#leon fic

[kkunai]

a little PSA.

a little birdie told me that my works have been copied, word for word, by user @leonsbunni . she has me blocked, so i couldn’t find out on my own, but two of ‘her fics’ on her masterlist are my works—copied by the exact letter—except it’s changed to ‘leon’ from the game resident evil.

i have no idea what this person thought they would achieve with this. maybe they loved the little attention they’re getting by copying my fics and getting 1k+ notes on them, people praising and supporting them unknowingly . . . whatever it is, this behavior is absolutely unacceptable. plagiarism is never okay.

that’s why i decided to make this little announcement so other writers don’t have to go through this with said account & to prevent this from happening again. for the readers to know that she has not written anything herself & to spread this so no one will unknowingly support a copycat.

please spread the word and block / report her. thank you !

below are the screenshots;

i have yet to find out who the fic ‘midnight cravings’ is from / if they actually wrote it themselves bcs im sceptical of everything. if anyone has read it before and knows who she copied that from, if she did, let me know.

UPDATE REGARDING HER ‘APOLOGY’:

this is funny because i literally had been urging her to make an apology/statement on her own through our dms. i have been the person to suggest it to her, she couldn’t come up with it on her own. which, again, is sad.

she’s still trying to victimise herself and downplay her failed plagiarism. she kept trying to convince me she had apologised multiple times before in her dms with me, but she really hasn’t, until i basically forced it out of her with my own messages. again, she can’t do shit herself.

also, about homophobic/racial slurs being sent to her, i clearly have told her three times i haven’t put up anyone to do this. i even told my mutuals to just block her and not send her hate, and she knows of this, but is trying to pin it on me. what my thousands of followers and the people of different fandoms who’ve seen this post, is not my responsibility as i have never put them up to it. i do not condone using any bigoted language either, which i have told her multiple times, but she’s still trying to villainise me badddd.

i would have loved some evidence on that part of the hate, but she never sent it. her asks, comments, reblogs and dms were quickly all off so i have no idea how she received ‘such hate’ either. she might be lying to get sympathy point lol

anyway, she is trying to sound like she did no wrong. i had to be the adult and stop the convo at one point bcs she kept being more heated about it and trying to downplay everything, so that i did.

i told her, if she makes a new account let it be her own writing. if she plagiarises again, i will not hesitate to use my platform to get her new account too.

fuck around and find out 👋

(also if anyone knows of her other blog(s), please let me know)

[kayuekou]

꩜ — WORK WIFE | O1. OFFICE CULTURE

content ꩜ 8k words ， fem!reader ， fake marriage ， undercover mission ， coworkers to lovers ， friends to lovers ， office romance ， slowburn ， usstratcom leon ， inaccurate depictions of the us government and usstratcom lol ， slow burn ， mutual pining ， relationship decay (reader has a kinda shitty boyfriend) ， jealousy ， typical fake dating tropes ， canon typical violence ， eventual fluff angst smut (in that order) ， reader is a hottie idk ， as always, reader has a background but NOT in a way that diminishes being a reader insert ， i half ass headers a lot | ao3

✶ — usstratcom!leon kennedy x handler!reader

A running joke in the office is that handlers and field agents are spouses. You've been Leon Kennedy's "wife" for three years. This doesn't really matter, not until after uncovering the only viable way to infiltrate a German businessman financing B.O.W. research was to play a perfectly traditional married couple, you're assigned undercover alongside Leon Kennedy—as his actual wife because unfortunately management appears to have mistaken years of professional compatibility for convincing marital chemistry. Now you have to survive Germany, maintain the cover, and absolutely not let the fake marriage become more complicated than it already is.

The running joke in the office is that handlers and agents are work spouses.

You do not know how this happened, nor where this custom came from, all you know is that you’ve been Leon Scott Kennedy’s wife for three years and if anything’s going to change, it’d be his haircut every five weeks, not your work arrangements. This originally did not bother you, as you work a job with stellar pay. However, the agent you’re handling is a pain in your ass and doesn’t understand when to quit.

You should also note that upper management would later take the joke seriously.

For the past two days, Leon has been surveilling a wealthy German businessman suspected of financing B.O.W. research through shell companies. This was great for you and terrible for him. Even if Leon was the star of USSTRATCOM, it didn’t give him immunity to the mundanity of surveillance and intel missions, the types of assignments the agency gives him that you know from years of handling him, bore him out of his mind. You find it bizarre. Because Leon, from whatever you gathered, should probably be in love with mundanity.

"Kennedy, left corridor," on the other side, your voice is rather muffled, static noise accompanying every sound that emits from deep within your vocal chords. You’ve been suspicious for a while now—thirty two minutes elapsed, you counted—that the mansion Leon was in, owned by the man Leon’s supposed to be gathering intel on in one of his (and your) boring surveillance missions, was deliberately blocking signals within his house. Deeper than you thought when you originally assisted Agent Faraday in infiltrating into this mansion to plant bugs.

Over the hazy comms, you hear Leon’s low voice. Somehow, you’re able to decipher the sound of skin rubbing on fabric and the distinct whip of a handgun that he definitely does not need to take out from hidden beneath his tailored suit jacket. "The right one looks faster."

There is a coffee mug at the far left side of the operations room’s desk, untouched and already room temperature cold from your neglect. Operations always smells clean whenever you come in. That is a fact. It’s because the air freshener in the room is a subtle black currant-smelling fragrance that you yourself chipped in for the office—mostly because you couldn’t stand how stuffy the air smelled back when you only just started working. Your hand twitches against the black, slightly unresponsive mouse. Folders upon folders are sprawled on the sleek white desk and the binder you’ve used since a year ago—black, funnily decorated with stickers you’ve collected over the years—is open, showing the sheets of paper with near unintelligible scribbles bound by its ring.

Your fingers jitter and your eyebrow which twitched from a throbbing pain only a second ago twitches again at the statement and you glare at the monitor that hosts Leon’s head from a grainy upwards camera angle, as if he could see you. This is a common occurrence in your professional relationship with him. Leon does not listen to you at first. Ever. It’s annoying, but it’s a simple tumbleweed rolled by the wind which requires a simple solution: you kick them.

You speak into the mic again, a deliberate hiss following, though no real malice strikes in your cadence even as you enunciate every syllable of your words, "the right one also has four armed guards."

Finally, Leon’s voice rumbles back, the audio not improving even a little bit. "You always focus on the negatives," he says, turning his back around and tilting his head up, staring directly into the camera you’re focused on. Casually, he rolls his head exaggeratedly in mock disapprovement, fixing the lapels of his suit jacket right after. Right as your headset dims its audio, you hear one of your coworkers mutter without looking up—he’s arguing with his wife again.

"I'm your handler. Focusing on negatives is my entire job," you mutter.

There’s nothing over the radio for just about five seconds, only static. All at once, the only things you hear, see, and feel are your uncomfortable, red-soled kitten heels digging into your toes, the smell of air freshener, and the distant sensation of not being cooped up in a large but mentally cramped desk all day. You guarantee, even if you stand up right now, with the daze from your constant sitting, your lack of hydration, and the only food you’ve consumed being a buttered croissant you ate one bite of, you wouldn’t even be allowed to by your own body.

"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like if I got a handler that supported my choices?" Leon finally responds to your quip. You see him from the camera briefly glancing at the door on the right but he shakes his head, the motion subtle enough not to draw any attention, not subtle enough to escape your eye. The sudden thought that Leon trusts your judgment always leaves a prideful feeling right in your throat all the way down to your stomach, and the thought that he might’ve stopped because he’s afraid of pissing you off—though, that’s unlikely—also fills you with amusement.

There’s a stubborn knot-like ache at the start of your eyebrow ridge, but you merely press a knuckle to the area, eyes drifting towards the as-accurate-as-it-gets live GPS tracking on the first monitor above, to the CCTV feeds on the third monitor. You switch between the views, then speak into the mic.

"Every day," you nod to nobody in particular, but still, you watch him roll his shoulders slowly on the feed. You close your eyes again and wait for Leon’s response. This time, you don’t open them as quickly and instead you try to envision the layout of that German man’s estate. This has become a habit of yours over the years—over several years of collecting floor layouts and architectural maps, visualizing whatever it is you’re looking at with the half-assed unyielding focus you’d give when you temporarily rest your eyes.

"Really?" he asks speculatively, eagerly, loosening his tie. You don’t know where the hell this habit of his came from but you’ve noticed, Leon always loosens his tie exactly thirty minutes into surveillance.

Your mouth twitches at his keenness, brittle nail tapping against the desk office once more in rhythmic beats. "Every day I thank God you didn't," you murmur. Leon catches the way you’ve started slurring your words, fatigue resting between the microscopic gaps between your bones and deep inside your muscles. "You would hate being with anybody else."

"Calm down, tiger," Leon gruffs into his radio and you leave it at that.

Checking through the feed, you look at each corridor that leads into one another and eventually the main hall. Your eyes snag on the man you were supposed to be gathering intel on. A classic tuxedo, satin lapels; Friedrich Hohenzollern, famously not part of the Hohenzollern family, at least not directly, stands straight in the middle within the frame from where the camera is positioned. It’s only now that the fundraiser event has actually begun and you watch the influx of guests, ones that aren’t early, just right on time, come in one by one.

