Leon being kinda lost, bc they are at the start of the relationship thing, and his brain kinda malfunctioned when reader said they gon be having date at his.
Ofc im gonna be an evil witch and force you to write this with re4r or re9 bc they are hard to... yk... write.
Good luck or just ignore..
(Kinda manipulative of me ik)
IM ALMOST DONE WITH THIS ONE, AND I WANT TO SAY, WHOEVER YOU ARE, YOU MADE ME SUFFER
Summary: Leon Kennedy has never been fond of his money, he just never found a good reason to spend it properly, not certainly with hoe dull and empty his life felt, that is, until you came along, not only fixing his life purposes but his bank account as well.
Or basically, how Leon Kennedy started to grow fond of his big fat paycheck and his life in general thanks to you.
Contents: fluff, domestic bliss I guessâŠ.? Leon having a lot of money.
An: I wrote this imagining reader being a few years younger than Leon, maybe her being around 30+ while he is like 40? But however you like works, also, I thought this was kind of a drabble, but I guess it counts more as a one shot.
3,155 words
For a long time, Leon didnât really care about the money.
At least not in the way normal people did, paying rent on time, investing in retirement, buying a decent pair of shoes that werenât ruined by dirt or rain in European forests.
When he got âpromotedâ. Rookie cop turned into DSO golden boy, the numbers in his bank account jumped every year. Hazard pay. Overtime. Bonuses the size of someoneâs mortgage.
He didnât spend it.
Not really.
Sure, he did have obvious expenses, bullets, boots, bikes, bikes, yes, the Ducati in his garage, that one he did love, a testament to a fleeting impulse, a need for speed and control on open roads that felt like freedom. The cheap apartment he rented that he never called home, because home was just a launchpad for the next mission. Sometimes, he bought a better suit, something to make the meetings with the President feel slightly less like a farce.
But real spending? On himself? For himself?
Nah.
He told himself it didnât matter. It felt absurd. The money was a monument to a future he was certain would never come.
Heâd finish the mission. Cash the check. And what?
Buy another bike heâd probably total on a backroad? A bottle heâd forget he drank?
Sometimes, back then, he really didnât see the point of making it to the next payday.
ââ
You didnât fix him overnight. youd actually smack him if he ever said that out loud.
But you did show up.
Spain first. Then the cold archives rooms of the BSAA for whenever he needed data. Then the occasional classified overlap, âneed an extra sniper, y/n? Send Kennedy. He wonât talk.â
It was always separate missions. Separate beds. Separate debriefs.
Until it wasnât.
It started stupidly, as all important things in Leonâs life do.
You two had just come back from a mission you surprisingly had together in Virginia. Something about a small-time black market trader hawking G-virus samples like antique jewelry. you two spent three days underground, three more above, and by the time you guys staggered back to DC, you both looked like hell.
You ended up at his place, cause his fridge, unlike yours, actually had beer.
You sat at his cheap kitchen table, leg propped on another chair, taping up a sprained ankle. Leon leaned against the counter, still wearing his gun harness, scanning an unopened letter from his bank.
You caught him frowning at it. âBad news?â
He shrugged. âNot really. Just my paycheck.â
You blinked. âYou look like someone told you your cat died.â
Leon smirked. âIf I had a cat, it would have run away by now.â
You snatched the envelope out of his hand, tore it open without asking.
Scanned the digits.
Whistled low. âHoly shit, Kennedy.â
He shrugged again, uncomfortable, defensive, and trying very hard to act nonchalant. âHazard pay.â
you rolled your eyes. âHazard pay?! This is retire-and-buy-a-lake-house money.â
Leon snorted. âWhat would I do with a lake house?â
you just smiled
âMaybe one day youâll figure it out.â
ââ
His first âbigâ investment after he started dating you was actually small, grand stupidly small.
He was on a solo job in Chicago. Rain, again. He ducked into a shop while the city flooded around him. On the counter was a display case of simple watches, nothing fancy. Just clean, practical, a little sturdy.
The clerk asked, âLooking for something for your wife?â
Leon almost laughed. He mumbled, âGirlfriend,â before he could think about it too hard.
It was the first time heâd ever called you that out loud, even if nobody would hear him say it again for months.
The thing between you guys wasnât complicated, you two just didnât have the head and energy to give it a label, if he did thing about it though, you were his girlfriend.
He picked one with a slim leather strap, dark, elegant, exactly the kind of thing youâd mock him for fussing over.
When he got back to DC, he found you half-asleep on his couch, your laptop balanced on your stomach.
He slipped the watch on your wrist while you pretended not to wake up.
You teased him for it the next morning.
 âLook at you, big spender.â
But you wore it every damn day.
ââ
The next thing leon bought wasnât for you, it was for him. Well, technically, for the both of you.
He found an apartment. Bigger. Nicer. A top-floor unit with actual windows that let in light. The kind of place that had space, not just for a bed and a half-dead houseplant, but with enough space for two people. There was room for your books and his record collection, for a kitchen table where you could actually eat a meal together.
Leon picked it out while you were halfway across Europe on a cleanup mission with the BSAA.
He tried to brush it off telling you it was practical, something useful for the both of you.
He presented it to you as a tactical decision. "Better security. Closer to the DSO hangar. Central location."
You didn't buy it for a second, your eyes scanning the open plan living room, the modern kitchen, the view of the city skyline, and the walk-in closet he'd already half filled with your things. You saw the bathroom with two sinks. And you didnât argue, smiling happily and nodding to his words.
ââ
Okay, well, then, the Ducati was just for him, because he so deserved it.
Thatâs what Leon kept repeating to himself.
When the paperwork for the penthouse cleared, you pressed your mouth to his ear and murmured:Â âDonât you think youâve earned a toy?â
Well what a funny thing to say, uh? You just loved getting stuff inside his head, and, well, yeah, his actual one was slightly used and old, and what can a man do other than listen to his woman, right?
So he did what Leon S. Kennedy does best: found the meanest, sleekest bike on the market, handed over his card without blinking.
He swore heâd be careful.
you swore youâd never ride on it.
Both were lies, but good ones.
ââ
Now, as much as you loved the fact that Leon had actually gotten that bike for himself, you werenât entirely a big fan of being in it.
The Ducati was a point of contention. You hated it. More specifically, you hated getting on the back of it, clinging to Leon as he took corners at a speed you considered âa blatant disregard for mortality.â
Did you think he looked absolutely hot and breathtaking while driving it by himself? Of course you did! Doesnât mean you want to die tomorrow tho.
Youâd been joking. Really. Just a throwaway line one night in bed, your hair in his face, your voice muffled into his chest:Â âI should get something fast. A real car. So you can stop bribing me onto that deathtrap Ducati.â
So he decided to solve the problem.
Two weeks later, he tossed you the keys.
It was sleek, gleaming, and so new it practically sparkled under the DC streetlights.
The plates already registered.
The insurance under his name.
You stared at him in the underground garage, hands on your hips, mouth open.
âYouâre kidding.â
He just grinned, the same grin that got him out of trouble with half the worldâs worst people. âYou hate my bike. This is safer.â
âLeon, this is a Porscheâ
He leaned in, dropped his mouth to your ear, and murmured âDrive it. Donât worry about the gas. Just donât scratch it, Kay?.â
A Porsche, and man, did you loved it.
Sometimes, when youâre both feeling like having a little more fun than usual, to go somewhere, you take the Porsche. He rides the Ducati. During this times, heâll glance over at you at a red light, you hair pinned back, sunglasses on, utterly in your element behind the wheel, and heâll give you a nod.
Youâll just smirk back and hit the accelerator the second the light turns green, leaving him behind to catch up.
Yeah, heâd think, twisting the throttle. Good money.
ââ
Heâll never admit it to anyoneâs face, but these days, Leon doesnât hate his paycheck anymore.
Itâs not just hazard pay. Itâs not blood hush. Itâs not a leash.
At first, during the beginning of his big expenses, youâd feel somehow guilty, youâd know him from before, when he wouldnât spend a single coin in âuselessâ stuff, which for Leon, usually meant anything that wasnât a gun cleaning kit, youâd tease him about it, about him not letting you pay, about him getting you tuns of things.
âWhat am I, Kennedy? Your sugar baby?â
Heâll always grin, the real grin, the crooked grin he saves for you alone.
âNo, sweetheart. Youâre my retirement plan.â
The money didnât buy the quiet moments tho, the ones that make him feel like he could be normal someday.
It didnât buy the mornings where you curled into his side, warm under a cheap blanket, mumbling about his alarm clock being âa government conspiracyâ.
It didnât buy the nights you sat together on that big stupid couch, feet up, watching the sun sink behind houses and buildings across the city.
But the money did make it easier to keep those moments. To come home to them. To make a home worth coming back to.
Summary: Youâve been dating Leon for a while now, and yet somehow you still donât think youâve realized how much power or connections your boyfriend actually has until you see him in action.
Or, in other words, Leon using his govermental connections to his advantage
An: hey guys! How have you been? Iâm sorry I havenât posted đ I actually didnât know if youâd like this one, but Iâm pretty confident it end up coming out better than I thought, I hope you like it!
1,391 words
After a few years of dating Leon, you wouldâve thought you knew everything about the man that slept next to you every night, and, if you were being fair, you did, the issue actually was, you had no real notion of what Leon being a goverment agent actually entailed. The first real perk happened during what should have been a nightmare layover in Montana.
You two were supposed to catch a red eye to Billings, some urgent BSAA/DSO joint debrief, followed by a quiet weekend that both of you swore you would take off.
But the flight was overbooked, the gates were a chaos, and you had already begun nursing a headache while dragging your carry on behind Leon, who was completely unfazed by the swarm of exhausted travelers.
You were this close to snapping at the poor airline rep when Leon calmly produced a battered leather ID. The gate agent glanced at it, did a double take, then flicked her eyes to Leons face and physically straightened.
Leon murmured something you couldnât hear, you did distinguish the tone he used tho, low, polite, but carrying a weight that made the woman nod immediately.
Next thing you knew, she ushered around the desk, your boarding pass upgraded. First class. Private seats. A smile thatâs a little too stiff to be genuine.
You were still processing the situation as Leon steered you through the gate like nothing had happened.
âWhat did you just show her?â
He shrugged. âTravel credential.â
You squinted. âWhich one? The normal one or the âI kill bioweapons for the presidentâ one?â
He didnât even answer. He just tugged you by the wrist, pushed you down into the plush first class seat, and deadpanned âTry the champagne. Itâs free.â
ââ
Already in Billings, it happened again.
The hotel was overbooked, conference season, of course! How lucky you were. diplomats everywhere, and the snobby front desk staff refusing to budge. âSorry, miss, no rooms until tomorrow.â
You (tired and hungry) were already about to pick a fight, when Leon just sighed, grabbing your wrist softly to pull you back as he took out his phone, dialing a number you knew he hated using. He murmured something calm and clipped, and you only made out something along the words âYes. Same as last time. Thank you.â
The manager appeared in under two minutes. He was practically running, apologizing six times. âWe didnât know you were coming, Agent Kennedy.â
Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. Agent?
You were immediately upgraded to a corner suite, with a very comfortable looking king sized bed, two balconies overlooking the lake, a yummy fruit basket and a complementary bottle of French wine.
You tossed a grape at Leonâs head as he was unpacking his handgun by the window.
âAgent, huh?â
Leon caught the grape midair and then popped it into his mouth like it was nothing nothing. âEat your fruit, sweetheart.â
ââ
Then, back at D.C you guys were finally having a real date, no mission, no weapons, no B.O.W.s waiting to crash dessert.
You picked the restaurant. Impossible to get into with a two months waitlist, all marble and soft jazz and impossibly pretentious staff who made you feel underdressed no matter what you wore.
