⟢ you and johnny have been together for quite some time, and he decides to make things more official. ❤️
── .✦ story notes
⟢ idk anything abt the fantastic four other than the movie that came out this year and franklin is some god or something. takes place before dr doom snatched lil bro 💔
── .✦ word count
⟢ prolly 1k or less idk
── .✦ tags
⟢ a couple uses of y/n but trust, second person, not beta read!!!, never written for johnny before this is a first, wrote it for my sister in 7 minutes at 4am as a joke and she said to post it so i’m posting it, fluff, ur outfit is the only descriptor u have, u have eyes tho, i forgot some characters names ur just gonna have to lock in, i did not in fact spell or grammar check (ur gonna understand soon), happy ending, lots of fire puns, idk what the fantastic four building is called, i rlly just remember she gave birth in space in the movie and came back to life and there was eggs and johnny had a bakery back there idk so i forgot a lot about them
── .✦ a/n
⟢ i saw the jonas brothers this week. very cool
you shownup to then foursome toower inn a memssy bun wotj jeans, convnersje and a dress bc.
you rdotn careee 😜 ur litile firebanol sausu he lvoeos you regahrdleldsof how you look so you isut show up uwoekebr you wnat 💗
u knock on the door 67 timesm and then he comed rushsing to youu. “oh em geeee it s my sunthshhine!!!” he says.
he has a lisp bc he jsut went to the dentisit and had 4 tweth taken out.
you meow at him befor prnacing in, making ur way to the dinenr theble. he hahs gottne used to you joining them all
for family dinenr.
“wowwww inlvoe ur dress!!” says susan
is her name susan
“thhank you so mich” says y/n aka you
“giyths i jahbe sletjjng to tell
yyu,” suaus johnnyn, starijg at ur big orbs on ur face. nor ur chehst.
“WOAOAAHH WHAT IS IT” says the rock
“thejres no way this is happening chat clip itttt” says frajkin who is a twitch streaer at age 4 bc he’s a boss like thajt
“im proposing to y/n IRGHT NOW.” he says. he gets on both knens like the shane danwson meme and proposes. the ring is ginanprmosj and doenst fit on ur dingner. mayeb its a toe rigm!???
“YHIS SIS SO UNDXPECTED CHAT” says robbert.
wait what was the stretch guys name. it hmk its roger or sormthing. BUT HE SAYS IT.
you gasp relaly bug and stare back a thounny. you say “YUES” like the katssye meme. everyone cleebrates and acreams absolutke cinema as you and johnny ride off into the sunset
“ive alwuas been on fire for u y/n ur so badddd” he says seducitivlry. “ur like.. gasoline or soemthkgm.. lighjter fluid.”
“ur hawtttt” u say
“yea ik..”
tjenedm.!!
i fele like now is a good time to say i’ve seen nearly every marvel movie and love them deeply but genuienly domt rememberlike anythigk about f4. pls forgive im not a fake fan i jsut have a bad memory and cant spell when im
⟢ people are going missing in arklay county, with the authorities doing practically nothing about it, leading you and your friends to decide to investigate these strange cases.
── .✦ story notes
⟢ takes place after re1 but pre re2, wesker hasn’t betrayed the group (yet?), inspired by stuff like stranger things, twin peaks, riverdale, etc. mostly stranger things because i haven’t seen the other two lol. also!!! it’s compliant with most canon themes (i believe) but it’s still an au nonetheless. like leon had a good first day :’) (not depicted but u know it’s there)
── .✦ word count
⟢ 1.5k
── .✦ tags
⟢ title is in fact a twenty-one pilots song, second-person, no use of y/n, beta read by one of my besties (thank u mari ily!!), elza walker lives on in this, the core four are all here!! :3, still leon x reader (we’re just not quite there yet / there’ll be some buildup), albert wesker and billy coen mentions, u have a sister, hide ur kids hide ur wives hide ur husbands bc everybody disappearing up in arklay, hints of angst i think???, planning on making this a series but praying i don’t fall through w it
── .✦ a/n
⟢ just barely posted this week lol. might be posting something other than fics next week bc i will be very busy, but i want to keep things consistent for u guys!! love u all and happy reading x
Elza’s Diner was the heart of all restaurants in that small, mid-western town. It was one of the two places that stayed open past 8pm (the other being one of few gas stations they had), and it was a hot spot for families, the elderly and teens (as well as young adults) with way too much time on their hands.
Young adults like you and your friends Leon, Claire, Chris and Jill.
Going to Elza’s started off as finding a place to eat after school, rather than just your house. Your parents didn’t mind your friends coming over to eat, but sometimes, you need a change of scenery. And somewhere to talk about things you couldn’t really tell your parents, like the man-eating monster in the woods last weekend… Or the missing person’s case of Chris’ old friend Albert that the five of you still had yet to solve… stuff like that.
Just like any other day, you’d find yourselves there again.
“The usual?” the older brunette prompts.
“That’d be great, Elza. Thank you,” you reply, heading over to the booth in the back that practically belonged to your friend group.
The five of you take your usual seats: you and Leon next to each other, and Chris, Claire and Jill on the opposite side. Jill takes a notebook and pen out of a small bag, and places the notebook on the table. “I’ve gotten most of everything written down, but I may’ve missed something,” she notes, flipping through the pages.
“And this was Rebecca’s friend?” Claire asks, just to make sure.
“Yeah, she says she hasn’t seen Billy in a while and doesn’t know where he ran off to,” Chris answers, looking at the photos they had accumulated throughout the investigation.
Too many people had gone missing recently. Mostly around Raccoon City, but in surrounding areas, too; including your quaint little town. Admittedly, it was like one of those documentaries where one of the interviewees says, “things like that don’t happen around here.” And truthfully, they didn’t. Not until now.
“Albert, Billy and at least nine others throughout the span of two weeks — whoever’s abducting them, they’re desperate,” Leon noted aloud, taking notes.
You looked between all of the evidence your friends had gathered, taking notes of your own. It wasn’t long before Elza had brought your orders: burger and fries with a vanilla shake for Chris, a sandwich with chips and a Dr. Pepper for Jill, burger and fries with a strawberry shake for Claire (just like her brother), a breakfast platter with coffee (if you can call it that after all the creamer) for Leon and of course, all of your favorites for you.
As you ate your meals, you cross-referenced evidence and did what you could to try to figure out who or took these innocent people, and why?
“It goes from one person to three two days later, to two a week after, to four the next day and back to one just yesterday. It’s sporadic,” says Jill, talking with her hands. Chris chimes in, “It’s panic. Or boredom.”
The red-head isn’t sure if she should really ask, but she decides to anyway. “Boredom?”
“Sometimes, when the culprit is tired of their current victim, they’ll find a way to get rid of them and pick another. Whoever did it could be bored of whoever they abducted,” you answered before sipping your drink and looking out the window. Something moves in the distance; you’re not sure what it is, but it doesn’t look right.
“That’s disgusting,” she replies, mindlessly toying with the straw in her smoothie.
