong After y/ns Loss!"
"Partying While She Mourns: Leon's Brutal Snub to y/n!"
"RECONCILIATION? Leon Kennedy's Midnight Whisper with Ex Ava Wong While New Flame Loses Award."
The photos were grainy, taken in a dark, crowded loft, but they were damning, one showed Leon slumped on a couch, his eyes glazed and distant, Ava Wong pressed against his side, her face dangerously close to his neck.
Another captured him stumbling, his face a mask of blurred anger. It was a tableau of everything he had promised her he was leaving behind. Everything you had believed he was rising above.
A sharp, physical pain lanced through your chest. You sank into a chair at your kitchen, you felt hollowed out, a vessel filled with nothing but ash and a cold, steely resolve.
It's not what it looks like.
The thought was a desperate, pathetic whisper in the ruins of your heart, you remembered the man who'd kissed you in your studio, whose hands had trembled as he showed you his poetry, the man who'd looked at you on the red carpet with such unvarnished awe. That man wouldn't do this. Would he?
But the evidence was right there, pixelated and public. The timeline was a knife to the gut.
He'd texted you goodnight, and then he'd gone... there. To that. To you.
For the next forty-five minutes, you sat in the quiet, sunlit kitchen, a war raging inside of you, one side, the side that loved him, clung to the memory of his clear eyes and soft laughter, insisting there had to be an explanation. The other side, the pragmatic survivor who had fought for every scrap of your career, saw the familiar pattern. The rockstar. The cliché. The liar.
— —
Helena sat across you, a silent sentinel of support, your manager, David, was on the speakerphone.
“The press is a shitshow, but we can manage it,” David, said, his voice carefully neutral as he scrolled through his tablet. “The narrative is on your side. You’re the hardworking artist, wronged by the industry and then by… him.”
You said nothing as you stared out the floor to ceiling window at the sprawling city below. It all looked so small and meaningless.
"Okay. We need to talk strategy. The Lollapalooza performance is in five months. The contract is signed. The song is a huge part of the publicity!"
"I'm not performing with him," you said, the words flat and final.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Y/ , I understand you're hurt. But a breach of contract of this magnitude... the legal and financial repercussions would be catastrophic for your career. We're talking lawsuits from the festival, from his label, from our label."
You said nothing. The numbness was the only thing holding you together.
"Listen to me," David said, his tone softening slightly. "The best revenge is success. You go out on that stage, you perform the hell out of that song, and you show the world that you are a professional. That you cannot be broken by some... rockstar tantrum. You own the narrative."
"Fine," you said, the word tasting like ash. "But I don't want to see him. I don't want to talk to him. If he has anything to say about the performance, his manager can talk to you. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear," David said, relief evident in his voice. "'Il handle it. You just... be you. Write a killer album about this. It's what you do best."
— —
The sunlight was a physical assault. Leon woke up in an unfamiliar, starkly modern bedroom, his head pounding, his mouth tasting of ash and regret. The other side of the bed was empty, a cold, sick dread washed over him, so potent it cut through the hangover.
He fumbled for his phone. It was dead. He found a charger, his hands shaking, and waited an eternity for it to power on.
When it did, it exploded.
Dozens of missed calls from his manager. A flood of texts from bewildered bandmates, and then, the headlines.
"KENNEDY'S RELAPSE: Back to Old Habits with Ex Ava Wong!"
"Party Animal Leon Kennedy Spotted Canoodling with Supermodel!"
There were photos. Blurry, but damning. One showed him on the couch, Ava leaning into him, her face close to his neck. Another captured him stumbling, his face a mask of confusion and anger. It looked like a passionate, if chaotic, reunion.
"No," he whispered, the word a dry croak. "No, it wasn't like that."
He scrambled to open his texts to you. His last messages to you were from the previous evening, telling you goodnight after his supposed "studio session." With a trembling heart, he typed.
"Y/n, please call me. The pictures... it's not what it looks like. I was an idiot, I went to a party, but I didn't do anything, I pushed her away..."
He hit send. The message immediately turned green.