You showed up fifteen minutes late because Leon insisted on driving, which meant you always ended up taking detours, cause âhe knows betterâ
The host raised an eyebrow at your name, he flicked through the reservation book, and then looked up at you. âIâm sorry, maâam, but it appears your table was given awayââ
Leon stepped forward before the man could even finish his sentence, smooth as sin, voice low enough only for you and the host to hear: âAny chance the White House liaisonâs table is free tonight?â
Your eyes flicked to Leonâs face in nothing but confusion, the hostâs eyes flick down to Leonâs hand were his phone was showing something you couldnât quite see from your place, a picture? A document? A note? Whatever it was, recognition hit fast and hard in the hosts face, and all you could do at the moment was watch the smug click in the manâs posture and the way he suddenly couldnât look Leon in the eye.
âOf course, sir, weâll make room immediately.â
Leon shoot you a sidelong smirk as you were ushered to a window seat within sixty seconds.
You hissed as you sat down: âYou hate pulling rank.â
He shrugged, opening the wine list like it was the weather report. âYou wanted oysters.â
You scuffed amused before kicking him under the table.
He simply winked.
ââ
The op was going sideways in the most bureaucratic way possible. You were stuck at a heavily fortified private airstrip in Oregon, a sealed case of T-virus variants in your trunk. Your local BSAA contact had just been turned away at the gate by a stone faced private security team. The paperwork, apparently, was "insufficient."
Youâd tried logic. You tried your credentials. Youâd tried thinly veiled threats about global pandemics. The head of security, a man with the personality of a brick wall, remained unmoved. "No clearance, no entry." The samples were time sensitive, and the clock was ticking.
Swearing under your breath, you did the one thing you promised yourself youâd never do specially during a mission: you called him.
He answered on the first ring, the background noise suggesting he was on his bike. "Hey? You good?"
"Does 'good' include being held hostage by a cop with a god complex?" You hissed, turning your back to the security booth. "Your⊠idiot badge. The one that makes people soil themselves. Can you get me through a gate?"
A low grunt of amusement came through the line. "Location?"
You gave him the details. The name of the cop, and fifteen minutes later, the brick wall security chiefâs radio crackled. He listened, his face gradually losing all its color. He looked at you, then back at his radio, his voice an octave higher when he spoke. "Ma'am, you are⊠cleared for entry. My deepest apologies."
You swept past him without a second glance, a wicked, triumphant grin on your face.
ââ
But the truth was, Leon never bragged about his connections, that wasnât his style. The power of his badge was a tool, not a trophy. But heâd made a single, quiet call after he bought you the car, adding the Porscheâs plates to a very short, very privileged list. It was a small thing, an invisible shield. A way to give you one less headache in a world full of them.
So, it became a quiet, unshakable law of the universe, your Porsche never got tickets. Not in D.C., not in the labyrinth of government-heavy Virginia, not even when you were blatantly parked in the space of two cars for forty-five minutes.
You were convinced it was your own impeccable driving karma. âItâs about being respectful of the law, Kennedy,â youâd tease, sliding into the driverâs seat while he eyed a âNo Parkingâ sign youâd just ignored. âSomething you wouldnât understand.â
Leon would just grunt, buckling his passenger seatbelt.
The pinnacle of your delusion was parking. You were, by any objective measure, a terrible parker. The Porsche always ended up at a jaunty angle, two wheels dangerously close to the curb. One afternoon, after youâd squeezed the car into a spot clearly meant for a motorcycle, Leon finally spoke up.
âYou know, one of these days, youâre actually going to have to learn how to park that thing.â
You shot him a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. âLearn? I literally have never gotten a parking ticket. Not one. My record is cleaner than your service record is redacted.â
He just looked at you, at the absolute, unshakable confidence in your face, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. You genuinely believed it. You thought you were the most law abiding citizen in the District.
He never told you. He never would. Heâd you have this one thing. Let you believe, with all your heart, that it was your own brilliant skill that kept the traffic enforcement drones at bay. Heâd just lean back in the passenger seat, watch your smug smile in the rearview mirror, and keep his secret.
Iâm so so so sorry Iâve been inactive, truth is, Iâm kinda having a writers block, dw! Iâm working on it and I have a one shot idea, but, if any of you would like to share anything youâd like for me to write! Iâm open, so this basically means requests are now open!
Summary: Leon Kennedy has been your husband for two years, but after a series of incidents unleash the surface of the truths behind both of your works and the lies you now know have been telling each other, you began to stay alert around the other not knowing what are tiny truly planning in doing how and when, until the real whole truth is revealed that is.
Or in other words, my version of what would be Mr and Mrs smith but with Leon
An: hey guys! I actually love how this one ended up, for brief context, Reader is a scientist/doctor that works for umbrella, and I really want to make a part two of this but Idk how to continue it, so Iâm open for ideas and suggestions! Anyway, enjoy, 3,330 words
MONDAY
The silence in your house had texture now. It was no longer the comfortable quiet of two people who knew each otherâs rhythms, but the dense, humming quiet of two opposing magnetic fields holding each other at bay. The dance had become a high wire act, performed over a chasm you could both feel but couldnât yet see the bottom of.
You moved through your morning routine with a scientistâs hyper awareness. Every sound Leon made, the precise click of his dress shoes on the hardwood, the measured sip of his coffee was a data point. He was observing you too. You could feel the weight of his blue gaze like a physical touch, assessing, questioning. You traded your usual, easy kisses, but they were brief, a brush of lips that felt more like a probe than a promise.
âLong day?â You asked as he shrugged on his charcoal overcoat. It was a new question, loaded. What does a âlong dayâ entail for you, Leon? Body disposal or budget meetings?
âCould be,â he replied, his voice neutral. His eyes flickered over your face, searching for a tell. âYou in the lab all night?â
âMight be.â You mirrored his tone. Which lab, my love? The one with the grant proposals, or the one with the aerosolized neurotoxin? âDonât wait up.â
He gave a tight smile and was gone.
The dam broke in the evening. You, needing to drop off Leonâs dry cleaning, a wifely chore you used as both cover and intelligence gathering, checked the pockets of his favorite navy jacket. Your fingers, in the inner breast pocket, found nothing. But as you shook the jacket out, a single, long, platinum blonde hair, straight and fine, floated free from the wool lining and caught the light.
It wasnât yours. Your hair, wasnât of that size, your hair, wasnât of that texture, It wasnât from any of your friends. It was a foreign body, a contaminant in the ecosystem of your marriage.
A cold, clinical fury settled over you. Not jealousy, that was too simple, too emotional, to common, this was the outrage of a master chess player who sees an unexpected, illogical piece on the board. It was a variable. An unknown female variable attached to *your* husband, who was himself an ever deepening unknown.
You sealed the hair in a sterile specimen bag from your purse. For later analysis, the scientist in you noted absurdly. Against what database?
You didnât confront him. Instead, you placed the dry cleaning ticket on the kitchen island, a silent testament to your discovery. When he came home, late, smelling of night air and something metallic, he saw it. His eyes found yours across the room.
âThanks,â he said, his voice gravelly.
âAnything interesting in your pockets this time?â You asked, your tone light, almost singsong, as you stirred a pot of risotto. âTickets? Receipts? Secrets?â
He went very still. âJust the usual.â
âNo⊠strands of evidence?â You looked up, meeting his gaze directly, a slight, challenging smile on your lips.
The air crackled. He understood. Heâd been cataloging your absences, your unexplained technical knowledge, the faint, impossible scents on you. The hair was his mistake, a tangible flaw in his operational security. And youâd found it.
âEvidence of what, honey?â he asked, his voice dropping low.
âOh, I donât know,â you sighed, turning back to the stove. âThe evidence of a life lived. We all shed skin, Leon. And hair.â
---
TUESDAY - THURSDAY
The week became a masterpiece of subtle, domestic espionage.
Leon âaccidentallyâ rebooted the home network router, a move that would briefly interrupt any external data transmissions. He watched you, expecting frustration. You simply picked up a scientific journal and read, waiting it out with a patience that screamed training.
You, knowing he checked his car for trackers, placed a tiny, passive RFID chip from your lab, used for inventorying sensitive samples, in the cuff of his spare trousers. It wouldnât transmit, but if scanned by the right equipment (equipment you suspected he had), it would ping as an anomalous, unregistered bio tag. A ghost in his machine.
He left a complex, archaic cypher from a World War II era Russian spy manual, something he was studying for work, open on his desk. A test. You walked in to borrow a pen, glanced at it, and muttered, âThe Kondakov transposition. Cute. The vowel shift is the key.â You didnât pause, you took the pen and left. Leon stared at the page, his blood running cold. Who the hell was his wife?
You came home with a slight, precise limp, blaming it on a stumble in the lab in your âridiculous heels.â He offered to massage it. His fingers, tracing the musculature of your calf, felt not a twist, but the specific, residual inflammation of a high velocity impact. A kickback. From what?
You made love with a new, desperate intensity. It was no longer just passion, it was an interrogation, a physical search for answers written on skin and in response. It was a battle for dominance and a silent plea for the other to come clean, to shatter the glass wall. Afterward, youâd lie back to back, each pretending to sleep, minds racing through threat assessments and escape routes that always, inevitably, circled back to the person lying beside them.
The sarcasm became your native tongue, a language of barbs and feints.
âLong day saving the world from bureaucratic red tape, darling?â Youâd ask, handing him a whiskey.
âJust about. You? Long day saving the world from⊠underfunded grants?â heâd return, clinking your wine glass.
âSomeone has to do the hard work of reading spreadsheets,â youâd sigh dramatically. âWhile others, I assume, are out doing⊠whatever it is that puts blonde hairs in jackets.â
âMaybe Iâm consulting for a shampoo company,â heâd deadpan. âField testing. Rough job.â
The humor was black, brittle, and laced with a pain you both refused to acknowledge directly. You were trying to laugh so you didnât scream, trying to tease so you didnât tear each other apart.
---
FRIDAY
The call came for both of you, from different channels, converging on the same location.
For Leon, it was a D.S.O. priority alert: suspected B.O.W. transaction, docklands, warehouse 7. High caution. Unknown players.
For you, it was an encrypted Umbrella directive: prototype acquisition, docklands, warehouse 7. Rival bioweapon interest suspected. Terminate competition.
You arrived within minutes of each other, from opposite ends of the rain slicked pier. You were a shadow in form fitting tactical black, Leon was a specter in his trademark leather jacket and dark gear.
You entered through different skylights, your silenced pistols sweeping the same empty, cavernous space. The only light came from a single, flickering fluorescent over a central steel table. On it sat a hardened silver briefcase.
You saw each other at the same moment, across the vast, dark floor. Recognition wasnât instant, you were shapes in the gloom, threats, but then it was. It slammed into you with the force of a physical blow. The way he stood, the way you moved. The absurd, devastating familiarity of the person you share a bed with, now pointing a gun at you from fifty yards away.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The rain on the corrugated roof was the only sound.
Leonâs voice, strained, echoed in the vastness. ââŠy/n?â
Your voice, cold and sharp, came back. âLeon. Fancy meeting you here. Out for a late night paper shuffle?â
The briefcase was the midpoint. You began to circle it, slowly, weapons never wavering.
âYou can put the gun down, honey,â he said, the endearment sounding like a curse. âLetâs talk about this.â
âOh, I think weâre past talking,â you replied, your tone light, mocking. âUnless you want to finally tell me about your work âconsultingâ? And your blonde âcolleagueâ?â
âThatâs not what this is about.â
âIsnât it? Itâs always about the lies, Leon. The little ones. The big ones. The one where you pretend to be a nine to five pencil pusher while youâre clearlyâŠâ you gestured with your gun at your surroundings, ââŠthis.â
âSays the housewife in full tactical gear,â he shot back, a muscle ticking in his jaw. âWhatâs in the case, baby? Your latest casserole recipe?â
âSomething that could level a city block. But donât worry, dear, I used organic ingredients.â Your smile was a knife in the dark. âIâm assuming youâre here to secure it for the good of the nation. How very noble.â
âAnd youâre here to sell it to the highest bidder.â His voice was hard, final. The accusation hung between you.
You laughed, a bitter, beautiful sound. âYou have no idea what I am, or who I work for.â
âIâm starting to get a picture.â
The circling stopped. You were ten feet apart, the briefcase between you. The sexual tension that had always been there was now fused with violence, creating something electric and terrifying. You two were looking at the most attractive, most dangerous person you had ever known.