“It’s true,” Jill states rather bluntly, shrugging it off. She could probably be a cop one day, in your opinion.
Chris checks the time on his watch, and you know what that means. “It’s getting late. Claire and I have to get back home. Sorry, guys,” the brunet says as he awkwardly shimmies his way out of the booth with Claire in tow.
Jill talked about a test she had to study for and left shortly after, leaving only you and Leon at the table — drinks going lukewarm and crumbs of food going cold.
He doesn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he had no idea what he’d say in the first place. You two were definitely close, but there was something off about tonight in particular. Maybe it was the doubt sewn in everyone’s minds earlier, a strong contrast to the usual hope and determination they consistently emitted. Maybe it was the way three out of five of you left, one after the other. Maybe it was the cold coffee that was ready to mess up your stomachs like Taco Bell before an important job interview.
Or maybe it was the fact that you had liked him since elementary school and never knew what to do with those feelings other than persistently suppress them, because what else would you do with them?
“A lot of these cases surround Arklay,” the blond says practically out of nowhere, noting disappearance locations in red ink. “There’s been weird spottings around there, too. It’s causing a lot of chatter among locals.”
You cross-reference the map and his notes with your own writings. “Arklay’s mostly mountains and forests with no civilization in sight, so who would’ve taken them?”
He shrugs softly, fidgeting with the pen in his hand. “Not sure. But it also could’ve been a what… kinda like that thing in the woods.”
“…You guys didn’t believe me, though.”
“I certainly did. They just— they worry about you.”
“Why would they be worried?”
He thinks before he speaks, trying to figure out how to word everything correctly. “Probably because they know your sister went missing and it’s driving you insane and making you overwork yourself so you can figure things out on your own when we’re here to help you.”
A pause. “Touche.”
He chuckles softly and then checks his watch. “You wanna head out?”
You flip through everything you’ve got so far, feeling as if you’ve hit a dead end. There’s hardly ever anything new, and it’s pretty disappointing. You figure nothing else will pop up tonight, if at all. It’s hard to have the strength to keep on looking, but you want to find your sister and your friends.
“Yeah, I should probably get back home.” You move out of the booth and gather your things while Leon gets out, shoving his stuff into his backpack. You clean up the table to the best of your ability, and hear Elza’s shoes click-clacking in your direction.
“I’ll handle the rest, sugars. Y’all oughta go home — it’s getting late,” the older lady says, taking the leftover dishes from the table and heading back towards the kitchen.
“Thank you, Elza!” you both exclaim in unison as you leave the diner.
The two of you head out to his spotless dark green Jeep, ready to wrap up a long day. The blond puts both of your bags in the back and hops in the driver’s seat, buckling up and driving off towards your house. It’s quiet for a bit, with only rock music softly filling the air. Eventually, you break the silence.
“Do you think we’ll find them?” A little more pessimistic than you were going for but it happens.
“…I have hope that we will,” he responds, noticeably trying to lift up your spirits. “But I also think it’s important to remember that we’re not seasoned detectives. Finding our friends without help from authorities and low to no history with this sort of thing is no easy task, but I believe we can do it.”
You nod along, although still not fully believing him. But you’ll pretend that you do for now. “What happens after that?”
“Well, I should be finished with the academy by then so I’ll be an officer, you’ll continue pursuing your own dreams and then we’ll—”
You jump awake, shaken like you had a terrifying nightmare. The blond in his police uniform looks at you with concern, and carefully moves closer.
“Woah. You okay?”
You take a look at your surroundings, trying to jog your memory and get it together. “Y-Yeah. What were you saying?”
“I said we gotta go, there’s new info on our missing cases. Have you been sleeping enough?” Leon questions, looking between you and your paperwork.
You know you haven’t. You’d like to lie, but you and your group always told each other that friends don’t lie. “No, but it’s fine. Let’s go, I’ll grab coffee on the way out.”
⟢ basically romeo and juliet but if it was the “never a frown/golden brown” trend if that makes sense… idk how else to summarize it lol
── .✦ story notes
⟢ re4r imagined while writing this but any blond leon works, prob renaissance era but im not good w history unless there was a doctor who episode focused around the event but even then im still not good with it yet was at least entertained by it for a while
── .✦ word count
⟢ 1.2k!
── .✦ tags / warnings
⟢ knight!leon, princess!reader, major character death, sensitive topics, it’s basically romeo and juliet if u catch my drift, lots of angst, hurt no comfort, sad romance, literally never a happy moment in this forsaken fic, i’ve never written a story that takes place centuries ago so logic/language is prolly off, prolly historically inaccurate but im just a fic writer, no use of y/n, second-person, ur fictional dad sucks, minor laufey reference (blink and you’ll miss it), the guy ur involuntarily engaged to doesn’t suck but he’s kinda just there, claire redfield is here tho!!!, no happy ending, beta read by one of my best friends at 2am while she was sleep deprived :( (thank u rj ily!!)
── .✦ a / n
⟢ “never a frown” yea i lied srry yall r gonna h8 me.. also the song is fye pls listen to golden brown but the slowed version trust.. unless ur my sister and u h8 it :<
“You look beautiful, Your Highness,” your red-haired lady-in-waiting says as she makes some tiny adjustments to your wedding gown. Ever the attentive one.
Your reflection stares back at you, the elegant gown almost mocking. Not even almost, fully mocking. This is never the life you would’ve chosen for yourself, and everyone who truly knew you understood that. Your father, of course, did not. So when the rivaling kingdom wanted to make amends and exchange essential goods, he had given you a role as his bargaining chip.
Quite the man he is.
“I don’t feel beautiful, Claire,” you reply, your voice awful quiet. It wasn’t because you cared if your father heard you, heavens no. It was because of the sobs that threatened to burst from your throat. They nearly silenced your voice, and your lady-in-waiting understood that immediately.
She wished she could help you — she truly did. But it was out of everyone’s hands now. Not even your mother could stop the cold, harsh actions of your stern father. He was set on this deal, and would not free you from it. Of course you were unwillingly thrown into the mix. He did anything he could to get rid of you. It made sense.
Claire runs around the castle, obtaining anything and everything she needs to prepare you for the ceremony. Meanwhile, you sit in your lonesome quarters, praying for this nightmare to end.
A knock at the door — rhythmic and freeing. You automatically knew who it was. You two had customized it as your own special code after all.
“Come in.” More so a plea than permission.
There he is, your literal knight in shining armor. He carefully shuts the door behind him and immediately comes to sit by your side. His eyes focus on your dress, the delicate fabric and perfect color matching you so well. Deep in his heart, he selfishly wished that he was the one you would be married to.
It wasn’t necessarily forbidden, depending on the circumstances, but the deal was done.
“I don’t want to do this, Leon,” you spoke between gentle sobs, not daring to look at him with such sadness in your eyes.
Still, he carefully lifted your face so your gazes would meet. He wanted to see the face of the woman he loved, even if she had tears staining her soft skin. He gently caressed your cheek, tucking away a strand of your hair behind your ear.