You squint at the monitor. Two, four, six, eight—you’ve had a habit of counting in pairs, mostly because you have a weird tie-up with the concept of balance. A self-admittedly bizarre reason for counting in pairs when the much more mainstream reason of wanting to count faster was there. Still, biting a peeled piece of skin on your lip, you count under your breath the couples arriving one by one into the estate.

You don’t even register that you’ve picked up a pen, not yours, office given, and begun spinning it around between your fingers. It takes a second, then it registers in the form of your widening eyes. You  remember that previous surveillance only had partial guest lists—this was really the first operation with full coverage. You immediately scatter to check your files. Through the two months of on-and-off investigations you’ve found yourself assisting on, not one man, or woman, that comes near to Hohenzollern comes alone.

"Kennedy…" you call out. The jitters in your body have made way to your leg, bouncing rapidly as you scoot closer in your chair into the desk. "Count the couples."

From the cameras, you see Leon’s face, obstructed by the grain, yet you can see the ridge of his brows, and the fine lines forming as he bunches them up. His eyes take a quick look and you reckon he’s counting the same way as you, then he finally states, like some revelation he finally pieced together. "Everybody’s got somebody."

Sixty seconds and less is all it takes for you to push your chair back, softly calling out to your coworker in the same near lifeless condition as you are until he turns around and gives you raised brows and a smile, frame softening right as you speak. It’s ten minutes and less after you ask him if he could get a file on Hohenzollern’s love life and wife. Your coworker nods and at that, you thank Behavioral Analysis for already having a file on him waiting while Intelligence has been building a case—with you helping closely—on him for months. 

You slump down into your chair, putting on a triumphant smile at your own unproven hypothesis. 

You close your eyes, enough for you to take a minuscule amount of time to sleep right after you confirmed everything with Leon and he was successfully out of that Mediterranean estate, now driving back to his hotel. Fifteen minutes of small REM bliss with your mouth slightly ajar—only fifteen more minutes later, you’re gently woken up by that same coworker, handing you a blue file presumably holding whatever records they had of Hohenzollern. That file is yours, only, one that you bought for your cases and your cases alone (and which you fought your supervisor to use) so you wouldn’t trouble yourself in tracking where the newest info is.

When you take a look at it, you realize four things. The first being Hohenzollern’s wife died seven years ago and he remarried quickly, the second being Hohenzollern had a traumatic childhood involving severe and troubling mommy issues, Hohenzollern has a very strict and bizarre constitution of what a family is, can and should be, and he distrusts anybody who doesn’t have a partner. You let out a dry snort. Suddenly every witness interview made sense. You are taking this to upper management. Well, you have to.

A thought comes: this is probably why Hohenzollern probably found joy in eugenicist B.O.W projects.

"Kennedy," you say into your earpiece, "you there yet?"

"Almost," he says, pulling up to his hotel, some dingy place near a Koreatown that somehow had stellar mattresses. You watch through the camera in his car with slapdash effort, the same lazy smile still on your face. You’d just have to finish the reports today and hope that you won’t get a scolding from upper management because you and your agent managed to extract zero data from the target. This should be the end of it for a couple of weeks. 

Morning in the office came without deliberation. Finalizing the reports took you not as long as you imagined, and yet you couldn’t sleep a wink the next night, even after finishing all of your tasks of the day at the office. Restlessness still settled easily in your muscles to the point where when you did eventually feel sleepy, it was at five in the morning. You couldn’t risk sleeping for two hours and accidentally oversleeping. Three Red Bulls. 240mg of caffeine, 3000mg of taurine.

Leon Kennedy flew back from Germany looking exhausted. 

"[Name]," from a moderate distance, you hear your name being called out. It’s miserable how you’re still cooped up on a desk with no sleep gained, just not the console room desk with the sterile black currant freshener, but your own cubicle. You’re tapping your singular long nail on the surface of your desk at the time. Turning around with suspicions that it must be your agent, you’re not surprised at all when you see the worn out hero of the firm standing right in front of you with three long strides.

"Kennedy," you give him a lax smile. You hoped that your lethargy isn’t that apparent to him, you guessed from your other coworkers not batting an eye at your state, you looked presentable enough for the office. You lean on your desk, twiddling with a pencil. "How’s it going?"

"Could be better," he murmurs, eyes spanning across your rigid yet slightly swaying build. He’s not in his gear anymore, a gun holstered on his hip but that’s about it, wearing a brown leather jacket that you’re sure he absolutely loves to death considering how many times you’ve seen him walk into office with it. "Anything new on the case? Did you finish up—"

"Morning sweetheart," Leon’s cut off mid sentence, snapping his mouth shut with a curious glance to who spoke. You look to your left and you shrug when you realize it’s just a guy from Information Technology, nodding at you with a simper, a plastic cup of coffee in hand. 

Not noticing the soured expression Leon’s got on his face, you greet back. You wave lightly, one hand on top of the heavy glass jar on the far end of your desk, filled with candy. "Morning Grayson."

"...Anything new on Hohenzollern?" Leon carefully asks, the slight rasp in his voice imminent enough that you frown. No doubt the doing of Leon’s lack of hydration habits—and really, the only times he only ever drank properly was… after a hangover.

"You came all the way over here to ask about paperwork?" you lean back into your chair, quirking up a soft, incredulous brow.

"I came over here because you're writing it," Leon responds simply, shrugging his shoulders. Truth be told, it’s not a very rare sight for you to see, hear, and feel Leon flirting with women. There’s a thing about him however. Though you know there’s a very fine line between him flirting for fun, and him flirting because it’s just how he’s wired to be, you’ve learnt over the years that Leon is not a womanizer.

You snort, smile reaching up to your tired eyes. You also don’t realize that you instinctively reach out to his arm, squeezing it fleetingly before trailing down and letting go, some small tick that made the tiny muscles at the base of his hair follicles contract. "Flattered."

One beat passes where you just stare at his eyes and he stares at yours. You don’t look at it directly, but from the peripheral of your vision, you see Leon’s thumb rubbing the knuckles of his pointer finger in mindless, circular motions. Eventually, it gets too unbearable and so, he questions casually, "...Who was that?"

"Hm?"

"The guy,” Leon gestures back, glove-clad fingers motioning to where Grayson was. Right, Leon wasn’t in the office during the morning most times—rest time was special for him, even if he’d eventually become cooped up in his office doing paperwork. You find it sort of funny. The image people have of Leon Kennedy is that he spends 365 days a year rappelling out of helicopters but sadly, Leon spends three days fighting a bioweapon, then three weeks explaining why he had to fight a bioweapon.

"Oh. Grayson?" you look back to the spot which the man was at just a minute ago, then your head gently returns. "IT."

"He calls everybody sweetheart?" there’s no jealousy in his voice, not that you can make out. Just the sound of a coworker being mildly confused why their coworker is being called sweetheart by another coworker. It’s not necessarily a secret that you’re attractive, and it didn’t help tank your allure that daddy was a hot shot in the government. Lots of people wanted to cozy up to you once they knew you were [Name] Cancelloti instead of just [Name]. Still, the sound of someone openly flirting with you rubbed him the wrong way, and he wonders if Human Resources thought this was okay.

"No," you blink. In hindsight, this should probably be a bigger deal to you, especially since you have a boyfriend. Even if he never understood your job and missed your birthday only a few days back, only calling two days later with a hasty apology. "Just me, I think."

For a second, Leon is in thought. His hip, which you’ve noticed has been resting idly on your desk for the many minutes he’s spent at your cubicle, finds itself straightening. He shifts his weight, shoving a hand into his pocket, then mumbles, "...Weird."

You smile at that, the tension in the balls of your shoulders dropping and letting your weight shift onto your spine instead of your arms. "You jealous, Kennedy?" playfully teasing him, your tongue juts out just slightly from your mouth, covering the top row of your teeth.

"What?" he scoffs, "no."

"You made a face,” you spin back, pushing yourself deeper into your desk. Your focus diverts from his eyes, those stupid blue eyes that you’re quite sure have been getting bluer over the years, if that’s even possible, back to your carefully organized binder. Or unorganized, depending on how you look at how you’ve not updated your current operations tab.

"I made my normal face,” at this, a smirk comes onto your lips completely unintended. From your pocket, you retrieve a packet of Hi-Chew, grape flavor, and stick it in your mouth almost discreetly. Leon raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment. It isn’t always grape, which Leon knows, mostly from hearing you chew very loudly on comms to annoy him, last week was strawberry. Before Germany, it had been green apple.

Leon remembers very suspiciously the month you started your communal desk jar filled with Fox’s glacier fruit mint candies. Your coworkers steal them easily, Leon not an exception to this. And yet, he knows that you almost never take from your jar, you bring your own candy that you rotate weekly.

Teeth sinking into the taffy-like candy, you scribble something unintelligible into the margin of your binder, in the gray tab featuring all your personal notes. It simply read call Jacob tonight, just in handwriting that was the result of horrible sleep. You finally look back up at him. "You looked like you wanted to arrest him."

"I don't have the authority,” he mutters in that same deadpan, straight tone of his that you know is joking—a feat your coworkers have asked you several times on—judging from the upwards then downwards cadence of his voice. Across the room, you see Faraday leaving the floor using the elevator. You assume he’s getting his morning coffee.

"Shame.”

"...Did the briefing room call yet?" he regains his footing almost immediately. The smile on your face deepens—that subject change was almost smooth.

"Conference Room B,” you flick your wrist down the hall, pointing to the glassed out space, cringing for a millisecond at your assumption that he didn’t know. Leon’s been working here for four years. Your hand retreats, painted fingers tucked under your thumb. “Ten minutes."