Message not delivered.
His blood ran cold. He called. It went straight to a generic voicemail greeting. You had blocked him.
Panic, pure and undiluted, seized him. He called his manager.
"Where the hell have you been?" his manager barked, picking up on the first ring. "I've been calling all morning!"
"What the hell were you thinking?!" Rick's voice was a whip crack. "One night! I leave you alone for one night, and you torpedo the best publicity you've had in years! The 'redeemed rockstar'? Gone! You're a joke, Leon! The label is furious!"
"It wasn't like that," Leon tried to explain, the words sounding pathetic even to him. "I didn't... nothing happened."
"It doesn't matter what happened!" Rick yelled. "It matters what it looks like! And it looks like you ditched your heartbroken, super-talented girlfriend to get wasted and cozy with your supermodel ex the second she lost! Do you have any idea how that plays? You're the villain in this story, Leon! The absolute villain! The label is furious. They're talking about pulling the Lollapalooza slot."
"They can't do that," Leon said, the last of his defiance surfacing.
"They can, and they will if you don't get your shit together! You need to get into rehab. Today. We need to spin this as a 'cry for help;' not a 'return to form! Your career is hanging by a thread."
Leon let the phone fall from his ear, his manager's tirade becoming a distant buzz. He stumbled to the bathroom and vomited, his body rejecting the poison, but it was nothing compared to the sickness in his soul.
The band was next, Chris, the stoic, long suffering drummer, and Luis, the flamboyant but fiercely loyal bassist found him later that day, still in the same clothes, sitting in the dark.
"Hombre," Luis said, his usual joviality gone. "You look like hell."
"We heard," Chris added, his voice flat. "We had a meeting with the label. They're
concerned about the band's direction. They're talking about pushing the album back. Again."
The guilt was a physical weight, crushing him. He'd dragged them down with him. They'd been with him since the beginning, since grimy L.A. garages, weathering his meltdowns and his benders because they believed in the music. And he was failing them, too.
He tried to lose himself in the old ways. The whiskey didn't taste like freedom anymore; it tasted like regret. The pills didn't bring numbness; they just amplified the silence where your laughter used to be. He showed up to band rehearsals late and hollow, going through the motions. The new songs they'd been working on, the ones you had inspired, now felt like lies. He tried to write the old, angry stuff, but the fire was gone. He was just going through the motions, a ghost haunting his own life.
The only thing that kept him tethered was the looming, terrifying date on the calendar.
Lollapalooza. The contract was ironclad. He would have to see you. He would have to stand on a stage and perform the song that was a perfect snapshot of everything he'd destroyed.
— —
The roar of the Lollapalooza crowd was a physical beast, a hundred thousand strong entity that breathed, screamed, and bled raw energy, for you, it was usually a baptism, a purifying fire that burned away all your doubts and fears, tonight felt like an execution.
You had just finished your set, your body slick with sweat, your lungs burning, the applause was thunderous, a validation you’d worked your entire life for, but it rang hollow, all you could feel was the impending doom of the next twenty minutes.
Backstage was a controlled warzone, techs scrambled, publicists whispered into headsets, and other artists moved through the shadows like anxious ghosts, Helena was waiting for you , a fresh towel and a bottle of water in her hands, her face a mask of professional calm that did nothing to hide the worry in her eyes.
"You were incredible out there," Helena said, her voice tight. "Your best set yet."
"Thanks," you mumbled, chugging the water, your throat was sandpaper, your heart was a frantic bird beating against your ribs. "Is he..?
"He's here. With his band. They're in the green room on the other side." Helena hesitated.
"You don't have to do this, y/n. We can find a way out of the contract. A 'vocal strain... something."
You shook your head, a sharp, decisive movement. "No. This is my song too. I'm not letting him take it from me. I'm not running."