“I know you don’t, my love. I wish there was something we could do. Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Your father refuses to shift his decision,” the blond spoke, the sadness in his heart making its way to his voice.
You leaned into his embrace, holding onto him for as long as you could before you would part forever.
Mere moments after, Claire knocks on the door, alerting you that it’s time for you to go. You glance at the door for a second, before meeting your sad lover’s gaze. Your final goodbye ends with a sorrowful kiss, filled with the words you both wished you could say.
You part, and as Leon quickly heads down the halls to his place in the ballroom to act as security for the night, you follow Claire to meet with your parents before the ceremony begins. A small chat with your mother, yet no words to your father. You silently wished to never speak with him again, which was incredibly reasonable, all things considered.
“You know this is your duty as a royal member of our kingdom,” the stern man states, tone cold and harsh as always.
“Is it truly my duty to be your bargaining chip for a deal that will last no longer than the next few years?” you snap back, hatred seething through your voice. Your mother places a hand on your shoulder, a quiet plead for you to stop this “madness”, but you gently shake her off.
“I will not have my daughter acting foolishly! The deal is done and that is enough!” he shouts, his voice echoing throughout the halls. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, yet in a soft yet harsh tone. “You will marry Prince Edmond, and if you refuse… I will have you tried for treason.”
“Does he truly feel that way?” You didn’t even need an answer. You already knew.
“Treason” is what got your mother to eventually break. “That is no way to treat your daughter. Especially on her involuntary wedding day. You may be King, but that gives you no right to treat people like filth. Protecting your daughter was one of your duties, and you’ve failed.”
Your mother makes her way to the ballroom with your father in tow, and you wait before eventually leaving the room. You want to cry, pray that things would change, but there’s nothing anyone except your father could do — and he’s far too stubborn to listen to you.
You choose to not have your father walk you down the aisle, and instead walk alone. You step upon a platform beside your husband-to-be, whom you’ve never met, but he seems to like you. However, that seems to be the only positive in all of this. A terrible father, a silent mother, an arranged marriage to a man you’ve never met and a quiet yet strong yearning for a man you can no longer be with.
As the minister reads through everything, Leon stands across the room, his sorrowful eyes watching you through his silver armor. You look at him through the corner of your eye, and you know you share whatever he’s feeling. “Modern day Romeo and Juliet” was what Claire had called you two, and in this moment, that nickname made more sense than ever.
You fought tears, but when you glanced at Leon once more, one slipped down your cheek. You felt foolish to believe that you had a future in which you could choose whom you loved, only for that dream to be broken at the hands of your cruel father.
The whole ceremony felt like agony, and when it came to the vows, the knight wanted to fall and shatter into pieces. With a heavy heart, he would whisper vows he would no longer get to say to you. He can almost see an alternate future, filled with sweetness, laughter and unending loyalty. But that precious dream was shattered as soon as he’d faintly heard you say, “I do.”
He wished so badly that it was him. He would provide for you. He would fight for you. He would give up life and limb for you. He would do whatever it took to protect you.
But that wasn’t his job anymore.
You belonged to someone else now, and there was nothing he could do to change that.
That night, Sir Leon had fulfilled his duties for the last time. He had stared at the portraits he had painted and drawn of you, admiring them for as long as he could before writing a letter addressed to you, and silencing his beating heart with his silver blade.
He died thinking you would be able to read his last words, but you never got the chance to. For in the quiet quarters of Prince Edmond’s room, you had given yourself a similar fate. A letter to your true love, and a dagger to the heart.
Maybe now you would get to be together in the afterlife.
so, a requiem is like a mass for the dead, or some kind of act of remembrance of those who passed, and given that this is the title for re9, i know it's likely in reference to this being a closing chapter of raccoon city. like allowing these characters and this universe put to rest what really happened there, to remember and honor those who died, and just finally be at peace. but if the leak about leon being in this game is true, lowkey also kinda scared that the theories of him possibly dying might also be true because of what the title means. like having the title be so focused on death, having grace's story begin with her mother's death, investigating strange deaths, figuring out the true story behind the mass deaths and destruction of raccoon city, it wouldn't be all the surprising if they did do something like that. like death just seems to be a recurring theme here at the moment.
i know ppl don't think capcom would ever kill off their legacy characters, especially fan favorite characters, but i have trust issues after having lost so many characters i loved that i assumed were safe characters (carl grimes u are so beloved to me). i'm gonna think abt this all the time now and get stuck in my head about it until the game comes out.
hi guys!! ren here :) i said i wanted to post consistently and when i said that, i was thinking every few days but i think it’ll be looking more like at least once a week. i’m still into writing, rest assured!! but i’m also not in a gr8 point in my life and don’t feel too inspired. however, if u still wanna see content from me, i have cosplay and edit accs on tiktok!! (mostly active on cos teehee.) lmk if u guys would want those :3 n e ways let’s continue :)
(also since it’s angst, topics can/will weigh heavy, so pls go with caution.)
⟢ starting off rather tame, hates sleeping in the dark. it limits visibility in cases of emergency. probably has a lamp with a dying bulb or a tv on so it’s dark enough to sleep, but light enough to see.
⟢ he used to be a deep sleeper in his youth, but after the raccoon city incident, not anymore.
⟢ also regularly has nightmares about it, as well as intense missions (re4 and vendetta for example).
⟢ used to drink casually pre-re2, but after re4, he drinks to forget.
⟢ it’s never substantial enough. god, he wishes it was.
⟢ doesn’t date around much. he’d hate for someone else to be involved in this. if arias or some weird cult found out about whoever he was with, he’d never forgive himself.
⟢ he originally wanted 2 kids, but after everything, he just gets a pet instead. however, on a lighter note, i can see ID and DI leon as prime dad era and he’d probably have kids around then if he reconsidered.
⟢ but he’s cooked if he has a kid during re6 or vendetta. bro is not in the headspace to take care of himself, much less a child.
⟢ he goes to therapy when he can, but there’s no amount of talking or medication that can drown out the horrors that plague him everyday. it doesn’t make much of a difference.
⟢ another lighter note, his friends do. they help make a difference. that’s why he’s doing better in death island; because he came to them and they helped him when he needed it most.
⟢ he always loved the thought of christmas as a kid, but spent the holidays in the orphanage, so he didn’t really do anything but stare out the window and look at christmas lights from afar.
⟢ it didn’t change much when he was older. but now that he has friends like chris, claire and jill, he has someone to spend it with (when possible).
⟢ when it’s not, he spends it alone again until he gets the idea to start buying gifts for kids who had similar situations to him growing up. you know samaritan’s purse with the shoe boxes? yeah they got leon’s purse now TRUST.
⟢ probably sticks around to tell them stories and just hangout with them if possible. give them something to do so they aren’t bored and depressed like he was. :(
⟢ takes his coffee black. yea that’s pretty sad to me. /j
⟢ he used to eat well, but now it’s various frozen meals that he can just toss in the microwave. he doesn’t have to time (and sometimes care) for a home cooked meal. (applies to damnation — vendetta leon. any other and i think he eats okay.)