âSo,â you sighed, as if bored. âClassic standoff. Who flinches first? The loyal government dog, or the mercenary bitch?â
âDonât,â he growled.
âDonât what? Call it what it is?â Your voice lost its teasing edge, turning raw. âAll those late nights. All the lies. Was any of it real?â
âYouâre asking me that?â His composure cracked, his aim finally wavering a fraction. âEvery goddamn thing I felt for you was real. Is that what you want to hear? That I fell in love with a ghost?â
The words hung there, vulnerable and devastating. For a second, your mask slipped, and he saw the same bewildered hurt he felt.
Then the external doors crashed open. Third party goons, neither D.S.O. nor Umbrella poured in, guns blazing. The spell shattered into gunfire and chaos.
You and leon moved as one, your marital synergy translating seamlessly, horrifyingly, into combat synergy. He laid down covering fire as you sprinted for cover behind a stack of shipping containers. You flanked two attackers, disarming one with a vicious twist of his wrist and putting two rounds in the otherâs chest, your movements clinical and efficient. He fought with brutal, economical force, every move a statement of lethal skill youâd never seen, but somehow always known was there.
You were back to back, a united front against the common threat, yet utterly divided. As you fought, the sarcasm returned, a lifeline of your old selves.
âYour three oâclock!â You yelled, snapping a kick into a manâs knee.
âI see him! Youâre slow!â he shouted back, dropping the man with a precise shot.
âIâm in heels, you try it!â
âYouâre not wearing heels!â
âMetaphorically!â
You cleared the room, the last goon falling. You were panting, alone again, surrounded by bodies. The briefcase was still on the table.
The fight between you resumed instantly, but it was no longer about guns. It was physical, intimate, and furious. He lunged for the case. You intercepted him, driving an elbow towards his ribs. He caught your arm, using your momentum to spin you, but you hooked your leg around his, bringing you both crashing to the wet concrete.
You grappled on the ground, a tangle of limbs and suppressed rage. It was ugly and close. He pinned your wrists. You head butted his chin, breaking his grip. You rolled on top, your knees on his biceps, your hands at his throat, not squeezing, just holding. His hands came up to grip your hips, not to throw you off, but to hold you there.
Your faces were inches apart, breath mingling. You were flush against him. The anger in his eyes was molten, but beneath it was a desperate, anguished heat. Your own fury was a cold flame, but you could feel it melting, drawn to the inferno in him.
âWho are you?â he breathed, his voice ragged.
âIâm your wife,â you spat, but the words had no venom, only a stark, terrible truth.
He moved faster than you anticipated, reversing your positions in a smooth, powerful motion. Now he was above you, his weight pinning you down. The dynamic shifted. The fight bled out, replaced by something more profound and dangerous. His body pressed into yours. Your breath hitched. His eyes scanned your face, the wife he kissed goodbye, the operative who fought like a demon.
The briefcase was forgotten. The world outside was forgotten.
With a groan that was part agony, part surrender, he leaned down and crushed his mouth to yours. It wasnât a kiss of love or even passion; it was a kiss of war, of possession, of two shattered identities trying to fuse back together through sheer, brutal force. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, as if you could absorb the truth of him through his skin.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing harsh. âI have to take the case, baby.â
You stared up at him, your eyes wide. The fight was gone from your limbs. âI know.â
He searched your face. âWill you try to stop me?â
A long, silent beat. You saw the man you loved, the liar, the hero, the stranger. You saw the weight of his duty, real and heavy, mirroring the weight of your own corrupted ambition.
âNo,â you whispered, the word costing your everything.
He slowly pushed himself off you, standing. He didnât offer you a hand. You sat up, watching him. He walked to the table, picked up the briefcase. He looked back you her, a silhouette against the flickering light.
âGo home,â he said, his voice empty. âIâll see you there.â
He turned and vanished into the rain lashed night.
You let him go.
FRIDAY NIGHT
The drive home was a blur. The townhouse was dark and cold when you entered. You stripped off your tactical gear, showered until your skin was raw, and put on one of his old sweatshirts. It smelled like him. You sat in the living room, in the dark, waiting.
An hour later, you heard his key in the lock. The same sound youâd heard a thousand times. It had never sounded so final.
He came in, looking older, wearier than youâd ever seen him. Heâd changed back into civilian clothes, jeans, a grey Henley. He placed his keys in the bowl by the door with a quiet clink. The normalcy of the gesture was surreal.
He walked into the living room, saw you in the dim light from the streetlamp, and stopped.
For a long time, you just looked at each other. The battlefield was gone. Here was the true, terrifying confrontation.
âWho was the blonde?â You asked. Your voice was quiet, tired. Not accusing. Just⊠needing a place to start.
Leon ran a hand over his face. âHer name is Lara Miller. An⊠independent operative. A rival. An occasional⊠contact.â The pause was heavy. âThe hair was from a close quarters extraction in Belgrade. She was posing as my wife for cover. It was *strictly professional*.â
You absorbed this. A rival. A contact. A *fake wife*, now the jealousy did struck, The words were careful. âIs she why you have the stiffness in your left shoulder? From firing beside her?â
He blinked, surprised. âYes.â
You nodded slowly. âI work for Umbrella.â
The name landed in the quiet room like a corpse. Leonâs face went pale. âUmbrella.â The word was a curse. ây/n⊠Jesus Christ.â
âThe black labs. The ones your agency probably doesnât even know exist yet.â You were staring at your hands. âThey pay for my work. They donât care about my morals. And neither did I.â
âThe neurotoxin,â he stated.
âYes.â
âThe one that could level a city block.â
âMetaphorically,â you said, echoing your warehouse banter, but the joke fell flat.
He sank into the armchair opposite to you, the weight of the world on his shoulders. âIâm with the D.S.O. Division of Security Operations. We handle⊠whatever the president needs me to, actually, including biological threats. Like the ones your company creates.â
âI know what the D.S.O. is,â you said softly. âIâve been scrubbing our systems for signs of your incursions for two years.â
The sheer scale of the deception left him breathless. Two years. Your entire marriage, a beautiful, fragile ship sailing over an abyss.
âWhy?â The question was ripped from him. âWhy Umbrella?â
You finally looked at him, your eyes gleaming with unshed tears. âWhy the D.S.O.? Why the noble crusade? We all have our reasons, Leon. Mine were⊠intellectual avarice. Financial independence. The thrill of the forbidden. The same reasons, I imagine, that keep you running towards gunfire instead of away from it.â
âItâs not the same.â
âIsnât it?â You leaned forward. âWeâre both addicted to the edge. We both lie for a living. We just wear different uniforms. You get to feel righteous about yours.â
The truth of it was a slap. You were mirrors. Broken, distorted mirrors.
âWhat happens now?â he asked, the government agent in him warring with the heartbroken husband.
âThatâs the question, isnât it?â You drew your knees up to your chest. âI could ask you to turn me in. You could try. I have enough dead man switches and encrypted data dumps to make taking Umbrella down with me a very real possibility. It would be a bloodbath. Or you could look the other way, and live with a war criminal.â
âDonât call yourself that,â he snapped.
âWhat should I call myself, Leon? Your wife? The woman who makes you tea and also weaponizes plagues?â
He was silent, staring at the space between you. The space that was now filled with the wreckage of your secrets.
âI let you go tonight,â he said finally, not looking at you. âI had orders to secure the asset and neutralize all hostile actors. You were a hostile actor. I let you walk away.â
âI let you take it,â you countered. âI had orders to acquire it at all costs. You were the cost. I stood down.â
Another long silence, more profound than the last. That mutual, unilateral stand down was the only piece of solid ground they had.
âThe woman I married,â Leon began, his voice rough, âis she in there? The one who laughs at terrible movies, who gets obsessed with perfecting sourdough for a week then never bakes again, who falls asleep reading scientific abstracts on the couch?â
A tear finally escaped, tracing a path down your cheek. âSheâs real. Sheâs just⊠sharing space with someone else. Someone dark and greedy.â You wiped it away angrily. âThe man I married. The one who is secretly terrible at fixing anything around the house but tries anyway, who hums 80s rock in the shower, who looks at me sometimes like Iâve hung the moon⊠is he in there? Or is he just the cover for the soldier?â
Leonâs own eyes were bright. âHeâs real. And heâs⊠drowning.â
You were both laid bare, not as operatives, but as people. The personas had collided and annihilated each other, leaving only this raw, painful humanity.
âI donât know if we can come back from this,â you whispered, voicing the terrifying fear that had been hanging in the air since the warehouse.
âI donât know either,â Leon admitted. It was the most honest thing theyâd said to each other in years.
But then he looked at you, really looked at you, not at the mercenary or the scientist or the ghost, but at the woman heâd chosen, the woman who was a devastating combination of all those things and more.
Am I the only one who finds it soooo hard to write for re4 remake Leon? I just find his character so complex I canât figure him out, and I always feel like Iâm mischaracterizing him đ I feel like I canât ever get him
Summary: Youâve been dating Leon for a while now, and yet somehow you still donât think youâve realized how much power or connections your boyfriend actually has until you see him in action.
Or, in other words, Leon using his govermental connections to his advantage
An: hey guys! How have you been? Iâm sorry I havenât posted đ I actually didnât know if youâd like this one, but Iâm pretty confident it end up coming out better than I thought, I hope you like it!
1,391 words
After a few years of dating Leon, you wouldâve thought you knew everything about the man that slept next to you every night, and, if you were being fair, you did, the issue actually was, you had no real notion of what Leon being a goverment agent actually entailed. The first real perk happened during what should have been a nightmare layover in Montana.
You two were supposed to catch a red eye to Billings, some urgent BSAA/DSO joint debrief, followed by a quiet weekend that both of you swore you would take off.
But the flight was overbooked, the gates were a chaos, and you had already begun nursing a headache while dragging your carry on behind Leon, who was completely unfazed by the swarm of exhausted travelers.
You were this close to snapping at the poor airline rep when Leon calmly produced a battered leather ID. The gate agent glanced at it, did a double take, then flicked her eyes to Leons face and physically straightened.
Leon murmured something you couldnât hear, you did distinguish the tone he used tho, low, polite, but carrying a weight that made the woman nod immediately.
Next thing you knew, she ushered around the desk, your boarding pass upgraded. First class. Private seats. A smile thatâs a little too stiff to be genuine.
You were still processing the situation as Leon steered you through the gate like nothing had happened.
âWhat did you just show her?â
He shrugged. âTravel credential.â
You squinted. âWhich one? The normal one or the âI kill bioweapons for the presidentâ one?â
He didnât even answer. He just tugged you by the wrist, pushed you down into the plush first class seat, and deadpanned âTry the champagne. Itâs free.â
ââ
Already in Billings, it happened again.
The hotel was overbooked, conference season, of course! How lucky you were. diplomats everywhere, and the snobby front desk staff refusing to budge. âSorry, miss, no rooms until tomorrow.â
You (tired and hungry) were already about to pick a fight, when Leon just sighed, grabbing your wrist softly to pull you back as he took out his phone, dialing a number you knew he hated using. He murmured something calm and clipped, and you only made out something along the words âYes. Same as last time. Thank you.â
The manager appeared in under two minutes. He was practically running, apologizing six times. âWe didnât know you were coming, Agent Kennedy.â
Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. Agent?
You were immediately upgraded to a corner suite, with a very comfortable looking king sized bed, two balconies overlooking the lake, a yummy fruit basket and a complementary bottle of French wine.
You tossed a grape at Leonâs head as he was unpacking his handgun by the window.
âAgent, huh?â
Leon caught the grape midair and then popped it into his mouth like it was nothing nothing. âEat your fruit, sweetheart.â
ââ
Then, back at D.C you guys were finally having a real date, no mission, no weapons, no B.O.W.s waiting to crash dessert.
You picked the restaurant. Impossible to get into with a two months waitlist, all marble and soft jazz and impossibly pretentious staff who made you feel underdressed no matter what you wore.