Leon nods with a pleased grunt. You let the silence settle between you for a while. Leon looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something that may or may not be a joke, but you also see his eyes darting around your face. It starts with your eyes, dropping down to your lips—the ones he’s joked about plenty, but not enough for it to be real interest, just flirty—then to your cheek.

Finally breaking the thick and fuzzy absence of sound, you unfasten the lid of your candy jar with a loud clink. Someone has been stealing more candy than usual in the office whilst you were busy at the console helping Leon. "You know, for someone who isn't jealous—"

"Leaving,” he says, heel already turning, opening his palm to hastily grab the candy you’ve offered him. “See you in ten.”

"Run away, then."

Seven minutes pass over a quick, shameful run to get coffee from the shop down the street that your coworkers have been complaining about becoming overpriced. You eat like you’re twelve. Your go-to order is almost always vanilla or caramel or both, today is no exception—vanilla sweet cream cold brew. WIth an extra shot, uh, two extra shots to be exact. Or else you’ll die. It’s a little bit pathetic in fact, how you keep trying to preserve sweetness yet the caffeine keeps winning. You take moments of your day to ponder if you’ve not only become addicted to sugar, but addicted to caffeine too.

Your heels click against the marble flooring, holding five cups of coffee in hand. Presley gave you twenty for a mocha, Beckham asked for a latte and some abysmal concoction for his other friend, Frankie wanted anything that was strong enough to kill a medieval child. With a smile, you slide each order to their respective persons—you don’t miss how all three of these men lingered slightly longer than necessary. Not uncomfortably, thankfully.

The projector is already humming when you enter the conference room, coffee in one hand, binder and notebook tucked under your other arm. You take a sip from the cup and frown at the bitter aftertaste coating your tongue. You sit, you wait, you observe the briefing office setting up the projector, then to your coworkers handling the case—Leon Kennedy included—filling the chairs one by one.

Government officers are so uptight about timing. Everyone must be here before 8:40, but somehow the actual slideshow starts at 8:47. It doesn’t really take long for localized chatter to erupt in the room, and it takes even shorter for the officer to clear his throat. On screen, Hohenzollern's estate fades into a photograph of an upscale charity gala and the briefing officer clicks to the next slide.

"We've confirmed Hohenzollern only conducts private negotiations during social functions,” another click. "The problem is guest selection."

Beside you, Leon leans back in his chair. Your eyebrows shoot up at the mannerism, leaning onto the table with your head perched precariously on your hand. "Invitation only?"

The officer nods. “Invitation only,” he clicks several times on the sleek presenter remote and you see the many photographs arrayed. You see a few distinct silhouettes, simple men with women draped over them and adorning lush fabrics while they talk to other guests. You’re technically, very used to this scenery. Your father was a man of high ranking and your mother, god forbid, was a socialite through the mud. "Every attendee arrives with a spouse, fiancée, or long-term partner."

Someone whistles across from you. You take a sip out of your drink, throat dry. The drink doesn’t do much for hydration—coffee does the opposite—but you didn’t exactly have water with you and you forgot to take a cup. The motion gets Leon to notice you and he gives you a look, gesturing to your plastic cup questioningly. You slide it to him easily and he takes an experimental sip.

"So we need a couple,” another agent states.

"Correct."

A few agents glance around the room but you pay no attention to the inherent curiosity the assignment has sparked. Instead, you scribble something in your notebook with the gel pen you put in your breast pocket, then poke on Leon’s arm with the same pen. You look at your drink then him, and he mouths too sweet at you, face contorting into an unpleasant scrunch.

You finally comment, though dismissively, looking at one of the agents. There are a couple of options within the office. Field agents aren’t rare, just Leon types are rare, so you’re positive they’d find someone eventually. "They'll probably pull Stacy and Morales.”

"Or the Kalogeras,” someone else suggests, earning a couple of nods and a discussion you’re not entirely too occupied on. Your head rests on your hand yet again and your gaze drifts down to Leon and the sleeve of his dress shirt that has ridden just enough up his forearm for the muscle there to pull taut beneath pale skin. "They've done undercover domestic before."

You watch from your peripheral as Leon rests his chin on his fist, elbow rested on top of his knee. One of his legs is put neatly on top of the other. His arms are pretty thick from years of shooting and climbing over things no sane person should climb over. It hardly matters to you. His rolled cuff catches just below the widest part, and you find yourself following the line of it all the way toward his wrist before remembering, rather belatedly, that you were supposed to be listening. "Whoever they send is gonna have to sell it."

"They'll figure it out," you murmur, Leon finally looking at you against inquisitively, mouthing out “what?” which you simply smile at. Shameless, you are.

The briefing officer changes slides with a final click and the screen shows white. Immediately, your coworkers all stand up from their chairs, dusting invisible dirt off their laps, immediately running away through the door, or trying to seem civil by waiting for the officer to finally speak—meeting adjourned. "We'll announce assignments this afternoon.”

You tidy up and you’re back at your desk immediately. Half of office work is not doing anything when all your paperwork has been filed, the other half is being rushed and hurried during hectic hours and important field assignments, and a tiny but significant portion was dedicated to more paperwork after field assignments. It’s bearable though. You’re fairly social and you don’t know one person in the office who doesn’t know you nor you don’t know them. You emit enough warmth that people naturally orbit you, enough that not everything bores you.

You are halfway through reorganizing Hohenzollern's financial records when someone knocks twice against your cubicle wall. You’re on your third Hi-Chew you’ve rummaged from your purse and put in your pocket, the fruity candy spread out at the roof of your mouth.

"Agent.” You look up, fixing a stray strand of hair that causes your supervisor’s eye to twitch—and if you were delusional, a smile threatening to twitch. Still, your supervisor doesn't smile. "Conference Room C."

"...Am I in trouble?"

"No."

The room is much smaller than Conference Room B. It’s painfully government, obviously. Fluorescent lighting that makes your head ache, neutral gray carpet, white acoustic ceiling tiles, and no windows this time because it’s deeper inside the building. Cautiously, you take a seat in one of many black ergonomic office chairs, hands settling down in your lap instead of the long table.

It’s just you, Leon, the briefing officer, and your supervisor.

Leon sits beside you yet again. The briefing officer slides a folder over the dark laminate conference table with a smooth swipe. You look at it as it moves, then your eyes come back to look at the officer. "We've selected our undercover pair."

At this, you glance at Leon but he only shrugs once.You almost hiss as you watch his shoulders roll. The folder stops in front of you and you briefly wonder if you’re going to be reassigned to a new agent. Which wouldn’t be life-ending, but would be troublesome for your already attached little heart. You open the folder. Two passport photos stare back: yours and Leon’s.

"...No."

"We need you in the field,” your supervisor states, tone clinical. Beside him, the briefing officer crosses his arms and he looks you and Leon both up and down, assessing you for God knows what. You somehow think this is a fate worse than being sent to a blacksite, or being tortured into information.

"No,” you repeat one more time, lips curving down into a small frown.

"You meet every operational requirement,” your supervisor says matter-a-factly, settling down into the chair across from you, wheels and back slightly creaking at the weight. There’s no malice in his voice, you’ve always maintained a good relationship with him, just the flat administrative finality you’d figure you’d get from your own senior.

"I'm a handler,” you point out mildly and truthfully. You’ve never really wanted to work in the field, never really had any curiosities because even before you’ve seen how agents looked after assignments, you were mostly interested in whatever the nitty gritty had to offer. This lack of curiosity followed through even after you became a handler. Now especially that you’ve got the job, you refuse to get out of behind the chair where it’s safe and relatively predictable. 

"You also maintain active field certification,” the mention makes you frown deeper. Next to you, Leon looks mildly amused at your expression, but ultimately confused and maybe slightly offended at the choice of operatives. Leon rests his leg on top of the other yet again, watching your conversation keenly.

"I maintain it because you people make me,” you lean back into your chair, your black skirt riding up just enough for you to reveal the fat of your thighs clad in high-denier pantyhose. You don’t even notice Leon’s gaze dropping with all the subtlety of a brick for a small moment, then ripping right back to the two men in front of you.

He doesn’t miss a beat. "You passed with distinction."

"Five years ago,” you carefully maintain the flat edge of your voice but it’s proving slightly difficult with the absurdity of their request. Certainly, you did pass with distinction. But passing like that doesn’t mean you’d have real experience on the field.

"It doesn't expire,” instantly responding, your supervisor softens. “You have high social adaptability,” he reasons, then, while tapping his forearm, some tick he’s had you’ve noticed since you first got assigned to him, he adds, “—excellent interpersonal rapport. Conversational German. Behavioral analysis liked your communication. You’re also physically very presentable.”

Your face twitches at the last point but you don’t comment. You let out a soft sigh, turning your attention to the most obvious logistical flaw in this entire plan. "He has an actual partner pool," you argue, gesturing with a slight nod toward Leon. You take the chance, despite your already worsening mood, to joke—your foot kicking at the side of Leon’s calf, enough for him to grunt and send you a glare. Pleased, you smile at him, then you realize how bad that looked.

"We evaluated alternatives,” the briefing officer chimes in, voice level. He has a small smile of his own, the first one of today that didn’t seem forced, nor seemed particularly threatening. You figure they’re both trying to ease you into accepting your reality which you appreciated—even if just a little bit—because at the very least, even if you had no real say in this, you could make something out of it.