⟢ can’t cry much anymore, even if he wanted to. it just doesn’t work. but from time to time, when he’s alone in bed at night, it just hits him.
⟢ takes cold showers. rather tame, but it helps him when he’s hungover and it doesn’t burn his wounds as bad.
⟢ hates his scars. the bullet he took for ada, the cut he got from infected ashley, and the various others he obtained during missions. they remind him of everything he’s been through and those nightmares only plague him harder. so he wears a lot of long-sleeves. not because he’s cold, though he probably does get cold easy, but because he doesn’t want to see those sad reminders.
⟢ one of the hardest deaths he’s had to deal with in the field was luis’. he never thought he’d like luis, much less be his friend, but sometimes the most unexpected situations hit the hardest.
⟢ he also thinks of marvin often and wonders what could’ve happened if things were different.
⟢ or maybe they’d be the same. and somehow, that’s almost worse.
⟢ although he grew numb to some parts of his job, he’d never get over the deaths he’s had to witness. they haunt him endlessly, constantly hanging over his head. he pretends the drinking helps, but it doesn’t. it doesn’t distract him, it just makes him more depressed. maybe he’ll temporarily forget things, but they’ll always come back stronger.
⟢ he hates being alone, but simultaneously makes himself believe that it’s for the better.
⟢ “no one else should have to endure this,” he says.
⟢ it doesn’t help.
⟢ nothing ever does.
that’s all i got lol lmk if yall have reqs/ideas bc.. i need them heh aight bye x
haiiii!!! ^_^ i wanted to make a hc post for my man and this was the first thing that came to mind lol (feel free to send ideas!!). im gonna try to post consistently so we’ll see how that goes… also thats my cat bennett in the cover… :3 i love u guys and happy reading!! <3
⟢ hear me out: he’s more of a dog person pre-re2 but after that, cats are his favorite. he still likes dogs but after coming across the cerberus… he can’t really stay around them for too long
⟢ that, and there’s the anxious feeling that any dog could turn into a cerberus at any moment
⟢ so cat dad leon ftw!!!
⟢ he doesn’t have a preference. he likes any and all cats, and thinks they’re under appreciated (they are)
⟢ he was pet-free for years, up until he found a stray kitten on the street
⟢ he swears UP AND DOWNNN that he tried to look for the baby’s mom, and he did!!! for several hours.. but after no mama in sight after quite some time, he took that baby in
⟢ would probably name him something stupid like patrick, rocket, skeeter, crouton, scrumple, etc
⟢ there’s also a chance it’s named roger, bob or jupiter. vader if it’s a black cat
⟢ if he ever has to go on an extended mission, he’ll get one of his friends to watch over/check in on said cat
⟢ “claire are you busy?” “why…” “i need you to watch crouton” “omg leon get a cat sitter”
⟢ he doesn’t trust them with his cat enough :/
⟢ trust that his cat is LOVED like it does not go without
⟢ also anytime leon does anything ever, crouton’s following him. and it’s seen breaking bad like 10 times over atp
⟢ cat has cat bed, does not sleep in it. sleeps on leon’s bed instead. leon “lets it happen” aka “idc this is my son”
⟢ will leave on cartoons for his cat while he goes to the grocery store or something. anytime he’s away for a short period of time, cartoons
⟢ if his cat has to go to the vet, leon’s getting him treats and toys after. that baby’s spoiled
⟢ his camera roll doesn’t have a lot in it, but know that about half of it is scenery pics and the other half is his son
⟢ leon prob doesn’t like halloween but if he did, they’d be star wars characters together (han and chewbacca are the most likely pair)
⟢ overall, he’s the best cat dad ever and treats that fur baby like he’s royalty :3
⟢ i’m a resident evil and alice in borderland truther, so here’s my hc’s of 6 re characters (leon, claire, chris, jill, carlos, ada) if they got stuck in the borderlands and what their card suits would be!
⟢ quick rundown: club is teamwork, spade is strength, diamond is smarts, heart is emotions. your suit aligns with what you’re best at. the higher the number = more difficult the game, face cards (king, queen, jack) are highest difficulty. ex: wesker would be diamond because he’s smart. he would be good at many diamond games (probably all) because it aligns with his suit. let’s continue.
SUIT:
⟢ let’s take all card suits — and their meanings — into account. clubs wouldn’t be too bad of a choice, since leon fairs well with teams after adjusting to them, but i don’t think it’s the focus of his skill set. he does fine on his own and though he’s a great asset, he’s not a club. he’s a smart guy, i mean you’d definitely have to be in such a field, yet probably not a diamond. and you can’t tell me he wouldn’t hate anything to do with being a hearts player, so that’s ruled out.
⟢ because of his training within the police academy and his training in the military (which led to his position as a government agent), he has intense fighting experience and incredible stamina. we can see this demonstrated in literally every appearance he makes within the franchise. that being said, i definitely see him as a spade.
BEST GAME:
⟢ i think leon would definitely be best at arena (king of spades), with boiling death (7 of spades) and distance (4 of clubs) being honorable mentions. arena would give him a chance to utilize his military training and the hm’s would showcase his incredible stamina. i feel like he could clear most games for sure, though.
⟢ him in the season 3 games… would eat… sacred fortunes prob wouldn’t be great… but imagine him in runaway train, zombie, etc. LEON IN ONE OF THOSE MASKS… omg… possible futures would ruin me. more on that later! :3
BEACH RESIDENT?:
⟢ prolly not. it may give him an advantage, sure, but i believe he’d rather form his own team aside from the beach and work on making it out with them. i think he’d want to be a part of something substantial, and the beach doesn’t feel like that to me.
SUIT:
⟢ definitely not a hearts player. claire’s too honest and too kind to be a manipulator and take advantage of others emotions. she’s very smart, but i wouldn’t assign her to be a diamond. although skilled, resourceful and decently experienced, spade would likely be more of an honorable mention than a final choice. that being said, i’d assign claire to club.
⟢ clubs are known for teamwork, and i definitely believe that claire does great with it. she also does whatever she can to help others, so that makes me feel as if being a club is even more fitting for her. if you’re seeking a teammate, she’d be a great asset and absolutely someone worth working with.
BEST GAME:
⟢ say what y’all want but i think my girl would eattt osmosis (king of clubs). she’d be great at various games, but i have good faith that she would be great in osmosis. i’d love to see rev claire in most games, though. she’d serve.
⟢ side note, solitary confinement (jack of hearts) with claire and moira would be really interesting to see! they trust each other and could easily pass through it with their bond, but i’d love to see how they find the jack of hearts and who it’d turn out to be.
BEACH RESIDENT?:
⟢ nah, she would likely be joining leon’s group, but she’ll help beach members (and pretty much anyone who seems good) if they’re in a game together. she’s not a monster.