— —
On the other side of the backstage labyrinth, Leon Kennedy was coming apart at the seams, his band was a study in tense silence. Chris, the drummer, was methodically taping his fingers. Luis, usually chatty bassist, was uncharacteristically quiet, tuning his instrument with a grim focus, they were his brothers, the only ones who had been with him from the grimy L.A. garages to these stadium stages, they’d seen him through every overdose, every bender, every broken heart. They'd celebrated the highs and carried him through the lows, right now, they were watching him pace like a caged animal, and they were terrified.
"Leon, man, you gotta breathe," Luis said softly, his Spanish accent more pronounced with concern. "You look like you're gonna pass out."
Leon didn't hear him. The green room walls were closing in. The remnants of a hangover, a constant companion these last six months, throbbed behind his eyes. He'd tried to numb the pre show terror, but nothing worked anymore, not the whiskey, not the little white pills that used to make the world soft and manageable, the only thing that had ever truly silenced the noise was you, and he had annihilated that.
His manager was hissing in his ear.
"Remember the narrative. You’re professional, you’re remorseful but focused on the music, this is a comeback story, Leon, this performance, right here, defines the next chapter. Don't fuck it up."
The next chapter. The words were meaningless. There was no next chapter. There was only this: the agonizing walk onto that stage, facing the woman whose heart he'd shattered, and singing the song that was a perfect, painful snapshot of the happiness he'd thrown away.
"I can't do this," Leon muttered, running a trembling hand through his hair. It was damp with cold sweat.
Chris looked up from his drumsticks, his gaze steady. "You have to, mate. It's the job."
"It's not a job," Leon choked out. "It's a fucking funeral."
A stage manager poked his head in. "Kennedy, five minutes. You're on after the set change."
The world tilted. Five minutes. Three hundred seconds until he had to face his judgment.
— —
The sounds of the crowd was a physical force, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over you and receded, leaving a ringing silence in its wake, the final, dissonant chord of your shared song hung in the humid air like the ghost of your relationship.
You had done it, you had stood on that stage, a monument of cold fury, and poured every shattered piece of your heart into the microphone, you had taken your beautiful, painful collaboration and turned it into a weapon.
As the applause thundered, you didn't wait for the encore, for the bow, for him, you unstrapped your bass, swinging your signature zebra strap, the weight of the bass suddenly unbearable, and turned your back on Leon Kennedy, you walked off the stage, the cheers fueling your exit, leaving him standing alone in the spotlight, the echo of your final, solo bow a public execution.
— —
The weeks after Lollapalooza were a study in parallel misery, the music world feasted on the drama, paparazzi stalked you both, hoping for a reaction shot, a new scandal.
You threw yourself into work, channeling your heartbreak into a furious burst of creativity, you wrote an entire album’s worth of new material, each song a sharper, more polished shard of glass from the window you’d thrown your heart through, you did interviews, maintaining your cool, professional facade.
“Leon and I have always maintained a strictly and merely professional relationship.” You’d state, your voice perfectly level.
But at night, in the silence of your apartment, the anger began to curdle into a profound, aching sadness, you missed him, you missed the smell of his cologne on your pillows, the way he’d hum absentmindedly while making coffee, the weight of his arm around you while you watched movies.
Leon, meanwhile, did the one thing no one expected, he went to ground. He canceled all non essential press. He showed up to band rehearsals on time, sober and focused. It was a grim, determined focus. He wasn’t the vibrant, chaotic leader they were used to, he was a ghost, going through the motions.
“The new stuff is shit, Leon,” Chris said bluntly during one session, after Leon had presented a particularly hollow-sounding riff.
“I know,” Leon admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t… I can’t find it right now.”
“It’s because you’re trying to be who you were,” Luis said quietly from behind his keyboards. “Not who you are now.”
“And who am I now?” Leon asked, the question genuine and desperate.
“A guy who got his heart broken,” Chris said, uncharacteristically gentle. “Maybe write about that.”
So he did. He started writing again, not for the label, not for the band, but for himself. Raw, ugly, unpolished songs about self sabotage and regret. Songs that sounded nothing like the radio friendly rock his label demanded. He didn’t care. It was the only honest thing he’d done in months.