"And?" Leon finally inquires. In truth, he’s been trying to stay very quiet, especially since your supervisor essentially called you gorgeous in the most bureaucratic way possible. Because yes, he’s right. He also cannot say that he’s right or else he’ll kill himself.

"You two scored highest,” the briefing officer says plainly, then before you can ask for what, he adds, not even a single ounce of hesitation in his voice, "'for believable long-term couple.'"

For nine entire seconds, granted by the DolceVita wrapped elegantly around your wrist and telling you the time, a very agonizing nine seconds, there is absolutely nobody who speaks. The only sound that fills the room is the airconditioning humming and the clock that sits on the wall to your left. You look at Leon. Leon looks at you.

"...Who filled out that assessment?" Leon slowly croaks out, almost not even wanting an answer. You frankly think it’s bizarre that people think you and Leon Kennedy would work well as a couple when you spend most of your time talking to him through an earpiece while miles upon miles away. And there are tons of handlers and agents here that have way more chemistry than you and him if they wanted handlers and agents.

"Multiple departments."

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse under his breath in an accent that feels weirdly Ohioan. Right, he’s Midwestern. Sometimes you forget. "Oh, that's humiliating."

The briefing officer and your supervisor look at each other and a small smirk settles upon their faces. With that, your supervisor claps once. “Congratulations Kennedy,” he’s already starting to leave the conference room, giving you one last look. You’re going to burn yourself alive today, you know it. “You’re getting married to Cancelloti. I’m jealous.”

When you get back to your cubicle, the color on your face has drained significantly, not as much as a typical reaction to a pet dying, but enough that it visibly pales your skin. The bags underneath your eyes glowed under the harsh office lights the entire time you were at the office from eight to five. You nagged at Leon to finish his paperwork before Friday right after leaving the conference room—just because you’re trying to process you’re getting deployed with him of all people— and if he couldn’t do that, at least before you two get sent to Germany in two weeks.

With a concentrated look, you take out your fourth wrap of Hi-Chew. Your eyebrows are furrowed into a defined map of scrunches and you don’t realize the scowl that has set on your face. You love your job. Always have, maybe because you were practically born into it. Mostly because your father, that never-home man, also somehow used to walk you through government buildings on quiet Saturdays, pointing out operations rooms as though they were museums instead of windowless boxes where people quietly lost sleep. To be frank, you couldn’t really blame anyone but yourself for pursuing a political science degree then immediately losing sleep because you wanted to work for the country. But still, you were insulted at the ease upper management had in sending a handler that had never gone into operations on the field.

Restlessly, you tap your singular long fingernail on the desk. Eventually your nails, brittle from you subconsciously biting on them at times, had chipped off, but your middle finger’s nail had miraculously survived from your onslaught of nibbling. You should do your nails soon.

Your mind flashes with a list of names you’d even need to call for an operation like this. Weeks in Germany are still weeks in Germany. Well, less than weeks. You sigh, tutting your tongue on the roof of your mouth, then biting the inside of your cheek. Your mother wouldn’t mind, your father wouldn’t mind either, why the hell would that man mind? You had a relatively small circle of friends and the only friend group outside of work you have frequented suddenly going to other goddamn countries without telling you too. That only left your boyfriend.

“Cancelloti,” snapping you out of your already depressing thoughts, a male voice cuts through the self-perceived silence around you. Standing casually, yet again one of your coworkers is at your cubicle, or nearing your cubicle, holding several manila files at his side.

“Oh, hi,” you greet warmly, twisting your chair to look at him properly.

“Coffee run?” he asks, almost expectantly. At that, your smile deepens, which he surely takes to heart. Some people look at your smile like it’s oxygen in a slowly deprived deep sea. You recognize him—he frequently asks you if you want to go for a coffee run and you’ve said yes a couple of times. You appreciate the gesture. But recently you started stopping asking people if they could pick up a drink for you because they always get it wrong. Either they put too little shots or too little sugar.

“Oh, no,” giving him an apologetic frown, one that quickly turns back to your smile, you shake your head. You aren’t sheepish, not one bit, but you’re a bit too tight over your recent assignment and now—how the hell you’re going to tell your boyfriend about all of this—so your voice turns just a tad airy. “I already went.”

“Aw. You always beat me to it,” he sighs playfully. You can see the exact moment he thinks he should step forward again, it’s just something you’ve noticed a lot in people when they talk to you, but before he could, your phone rings an annoying, slightly frantic tone. The familiar three-note Motorola trill buzzed from the bottom of your leather purse. You’ve been meaning to change the cheerful MIDI melody for the past year. “I’ll go.”

For the final time, you smile at him, give him a wave, then joke. Now you’re just confused why your boyfriend called on a Tuesday—and why he called you when you were thinking of him—which he normally never did for reasons you don’t know. Years of profiling makes you pick up on small habits. “You’re just slow.”

You rummage through your purse to grab your phone and quickly slip out into the hallway after the small silver device vibrates for the third time, away from the chatter of the bullpen. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. You don’t really like this particular hallway and nobody else does either. Mainly because it smells like rotten eggs from the darkroom at the end of the hallway—and there was really no use for it besides the darkroom. It has its perks if you want to call family members without having coworkers eavesdropping on you though. 

A blue file rests against your hip as you answer, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear. You clear your throat, saliva gathering at the end of your throat. "...Hey."

"Hey." Jacob sounds relieved and you could picture the smile on his face, right as he’s cooped up in his own office. Or maybe getting lunch. It’s lunch time. His voice is soft as he speaks into the phone, almost whispering. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

You glance at the main office. Your peers have all but either gone out to get food, coffee, or some other digestible thing, at least you figured, or are still typing away in the office as you hear the soft but overlapping sounds of keyboards clicking. "I'm on a break."

"I figured you were buried in paperwork,” he mumbles, smiling so palpable on the other side of the phone you can hear it in his voice. Banter came easy for both of you. A small laugh escapes you, one that you cover up with a hand.

"When am I not?" you ask rhetorically.

"Fair point,” letting silence fill the space for mere moments, your boyfriend continues, "so… how's your day?"

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. You ponder if you should tell your real boyfriend that you’re going to be sent to Germany for—what you are definitely sure of, with this big of a breakthrough, a week or more—an undercover operation that needs you to pretend you’re married to another man. "We had a briefing,” you say, hearing the curious “oh?” from Jacob’s side before you continued. "I'm getting sent to Germany."

"...Seriously?" he finally questions, in disbelief.  "When? Aren’t you a desk person?”

"I am,” you say, nodding to yourself. You fidget with your fingers, picking at invisible dirt from underneath your nails. Nothing has accumulated beneath your fingernails. “In about two weeks,” you finally go for it, part of it at least, “I’m going undercover.”

"Damn,” is the only thing he utters before another pause settles in the air. There’s a low whistle on his end of the line, then the sound of him adjusting in his office chair. "That's... actually kind of cool."

“I don't think 'cool' is the word I'd use,” you smile despite yourself, leaning further back into the wall. You shift your weight onto your other leg and you straighten your skirt, patting it down with one hand. The faint, sulfuric tang of the darkroom down the hall bites at the back of your throat.

“So that’s why you sound so exhausted,” Jacob notes. You contemplate asking him why he hadn’t come over for dinner the last couple of days, but you remember your own hypocrisy, benign caught up in your own work. You stay quiet and you enjoy the first phone call, that funnily, came earlier than you intended at the start of your day.  “How long have you been up?”

“I’ve been awake for…” you glance down at the sleek face of your silver watch wrapped around your wrist perfectly, tracking the steady tick of the second hand. You grimace as it hits one p.m. and a hiss involuntarily escapes your throat. “Long enough.” You run a hand over your face, feeling the sheer weight of the 240 milligrams of caffeine finally beginning to sour in your stomach. You decide to just drop the other shoe, laughing awkwardly. “I’m getting married.”

“...What?” the spike of confusion in his voice crackles through the small silver phone.

“Fake married,” you clarify quickly, heat rushing to the apples of your cheek. You morbidly think this is funny, at least enough for your cheeks to burn with a slight smile at the thought of Jacob being a teensy weensy bit jealous. Your thumb traces the crisp edge of the blue folder resting against your hip and you continue. “To uh, Leon. It’s an operational requirement. The target won’t negotiate with anyone who isn't partnered up.”

A beat of silence stretches over the line. It lingers just long enough for you to count it out in your head. One, two, three.

“Huh,” Jacob finally says.

“Does that bother you?” you hold your breath for a fraction of a second, searching for something—a hint of protective friction, a spark of the typical jealousy Leon had feigned earlier—anything that might offset the lingering sting of him missing your birthday. To be honest, you didn’t mind. He worked long hours a day too and why should you blame him? Though, it still curdled in your heart when you remembered that Operations hosted a cheap birthday surprise for you. Still more than what your boyfriend did.

“I mean—one second,” right in the middle of his sentence, you hear the gentle creak of an ergonomics chair, his ergonomics chair, then the sound of typing. “Sorry—email. I mean… it’s work,” Jacob reasons, his voice leveling out into a casual, near floaty cadence. You resist commenting on his habits—Jacob is a busy guy, and multitasking has always been a thing he’s done. “It’s not like you’re actually marrying the guy. So, I guess I don’t really care.”