SUIT:
⟢ like most characters in the list, he wouldn’t be a hearts player. he would hate any game related to the hearts suit, especially if claire, jill and/or piers was with him. it’d be s1e3 all over again. he’s not stupid but likely not a diamond. club definitely comes pretty close, with his friendship with many of his teammates throughout the franchise being evidence, so we’ll keep that as an honorable mention.
⟢ taking chris’ extensive training and history as a S.T.A.R.S member turned BSAA leader, he’s for sure a spade. there’s no doubt in my mind. he’d also be carrying anybody who was in a spades game and was tweaking out about it. he’s got your back, no questions asked. unless you’re ada… then forget about it… :/
BEST GAME:
⟢ i really tried to avoid having doubles BUTTT i think he’d also be good at arena! i do believe most of the re characters would be good at most games (or at least enough to survive), and the same goes for him, but anything related to fighting, he’s clearing it asap. jack of spades stands as an honor mention for sure though. i’d love to see him or leon participate. not both at once though since there can only be one winner. (i’m rooting for leon.)
BEACH RESIDENT?:
⟢ as much as he’d joke about looking good in hawaiian shirts like some dad on a beach trip, i don’t think he’d be up for the beach either. he’d likely be like leon and try to form his own separate group, feeling rather disinterested in the whole paradise thing they’ve got goin’ on.
SUIT:
⟢ this one’s a little harder to assign imo. clubs isn’t necessarily a bad fit, but not entirely true to her character as she does just fine on her own. i feel as if hearts could only apply if it’s wesker’s-mind-control-weapon-jill, so it’s not substantial enough to be her main suit.
⟢ i know what y’all are gonna say… “ren, she’s definitely a spade! it makes sense!” and i agree! she’s gone through a lot and proved herself in many aspects, so spade is the obvious choice. however… i’m gonna put her as a diamond, but spade following CLOSE behind (like how arisu is a hearts player but also considerably a diamond and we find him fluctuating between the two). i think her intellect, critical thinking and skills with things like lock-picking could be great to back this up. i also wanted diversity because like half of RE characters could be spades. :/ pls don’t cancel me. </3
BEST GAME:
⟢ y’all hear me out on this… witch hunt (10 of hearts). ALSO IMAGINE WITCH HUNT IN THE RE1 MANSION. LIKE OMG. anyways i think it’d be great to see jill in nearly any game, but witch hunt would be so cool and i can see her having a similar role to ann. she’d be doing some hardcore investigative work while everyone else is freaking out and throwing anyone and everyone into the fire.
⟢ runaway train stands as an honorable mention. she’d be aura farming.
BEACH RESIDENT?:
⟢ not her style. she’d join up with chris and claire as soon as possible. if she never found them, she’d be doing things solo.
SUIT:
⟢ hearts is ruled out asap. he’s way too honest and trusting, he couldn’t do it. he’d hate heart-based games. diamond… prolly not. spade is a great option due to his past and his training as a soldier for umbrella, but he’s not as experienced as leon or chris for example. that being said, i’ve personally assigned carlos to club.
⟢ i think he works great in teams and is fairly easy to get along with, so making friends in the borderlands and playing any game that required teamwork wouldn’t be too hard for him. spade-based games would be great for him as well, but anything else would suck. so club it is!
BEST GAME:
⟢ somebody hear me out PLEASE. runaway train. that game is basically just pure luck and you barely have room for mistakes, but he’d somehow be great at it. like everyone would be following him and he has no idea what’s gonna happen next but he’s following the ghost of an instinct and makes it out alive.
⟢ would love to see him play dead or alive (3 of clubs), though. tag (5 of spades) would also be really cool.
BEACH RESIDENT?:
⟢ if jill went, absolutely. otherwise, it’s decently likely. he’d be looking at the teamwork and paradise aspects of it i think. so perchance leaning towards yes. if so, however, he’d def be a militant. like… it just makes sense.
SUIT:
⟢ club IMMEDIATELY goes out the door. /j (please don’t cancel me i’m joking i swear. </3) nah i think she just wouldn’t really care for it since she’s more of a “i work alone batman” type mindset. it wouldn’t be her best choice. she’s intelligent, for sure, but likely not diamond category. spade is our runner-up, there’s no doubt she’s experienced enough for it. however, i think heart matches her the best.
⟢ being a fem fatale and a mercenary, she can’t fully let emotion get in the way of things. she’d never be able to finish a mission. she’s able to block off her feelings and manipulate others to be able to get what she wants, which is essential for being a hearts player. she’d master it.
BEST GAME:
⟢ i think she would be best at arguably one of the HARDEST games in the borderlands: croquet (queen of hearts). if ada isn’t the queen of hearts, she would definitely play croquet against the queen and win, therefore escaping the borderlands and returning to the real world (there’s no way she’s staying as a resident).
⟢ honorable mention is, of course, laser. she would eat it up so hard, especially because of what we see in both versions of re4. i almost put it as her best game but it definitely follows close behind croquet.
BEACH RESIDENT?:
⟢ if she deems it to be useful to her, then yes. (which it likely would be.) teamwork may not be her favorite thing, but she’ll do what it takes to succeed. i do believe she’d make it up to being an executive there and would — without a doubt — be useful to them.
BONUS!:
⟢ we’ve gone through the best games for 6 chosen characters, but what would be the worst game? there’s several horrendous games, but the worst in show — as well as for our characters — is hide and seek (7 of hearts). leon, claire, jill and chris. i think either leon or claire would be the ones to walk out, unless they magically figured out the way to win (which the creator spoke of but wasn’t how the game ended in the show).
⟢ want another one? possible futures! chris and claire replacing sohta and yuna, leon’s possible futures including if he had a good first day and remained a RPD officer, jill’s life if she was never brainwashed, etc. :D (do y’all hate me…)
⟢ finally, i don’t think any of these characters would choose to stay in the borderlands and become permanent residents. the only characters i could see staying would be like… wesker, william, heisenberg and basically just any psychos.
yeah that’s all i got for now. if y’all want more stuff on this tho, do let me know!! i had a lot of fun doing crossover hc’s for some of my interests :3 see u guys soon!! ^_^
⟢ your best friend/partner (who you also have feelings for) starts avoiding you after a mission with no explanation why. naturally, you’re determined to find out his reasoning, but it’s nothing like what you’d ever expect.
── .✦ story notes
⟢ post-re4r, shortly afterward.
── .✦ word count
⟢ 3.6k!
── .✦ tags
⟢ infected!leon, vampire!leon, second-person, no use of y/n, fem!reader, title is an enhypen song, angst, a few pop culture references, leon and hunnigan may be ooc, also prob cringe erm, not beta read we die like marvin, i lost sleep over this, no strong smut but there’s making out, fluff kinda, i forgot how to write, did not preplan any of this just went with it, mentions of re4r events, mentions of blood (i mean yea but still lol), biting bc.. there’s.. vampires…. leon’s probably edward cullen coded and i need everyone to ignore it bc idk how to write vampires yet this is my first attempt ok, i never write romance scenes so bear with me, pacing is prob weird, admittedly self-indulgent, if you know me personally pls scroll, i think that’s it…
── .✦ a/n
⟢ happy (late…) halloween to those who celebrate! i did my best to get this done in time so it’s admittedly rushed and probably not very great, but i love writing content for my fellow leon lovers <3 commentary, ideas and reqs are always welcome! love you guys ^_^
Leon had been your partner for years. You had both come out of Raccoon City that night with bruises and wounds of all sorts, but also a brewing friendship. Or maybe even something more.