You showed up fifteen minutes late because Leon insisted on driving, which meant you always ended up taking detours, cause âhe knows betterâ
The host raised an eyebrow at your name, he flicked through the reservation book, and then looked up at you. âIâm sorry, maâam, but it appears your table was given awayââ
Leon stepped forward before the man could even finish his sentence, smooth as sin, voice low enough only for you and the host to hear: âAny chance the White House liaisonâs table is free tonight?â
Your eyes flicked to Leonâs face in nothing but confusion, the hostâs eyes flick down to Leonâs hand were his phone was showing something you couldnât quite see from your place, a picture? A document? A note? Whatever it was, recognition hit fast and hard in the hosts face, and all you could do at the moment was watch the smug click in the manâs posture and the way he suddenly couldnât look Leon in the eye.
âOf course, sir, weâll make room immediately.â
Leon shoot you a sidelong smirk as you were ushered to a window seat within sixty seconds.
You hissed as you sat down: âYou hate pulling rank.â
He shrugged, opening the wine list like it was the weather report. âYou wanted oysters.â
You scuffed amused before kicking him under the table.
He simply winked.
ââ
The op was going sideways in the most bureaucratic way possible. You were stuck at a heavily fortified private airstrip in Oregon, a sealed case of T-virus variants in your trunk. Your local BSAA contact had just been turned away at the gate by a stone faced private security team. The paperwork, apparently, was "insufficient."
Youâd tried logic. You tried your credentials. Youâd tried thinly veiled threats about global pandemics. The head of security, a man with the personality of a brick wall, remained unmoved. "No clearance, no entry." The samples were time sensitive, and the clock was ticking.
Swearing under your breath, you did the one thing you promised yourself youâd never do specially during a mission: you called him.
He answered on the first ring, the background noise suggesting he was on his bike. "Hey? You good?"
"Does 'good' include being held hostage by a cop with a god complex?" You hissed, turning your back to the security booth. "Your⊠idiot badge. The one that makes people soil themselves. Can you get me through a gate?"
A low grunt of amusement came through the line. "Location?"
You gave him the details. The name of the cop, and fifteen minutes later, the brick wall security chiefâs radio crackled. He listened, his face gradually losing all its color. He looked at you, then back at his radio, his voice an octave higher when he spoke. "Ma'am, you are⊠cleared for entry. My deepest apologies."
You swept past him without a second glance, a wicked, triumphant grin on your face.
ââ
But the truth was, Leon never bragged about his connections, that wasnât his style. The power of his badge was a tool, not a trophy. But heâd made a single, quiet call after he bought you the car, adding the Porscheâs plates to a very short, very privileged list. It was a small thing, an invisible shield. A way to give you one less headache in a world full of them.
So, it became a quiet, unshakable law of the universe, your Porsche never got tickets. Not in D.C., not in the labyrinth of government-heavy Virginia, not even when you were blatantly parked in the space of two cars for forty-five minutes.
You were convinced it was your own impeccable driving karma. âItâs about being respectful of the law, Kennedy,â youâd tease, sliding into the driverâs seat while he eyed a âNo Parkingâ sign youâd just ignored. âSomething you wouldnât understand.â
Leon would just grunt, buckling his passenger seatbelt.
The pinnacle of your delusion was parking. You were, by any objective measure, a terrible parker. The Porsche always ended up at a jaunty angle, two wheels dangerously close to the curb. One afternoon, after youâd squeezed the car into a spot clearly meant for a motorcycle, Leon finally spoke up.
âYou know, one of these days, youâre actually going to have to learn how to park that thing.â
You shot him a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. âLearn? I literally have never gotten a parking ticket. Not one. My record is cleaner than your service record is redacted.â
He just looked at you, at the absolute, unshakable confidence in your face, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. You genuinely believed it. You thought you were the most law abiding citizen in the District.
He never told you. He never would. Heâd you have this one thing. Let you believe, with all your heart, that it was your own brilliant skill that kept the traffic enforcement drones at bay. Heâd just lean back in the passenger seat, watch your smug smile in the rearview mirror, and keep his secret.
Summary: Leon Kennedy has never been fond of his money, he just never found a good reason to spend it properly, not certainly with hoe dull and empty his life felt, that is, until you came along, not only fixing his life purposes but his bank account as well.
Or basically, how Leon Kennedy started to grow fond of his big fat paycheck and his life in general thanks to you.
Contents: fluff, domestic bliss I guessâŠ.? Leon having a lot of money.
An: I wrote this imagining reader being a few years younger than Leon, maybe her being around 30+ while he is like 40? But however you like works, also, I thought this was kind of a drabble, but I guess it counts more as a one shot.
3,155 words
For a long time, Leon didnât really care about the money.
At least not in the way normal people did, paying rent on time, investing in retirement, buying a decent pair of shoes that werenât ruined by dirt or rain in European forests.
When he got âpromotedâ. Rookie cop turned into DSO golden boy, the numbers in his bank account jumped every year. Hazard pay. Overtime. Bonuses the size of someoneâs mortgage.
He didnât spend it.
Not really.
Sure, he did have obvious expenses, bullets, boots, bikes, bikes, yes, the Ducati in his garage, that one he did love, a testament to a fleeting impulse, a need for speed and control on open roads that felt like freedom. The cheap apartment he rented that he never called home, because home was just a launchpad for the next mission. Sometimes, he bought a better suit, something to make the meetings with the President feel slightly less like a farce.
But real spending? On himself? For himself?
Nah.
He told himself it didnât matter. It felt absurd. The money was a monument to a future he was certain would never come.
Heâd finish the mission. Cash the check. And what?
Buy another bike heâd probably total on a backroad? A bottle heâd forget he drank?
Sometimes, back then, he really didnât see the point of making it to the next payday.
ââ
You didnât fix him overnight. youd actually smack him if he ever said that out loud.
But you did show up.
Spain first. Then the cold archives rooms of the BSAA for whenever he needed data. Then the occasional classified overlap, âneed an extra sniper, y/n? Send Kennedy. He wonât talk.â
It was always separate missions. Separate beds. Separate debriefs.
Until it wasnât.
It started stupidly, as all important things in Leonâs life do.
You two had just come back from a mission you surprisingly had together in Virginia. Something about a small-time black market trader hawking G-virus samples like antique jewelry. you two spent three days underground, three more above, and by the time you guys staggered back to DC, you both looked like hell.
You ended up at his place, cause his fridge, unlike yours, actually had beer.
You sat at his cheap kitchen table, leg propped on another chair, taping up a sprained ankle. Leon leaned against the counter, still wearing his gun harness, scanning an unopened letter from his bank.
You caught him frowning at it. âBad news?â
He shrugged. âNot really. Just my paycheck.â
You blinked. âYou look like someone told you your cat died.â
Leon smirked. âIf I had a cat, it would have run away by now.â
You snatched the envelope out of his hand, tore it open without asking.
Scanned the digits.
Whistled low. âHoly shit, Kennedy.â
He shrugged again, uncomfortable, defensive, and trying very hard to act nonchalant. âHazard pay.â
you rolled your eyes. âHazard pay?! This is retire-and-buy-a-lake-house money.â
Leon snorted. âWhat would I do with a lake house?â
you just smiled
âMaybe one day youâll figure it out.â
ââ
His first âbigâ investment after he started dating you was actually small, grand stupidly small.
He was on a solo job in Chicago. Rain, again. He ducked into a shop while the city flooded around him. On the counter was a display case of simple watches, nothing fancy. Just clean, practical, a little sturdy.
The clerk asked, âLooking for something for your wife?â
Leon almost laughed. He mumbled, âGirlfriend,â before he could think about it too hard.
It was the first time heâd ever called you that out loud, even if nobody would hear him say it again for months.
The thing between you guys wasnât complicated, you two just didnât have the head and energy to give it a label, if he did thing about it though, you were his girlfriend.
He picked one with a slim leather strap, dark, elegant, exactly the kind of thing youâd mock him for fussing over.
When he got back to DC, he found you half-asleep on his couch, your laptop balanced on your stomach.
He slipped the watch on your wrist while you pretended not to wake up.
You teased him for it the next morning.
 âLook at you, big spender.â
But you wore it every damn day.
ââ
The next thing leon bought wasnât for you, it was for him. Well, technically, for the both of you.
He found an apartment. Bigger. Nicer. A top-floor unit with actual windows that let in light. The kind of place that had space, not just for a bed and a half-dead houseplant, but with enough space for two people. There was room for your books and his record collection, for a kitchen table where you could actually eat a meal together.
Leon picked it out while you were halfway across Europe on a cleanup mission with the BSAA.
He tried to brush it off telling you it was practical, something useful for the both of you.
He presented it to you as a tactical decision. "Better security. Closer to the DSO hangar. Central location."
You didn't buy it for a second, your eyes scanning the open plan living room, the modern kitchen, the view of the city skyline, and the walk-in closet he'd already half filled with your things. You saw the bathroom with two sinks. And you didnât argue, smiling happily and nodding to his words.
ââ
Okay, well, then, the Ducati was just for him, because he so deserved it.
Thatâs what Leon kept repeating to himself.
When the paperwork for the penthouse cleared, you pressed your mouth to his ear and murmured:Â âDonât you think youâve earned a toy?â
Well what a funny thing to say, uh? You just loved getting stuff inside his head, and, well, yeah, his actual one was slightly used and old, and what can a man do other than listen to his woman, right?
So he did what Leon S. Kennedy does best: found the meanest, sleekest bike on the market, handed over his card without blinking.
He swore heâd be careful.
you swore youâd never ride on it.
Both were lies, but good ones.
ââ
Now, as much as you loved the fact that Leon had actually gotten that bike for himself, you werenât entirely a big fan of being in it.
The Ducati was a point of contention. You hated it. More specifically, you hated getting on the back of it, clinging to Leon as he took corners at a speed you considered âa blatant disregard for mortality.â
Did you think he looked absolutely hot and breathtaking while driving it by himself? Of course you did! Doesnât mean you want to die tomorrow tho.
Youâd been joking. Really. Just a throwaway line one night in bed, your hair in his face, your voice muffled into his chest:Â âI should get something fast. A real car. So you can stop bribing me onto that deathtrap Ducati.â
So he decided to solve the problem.
Two weeks later, he tossed you the keys.
It was sleek, gleaming, and so new it practically sparkled under the DC streetlights.
The plates already registered.
The insurance under his name.
You stared at him in the underground garage, hands on your hips, mouth open.
âYouâre kidding.â
He just grinned, the same grin that got him out of trouble with half the worldâs worst people. âYou hate my bike. This is safer.â
âLeon, this is a Porscheâ
He leaned in, dropped his mouth to your ear, and murmured âDrive it. Donât worry about the gas. Just donât scratch it, Kay?.â
A Porsche, and man, did you loved it.
Sometimes, when youâre both feeling like having a little more fun than usual, to go somewhere, you take the Porsche. He rides the Ducati. During this times, heâll glance over at you at a red light, you hair pinned back, sunglasses on, utterly in your element behind the wheel, and heâll give you a nod.
Youâll just smirk back and hit the accelerator the second the light turns green, leaving him behind to catch up.
Yeah, heâd think, twisting the throttle. Good money.
ââ
Heâll never admit it to anyoneâs face, but these days, Leon doesnât hate his paycheck anymore.
Itâs not just hazard pay. Itâs not blood hush. Itâs not a leash.
At first, during the beginning of his big expenses, youâd feel somehow guilty, youâd know him from before, when he wouldnât spend a single coin in âuselessâ stuff, which for Leon, usually meant anything that wasnât a gun cleaning kit, youâd tease him about it, about him not letting you pay, about him getting you tuns of things.
âWhat am I, Kennedy? Your sugar baby?â
Heâll always grin, the real grin, the crooked grin he saves for you alone.
âNo, sweetheart. Youâre my retirement plan.â
The money didnât buy the quiet moments tho, the ones that make him feel like he could be normal someday.
It didnât buy the mornings where you curled into his side, warm under a cheap blanket, mumbling about his alarm clock being âa government conspiracyâ.
It didnât buy the nights you sat together on that big stupid couch, feet up, watching the sun sink behind houses and buildings across the city.
But the money did make it easier to keep those moments. To come home to them. To make a home worth coming back to.