— —
The opportunity came from an unlikely source, a prestigious, intimate charity gala honoring musicians who supported mental health initiatives, both you and Leon, for your respective work and donations (often anonymous, in Leon’s case), were on the guest list. your managers had a tense, closed door negotiation. It was decided, you would attend, separately. It was a test. A chance to see if you could exist in the same room without causing a media frenzy.
You arrived in a stunning, minimalist black gown, Helena by your side. You felt like a nerve exposed, every flash of a camera making you flinch. And then you saw him.
He was across the room, surrounded by his band. He looked… thinner. Older. The suit he wore was impeccable, but his shoulders were slumped. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, not whiskey. His eyes met hers across the crowded room, and the air crackled. There was no smirk, no challenge. Just a deep, abiding weariness, and a question.
You quickly looked away, your heart hammering. The evening dragged on. Speeches were made, awards given. During a quiet moment near the balcony, you felt a presence behind you.
“y/n.”
His voice was low, rough. It sent a tremor through your whole body. You turned slowly. He was alone.
“Leon.”
“Can we… can we talk? For five minutes. Somewhere private.” He gestured to a secluded alcove off the main hall. “Just talk.”
Every instinct told you to say no. To walk away. To preserve the hard won you’d built around yourself. But the look in his eyes, it wasn’t the look of a player making an excuse. It was the look of a man who had hit bedrock.
You nodded once, stiffly, and followed him.
— —
In the quiet of the alcove, the noise of the gala faded to a distant hum.
“You were right,” he began, not wasting a second. “About everything. I was a coward. I was so fucking terrified of what we had because it was real, and I’ve spent my whole life in the fake. The party… I went because jack said it was for the ‘real’ me. And a part of me was scared he was right. That the chaos, the drugs, the… the brokenness, that that was all I was. That I didn’t deserve you or the peace you gave me.”
He wasn’t looking for pity. He was stating facts.
“I got blackout drunk. I remember Ava kissing my neck. I remember shoving her away. I remember being so angry at myself that I started yelling. I don’t remember anything after that. I didn’t sleep with her. I wouldn’t. But I know that doesn’t matter. The betrayal was being there. It was lying to you. It was choosing the ghost of my past over the future you offered me.”
You stood silent, your arms crossed, a statue. But inside, the walls were crumbling.
“The band… they’ve been trying to keep me together,” he continued, a sad smile touching his lips. “Chris threatened to break my fingers if I didn’t show up to rehearsal. Luis, of all people, has been making me eat. They’ve seen me at my worst for ten years, and they said the worst I’ve ever been was these last few months without you. Because I was actually present for the misery.”
He took a step closer, his hands shoved in his pockets as if to stop himself from reaching for you.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I’m just… I’m telling you the truth. For the first time since the night I met you at that godforsaken party, I’m not performing. This is it. This is the messy, fucked up, sorry excuse for a man that I am. And I am so, so sorry for the pain I caused you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was too blind and too scared to see it until I’d already thrown it away.”
A single, traitorous tear escaped your eye and traced a path down your cheek. You quickly wiped it away. The cool, professional facade was gone. In its place was just the raw, hurt woman beneath.
“I believed in you. I let you in. And you made me feel like a fool.”
“I know,” he said, his own eyes glistening. “And I will spend the rest of my life regretting it.”
He didn’t move to touch you. He just stood there, offering you his broken, unfiltered truth. And in that moment, you saw him. Not the rockstar, not the player, not the trainwreck. You saw the boy from the first EP. The man who wrote poetry and loved quiet mornings. The man who was so much more than his demons.
It wasn’t a switch flipping. The hurt didn’t vanish. The trust wasn’t instantly restored. But the seed of something new, something fragile and cautious, was planted.
“I’m not saying I can do this,” you said finally, your voice steadier. “I’m not saying we’re okay.”
“I know.”
“But… you can stop sending demos to my manager. If you have new music you want me to hear… you can send it to me.”
It was a tiny crack in the door. The smallest, most tentative of olive branches. But for Leon, it felt like the sun rising after a lifetime of night.
A slow, real, heartbreakingly hopeful smile spread across his face. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”