You trusted each other with everything you had.
So when he started being more aloof and secretive, you immediately sensed something was wrong.
He won’t linger around long enough for you to ever be able to prove it, though. So waiting it out and trying to catch him at the right time seemed like the move for now, but he always avoided you if he had the chance. Missions were different, of course, as you always had to stick together, but if you were back home, then he was nowhere to be found. Admittedly, it was hard. You two were extremely close, so why the cold shoulder?
The two of you were being sent to New York. A quick special-op mission at a gorgeous gala that seemed rather simple compared to the usual guts and gore that you were used to.
Hunnigan gave you the rundown, as well as a wide range of formal gowns to choose from. She knew what styles you liked as well as your favorite colors (and shades, how sweet) so it was smooth sailing. At least something is.
You looked through the variety of fabrics laid before you, trying to make the right decision. Either way, they were all at your disposal (for other missions of course), but all of them were new and you wanted to choose not just a gown, but the right gown.
After a while, you heard Hunnigan call your name, guiding you out of whatever spaced out state you were in. “Hello? You’ve been staring at the same dress for quite some time now… you okay?”
You manage a small smile, although it’s fleeting. “Mhm.”
“Mhm?” she questions, mimicking the exact way the simplified response fell from your lips.
“Yeah, I’m fine. No worries.”
“It’s Leon, isn’t it?” Silence. “Yeah, it is.”
“No it’s not!” you’d argue.
“Your defensiveness tells me otherwise. C’mon, spill. But while you look through the dresses.”
Your hands ghost over them, deciding on one that seemed to flatter you in many ways. The color went well with your skin tone, the neckline was beautiful and the length was just right. That one would certainly be next in line for a try-on.
“He’s been avoiding me, which is so unlike him, and he barely even talks to me anymore. Not even a single dad joke,” you stated, a mixture of concern and slight fury in your tone.
“That’s… weird,” Hunnigan replied rather simply. You just nodded before continuing from where you left off.
“He only talks to me if he absolutely has to, like on missions. I just don’t understand him anymore.”
The other woman shrugged as you went into the bathroom to try on the dress you had picked out. But she still listened outside of the door, regardless of if she was truly interested in lovers quarrels or not (even though you guys weren’t technically together). Your voice was muffled, but she could tell you were deeply hurt by him.
“Maybe he’s just got something going on and doesn’t want you caught up in it. It’s not… unlikely,” she tried to reason, watching you leave the bathroom in the dress you liked. “That could get his attention, though. It looks great on you.”
“Thanks, Ingrid. It’s really pretty…” you trailed off, admiring every detail of the dress. “It’s the one.”
The next few hours went by quickly as you packed everything you needed for the overnight trip to New York. Not much time to sightsee, just a one-and-done mission and a night at a hotel, but maybe it was for the better. You could get back home to… your plants, and… yeah. The plants for sure.
You and Leon boarded the plane, overnight bags in hand. It was an hour and a half tops, but “enough time for talk” in the words of Hunnigan the Wise. But how would you even go about it? “Hey, what’s going on? You’ve been avoiding me recently and it’s not like you,” or “hey so what the f**k is your problem?”
Confrontation sucks.
Maybe it’s not what you need before the mission.
So you take your headphones out of your purse, find a playlist and pretend he doesn’t exist and this isn’t happening for the entirety of the car ride, which doesn’t go unnoticed. But he couldn’t say anything about you not saying anything. A rock and a hard place indeed.
You arrive at the hotel, safe and sound, and make your way to room 407, where you’d find comfort and safety after the gala.
Hunnigan explained that tonight, a rich CEO was throwing a whole “charity” event, which was really a coverup for a money laundering operation, and it was you and Leon’s job to find out more info without getting caught. After you got what you needed, you could take in the capitalist pig as well as take in whoever else was knowingly involved.
Easy, right?
For you and Leon, absolutely.
You got ready for the event, making yourself look as dazzling and rich as humanly possible. Tonight, you were not yourself. You were Elizabeth Richmond, model and sole heir of your father Shaun’s rising tech company. You had a part to play, and that signature line from RuPaul’s Drag Race endlessly repeated in your mind.
As for Leon, he was now Kevin Ryman, your fiancé and co-founder of a cybersecurity company, which saw a dip in profits for a while but recently got back on its feet. Simple enough stories to tell over a glass of their finest beverages, but still not enough to fully dive into in case if someone tries looking for you after. Not too much or too little info, yet just enough to give your persona some detail and allow you both to charm your way through the night and get everything you need in order to shut this whole ordeal down. Shouldn’t be too bad, right? …Right?
You step outside your hotel room, hair and makeup done just right and a gun strapped to your thigh but hidden under your dress. Leon’s waiting across from you, clad in a classic navy suit, leaning against the door to his room. His eyes linger for a moment, wandering, before eventually shifting elsewhere as he begins to leave the hotel, motioning for you to follow. “Silent treatment still?” you thought. A string of curses may have also followed in your thoughts, but who’s to say for sure?
The two of you get in your limo, driven by one of the agents, and make your way to the CEO’s (whom you admittedly forgot the name of) attempt at a Met Gala. You go through the file you were given as a reminder, and ohhh, that’s right. His name was Dave Seville. Easy enough.
“Traffic jam. We’re stuck here for now, but we’ll still make it in time,” the agent (and driver for the night) states, shutting the little window afterwards so you and Leon have privacy.
This is your chance.
“Did I do something?” you question, practically out of nowhere.
Leon looks up from the file in hand, temporarily pausing his review of it. “What makes you say that?”
“Many things, actually, but what’s going on? You’ve barely spoken to me over the last few weeks and it’s honestly scaring me. It’s not like you.”
He can tell that it’s been bothering you for a while, and not just based off of your words, but how passionate you were about it. He had hurt you, and there was no turning back from it. Some of that bond had started to wither, even after all these years. But things die if they’re not cared for properly.
The blond man across from you thought about his words very carefully before speaking up. “I’m just… going through some things right now. I don’t need you or anyone else getting involved in it. That’s all.”
You wanted to reach for his hands, rough from years of field experience but soft in the way they could hold you. You figured if you could hold him, you could comfort him and take away some of that anxiety. But maybe that’s not what he needed right now. Maybe he needed space and everything was just a misunderstanding.
“I understand that, but I’m here for you, Leon. You don’t have to handle it all on your own.”
If only you knew.
He managed to give you a ghost of a smile, and a small nod of acknowledgment, but quickly returned to reviewing the mission details. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”
“Oh screw you.”