Summary: After a dumb rumor about you being in love with the Leon Kennedy, aka a loser in your eyes, you approach him in hopes of getting to the bottom of the situation and stopping it from ruining your life.
Or in other words, basically mean girls but itâs you and Leon as Rodrick.
An: im so so so sorry! Iâve been inactive for weeks! Iâve had a lot of stuff to do tho, and this literally took me ages to finish, and itâs not even done yet, anyway, I loooooooove Leonâs look for the new game! Omfg Iâm so excited! Next fix coming will be about him! Also, this is slow burn.
7,500 words
It all started because of my lousy journal.
It's not a diary, okay? A diary is for girls with fluttery stickers and secrets about which boy band member they'd marry. My journal is a historical record, a historical record about how high school is a brutal, hierarchical ecosystem, the very top of the food chain, you have the Predators. And the apex predator of North Shore High is my brotherâs ex-best friend, Y/N George.
Sheâs the queen.
She rules from a table in the center of the cafeteria that everyone knows not to sit at, flanked by her two loyal followers, Gretchen Wieners and Karen Smith, The Plastics. Her word is law. One look from her can socially annihilate you. Sheâs terrifying.
And my brother, Leon, used to be her best friend.
Itâs the weirdest, most ancient history in the world. Back in middle school, before she became⊠that, sheâd actually hang out in our garage. She and Leon would sit for hours, I think she just liked that he didnât treat her like she was special. Or maybe he did, and I was just too young to get it.
Then high school started. She got a new haircut, new friends, and a new personality. She dropped him like a bad habit. Didn't just ignore him; acted like he, and our whole family, had been surgically removed from her memory.
He pretends he doesnât care. Heâs got his band, Löded Diper, his gross basement room, and a permanent layer of sarcasm to protect himself. But I know it messed him up. You donât get that bitter about nothing.
Which is why it was a catastrophically bad idea for me to write about it in my journal. I was just documenting the social structure for posterity! But I guess mentioning that "Y/n apparently had a huge, pathetic crush on my brother Leon back in eighth grade" was a step too far.
I thought my journal was safe.
I was wrong.
It was stolen by a troll named Fregley, who has no understanding of social boundaries or personal property. He didn't even read it for the insightful commentary. He just saw the name "Y/N George" and the word "romantic" and his one functioning brain cell lit up. He told his older cousin, a sophomore who sits at the same history class row as Karen Smith.
â â
The whispers started in Calculus, by the time you had reached your locker before lunch, they were a deafening roar, you felt them before you had even heard them, the sidelong glances that somehow felt a little too different to be just from usual adoration, the suppressed giggles, the way the crowd in the hall seemed to part for you just a little too quickly, like you were radioactive.
Gretchen was practically vibrating with nervous energy when you reached your usual lunch table.
"Y/N. There's a... thing. A rumor."
"What kind of rumor?" You asked, your voice calm. You kept your face a perfect, placid mask.
Karen, bless her empty head, just blinked. "Something about you and that guy from Löded Diper? Leon?"
Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, targeted kind of cold, like an ice cube dropped directly down your spine. Leon. A name you hadnât allowed yourself to think of in years. A ghost you had buried deep.
"That's ridiculous," you said, your tone slicing through the air. "I don't even know who that is."
"Everyone's talking about it," Gretchen whispered, her eyes wide. "They're saying you were... close. In middle school."
The mask almost slipped, you could feel a hot flush creeping up your neck, this was a direct attack, this wasnât just any random rumor, no, this was someone trying to humiliate you, and not just anyone, but Leon, someone trying to drag the pristine, polished image of you through the mud of your awkward, âpre royalâ past.
And you knew, with a terrifying certainty, exactly who was behind it.
He was bitter. He was pathetic. He saw you thriving, and he couldn't handle it. He wanted to pull you back down to his level.
"I'll handle it," you said, standing up. "Save my seat."
He didnât look up as you approached, your heels clicking a sharp, angry staccato on the asphalt.
âKennedy.â
âGeorge. To what do I owe the honor?â His voice was a low, bored drawl, devoid of the reverence you were accustomed to. It was the same voice that had once whispered stupid jokes to you during math class.
âYou know exactly why Iâm here,â you seethed, crossing your arms over your chest. âYou need to tell everyone you made it up. That youâre just some pathetic, obsessed loser who canât get over the fact that I stopped talking to you.â
Finally, he looked at you. His brown eyes, once so open and warm, were now cool and laced with mockery. A lazy smirk played on his lips. âSorry, princess. Iâve got a reputation to maintain. Being known as your middle school pity project isnât great for my image.â
The casual dismissal was a slap. âMy image? You think this is about your image? Youâre a nobody who plays drums in a garage!â
âAnd youâre a dictator who rules with lip gloss and psychological warfare. We all have our things.â He pushed off the bleachers, standing to his full height. Heâd gotten taller. It was annoyingly inconvenient. âLook, I didnât start this rumor. Why would I? Itâs embarrassing for both of us.â
âOh, please,â you scoffed, the bitterness of his abandonment giving your words an extra edge. âYouâve been waiting for a chance to get back at me for years. You probably thought this would make me talk to you again.â
He let out a short, humorless laugh. âYou think this is some elaborate scheme to get back into your good graces? Newsflash, Y/N. I have a life. A life that, incidentally, this stupid rumor is currently screwing with.â
That gave you pause. âWhat are you talking about?â
âThereâs this girl. Plays bass. She thinks the rumor is âdramaâ and now sheâs giving me the cold shoulder.â He shook his head, flicking the cigarette butt away. âSo, for the record, I want this dead more than you do. I donât have time for your high school soap opera.â
The statement was so absurd you almost laughed.
"You want it dead more? Everyone in this school would kill to have their name linked with mine. It's social currency."
"Yeah, well, I'm not everyone," he replied, tucking the notebook into his back pocket.
You stared at him, completely thrown. He wasn't denying it to protect your feelings or out of some lingering respect. He was denying it because it was an inconvenience. He saw your legendary status as a liability. The ground beneath your feet felt unsteady.
A confusing, unwelcome pull tugged at you. This wasn't the Leon you remembered. The Leon you remembered had looked at you like you hung the moon. This Leon looked at you like you were a mildly annoying fly buzzing near his drum set. And a treacherous, hidden part of you, the part that remembered laughing until you cried in his garage, was perversely fascinated by it.
Who did he think he was?
"So," he said, stepping closer. He was taller now, and you had to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. It was a power shift you deeply resented. "You're the queen of gossip. You hear everything. I know people on the fringes. We find the source, we shut it down. Then we can go back to our mutually exclusive orbits. Sound like a plan?"
A reluctant alliance. With the one person in this school who seemed utterly immune to you, the one person whose indifference felt like a challenge, the one person who reminded you of a version of yourself you'd buried.
You could feel the ghost of that old crush, the one you'd never, ever admit to, stirring in your chest. It was tangled up with the fresh sting of his rejection and a sharp, startling curiosity.
"Fine," you bit out, the word a surrender and a declaration of war all at once. "But you don't talk to me in public. You don't look at me. We are not associates."
"Trust me, Y/N," he said, using your real name like a weapon, a reminder of the past he seemed to have shed as easily as his old hoodies. "Staying off your radar has been my primary goal for the last three years."
He turned and walked away, the picture of nonchalance, leaving you standing there. The utterly dismissed, and for the first time, the silence around you didn't feel powerful. It felt lonely. The game had changed, and you were no longer the only one making the rules.
â â
The buzz from your confrontation with Leon was still humming under your skin, a low-grade irritant, you needed a distraction, you needed to reassert your dominance in a way that was simple, clear, and satisfying, the universe, it seemed, provided one in the form of a wide eyed new girl and a chronically stupid jock.
You were holding court at the central table, picking at a salad and listening to Gretchen dissect the social implications of a new zit on Trang Pak's forehead, when you saw him.
Jason, smelling faintly of Axe body spray and entitlement, was leaning over a girl you'd seen hovering around the edges of the cafeteria.
"So," Jason was saying, a greasy smile on his face. "Would you like us to assign someone to butter your muffin?"
The girl, Cady, you'd heard-just blinked, a look of pure, uncomprehending confusion on her face. She didn't get the innuendo. It was almost pathetic.
Perfect.
"Jason," your voice cut through the noise, sharp and dismissive. He flinched, and everyone within earshot went quiet.
"Is he bothering you?" you asked Cady, though your eyes were locked on him. "Jason, why are you such a skeeze?"
"I was just being friendly!" he protested, his bravado deflating.
Gretchen gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "You were supposed to call me last night!"
You gave a slow, disappointed shake of your head, playing the role of righteous judge perfectly. "Jason, you do not come to a party at my house with Gretchen and then scam on some poor, innocent girl right in front of us three days later."
You turned your gaze fully to Cady. "Do you want to have sex with him?"
Cady's eyes went wide with panic. She shook her head vigorously. "No. No, thank you."
Jason's face crumpled into a weird, pouty grimace.
"So, it's settled," you announced, your verdict final. "You can go shave your back now. Bye, Jason."
He slunk away, muttering "bitch" under his breath, and you made a mental note to ensure he didn't get into the next halfway decent party for the rest of the semester.
As Cady began to turn away, presumably towards Janis lan's table, ha! *Janis lan*, of all people, you saw your opening. A perfect, beautiful distraction from your Leon problem.
"Wait," you commanded. "Sit down."
She hesitated, her body angled toward the art freaks. You saw her glance over at Janis's table, poor thing, she was this close to turning into one of those monkeys, well lucky her you were in a needing for relax today.
"Seriously," you said, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Sit. Down."
She sat, perching on the edge of the bench like a bird ready to take flight.
You leaned in, the picture of casual curiosity. "So, why don't I know you?"
"Oh, I'm new," she said, her voice soft. "I just moved here from Africa."
You reared back, a genuine spark of surprise and amusement hitting you. "What?" This was better than you thought.
"I used to be homeschooled," she added, as if that explained everything.
"Wait, what?" you repeated, playing it up for Gretchen and Karen's benefit. This was pure gold.
"My mom taught me at home-"
You cut her off with a wave of your hand. "I know what homeschooled is," you said, a slight edge to your voice. "I'm not retarded."
You turned to look at Gretchen and Karen, your eyes wide with theatrical shock. "So you've actually never been to a real school before? Shut up!"
Cady looked bewildered. "I didn't say anything..?"
You gave her a brilliant, predatory smile. "Homeschool. That's really interesting. You're, like, really pretty."
"Thank you," she mumbled, looking down at her tray.
"So you agree?" you pressed, tilting your head. "You think you're really pretty?"
A deep blush spread across her cheeks. "Oh... I don't know..."
You let her squirm for a second before your eyes dropped to her wrist. "Oh my god, I love your bracelet! Where did you get it?"
"My mom made it for me."
"It's adorable," you cooed, though you'd never be caught dead wearing something so handmade.
Gretchen, desperate to contribute, leaned in. "It's so fetch."
You turned your head slowly toward her, your expression flat. "What is fetch?"
"It's slang," she explained weakly. "From England.."
Before you could dismantle that, Karen finally spoke, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. "So, if you're from Africa.." she began, and you braced yourself. "Why are you white?"
You closed your eyes for a brief second, summoning patience. Gretchen gasped. "Oh my god, Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white!"
Cady nodded, looking utterly lost. You simply put a hand in front of your mouth and leaned in, whispering to Gretchen and Karen.
"She's a homeschooled jungle freak who almost became friends with Janis lan. This is an absolute social emergency, we have to save her and make her one of us."
You leaned back, your smile back in place. "Okay," you said to Cady. "You should just know that we don't do this a lot, so this is like... a really huge deal."
Gretchen finished the pitch, her voice giddy. "We want to invite you to have lunch with us! Every day for the rest of the week!"
Cady looked panicked. "Oh, it's okay, I-"
"Coolness!" you interrupted, slamming the door on any refusal. "So we'll see you tomorrow."
Karen beamed, delivering the final, sacred law. "And on Wednesdays, we wear pink."