The utter lack of weight behind his words leaves a strange sensation right at the base of your throat, but you brush it aside with the practiced ease of someone who profiles disappointment for a living. You sigh dramatically, easy to regain your footing in the conversation. You didn’t really wanna seem clingy.

“You still surviving on coffee and candy?” he asks, navigating away from the subject entirely. You nearly chuckle. A lot of men these few days have almost smoothly changed the topic with you several times.

“…Maybe,” you murmur, the corner of your mouth twitching.

“‘Maybe’ means yes,” he chuckles faintly. Then, his voice drops an octave, softening into something more familiar. He inhales deeply. “Hey. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” you say. The words come easily, slipping past your lips like an automated response to a script you’ve both run a thousand times. Three days you haven’t seen him, you’re pretty sure. Caught up in the office, you’ve not really had time to chat, even when you got home right after finishing with Leon’s last Germany run. Your easy smile fades just a little, your gaze drifting toward the bright glass windows of the bullpen. You look at your empty desk, then at the sheer volume of paperwork waiting to be processed before Germany. You let out a whine, “...I think I should head back.”

Through the distant glass of the bullpen, you catch a sudden movement. A flash of a brown leather jacket from a man who’s gotten increasingly worse posture from constantly hauling stuff. Leon walks past your cubicle carrying a heavy stack of case files, his eyes fixed forward, entirely oblivious to the fact that you’ve slipped away into the shadows of the hallway. You watch the broad slope of his shoulders until he disappears around the corner. Secretly, you’re betting with yourself that he’s mumbling curses about the amount of work he’s about to be given and do.

“Right,” Jacob says.

You hum, not knowing what to say, but still—you catch him right before he disconnects or pulls the phone out of his ear. “Okay, bye. I love you,” the words come easily across the line, floating through the static without much effort, but still heavy.

“I love you too,” he replies, voice even, and a hint of a smile in his voice yet again, matching your cadence perfectly. “Talk tonight?” he says gently, adding, “I still owe you dinner.”

“Yeah. Tonight.”

“Can’t believe your coworker got to marry you first,” he jokes dryly. 

You scoff at him playfully, not even realizing your cheeks had gone up in flames by now. It’s stupid; how utterly affected you are by silly banter only by the people you love. You respond one last time, “if you were a government agent, you’d be forced to marry me.”

The line goes dead. You stare at the dark screen for another second, watching your own tired reflection fade back into the black glass. You look entirely like shit. Your hair is a bit out of place and you’re gonna excuse yourself to the bathroom later. The taffy-like candy in your mouth has dissolved mostly. You slip the phone back into your purse, straightening the lapels of your blouse, and tucking the blue file securely under your arm, walking back into the office wearing the same easy smile everyone’s been accustomed to.

Your heels click against the floor again, and you pat your hair softly, as if it’d make the disheveled parts any better. When you return, Leon’s already at your desk, finally realizing you’ve been away for a little too long than usual. You eye him up and down. You really don’t know how the hell his salary pays for all his leather jackets—you’re pretty sure this is the sixth one you’ve seen him wear in… seven months. One got lost during an operation, you think. Maybe that’s why he’s gotten a new one.

"Everything alright?" Leon asks the moment you return. You’ve already completely forgotten about your conversation with your boyfriend and your entire attention has fixed itself on the leather draped upon Leon’s shoulders. Yes, definitely—Leon does not suit biker jackets. He suits the slightly oversized ones more.

You blink at the question, actually confused. "...Yeah. Why?"

"You were gone longer than a coffee run,” he explains simply, leaning against your desk. You don’t really catch the slight haze in his eyes, nor the softer tone he used on you. Because Leon Kennedy also accidentally overheard you talking to your boyfriend while rounding up the corner and his first reaction was “why did you sound like that?” instead of “[Name] Cancelloti has a boyfriend?”.

Your smile returns automatically and you squeeze his arm, hair falling over your eyes just a little as you jerk your head up. Naturally, you tease, your hand lingering just a little over what's necessary. Not on purpose. "Aw. Worried about me, husband?"

Leon hesitates. "Don't flatter yourself."

taglist ꩜ @spectranix | typical taglist form

notes ꩜ hi i got into resident evil again so u get idiot leon fic. yay. this was originally supposed to be a oneshot but i caught it at the tip of spiraling out of control and i didn't wanna make it too long so it's gonna be a three parter! had this in my sperm bank for a while. its just something to get me back into the resident evil headspace. so yeah thank you for reading. i love comments. i love insight. i have taglists. i dont only write for re. i also have an ao3. byebye.

૮꒰˵• ﻌ •˵꒱ა ㅤ© kayuekou, 2026 𖥻 do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on other platform nor feed my works into AI.

[thelonewolfdreamer]

But your eyes tell me a different story (Series)

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐

“And I will be here forever, through it all, until even the end falls short.” — Part 7

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐

My Writing Masterlist

pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt. 7

Pairings- Bully!mean!Leon x !fmc reader

🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸

Summary — After enjoying your few days off since the mission ended, everything finally started to make sense inside you.

The distance from everything, especially Leon, gave you clarity, and for the first time in months your thoughts felt quiet.

And since too much had happened between you and him to pretend otherwise, so you start to slowly accept and when you finally walked back into the DSO building, realizing something important: you finally knew exactly what you wanted.

🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸

Genre/cw: slow burn maybe?, mean!Bully leon, language, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, coworker trope?! confessions, drama, funny banter, HEA, emotional

NOTE : okay so i am kinda sad; since this is the final part of the series! But I am finally done--phew!

I am a bit relieved it has ended but also a bit sad because its finally done hahaha and i really wanna thank all of you for riding this journey with me; when i first posted this series i didnt know how it would he perceived but seeing so much love on it really melted my heart.

So; thank you everyone-who stayed on this messy ride with me!

wc : 3.2k

🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸

tags :

@ghostwritesthings, @strawberrydaiquiriri, @remiratboi, @l0v31e, @carriellie, @xx-betteroffaslovers-xx, @meowieees, @13ela, @cryingdevil, @ghostieistiredd, @pinkcatnight,

@vvega119, @whoisthisdlva, @delulism, @wawa-s-kennedy,

@wonstruck7 @mrskennedih

@stinkystick

@venus-in-roses

🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸ྀི🧸

Those five days at home should have passed quickly, but somehow they didn't. 

In fact, each hour felt longer than the last, stretching out endlessly until time itself seemed determined to personally torment you, and if you were being honest it was personally killing you to spend time away from that blond idiot.

Okay, fine. 

You were the one who had asked for space; but fuck, why did he have to actually accept that? Because now Leon was doing exactly that, respecting your boundaries. Being patient. Being understanding.

And it was honestly irritating.

Now as if time was personally testing you; every-day crawled by like time had transformed into a turtle and decided to take a scenic route through your suffering. But no, seriously. Why the hell were the days so long? Why is he not texting? And somehow, despite yourself, you felt disappointed.

Which was absolutely ridiculous.

And now; every time your phone lit up, your stomach dropped; every time your phone beeped, a part of you thought it was Leon. Of course it usually wasn't.

Because Leon was taking this whole "giving you space" thing very seriously.

He only texted occasionally, asking small things. Have you eaten? Is your arm fine? Sleeping okay? And every single time, you answered with a simple yes, no, or fine before the conversation died again.

Honestly, it felt like both of you were being miserable on purpose.

By the fifth day, you were actually restless. So restless that you ended up texting Claire instead. Maybe to confront her. Maybe to ask for advice. You honestly didn't know.

So you sat on your couch with your phone in one hand and a book in the other, though your attention wasn't actually on the book.

With a long defeated sigh you opened Claire’s number and you typed on the message box; Why did you give my number to him?

Your phone buzzed instantly.

Claire: He looked like a kicked puppy when he asked for your number.

You snorted immediately, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you drop your head back against the couch; already picturing Leon standing there with that miserable, wounded expression Claire was describing.

Claire: I know I should've asked you first.

Claire: But I knew something happened between you two and I just wanted to help.

Claire: Did I make it worse?

You pressed your lips into a thin line, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. And somehow, without even seeing her, you could already picture Claire on the other side of the screen grinning triumphantly at her phone, entirely too pleased with herself for this conversation. The thought alone made it impossible to stop the small smile from growing.

You: No.

Claire: Knew it.

Claire: You like him.

You groaned loudly and muttered something under your breath as heat crept up your neck. But you didn't reply; there wasn't really a point, because Claire already knew the answer, and you sigh as you stared at the ceiling in complete defeat.

Then your phone buzzed again; pulling you out of your thoughts. You straightened slightly on the couch, forcing your attention away from the ceiling and back toward the screen.

Claire: That idiot does too.

Claire: I hope it works out between both of you.

Your heart practically somersaulted at that text, and you immediately tossed your phone onto the couch beside you before dropping your book onto the table in front of you; and with a tired sigh you sinked deeper into the cushions.

Because damn it.

Claire wasn't wrong.

Later that night on your last day off, you lay alone in your bed, while finally admitting to something you had been avoiding for days.

You missed him.

A lot.

And honestly, that realization was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Because somewhere during those five days, you had stopped pretending it wasn't true.

The truth was painful as it always is; that you knew you missed his stupid face terribly. You missed his stupid remarks that somehow always managed to get under your skin. You missed the way he would say something infuriating and then look entirely too pleased with himself afterward.

Hell, you even missed arguing with him.