“You wish.”
Yeah, you definitely did.
Eventually, you arrive at the gala, which takes place at the Grand Royale Hotel. It was an older building, yet renovated to look more “modern” and blend in with the times. Regardless, whatever architects in charge of the project however many years ago were clearly geniuses.
Staring at the hotel from your window, you don’t realize that Leon has already gotten out of his seat and made his way to your door, opening it for you and offering you his hand. You remember your role and take his hand, following him out of the vehicle and into the hotel.
Chandeliers hang on every ceiling and antiques litter the building, giving it more character. It seems as if they hadn’t completely changed the whole aesthetic just yet. The woman at the front finds your names on the list of guests, and Leon guides you into a crowd of people. Quieted jazz, various voices and laughter that reeks of country clubs begin to swirl around the room, filling the atmosphere. Your eyes shift around, looking for the faces seen in the mission files, carefully picking through everyone to find your targets.
One of them is spotted.
You guide Leon to the older man, known as Richard Armani, a wealthy entrepreneur who was definitely a sketchy guy. Maybe even a rejected Shark Tank member.
“Mr. Armani, it’s a pleasure meeting you here,” you greet, feigning admiration for the man. “I must say, I’m a fan of your work.”
He pauses talking to his group. “Oh, thank you, Mrs…”
“Miss Richmond. Kevin and I aren’t married just yet,” you reply, giving Leon a quick glance and a sweet smile. Leon greets Armani, giving him a firm handshake before returning to face you.
“I’ll go get us some drinks, love.”
“Thank you dear,” you say in response, lightly pecking Leon’s cheek to further sell the story.
Or so you told yourself.
Leon slips off and you continue to talk to Armani, looking for any and all info to incriminate him and dig deeper into Seville’s plans. Anything helps, but you ultimately need something solid, or else Hunnigan would have your head (as close as you two are, she’ll always be expecting the most).
The blond observes you from the bar, admiring the way you looked tonight. You were stunning, and there was a silent hope in the back of his mind that maybe you had romantic feelings for him too. But he knows that especially now, he’ll never be the one to ask. It’s too risky. Too much of a burden on you. So he’ll just watch from afar, keeping you close to his heart but always at an arms distance.
Time passes and the endless chatter continues. It’s rather exhausting in its own way, and quite boring as well. At some point in time, Leon returned with the drinks, as well as a few tips on Seville from people who are struggling to be on good terms with him. It only serves as a reminder to be careful who you let into your inner circle.
You and Leon try to find out what you can while Hunnigan does hardcore deep dives on Seville, working together as quickly and proficiently as humanly possible. After quiet data exchanges, Hunnigan rules that you have enough of what you need to incriminate Dave and other government agents drag him out mid-speech.
Might as well grab a quick drink from the bar before you go!
Eventually, you and Leon make it back to the hotel and you couldn’t be more grateful. You’re just about to rush into your room and change into much more comfortable clothes before you suddenly remember what’s been silently plaguing you the entire time. “Can we talk about it now?”
“…You don’t let up, do you?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t want to be harsh with you, but it’s better that you don’t know.” He reaches for the doorknob, but you push further anyway.
“What happened in Spain?”
“Does it really matter?” It’s not necessarily defensive, more so questioning.
“Yes.”
“God, you’re stubborn.” He’s known it from the start, yet still keeps you around anyway.
“So I’ve been told.”
You couldn’t make it to that mission. They had already sent you to guide a rookie agent on a separate mission in Hong Kong a few hours prior to take down triad boss Kenny Wu. Admittedly, you felt guilty that you couldn’t assist Leon, but you also couldn’t just circle back to help him out. It was his first solo mission in quite some time, and part of him wished that you were there. The other part was grateful you weren’t.
“Just come in and we can talk.” You’re hoping he takes you up on the offer.
He thinks on it, sighs softly and nods.
The blond who sat across from you on your bed didn’t know how to bring such a thing up. That mission was one of the worst he’s had to deal with so far, and he was lucky he made it out somewhat intact.
Somewhat.
Eventually, he cut to the chase.
“It’s not gone,” he says simply, which it comes off rather ambiguous. “It’s still in my veins, I can’t stop it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
You stared at him, “Leon… what did you find there?”
“It found me. The Plaga.”
Your heart drops. What do you even say to somebody in his position? Nothing. You can’t do anything to console them because you never know when/if they’ll turn into… whatever.
“What are you talking about?”
He wants to hold your hands to ground himself, and for a glimpse of a moment, he reaches out, but he sees thin black veins cover his hands and he retracts. He wishes you knew about everything already, but at the same time, he wishes he could guard you from it all. But he can’t. You’re too stubborn. Too kind. You’ll worry no matter what he does or says.
“The people there… Los Illuminados… they had their own virus. The Plaga. It controlled the villagers there, and they infected me and Ashley,” he began to explain. “But I’m not the same as them. Ashley said she cured me but—”
“You’re still infected.”
He almost nodded, looking anywhere but towards you. “By the Plaga, no. By something else it left behind. No one else there seemed to have such a strange reaction to it. Something changed in me. It started with my veins, then my eyes, then… blood-thirst.”
Vampire.
You keep yourself from making some awful Twilight joke to break the awkward feeling that filled the room. This was even worse. There was no cure for this and no one who could help him anymore. You didn’t know what all happened there, but he was alive in a sense. How do you comfort him?
“Please, say something… anything,” he pleads, finally looking into your eyes. Only then do you realize that they’re a dark crimson, as if he was starved.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” you say softly with a smile. You can tell by his expression that he’s grateful, and admittedly, he hoped that would be the outcome. He says a quiet “thank you” and begins to excuse himself off, up until you stop him.
“Where are you going?”
The words are caught in his throat. He doesn’t want to say it, because it makes him feel like a monster.
“….I think you already know.” He pauses. “I don’t want to be a monster. I wanted to help people, not hurt them.”
“Is that why you stayed away from me? Because you thought I’d think of you as a monster?”
His darkened irises flicker to you for a mere moment, and then back to the door. He wants to leave. He wants to find a way out. Even so, he’d do anything for you. “That’s not the only reason,” Leon answers almost shamefully. “It’s hard to resist, and I can’t hurt you.”
He hates this. There’s nothing he can do to stop any of it. No one else knows. They can never know, because if they did, he’d be experimented on and killed when they were through with him. That’s how the government — and everything else, really — worked.
So he had to tell you.
“Because I love you,” he says quietly, but he knows you heard it. He finally looks at you, carefully stepping toward you as if he feared you run.
But you didn’t.
“And I can’t let myself hurt someone I love.”
His voice breaks, and you can tell that it’s eating him alive. He never wanted this. He wanted a future with you, if you wanted it too of course, but everything felt like it was ruined now. You rise from the hotel bed, meeting him halfway. The blond looks like he wants to cry, but he doesn’t. He just watches you approach, his heart beating rapidly, as if it were going to explode. He was praying to whoever was listening that you felt the same. Please feel the same.