You watched as Cady gathered her things and scurried away, no doubt to report back
to Janis. Let her. You'd just declared war, and you'd secured a fascinating new pawn. For a moment, the confusing pull of Leon and his infuriating indifference was forgotten.
You were you again. And you were in control.
â â
The next day shopping trip was a ritual of power. It was about reinforcing the hierarchy, teaching Cady the rules of aesthetics, and reminding everyone at the North Shore Mall who was in charge.
You, Gretchen, and Karen moved through the stores like a well dressed hurricane, with Cady trailing behind, wide eyed. You dictated what was acceptable, straps no wider than a finger, nothing bought off the sale rack, and what was social suicide.
"That is the ugliest effing skirt I have ever seen," you declared, holding up a floral monstrosity.
Karen and Gretchen giggled obediently. Cady just looked bewildered, and then you saw him.
Leaning against the railing of the food court, looking bored out of his skull. Leon. Of course. Was he following you? Had your 'alliance' given him some sort of misplaced sense of permission? Rage, hot and immediate, flooded your veins.
"I need to... return something," you said to the girls, your voice tight. "Stay here. Don't let Karen near the Cinnabon and donât try anything without me, okay?â
You didn't wait for a response. You strode across the polished floor, your heels echoing like gunshots. He saw you coming, and that damn smirk didn't even waver.
"Lose your way to the Hot Topic?" you snarled, stopping inches from him.
His friend mumbled something and scurried off. Leon just shrugged. "Mall's a free country. Last I checked."
"Don't play dumb. You're following me. Is this your idea of a joke? Because I am not laughing."
His expression shifted from amused to genuinely annoyed. "Get over yourself. I'm not
following you. I'm here because this is where people with no money and nothing to do on a Saturday hang out. Shocking, I know, but the world doesn't actually revolve around you."
The conviction in his voice gave you pause. He seemed... sincere in his irritation.
He looked you up and down, a flicker of the old familiarity in his eyes.
"Look, despite what you clearly believe, I have better things to do than track your every move. But since you're here, you got any leads on our little... situation?"
Our situation. The words felt intimate and wrong.
"No," you admitted through gritted teeth. "But I'm working on it."
"Yeah, I can see that. Crucial investigation into push-up bras." He nodded toward the store. "Real detective work."
"You're an asshole."
"You're a control freak. We've established this." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping.
"But this rumor is messing with my life, too. That girl I told you about? She's avoiding me. So, for both our sakes, let's just figure this out. You hear anything, you let me know. I'll do the same."
You glanced back towards your group. Gretchen was watching you, a confused frown on her face. You took a step closer to Leon, lowering your voice. âI canât talk here. My friends are watching.â
âOh, heaven forbid,â he mocked. But he also lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. The scent of his leather jacket and cheap cologne was disconcertingly familiar. âLook, I asked around. The rumor definitely started from a journal. Some freshman found it in study hall. Thatâs all Iâve got.â
âA journal?â you whispered, your mind racing. âWhose journal?â
âThatâs the million dollar question, isnât it?â He looked past you, his eyes narrowing. âYour cult looks like itâs missing its leader. You might want to get back before they start a panic.â
You risked a glance back. Karen was waving at you, a confused look on her face. This was a disaster. You were seen.
âThis was a mistake,â you muttered, taking a step back.
âJoint forces, remember?â he said, his voice low and serious for a moment. âJust⊠keep your ears open. Iâll do the same. Weâll text.â
The word hung in the air between you. Text. A direct, private line of communication. It felt dangerous. It felt necessary.
âFine,â you said tersely. âDonât contact me unless itâs important.â
âThe feeling is mutual,â he retorted, turning back to the railing as if youâd already disappeared.
You walked back to your friends, your heart pounding for reasons you couldnât quite name.
âWho was that?â Gretchen asked immediately, her eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of alarm.
You forced a dismissive laugh, the sound brittle even to your own ears. âThat? Ugh, that was just Leon. He was, like, begging me to come see his band play or something. So pathetic.â You rolled your eyes, the performance coming automatically. âNow, where were we? Cady, you are not buying that. It literally looks like a grannyâs sweaterâ
As you steered the group away, you could feel his gaze on your back, a phantom weight that followed you for the rest of the afternoon. The alliance was sealed. The game was on. And for the first time in a long time, the throne beneath you felt just a little bit unsteady.
â â
Your house on Halloween was a legend. The perfect, sterile opulence of your living room was transformed into a den of controlled chaos, throbbing with bass and the shrieks of teenagers trying too hard. Youâd chosen a sexy bunny costume, an obvious choice, but classic. You were the main attraction; you didnât need a creative costume. Karen was a mouse, Gretchen a cat.
And Cady, God love her, had shown up as a zombie bride. No one had told her the "sexy" part was implied. It was perfect. She looked like a lost extra from a B-movie, and it only made your own polished perfection shine brighter.
You were holding court near the punch bowl, letting Aaron Samuelsâs eyes linger on the fishnet stockings youâd paired with the bunny tail, when you felt a sudden, firm grip on the fluffy white tail attached to your costume, giving it a playful, deliberate tug. You spun around, ready to eviscerate whoever dared. It was Leon.
"What do you think you're doing?" you hissed, your voice low so no one else could hear over the music.
He was dressed in what looked like his everyday clothes with a fake blood-splattered guitar pick necklace. He hadnât even tried. And he was here. In your house. His presence was a crack in the reality of your party, a piece of your secret, messy past intruding on your pristine present.
He looked you up and down, that infuriatingly lazy smirk playing on his lips. âNice tail. Is it detachable?â
âDonât,â you warned, your voice low. âI told you not to talk to me in public. This is my house.â
âIâm not talking to you in public,â he reasoned, taking a sip from a red solo cup. âIâm talking to you at your private party. And Iâm here because Jordan heard it was the place to be. Something about a potential âriot.â His words, not mine.â
âYou need to leave,â you said, though the command lacked its usual force. His eyes on you in the costume felt different than everyone elseâs. They werenât admiring they were assessing. âYou canât talk to me in public.â
not talking to you," he said, the smirk never leaving his face. âIâm just gathering intel. Youâd be surprised what people confess when theyâre drunk and think the band guy isnât listening. Maybe Iâll find out who started our little rumor.â His fingers brushed against the fluffy bunny tail again, a quick, flirtingly possessive grip that sent a jolt straight through you.
You swatted his hand away, your heart hammering. âDonât touch me.â
âJust seeing if it was real,â he shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. âSeems fake.â
The insult was so petty, so perfectly him, that you were left speechless. He winked and melted back into the crowd, leaving you fuming and flustered.
His gaze drifted past you, toward where Aaron Samuels was talking to a group of jocks. "Speaking of your type... seems like you've got your hands full."
The implication was clear. He knew. Of course he knew. He always saw through you.
"My social life is none of your business," you snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a party to run."
You scanned the room and found Cady looking miserable in her zombie makeup. And Aaron was nearby, watching the interaction with a confused frown.
Perfect.
You strode over, Cady, a smile on your face as you approached. âEnjoying the party?â
She turned to look at you quickly with a slight smile but staying silent.
âYou know, I think you and Aaron would be a really cute coupleâ you said with an innocent tone and your usual confident smile.
you watched her face lit up in seconds under that ugly zombie make up and those weird disgusting teeth. âReally?â
âWell I just said so, donât be thirstyâ you replied with a chuckle as you eyed her up and down amused. âYou know, I could talk to him for you if you want, see if he likes you back, trust me, I know exactly how to play it.â
â â
âI need to talk to youâ you said as you looked up at Aaron with a slight smile, eyeing up cady from afar. âYou know that girl cady? Be careful, because she has a huge crush on you, I mean, she tells everybody! Itâs kinda cute actually, sheâs like a little girl, she like writes all over her notebook Mrs Aaron Samuel
You curled your arm with Aaronâs, and before Cady, before everyone could process it, you pulled him in and kissed him. It wasnât a gentle kiss; it was a claim. A branding. You poured all your frustration with Leon, all your need for dominance, into it.
When you pulled away, Aaron looked dazed. The crowd around you whooped and cheered. You glanced over his shoulder and saw Cadyâs face, a mask of heartbreak and betrayal before she turned and fled.
â â
The fallout was immediate. Aaron was officially back with you, a trophy you displayed with bored satisfaction. Cady was distant, her smiles strained. You didnât care. Youâd won.
But then, strange things started happening.
It began with your clothes. Youâd be getting dressed for school, and your favorite jeans would be tighter. Then another pair, which was weird since all you were eating were those kalteen protein bars Cady had given you. You wrote it off as your mom using the wrong laundry settings
Then, in PE, you were changing, and after putting your tank top on, you looked down. There were two fraying holes in the chest area of your tank, right over your bra, you simply shrug it off without even giving it a second thought and walked the rest of the school day like that. By the end of the day, half the girls in school were mimicking the style, cutting holes in their own shirts.
It was a triumph. Youâd started a trend.
That afternoon, you found yourself at Leonâs house. The "joint forces" investigation had become a flimsy excuse for these visits. Youâd show up, heâd be in the garage tinkering with his drum set or scribbling in a notebook, and youâd just⊠exist there, away from the pressures of North Shore.
He looked up as you walked in, his eyes immediately going to the holes in your shirt. âWhoa. New fashion? You get into a fight with a stapler?â
You rolled your eyes, dropping your bag on a dusty amp. âItâs a trend. I started it.â
âRight,â he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. âBecause nothing says âIâm at the top of the food chainâ like walking around in clothes that look like theyâve been through a woodchipper. Very fetch.â
You froze, and then laughed âDonât you ever say that word.â
He laughed, a real, genuine sound that was still so rare it caught you off guard. âWhatever you say, your highness.â
â â
As the season shifted to Christmas, the sabotage escalated in ways you were still blissfully unaware of. The Kalteen bars Cady had convinced you were for losing weight were doing the exact opposite, but you were too deep in denial to see it. Your reign felt secure. Aaron was yours, the school mimicked your every move, and you had your secret escapes with Leon.
It was during one of these escapes that the Christmas Talent Show came up.
âI gotta go,â you said, checking your phone. âI have to get ready for the talent show rehearsal.â
Leon looked up from his guitar, eyebrows raised. âOh, youâre participating?â
âDuh,â you said, smoothing down your skirt. âWeâre doing our Jingle Bell Rock dance. Itâs a tradition.â
âSeriously?â He made a face. âAgain? Donât you do this every year?â
âWhat?â You paused, a strange flutter in your chest. âYou see me every year?â
He strummed a discordant chord, not meeting your eyes. âGod, no. I donât even come to school that day. Itâs a pathetic display of school spirit.â But there was a telltale shift in his posture. He was lying.
You stared at him, the realization dawning. He had seen it. Heâd been watching. The thought was unnerving and, secretly, thrilling.
The next day at school, you were talking to Cady, you had seen her talking to Janis again and now you felt curious as to why would she keep getting involved with her after you and the girls had taken her in.
âSo are you gonna send any candy canes?â Cady asked, her voice dripping with fake innocence.
âMmh, no, I donât send them, I just get themâ you said with a slight smirk as you tilted your head stating the simple fact. âSo, better send me one biatchâ you said before smiling at cady and blew her two kisses before leaving âlove yaâ
The backstage area of the auditorium was a chaotic swirl of pre show jitters and last minute glitter. You stood like a calm island in the center, your red and white ensemble perfectly crisp, your Santa hat perched at just the right angle. This was your domain. Jingle Bell Rock wasn't just a dance; it was a coronation, repeated annually to remind everyone of the natural order.
Gretchen and Karen fussed beside you, their nerves a buzzing annoyance. Cady stood a little apart, looking awkward in her costume. You surveyed your trio. Something was off. The symmetry was wrong.
A cold, calculating part of your brain, the part that was always three moves ahead, clicked into gear. With Aaron officially back in your orbit, Cadyâs usefulness was evolving.
âOkay, positions,â you announced, your voice cutting through their nervous chatter.
They moved to their familiar spotsâGretchen on your left, Karen on your right. You held up a hand.