Because now that he wasn't there, and somehow changed; the silence felt wrong.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to hear his voice. You wanted to roll your eyes at whatever ridiculous comment he would inevitably make. And, if you were being painfully honest with yourself, you wanted to kiss his stupid lips again. "Fuck..." You groaned, rolling on your stomach on your bed.

And now lying alone, all you could think about was what happened between both of you. Of course it wasn't ideal or anything, but you also knew Leon had been sincere. After his confession, after everything he said in that village, you had actually started accepting your feelings.

At least now you knew what you wanted.

And that was giving him an answer.

Not just an answer, but the truth. Because in the past five months, despite all his ridiculousness, his constant criticism, the arguments, and every single moment he managed to get on your nerves, Leon Kennedy had become important to you.

And maybe for the first time since all of this started, you were finally ready to stop pretending otherwise.

With those thoughts weighing heavily on your mind, you eventually fell asleep and the next morning, when you returned to HQ; it should have felt normal.

But it didn't.

Because the moment you stepped out of your car and looked up at the familiar headquarters building, every bit of confidence you'd spent the last five days gathering immediately began evaporating. And with every step you took toward the entrance, it got worse.

Your stomach twisted violently against your will.

And suddenly all those brave speeches you'd given yourself at three in the morning about being mature and having a conversation with Leon seemed completely useless right now.

"Darn it!" You muttered under your breath.

Because if there was one thing you wanted right now, it was to avoid him; because you knew you were getting cold feet to even look at him. The realization hit you so hard that it nearly made you stop walking and you groan at the thought of talking to him.

After everything.

After the mission.

After the alley.

After the confession.

After admitting to yourself that you missed him so much it physically hurt.

"Okay," you muttered to yourself. "You are not this pathetic." But unfortunately you knew, you absolutely were.

So you made a decision; or your cowardice won that you decided you would talk to him later.

Definitely later.

Giving yourself a firm nod, you pushed through the entrance and headed inside. Secretly hoping you wouldn't run into Leon.

The universe immediately decided to laugh at you. Because the second you turned toward the elevators, your entire body froze.

Leon was actually standing there waiting for the lift. One hand shoved into his jacket pocket. The other hand was holding a coffee.

You laughed at the ridiculousness of fate “are you kidding me?!” You whispered to yourself before looking up at the ceiling of the hq.

Nope.

Then you remembered; stairs existed for a reason and you immediately decide to turn around. Unfortunately, Leon spotted you before you could.

"Hey." Leon's face immediately brightened as he saw you and that effortless grin made your heart flutter so violently it felt embarrassing.

You froze on the spot; but still you tried to maintain your poker face though you honestly didn't know if you were doing a good job at it.

Your heart began beating rapidly after seeing his absolutely breathtaking face and it felt like you were sixteen years old again with your first crush.

Fuck, your stomach started to turn in ball of nerves; the heat burning deep into your belly.

"Hey..," Leon repeated in his familiar soothing voice, as he said it he was already walking toward you.

And suddenly breathing became way too difficult. "Oh. Uh."

Excellent. Dumbass. You thought to yourself.

"I was actually..." You pointed vaguely behind yourself. "...stairs."

Leon blinked.

"What?"

"Stairs." You said.

"You were going to the elevator." Leon furrowed his brows immediately tilting his head.

"I wasn't."

"You were literally looking at the elevator."

“You got it wrong” you said hastily and immediately started backing away.

Leon looked genuinely confused at your reaction; and before he could say another word, you turned around and practically fled.

Behind you, Leon stared after you in complete disbelief. "What the hell?"

Meanwhile you were already halfway up the stairs. "Fuck," you groaned, shaking your head, "This is harder than killing zombies."

The rest of the morning wasn't much better. Because every single time Leon appeared, you mysteriously found somewhere else to be.

When he walked into a room, you walked out.

When he headed toward your desk, you suddenly remembered urgent paperwork.

At one point, you were fairly certain you had hidden behind Carlos just to avoid Leon. Thankfully, Carlos didn't immediately question it. He simply looked between you and Leon with growing confusion while you pretended to be intensely interested in absolutely anything that wasn't the blond agent searching for you.

Eventually Leon gave up and walked out of the room, and the second the door closed behind him, Carlos slowly turned toward you with raised eyebrows. "Whoa..." he said, drawing the word out as realization started dawning on him. "What exactly is happening here?"

And you chuckle nervously like you were in danger, “nothing.”

You were sure Carlos didnt believe you but he didnt push. Thank god to that.

By lunch, Leon finally caught you near the break room. He stepped directly into your path and you nearly walked into him but luckily you didn't. "Can we talk now?" he asked softly; his voice was patient.

"Maybe later." You muttered.

Leon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "...Okay." And somehow the disappointment in his eyes made you feel worse.

Yet unintentionally or intentionally you avoided him again.

You knew it was embarrassing–but you just could not help it.

By mid-afternoon, your thoughts were becoming too much so you escaped to the rooftop terrace hoping the fresh air would calm you down.

As you stepped into the open space the cool air hit your face instantly and you sighed heavily before turning and moving towards the railing at the end; as you went there; you curl your fingers around the railing; your eyes settling on the setting sunset; the amber hues fell upon everything and the city stretched endlessly beyond the railing.

For a few precious minutes, you just stood there breathing. Trying to organize the disaster currently happening inside your chest.

After standing there for a few more minutes and finally feeling somewhat composed, you let out a long sigh. You decided you were finally going to talk to Leon. Properly this time. Because, honestly, you were being a little childish and you knew it. Avoiding him wasn't helping anyone.

So, with a muttered pep talk under your breath and what little courage you could gather, you pushed yourself forward, determined to finally face him.

And just then before you could turn away a deep familiar voice suddenly spoke behind you. "There you are."

You closed your eyes already feeling cold feet, but you stood there and whispered under your breath. “It's now or never.” though your heart was already betraying you.

Slowly, you turned around, and found Leon standing by the rooftop door. Looking equal parts of relieved and exhausted. "I've been looking for you."

You gave him a small nod, and the moment you did, a sly smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It only widened as he began making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “I've never seen somebody run from me this much,” Leon remarked, amusement evident in his voice.

"I wasn't running." You quietly confessed.

"You fled from an elevator," Leon said, finally stopping a few steps away from you. You were strangely grateful for the distance; it gave you just enough room to breathe. Yet he didn't look away. His blue eyes remained fixed on yours, steadily as if he was determined not to let you escape this conversation quite so easily.

"...I don't want to talk about it." You sighed but a smile appeared on your face anyway.

His smile widened at your comment, and for a moment neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, staring at each other as the late afternoon sun dipped lower behind the city skyline, bathing both of you in a soft amber glow. The world around you seemed too quiet, leaving only the gentle rush of wind moving between you, carrying away everything except the tension neither of you could ignore anymore.

Then Leon's expression softened. "You know," he said quietly, "for somebody who fought an entire village full of infected without blinking, you're surprisingly bad at this."

"Shut up." You said, rolling your eyes.

"There she is." Leon says with a smirk.

“I meant what I said,” Leon murmured, his voice low as it slowly drifted between you with the breeze, carrying a sincerity that made your heartbeat falter.

Your heartbeat stumbled at his comment.

"Back in the village." Then his voice dropped lower, "All of it."

Your knees felt like jelly as he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. “You don't have to answer today, but I need you to know I wasn't lying.” Leon swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he gathered the courage to say the words he'd clearly been carrying for far too long, then he sighs his voice softening. “I love you.”

You opened your mouth to say something but all you could manage was a small gibberish sound that escaped your throat and you feel the tears already welling up in your eyes but he shakes his head as he continues. "I love your attitude." A small smile appeared on his face. "Even when it's driving me insane."

You laughed through the tears that finally fell down your cheeks.

"I love how stubborn you are." His voice softened further. "I love how you always protect people."

Your vision blurred and you now congrats you were finally crying: and leon gave you a small smile.

"And if you'll let me..."

He stepped a little closer, moving carefully as he raised a hand to gently brush the tears from your face. Then he dropped his hands lower his fingers found yours, holding them softly in his own. “I’ll stay,” Leon said quietly.

His fingers tightened around yours but you didn't pull away, "I'll stay through every argument."

"Every mission."

"Every bad day."

"Every good day." His eyes never left yours as he spoke his entire frame was relaxed like he was finally letting himself be vulnerable, "And I will be here forever, through it all, until even the end falls short."

That finally broke something inside you, and a small sob escaped your lips before you could stop it. Because no one had ever looked at you the way Leon was looking at you now. No one had ever said things like this to you. No one had ever made you feel so seen, so wanted, so important. And the worst part was that he wasn't saying any of it like it was some grand sacrifice. He said it so naturally, so sincerely, as if staying by your side was the easiest decision he had ever made.

“Leon...” Your voice broke halfway through his name, and for a second you had to look away just to steady yourself. The emotions sitting inside your chest felt too large, too overwhelming, like they had been waiting for months to finally be spoken aloud. You swallowed hard before looking back at him. “I feel the same.”

The words came out quietly, but they were enough to make something soften in Leon's expression immediately. A shaky laugh escaped you. “Honestly, I don't even know when it happened.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the ground. “Maybe I started liking you the day you scrunched up your face when you first saw me.” A small smile tugged at your lips which made him laugh too. “Or maybe it started when every time you criticized me and still somehow managed to make me angry enough to think about you for the rest of the day.”