Your eyes linger on his lips, as if asking for permission. He gave you a small nod, confirming. You cradle his face and the two of you close the distance, the kiss cautious and slow, but sweet all the same. You pull apart for a moment before going back in, deeper this time. More passionate, like it was saying all of the words you’d held back the last six years. His fangs graze your lips, yet not enough to hurt. Your hands wander in his hair, pulling him closer to you. His hands wander around, yet still remain respectful.
“I love you too,” you whisper, blush dusting your cheeks.
The biggest smile graces his face and he’s practically glowing (not in a “skin of a killer” way). You’ll never know how happy you truly make him.
His crimson irises and black veins serve as a reminder of what he is and what he has to do to survive, but you love him anyway. Something he can’t control isn’t going to change that.
“Don’t go,” you plead softly, fingers gently caressing his face. His hands hold your wrists in a comforting manner, wishing he could stay, but it kills him.
“I can’t stay. Wildlife is far from here, I can’t wait any—”
“Then use me.”
“No… no, not an option,” he says sternly.
You plead, “Leon, please. You won’t make it and I’m not risking losing you.”
Leon winced at the thought of even doing it, but he knows you’re right. He guides you to the bed and sits beside you, treating you as if you’re made of glass. “I’ll be fast,” he promises, his voice almost a whisper. You give him a small nod, a silent “go-ahead.” He moves your hair from your neck and leans in, fangs piercing your soft skin. It hurts for a mere moment, before easing and being replaced with something along the lines of bliss.
Leon takes enough to be satiated for a while but not enough to hurt you any more than he already has. He understands why it’s been so hard to be around you; it’s because the blood of someone you love is much sweeter and intoxicating than any known drug. If he didn’t know better, he’d lose himself in the feeling.
He seals the bite with a kiss, feeling remorse yet gratefulness all at the same time. His eyes slowly return to normal, the black ink in his veins retract and suddenly, he’s just normal Leon again. You smile at him, and he forces himself to smile through the guilt. “I’m fine,” you promise. He doesn’t believe you, but he’ll pretend that he does.
He doesn’t leave your room for a while. Instead, he watches some mindless comedy while you go through your nightly routine and talks to you until you fall asleep. Only after you’ve dozed off does he quietly leave, returning to his own room. Not in a “one night stand” manner, but a “I’m not Edward Cullen, I won’t watch you sleep and I won’t cross boundaries” sort of way.
Leon’s had a rough time sleeping well since the Raccoon City Incident, but that night, he’s slept the best he ever has. And when he wakes, he’ll know that it was all because of you.
You both knew it was going to be rough. There was no way it was going to be easy having a relationship as agents, as well as him being a vampire with no cure for the extended strand of Las Plagas created just yet, but you’d make it work. “That’s what people who love each other do,” you’d tell him. What else is in store for you? Who knows. He was just glad you were there with him from the beginning, and promised to stay until the end.
recently, i’ve made the decision to come back to tumblr and also come back to writing. every now and then, i’d read fics (typically on ao3 because i was too lazy to get tumblr back and log in), but i’d love to get back to writing them as well. however, before i get into all of that, i’d like to give a bit of backstory on what i’ve been up to!
nothing. pretty much nothing.
i’d like to say i’ve been busy doing this and that, building my way up through a career ladder and working on myself. however, i’d be lying to you. truthfully, i fell out of love with most of my hobbies, unfairly lost my minimum wage job (that i admittedly hated but it still made me feel like i was doing something decent) after two weeks of being there and struggled in several aspects — mostly with my mental health and christian faith. it has not been an easy road and as i watch my loved ones get married, have children and work towards successful careers, i cannot help but feel as if i’m falling behind. i’m twenty yet i believe my life is already over.
during this time in my life, i’m trying to realize that for now, i should just focus on getting back to the things and people i love; writing being one of those things. deciding on how to achieve my dream of being an actress will be temporarily on the back burner as i focus on trying to be a happier, healthier and overall better person.
that, and i desperately believe that leon needs to be done justice because the amount of non-con and incest-related fics on here should be studied. in the kindest way possible, some of you are clinically insane. he would be mortified.
with all of that being said, i am beyond grateful for the support from all of you. whether just interacting with me and my work or supporting me emotionally, i am grateful for everything you’ve done and i’m happy to be a part of the resident evil community.
i’m currently in the process of thinking of new fic ideas, including au’s because i eat those up i fear, but i’m happy with any ideas you guys give me! i still have my info post that explains rules/characters i write for if you have any questions. if an answer is not present at this time, feel free to ask! i’m happy to answer any and all questions.
i love you all dearly and thank you for your time. i missed you guys and i’m so happy to be back. <3
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.”
Synopsis: More silly headcanons & boyfriend material with Leon!
Tags: Silly fluffy stuff, established relationship and couple things.
Note: I can't stop, he's soo sweet!! I need him so much. You can see the previous part here૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡.
Bf!Leon who sleeps deeply and snores lightly. You really have a hard time getting him up, unless you wake him up with small kisses around his face. Kisses are his weak spot.
Bf!Leon who once a week stops his Jeep halfway to get out and buy flowers, simply because he likes to surprise you.
Bf!Leon who smiles with rosy cheeks when the old ladies in the building call you two "the couple of the second floor."
Bf!Leon who puts on a silly apron and shows off his cooking skills while making pasta for both of you.
Bf!Leon whose love language is acts of service.
Bf!Leon who DEFINITELY uses a baby voice when you two are alone.
Bf!Leon who likes you to stroke his hair until he falls asleep, letting out small whimpers if you stop before then.
Bf!Leon who loves the getaways of Raccoon City. Just the two of you, pre-made sandwiches, and his old Jeep. Both of you laughing and dipping your feet by the lake between stolen kisses.
Bf!Leon who is gentlemanly without thinking about it. He opens his car door for you, walks with a hand on your waist to guide you, and gives you a jacket even if he's cold. All without expecting anything in return.
Bf!Leon who runs down the hallway when he's running late to the work, before turning back to steal a quick kiss from you with a silly grin. "Love you! Lock the door, okay?" He waves before running off again.
some of y'all have normalised some of the most f'ed up stuff by turning it into cutesy tags like "dubcon uwu just scroll instead of leaving hate" "non con ahead, if you don't like, don't read 🎀"
like girl type it out FULLY - DUBIOUS CONSENT? NON CONSENSUAL SEX? ASSAULT AND R*PE? AND LET IT SINK IN THAT YOUR IDOLISING 👏, FETISHISING 👏 AND AND INVALIDATING 👏 THE MOST HORRIBLE EXPERIENCES OF SO MANY WOMEN (AND MEN)!!!
i can't even say shit like "mm u ain't a girls girl" and be done with u like at this point it's giving felony. It's giving jail time. Do NOT pass GO. Do NOT Collect 200 dollars. STRAIGHT TO JAIL FOR YO ASSES-
prguitarman
titsay
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