âGretchen,â you said, not looking at her, your eyes fixed on the heavy velvet curtain separating you from the adoring crowd. âSwitch sides with Cady.â
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Gretchenâs face crumpled. âBut⊠Iâm always on your left.â
You finally turned your head, your gaze cool and impassive. âWell, that was when there were three of us. Now the tallest goes in the middle.â
A panicked, desperate look flashed in Gretchenâs eyes. âBut Iâm always on your left.â
A flicker of pure annoyance ignited in your chest. âAnd right now,â you said, your voice dropping to a venomous whisper, âyouâre getting on my last nerve. *Switch.*â
The words were a physical blow. You saw her flinch. Without another word, her shoulders slumping in defeat, she shuffled past you and swapped places with a wide eyed Cady.
The curtain lifted. The spotlight hit you, warm and blinding. The opening notes of "Jingle Bell Rock" blasted through the speakers, and you launched into the routine, every step, every smile perfectly choreographed. Your body moved on autopilot, but your mind was elsewhere. A familiar, prickling sensation crawled up your spine, the feeling of being watched by a specific, unnerving pair of eyes.
You executed a spin, your gaze automatically scanning the darkened auditorium as you turned. And there he was.
Slouched in a seat at the very back, almost swallowed by the shadows, was Leon. He wasn't talking to anyone, wasn't even looking at his phone. He was just... watching, with a camera im his hand filming, his expression mocking and amused, his focus was a laser beam aimed directly at you. He'd actually come. After you'd specifically told him not to.
Jesus, this loser, you thought, the familiar mantra of annoyance a flimsy shield against the sudden, frantic rhythm of your heart. Your perfectly painted smile tightened. Why was he here? To mock you? To gather more "intel"?
The dance required your full attention, but a part of your brain was now dedicated solely to the fact of his presence. It made you hyper aware of your own body, of the performance aspect of it all. For the first time in years, performing this dance felt like different.
You moved into the final sequence, the steps so ingrained you could do them in your sleep
You moved into the final sequence, the steps so ingrained you could do them in your sleep. The spin, the kick, the pose. But your focus was split. You were aware of Gretchen on your right, her movements stiff and shaky with hurt. You were aware of the spotlight. And you were devastatingly aware of Leon's gaze from the back of the room.
As you pivoted for the synchronized turn, you saw it happen in slow motion.
Gretchen, flustered, out of position,misjudged her step, and after you turned her around, her foot, clad in a cheap, festive boot, snagged on the speaker. There was a desperate, flailing moment, a choked gasp from the audience, in an attempt to fix it, she walked towards it and ended up kicking it out of stage into Jasonâs face.
The music died.
The silence that followed was absolute, and then it was filled by the screech of feedback from the now dead speaker. You were frozen in the final pose, your smile a rictus of horror. The spotlight seemed to burn twice as hot, a cruel interrogator's lamp highlighting your public failure, and as everyone was shocked in silence Leon was trying so hard not to burst laughing.
â â
The show didnât go that bad in the end, as cady improvised the winging and everyone followed after, the real earthquake hit two days later, via a three minute phone call from Aaron Samuels.
You were in your bedroom, admiring a new pair of heels, when your phone buzzed.
There was a long pause on the other end. âY/n⊠we need to talk.â
Your smile vanished. No one started a conversation with âwe need to talkâ unless it was bad. âAbout what?â
âI think we should⊠take a break.â
The room tilted. âWhat? Why?â
Another pause. He was choosing his words, which was never a good sign. âI just⊠I heard some things. About you and⊠Leon Kennedy.â
Your blood ran cold. Leon. How? Your secret meetings in the garage, the late night phone calls, him showing up outside your window it had all been so contained, so separate from this world.
âWhat about him?â you snapped, your voice tighter than you intended.
âThat youâve been, like, seeing him. Hanging out at his house.â
A laugh, brittle and forced, escaped your lips. âAaron, thatâs ridiculous. I havenât been seeing him. God, heâs⊠heâs- itâs just a rumorâ It was the lie youâd been telling yourself, and it sounded pathetic even to your own ears.
âIt doesnât sound like thatâ he said, his voice frustratingly calm. âIt sounds like youâre spending a lot of time with him.â
âWho told you that?â you demanded, your mind racing.
âIt doesnât matter. Look, I just⊠I canât do this. Iâm sorry.â
The dial tone buzzed in your ear, a flat, final sound. He had hung up on you. Aaron Samuels had dumped you.
You sat there on your pristine white bed, the phone still clutched in your hand, the world dissolving into a slow-motion nightmare. The rejection was a physical pain, a hollowing out of your chest. You had been discarded. For a rumor. For a boy who didn't even want to be associated with you in public.
The tears came then, hot and shameful and entirely out of your control.
You called for reinforcements. Gretchen, Karen and cady arrived within twenty minutes, their faces masks of performative concern. They found you curled on your bed, the facade of the invincible queen completely shattered.
âHe broke up with me,â you choked out, your voice thick with tears.
Karenâs eyes went wide. âDid he say why?â
You sat up, swiping angrily at your cheeks. âSomeone told him Iâve been seeing Leon, which is ridiculous because I havenât.â The lie was a reflex, a shield against the terrifying truth that your time with Leon felt more real than your entire relationship with Aaron. âHe didnât say who.â
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Gretchen freeze. Her body went rigid, and her eyes darted around the room, unable to meet yours. But you were too lost in your own devastation to register her guilt. The betrayal was a general, faceless one from the world, not a specific one from your inner circle.
âI gave him everything!â you wailed, the melodrama of the moment overriding your usual control. âI was half a virgin when I met him!â
Karen, ever the beacon of profound insight, leaned forward. âDo you wanna do something fun?â she asked, her voice tentatively cheerful. âDo you wanna go to Taco Bell?â
The sheer, breathtaking stupidity of the suggestion was the final straw. All the hurt and humiliation erupted into white hot fury.
âI CANâT GO TO TACO BELL, IâM ON AN ALL-CARB DIET!â you screamed, your voice cracking with rage. âGOD, KAREN, YOUâRE SO STUPID!â
You stormed out of your own bedroom, leaving them gaping behind you. You fled towards your bathroom and slammed the door closed behind you.
The sobs wracked your body, ugly and unrestrained. You were alone. Truly, utterly alone. The girls were a sham. Aaron was gone. Your perfect life was a house of cards, and one whisper about Leon Kennedy had blown it all down.
With trembling fingers, you pulled out your phone. There was only one person who wouldnât look at you with pity or confusion. Only one person who had seen you cry before, a lifetime ago.
He picked up on the first ring. âWhatâs wrong?â
The simple, gruff question undid you all over again. A fresh wave of tears choked your voice. âCan you⊠can you just come over?â
There was no hesitation. âIâm on my way.â
Fifteen minutes later, and once the girls were gone he arrived.
He didnât say anything. He just looked at you, your puffy eyes and tear-streaked face, your ridiculous silk pajamas in the cold. His expression was unreadable.
âMy parents are out,â you mumbled, leading him through the dark garden and into the quiet house. You took him upstairs, your feet silent on the plush carpet. It felt surreal, leading Leon Kennedy into your pink, pristine bedroom the inner sanctum he was never supposed to see.
He didnât seem impressed or intimidated. He just looked around, taking it in, before his gaze settled back on you.
âSo,â he said, his voice low. âHe dumped you.â
You nodded, fresh tears welling up. âBecause of you. Because someone told him I was seeing you.â
He was quiet for a moment. âAre you?â
The question hung in the air, stripping away all your defenses. It had taken you by surprise, and you didnât even know what to answer.
âWhatâŠ.?â you whispered, your voice raw.
He let out a long breath and finally moved, sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there. He didnât try to hug you or tell you it would be okay. He just sat, a solid, steady presence in the epicenter of your crumbling world.
âHeâs an idiot,â Leon said simply. âThey all are.â
âHe said it was some guy on the baseball team who told him,â you sniffled, sitting down next to him, leaving a careful foot of space between you.
Leon let out a short, derisive laugh. âIt wasnât a guy on the baseball team.â
You looked at him, confused. âHow do you know?â
âBecause the person who told Cady Heron, who undoubtedly told him, was Gretchen Wieners.â
The world stopped. âWhat?â
âI saw her,â he said, his voice flat. âYesterday after school. She was talking to Cady by the lockers. She was crying, saying you were replacing her with Cady, that you were being mean to her. She said, and I quote, âShe doesnât even care about Aaron, sheâs too busy hanging out with that loser Leon.ââ
The final piece of the puzzle slammed into place. The guilt on Gretchenâs face. It wasnât just about the dance. It was about this. The betrayal was specific, and it came from within your own ranks. The pain was so acute it stole your breath.
You buried your face in your hands. âOh my God.â
âYeah,â Leon said. There was no âI told you soâ in his tone. Just a statement of fact.
You sat there in silence for a long time, the only sound your shaky breaths. The initial, hysterical pain was slowly being replaced by a cold, hard ball of fury. But for now, sitting next to Leon in the quiet dark, the fury could wait.
Without thinking, you leaned sideways, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He stiffened for a second, surprised, but then he relaxed. He didnât put his arm around you. He just sat there, letting you lean on him, his leather jacket cool against your cheek.
It was the most comfort anyone had ever given you. It was quiet, it was real, and it asked for nothing in return. In the ruins of your perfect life, with the boy you were supposedly âseeing,â you finally felt, for the first time all night, like you werenât completely alone.
â â
The next day you slid into your usual seat, Gretchen and Karen were already there. They didnât greet you. They just stared, their mouths slightly agape, Cady slid in a moment later, her tray careful and precise. Her eyes flicked over you, and you saw it, a flicker of something that wasnât surprise, but recognition. Satisfaction quickly masked by false concern.
âIs butter a carb?â
You asked as you frowned while taking the knife and applying it to your bread, Cady turned her head slowly to look at you. Her expression was pure, unadulterated condescension. She looked at you like you were the dumbest creature sheâd ever encountered.
âYes,â she said. The word was flat, final, and laced with a contempt so subtle it was devastating.
âY/n,â she began, her voice a strange, tight wire of emotion. It wasnât concern.
âYouâre wearing sweatpants.â
You looked down at the soft wine colored fabric, then back at her, your eyebrow arching with a force of habit you didnât feel. âSo?â
âSo,â Karen chimed in, her brow furrowed with the intense effort of recalling holy text. âThatâs against the rules.â She leaned forward, delivering the verdict with solemn gravity. âYou canât sit with us.â
âWhatever,â you scoffed âThose rules arenât real.â
Karenâs eyes flashed with a rare, defensive spark. âThey were real the day I wore a vest.â
The memory was instant and vivid. The horrible, floral patterned vest sheâd found at a thrift store. The fashion atrocity that had threatened the very visual cohesion of your group.
âBecause that vest was disgusting!â you snapped, your voice rising, drawing eyes from nearby tables.
Thatâs when it happened. The dam broke in Gretchen Wieners. All of it the years of being your shadow, the frantic anxiety to please, the talent show demotion, the humiliation came boiling to the surface. Her face, usually a careful mask of agreeable concern, contorted with a rage you didnât know she possessed. She slammed both hands flat on the table, making the trays jump and clatter.
âYOU CANâT SIT WITH US!â
The words didnât just leave her mouth, they were hurled, shattering the fragile performance of your lunch period. They echoed in the sudden, ringing silence that engulfed your corner of the cafeteria. Every single conversation at nearby tables died. Every head turned.
You looked at her, You looked at Karen, who was nodding, her face firm with a righteousness sheâd borrowed. You looked at Cady, who was watching it all unfold with the calm, analytical detachment of a scientist observing a successful experiment.
The anger, the performative outrage, drained out of you all at once. It left behind a cold, hollow cavity. In its place rushed a wave of such profound, naked vulnerability it stole your breath. Your shoulders, usually held in a perfect, proud line, slumped.
Your voice, when it came, was a whisper so soft they had to lean in to hear it. It was the most honest thing youâd ever said to them.
âSweatpants are all that fits me right now.â
You laid the truth bare at their feet. An offering. A plea.
They said nothing.
Gretchen stared, Karen blinked, confused by this sudden shift from drama to raw data. Cady simply took a small, precise bite of her apple.