Leon groaned quietly still he listened patiently as you continued and laughed shakily, “Or maybe it was later. When you finally stopped hiding behind all of that and started letting me see who you actually were.” Your voice softened. “When you instinctively covered my blind spots” You took a slow breath. “Then the kiss.” Your heart stumbled at the memory. “The…alley…” you were actually full on crying now, but still you managed to speak, “The confession.” You shook your head slightly. “And somewhere along the way, all of it started meaning something to me too.” Your eyes found his again.

“I forgive you, Leon." The admission came out barely above a whisper, his hands were now actually trembling beneath yours and you gave it a firm squeeze and continued, even if your eyes stung, “And during those five days off, all I could think about was you.” A smile appeared on your face.

“Your stupid remarks.” as you said it, leon mirrored your smile instantly his eyes were now glassy too.

“Your stupid face.” you chuckled briefly before continuing, “Your stupid habit of getting under my skin.”

Leon huffed out a laugh.

“And the worst part?” you said your smile widened through the tears gathering in your eyes. “I missed all of it.”

“I missed you.”

For a moment neither of you moved. Then your fingers intertwined with his naturally, like they belonged there. “I don't know what will happen next.” Your voice trembled.

“But I know I don't want to keep running from you.”

Then finally you said the words that had been waiting inside your heart for far too long. “I love you too.” A watery laugh escaped you. For a moment Leon simply stared. Like he'd forgotten how breathing actually worked then he sighed in relief and the biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face.

And somehow seeing that smile felt better than any confession.

Then a soft grin spread across his face. He rested his forehead gently against yours before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. His calloused hands rose to cradle your face, warm and careful, and somehow the simple touch felt like coming home, and with a smile still tugging at his lips he whispered, "i will love you until the end of my days."

Your heart warmed at his words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt content. You felt okay. Whole, even.

The constant knot in your chest finally loosened, leaving behind a quiet kind of peace. And as you stood there with Leon's warmth against yours, you realized that for the first time since this entire mess began, neither of you had to keep running from each other anymore.

[blackholeina3duniverse]

On a Bridge Over Dry Soil in Summer

Relationship: Leon x reader x Ashley

Welcome to my delusion, in which Leon is a forensic psychology, Ashley is a philosophy and reader is a super-smart physics student in college. Enjoy.

Warnings: Anxiety, stressed reader, elements of self-loathing, imposter syndrome, minor cringe

"A man is a husband next to his wife, an employee where he works, a god in the eyes of his dog. The for-self thing is recreated constantly by the relations it forms with its surroundings."

Chapter 1 : That Explains the Radiation, Chapter 2: I Was Tired an Hour Ago, Chapter 3: If You Lived Forever

You are feeling a little... unnecessary. And that's putting it mildly. The white walls stand in sharp contrast to the colors on the paintings and the smiling faces of all the other artists stand in sharp contrast to yours. 

And why did I think this was a good idea?

You chose painting from the Department of Fine Arts as an elective course because your curriculum had 2 mandatory non-technical electives in it and you definitely do not want to try to learn playing an instrument. For a 3-credits course. No, thank you. That shit is for the strong-willed.

Now you are in the final exposition. Everyone who brought their paintings in gets a straight AA, others FF. Good bargain, so you keep telling yourself. Good bargain. Paint something. Anything. Just spread the color on the canvas.

You felt exposed when you brought your paintings in, put them up, waited in front of them as visitors began to walk in through the door one by one. Now though, you are feeling something worse than exposed, no one is interested in what you made a big deal of sharing.

You fiddle with the hem of your skirt. Black tie formal. Serious. Elegant. 

Unlike you.

Christ.

You are told specifically that looking at phones is forbidden. So, you just watch as people swim back and forth in the sea of shared ideas and feelings. You wish you could share yours to an audience that listened.

"Hello."

You avert your gaze from the nothing in the middle of the room and look at the person greeting you. You must have a stupid look on you right now, you are sure of it. 

"Hi." Your motor skills kick in, betraying no grouchy crybaby behavior. 

"Are you the artist of this painting?" The woman asks with a kind voice, like she is happy to see more about the painting if you want them to, and sorry to bother you if not.

"Yes. Yes, I am." Everything you say feels weird.

"It looks interesting." She says, and you immediately console yourself.

This is what people say when they mean it is not shit.

“Thank you.” You respond politely, with a soft smile.

At least someone is acknowledging you. Be grateful, you lunatic.

“It is very different from the other paintings.” The woman tells you. You wait for a moment, thinking there is more coming, but turns out that was merely a conversation starter.

"Well, there wasn't any particular task they gave us. So, yeah... I guess everyone just went free-style." You say, not giving much to build a conversation on, but the woman looks interested all the same, attentive even. 

"Would you like me to tell you what I was trying to do here?" You ask shyly. Explaining your art is such a shitty thing to do, it is the literary equivalent of a cook making a brave yet otherwise inexplicable dish and saying "so this is my pizza", but today is a shitty day apparently, and why resist with so much force and end up tired?

 "Yes, please." The woman answers with an even brighter smile and you feel yourself getting more confident. 

"So, I had Sartre's existentialism in my mind when I was painting this. You see, Sartre said that there are two types of things. For-self and in-self. The latter is something that is precisely what it is. A table, a car, a shoe... It doesn't matter what it does or where it is. Even if you try to use the shoe to clean a window, it will still be a shoe. It is a thing that is in-itself. And the former is, well, a man is a good example for the former. A man is a husband next to his wife, an employee where he works, a god in the eyes of his dog. The for-self thing is recreated constantly by the relations it forms with its surroundings." 

You look at your painting and point at it vaguely. "You see, the light reflecting off the building, the pavement and the cars is sharp. At every direction of this space, the same information of color propagates in the air so everyone is delivered the same image." You look briefly at the woman to weigh her reaction; you really hope she is not bored.

On the contrary, her mouth is slightly agape and her eyes rapidly move on the canvas, supposedly on the points where there are sharp brush marks indicating the absoluteness of the colors. 

You smile slightly and continue, "But I have painted people like they dissipate colors that are not actually on them. It is like they radiate off their skin, all the colors. So, the observer is free to choose from the selection." You once again turn your attention to the woman. "So, yeah. That's the idea."

"Wow, that's... That's really beautiful." She extends her hand to you "I am Ashley. You?" 

You introduce yourself, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She smiles, and gives one final look to your painting. “What’s your major?” she asks as she turns her attention back to you. You are beginning to think she has an offer to make.

“Physics.” you answer her with a tone that betrays no feelings of pride and confidence that used to accompany you when you were a freshman. You were going to be a girl scientist. You idiot.

“Oh.” She laughs softly, “that explains the radiation.”

You smile back with a small little something that’s close to contentment. The contentment of being seen. “Yeah.”

And a moment passes where it feels like something forgot to do something. You feel some unease from the silence. “Yours?”

“Philosophy.” 

Your eyes widen slightly from realizing that you just explained Sartre’s existentialism to someone who studies philosophy. Like you weren’t feeling enough awkwardness.

“I didn’t know about Sartre’s existentialism.” she says with a sheepish grin. Your mind immediately drifts off to think about how fucking disoriented in the head you are. So, she doesn’t know about existentialism. So what? You see her rubbing her palms on her thighs every ten seconds? She just embraces her lack of knowing and throws in a sheepish grin. Like a fucking grown woman. Why can’t you be like her?

“That was very interesting for me.” you hope she didn’t say anything in between, because you definitely were not paying attention at that moment. 

“I am glad you liked it.” 

She smiles again and reaches for her phone. “Are you interested in philosophy in general?” she asks you with a tone and gesture that look impossibly sincere. You feel a rare sense of welcome that just makes you relaxed to the extent that you say what exactly you want to say.

“I am interested in ideas that have depth and insight. But I am not one for history of philosophy I am afraid.”

She smiles again. “Believe me, that’s the best way to be interested in it.” She takes her phone in her hand and opens her lockscreen. “Uhm, I’m just looking for a good excuse to ask for your number.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m looking for reading-buddy. Someone I can share and discuss books with. Would you be interested?” she asks you with home-made courage she does not expect you to see right away. She is shy too.

“Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.” You dial your number on her phone and let it deal with the rest. 

“I guess I’ll see you around.” she says, before flashing a small smile and turning around to walk away.

Your eyes scan the room one last time before exiting the exposition hall for lunch, the thing carving your insides for whatever reason seems to be gone all of a sudden. The world is a quiet place, and you feel a rhythm in you.

[caytopia]

working on a vendetta-di!leon x lawyer!reader fic rn… the pining.. the banter… get ready

[mcdoossy]

YALL i just read this leon fic on ao3 named “Blue Satin” by AliBelleRosetta and ITS SOOOOOOO GEWDDDDD, they update every wednesday, and goshh im so hooked to the story😭😭😭🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

[cryran88]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

My birthday gift fic for the lovely @c-c-cherry

Inspired by Aura by @silvercap

Summary:

Leon Kennedy was no longer a private citizen, but government property. A tool, being sharpened and trained to undergo only the most dangerous and important missions.

The program would take years to mold him, and he had no way out but forward.

(OR: Leon has a rough transition into military training with Krauser. The training is hard enough, but he also has to deal with the stress of being blackmailed, let alone his crippling survivor's guilt. How long can he carry it all?)

Chapters: 2/2

Word Count: 12.9K

Additional Tags: Leon S. Kennedy Needs a Hug, Hurt Leon S. Kennedy, Post-Resident Evil 2 Remake, Pre-Resident Evil 4 Remake, Blackmail, Misunderstandings, Trauma, Leon S. Kennedy has PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Mentioned Sherry Birkin, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, Military Training, Military Inaccuracies, Angst, Whump, Flashbacks, Mentioned Claire Redfield, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, It’s not RE2 Leon but not RE4 Leon either so we call him Pi Leon (3.14), Because RE3 Leon is actually just RE2 Leon again. So he’s a little more than that

[mintybabes444]

Childhood's home.

Teen!Leon Kennedy x reader

swf, fluff, hurt/comfort, slowburn. cw: mentions of losing parents; bit of profanity. word count: 1,7k

a/n: My first fic lol, feel free to give advice and i'm so open for requests!

It a was dark, snowy evening in the late November. Wind whistled against the windows, though it was nothing that could draw attention to itself anymore as the sound of water running and dishes clattering filled the warm air of your home. But perhaps this white, two-story house is not yours, and you indeed are an impudent brat (as your aunt Karen always hisses). One’s mind always wanders to most sacred places when doing the dishes; you were no exception. A few months ago, you realized your mom’s voice had become more muffled, more distant in your head; the thought never failed to form a limp in your throat. Dad and mom always were some kind of fog in your brain, though it was oddly comforting to know you once had a family of your own, not being a liability. Your aunt never spoke of your parents much, but when she did, only insults were sourly spewed at your mother. Uncle Andrew married your aunt for a reason: he always joined in the fun, not forgetting to highlight how your mother’s skanky genes passed down to you, how you’d probably end up on highway, sucking all sorts of men off to make a living. But maybe that’s just what his always red, overly fed head fantasized about.

If only your parents didn’t get into that horrific car incident, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t feel so shitty about yourself.

<...>

After yet another family dinner without you, auntie and dear uncle sat you down, two of their beloved boys giggling in the background. Karen clears her throat and glances on her husband, both of them with tight smiles on their faces.

“So,” He starts, his usually narrowed eyes now not traveling down your body, but instead darting around the ground, TV and his wife. “Me… We,” he gestured to himself and the woman sitting right next to him, who had this creepily 'nice' look on her wrinkled and poorly maked-up face, so uncharacteristic of her nasty persona.

“Sweetheart, you know how we’ve been struggling financially,” the freshly bought Nintendo 64 winked at you from beside the TV screen (the one you weren’t allowed to touch) “We’ve decided, me and Andrew, that we aren’t able to feed three kids at once, and besides the boys are growing up: it’s almost a punishment to try to fit two young, growing gentlemen into one room!” She nervously laughed and looked over uncle Andrew’s smug face. He looked like a pig, you thought, tearing your stare away from his panting form. He lost his breath every time he merely spoke.

“Do you know what childhood’s home is?”

Your stomach dropped at those words. This couldn’t be happening. Hell, your craziest thought was them moving you into the pantry room, not giving you away for foster care. The last thing you remembered was your eyes watering pathetically.

In less than a week or so, came the final lunch. Cake and everything, fancy. Were they celebrating getting rid of you? You could tell by their glimmering faces and impatient squirming of the 7-year-old Jonny, sticking his tongue out to his brother Michael, who was 4. The ride to the ‘childhood’s home’ was long. What a stupid name for a place like this. You gripped your backpack with the little amount of trinkets you own (polaroid of Mom and Dad with newborn you; ‘Jane Eyre’ book alongside with your dearest diary; few old clothes and one pair of undies) when the seemingly… cozy building came to sight. It wasn’t quite big, red-bricked, 4 floor house that resembles library. You’d imagine it to look like prison. Paperwork, and here you are left alone. You didn’t love your Uncle’s family and yet you felt like you’ve been orphaned for the second time.

A kind lady, Ms. Brown, showed you around: it’s called a ‘group home’ as you found out later. Big kitchen, a living room and a lot of bedrooms, each for two or three. As she was showing you around you caught a glimpse of few kids around here. Some pre-teens, some looked almost your age. They seemed okay, at least at first sight.

“Here, baby, there is your floor.” The earlier mentioned old woman wrapped in a soft, grey shawl murmured. “Pick between these two rooms, 409 and 411. You tell me on the dinner which one you picked, alright? The dinner's at 6.30. Do not be late” She motions to the doors down the hall, speaking and suddenly her eyes soften further (if that’s possible) when a blonde, broad shouldered boy appears on the staircase, going up. Your gaze falls on him, greedily studying every inch of him. You were desperate to get at least the slightest grasp of how kids are here.

Well he isn’t exactly a kid. Maybe your age. The moment his soft, blue eyes settle on the caregiver and then you, your gaze adverts down almost immediately. His footsteps nearly silent, against the grey, endless rug as he approaches.

“Leon, here’s the new neighbor, please love and favor!"

A comforting laugh from Ms. Brown fills your ears as you glance up at him to find him looking back at you with sheepish grin on his face.

<...>

“So you just moved in today? What’s your room?” The boy, Leon, says, walking down the hall with you. He chuckles and glances at you again curiously, though not disrespectfully. “Don’t tell me 409.” That earns a curious hum from you, making you steal yet another look over his handsome features.

“W-Why?” Your mouth moves so fast, it’s pathetic.

Leon chuckles once again and you don’t miss the way his adam’s apple bobs when he gulps slightly. He has an awfully pale neck. That did something to you.

“Amanda lives there,” his voice drops to a low murmur as he explains. “She’s kind of a nympho.”

Giggling, you relax the grip on your backpack a little. His boyish grin makes your chest flutter (and you silently scold yourself for it). “Is she?”

“I’m pretty sure whole downtown been in Amanda” He snickers and stops by the door. 411. Is that his?

“So where you staying?” Leon’s curious eyes found you again, making you shrink. The question hanged in the air and you swallowed your spit down. “I.. um, I dunno yet.. I uh,”

“Stay with me. I don’t have a roommate.” He responded momentarily, his tone ever so calm.

“I-I can? Oh, I’m… Thank you, Leon.” The name rolled off your tongue so soft, it couldn’t get past Leon’s ears. Cute thing you are, newbie, he thought. Leon opened the door, extending his arm. “Ladies first.” A low cackle escaped his chest.

The room was fairly normal, two beds on each side of the room, table with two chairs and a large closet. Wasn’t exactly new but you weren’t complaining. The window was revealing quite a sight on the downtown part of the city.

You set your backpack down on the bed and sat down beside it, unzipping it. “’s all you have?” Leon snorts, making you pout subconsciously at the mean comment. “Don’t even have proper skirts or whatever you girls like.. lipsticks?” He smiles a bit sympathetic, his cocky side faltering for a second. “You still pretty though,” - he says and smiles dumbly, his own ears turning pink.

<...>

More snow, red cheeks, more laughter: here comes Christmas.

Globs of snow outside magically colored grey streets into a fairytale: blinding sunlight reflecting off of white large clumps, endless kids’ laughter outside and big, imperfect snowflakes carefully cut from paper welcoming anyone who steps into the place where children lived under one roof, learned together, played, fought and loved. They all were indeed a bit weird, a bit rough on edges, but still you somehow felt little happier than at the Uncle Andrew’s house.

Leon knocks on the door of your shared room like he always does, asking for a permission to enter. When he gets the affirmation, he comes in with the largest grin you’ve ever seen, flashing his pearly whites.

“What?” You couldn’t help but be infected by his smiling, raising up from the bed. His hands were hidden behind his back and your teeth sank into your lower lip in excitement.

“Close your eyes, dork” Leon coos and smiles, cheeks red from freezing weather outside. He hadn’t even taken his jacket or beanie off. Seeing your hesitance he whines, “Come on” - so, so adorable. You then comply playful, a shiver going down your spine at the anticipation. Few moments of rustling and he speaks again, a nervous waver in his voice as he asks you to look.

Your eyes flutter open, immediately landing upon a precious, beige & fluffy bunny plushy with long ears and pink fabric on the inner side. You drank in the imagine feeling of how soft this thing must be.

Your eyes darted from his masculine hands holding the sweet gift, up to his face. It almost made you giggle, how contrasting it was.

“Do you like it?” Leon asked after long silence, unusually timid and avoiding looking into your sparkly eyes.

“It’s for me..?” You whisper the rhetorical question, corners of your lips rising upwards. A beat, both of your eyes meet and you feel your stomach pool with warmth, head now feeling light. The baby blue eyes stare back at you, filled with uncertainty and self-doubt. After hesitating for a split second, you snatch the plushy from him (it is as soft as you supposed it was) and lean forward, capturing him in a heartfelt embrace.

Leon freezes for a moment, before utmost carefully placing his hands on your upper back, air suddenly thick with awkwardness. However, it slowly fades as you move your head to fit against his shoulder snuggly.

“I-It’s ‘lright..” He murmurs against your soft hair, feeling fuzzy inside as he inhales your scent.

You were brave, brave enough to pull back, step on your tippie toes and press a tiny peck his left cheek. Hardy a kiss; more a ghostly brush of your soft lips against his velvet skin. But it isn’t like that wasn’t enough to make Leon head over heels right then.

“Thank you, Leon.” You smile and after tearing your gaze away from his beautiful nose, you look in those blue flustered eyes once again, choosing not to talk about his suddenly pink face. He only grins in response, trying to collect himself. Moments pass before he picks you up by your sides, spinning you around, making you squeak loudly and grab onto his shoulders for support. You share the smile, laughter of both of you filling the room.