The silence was louder than Gretchenâs scream. It was a vacuum that sucked all the air from your lungs. It was the sound of your reign ending.
The humiliation that crashed back in then was a white hot fire, burning away the last shreds of vulnerability. It was rage, but it was also a desperate, survivalist need to flee.
You stood up so fast your chair screeched back. You grabbed your tray, the untouched pita bread sliding to the floor.
âFine!â you snarled, your voice cracking on the word. âYou can walk home, bitches!â
You turned, a storm of gray sweatpants and trembling fury, and began the long, exposed march away from your table. The walk across the cafeteria floor felt miles long.
Blinded by unshed tears of shame and rage, you didnât see the large girl carrying an overloaded tray of todayâs special, spaghetti and meatballs until it was too late.
The collision was solid, jarring. The tray flew from her hands. A plate of spaghetti, a glorious, sloppy avalanche of marinara sauce and noodles, exploded across the front of your pristine, heather hoodie. The tray clattered to the floor with a crash that seemed to silence the entire universe for a split second.
Time froze. You looked down at the bright red stain blooming across your chest, felt the warm, wet seep of it through the fabric.
And then the laughter started.
The sound was worse than any insult.
You didnât look at the girl. You didnât look at anyone. You turned and fled, pushing through the cafeteria doors and into the mercifully empty hallway.
â â
You were at your car after school trying to find your keys in your bag, Shane, smelling of cheap body spray and desperation, had materialized beside you, his face a mask of conspiratorial glee.
âHey,â he said, leaning against your car. âHeard about Cadyâs party tonight?â
You froze, your fingers closing around the key fob. âWhat party?â
âOh, you know,â he said, puffing out his chest. âThe one at her house. Big one. Everyoneâs talking about it. Aaronâs gonna be there and everything.â
The air left your lungs. A party. At Cady Heronâs house. On a Friday night. And you hadnât been invited. Not a text, not a whisper. You, who had invented the social calendar at North Shore. You, who had made her.
The initial shock was instantly incinerated by a white hot geyser of pure, undiluted fury. It shot up from the pit of your stomach, burning away the fog of depression, the residue of shame. This was a clear, bright line of betrayal. An act of war.
You turned to Shane, your eyes blazing. âSheâs having a party. And she didnât invite me?â
Shane, nodded vigorously. âTotal slap in the face, babe.â
âWho does she think she is?â you hissed, the words dripping venom. Your voice was rising âI, like⊠invented her. You know what I mean? She was nothing! A homeschooled jungle freak in a weird bracelet! I gave her everything! Her hair, her clothes, her social life! She is a product of ME!â
âYouâre so right, hun,â Shane simpered.
That was all you needed. The decision was made with the swift, brutal certainty of a guillotine blade.
âGet in,â you snapped, yanking open the driverâs door.
âWhat? Where are we going?â
âTo the party.â
â â
You drove to Cadyâs house with a terrifying, silent focus. The rage was a high pitched scream in your veins, a symphony of betrayal playing on a loop. How dare she. How dare she have a party. How dare she not invite me. How dare she take my life and live it.
You didnât park discreetly. You screeched to a halt in front of her suburban house, which was, to your utter disgust, already decorated with pathetic, store bought streamers. You marched up the walkway, Shane scrambling behind you like a confused puppy.
You didnât knock. You threw the front door open.
You went upstairs, in her bedroom, door was closed and inside, both of the, sat at her bed, intimately close, they froze, the entire world narrowed to the space between the three of you.
Cadyâs face went pale. âY/nâŠâ
You didnât speak. You couldnât. The fury was too vast, too all consuming to be shaped into words. It was a physical force in your throat, choking you. You just stared, your gaze moving from her face to his hands on her, back to her wide, guilty eyes.
This was the proof. This was the final, perfect image of your usurpation. Not just your social spot, but your ex boyfriend. In her house. At her party.
With a sound that was half-gasp, half snarl, you turned on your heel and stormed back out the way you came, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence behind you.
âY/n, wait!â Shane called, snagging a beer from a cooler by the door before chasing after you.
You were already at your car, your hands shaking so badly you couldnât get the key in the lock. Shane caught up, popping the tab on his beer.
âItâs like I canât trust anybody anymore!â you shrieked to the quiet suburban street, your voice raw and ragged.
With frantic fingers, you dug into your purse, past lip gloss and a compact, until you found the familiar, crinkly wrapper. A Kalteen Bar.
You tore the wrapper off with your teeth and took a huge, desperate bite, the chalky, vaguely chocolate flavored paste sticking to the roof of your mouth.
Shane, leaning in your open car door, took a swig of his beer and made a face. âUgh. Why are you eating Kalteen Bars?â
âIâm starving,â you mumbled around the mouthful, the words thick with self-pity and crumbs.
âMan, I hate those things,â Shane said, shaking his head with the profound wisdom of the truly ignorant. âCoach Carr makes us eat those when we wanna move up a weight class for wrestling, They make you gain weight like crazy.â
The world stopped.
The chewing stopped.
The screaming in your veins stopped.
Everything just⊠stopped.
It wasnât an accident. It wasnât your metabolism. It was a calculated, premeditated act of biological sabotage.
Cady Heron hadnât just stolen your friends and your boyfriend.
She had invaded your very body. She had weaponized food and your own trust to reshape you, to make you soft, To make you exactly what you saw in the mirror every morning: a pathetic, ordinary girl in sweatpants.
The understanding detonated behind your eyes with the force of a nuclear blast.
You spat the vile paste into your hand, a glob of brown horror. You stared at it, then at Shaneâs stupid, oblivious face.
A sound began deep in your chest, a low, animal rumble that built and built, gathering every single ounce of betrayal, humiliation, rage, and violated fury from the past months.
It gathered it all and gave it a voice.
âMOTHERFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUâ!â
The scream tore out of you. It was not a human sound. It was the sound of tectonic plates shifting, of a universe being ripped apart at the seams. It was raw, primal, and shattered the quiet of the neighborhood. Dogs began barking. A light went on in a house across the street.
You threw the poisoned bar, the remaining half, as hard as you could. It hit the dashboard with a sickening thwack and fell to the floor mat.
You didnât look at Shane. You didnât say another word. You shoved him out of the way, slammed the car door, and stomped back toward your house, your body vibrating with a energy so violent it felt like you would fly apart.
You burst through your own front door, slamming it so hard the windows rattled. Your
You stormed up the stairs, each step a thunderclap. You threw your bedroom door open. And then you just⊠screamed.
You screamed at the pink walls. You screamed at the vanity covered in expensive, useless products. You screamed at the closet full of clothes that didnât fit. You screamed at the reflection in the mirror of the girl you no longer recognized.
You picked up a decorative pillow from your bed and screamed into it, the fabric muffling nothing. You threw it across the room, where it knocked a framed photo of you and The Plastics from the dresser. The glass shattered. You screamed at the shards.
You paced like a caged tiger, your hands clawing at your hair, pulling the ponytail loose. Words finally broke through the screams, shrapnel from the explosion.
âSHE FED ME WEIGHT GAINER! SHE WAS FATTENING ME UP LIKE A FUCKING PRIZE COW!â
You kicked your laundry hamper, sending clean sweatpants flying.
âALL OF THEM! THEY WERE ALL IN ON IT! GRETCHEN AND HER BIG MOUTH! KAREN AND HER STUPID RULES!â
You snatched a bottle of perfume from your dresser and hurled it against the wall. It exploded in a cloud of sickly sweet Poison, the scent of your old self now nauseating.
âAARON! THAT SPINELESS, BRAINLESS JOCK! HE TOOK ONE LOOK AT MY SWEATPANTS AND RAN TO HER!â
Cady Heron had declared war with protein bars and parties.
You picked up your phone from where it had fallen on the carpet. Your hands were steady now. You navigated to the one contact that mattered.
He answered, as always, on the second ring. The background noise of his garage was a comforting, familiar roar.
Hey guys! How are you? How was your Halloween night? So, Iâve been a very active part of this new Regina x Rodrick community, and I have to say Iâve always loved that specific trope, and Iâm like very inspired to write about this, my question was, would you like me to write a Regina x Rodrick one shots, or like the trope with Leon Kennedy and reader, cause I think adapting it would be amazing as well
Summary: Leon Kennedy is the wildest rockstar of the decade, and heâs 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 wonât 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 youâll both find out you guys arenât 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!! Iâm sorry Iâve been so inactive, I had exams last week, and this took me a while to finish actually, Iâve 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 youâd 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 wasnât 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.
âJust ten more minutes,â 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."
"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 âbleach 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.
âY/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. âJust observing the wildlife, Kennedy. Lollapaloozaâs in six months. Wanted to see if the rumors were true.â
âWhat rumors? That Iâm a delight to work with?â He grinned, a flash of white that was disarmingly charming. It was a weapon, you knew he knew how to use.
âThat you can still form a coherent sentence after 9 PM,â you said, your tone flat. âItâs been up for debate.â
He laughed, a short, genuine bark of sound that, annoyingly, didnât seem forced. âCute. Iâve been listening to your new single. All that angsty pop punk and heartbreak balladry. Itâs⊠sweet. Really connects with the teens.â
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.
âAt least I write from a place that isnât chemically altered,â you fired back, your knuckles white around your glass.
Something shifted in his eyes. The smirk didnât 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.
âYou think you know whatâs real?â 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. âYou think your⊠therapy notes set to a bassline are the truth?â He shook his head, a loose strand of hair falling over his eye. âIâll tell you whatâs real. A song. You and me.â
Your eyebrows shot up. âA song?.â
âYeah. We have to co write a song. From scratch. Together. And we perform it at Lolla.â
You stared at him, certain youâd misheard. The arrogance was staggering. âYouâre insane. Clinically.â
âScared?â 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. âScared people will see you canât hang in the big leagues without your studio magic and producer overlords?â
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.
âFine,â you spat, the word leaving your lips before you could stop it. âBut Iâm not carrying your hungover ass. And we do it my way. Sober.â
Leonâs smile was triumphant, a predator whoâd just cornered his prey. âDeal,â he said, his voice a low purr. âThis is going to be fun.â
â â
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 didnât 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 heâd seen on the faces of managers, bandmates, and his father⊠He hated it.
âTraffic,â he grunted, slinging his guitar case onto a worn amp.
âItâs 2 PM on a Tuesday,â you said, your voice flat.
âLike 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 heâd 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 hadnât 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 wasnât 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. âWhat are you doing?â he asked, annoyance flaring. âThatâs not the vibe.â
You looked up from your guitar, your eyes meeting his with. âIt is now.â 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 hadnât been intimidated. Youâd listened, truly listened, and then youâd spoken back in a language he understood. It had been a long time since anyone had done that.
â â
The shift didnât 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 âmagic notebookâ of lyrics.
The 3 a.m. voice notes started accidentally. Heâd been up, unable to sleep, the ghost of a melody haunting him. Heâd recorded a rough idea on his phone and, without thinking, sent it to you. Heâd 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. âTry a G there instead,â youâd mumbled. âItâs less predictable.â
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 Leonâs same blue eyes, scowling at the camera. He hadnât realized you were watching.
âYour father?â You asked quietly from the kitchen island.
He snapped the case shut. âYeah.â
âYou donât talk about him.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about.â The old defensiveness rose in his throat. But your silence wasnât accusatory, it was just⊠waiting. He found the words coming out, rusty and unused. âHe left. Before the first record deal. Said I was wasting my life. Now he shows up at Christmas, expecting tickets.â He shrugged, a gesture that felt too casual for the ache it concealed. âThe moneyâs great, but the silence is fucking expensive.â
You didnât 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 heâd been under because from, his label, for some months now.
âThey 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 âtortured male genius,â 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 heâd been in years.
You showed him a verse youâd 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 sayâ
He showed you his stacks of worn poetry books, Bukowski, Plath, Rimbaud. âItâs where I steal all my best lines,â he joked, but it was a confession.
You smiled, a real, unguarded smile that made something in his chest tighten. âI 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 sheâd 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
â â
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 heâd 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 didnât think. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, to shatter the moment with a cutting remark.
You didnât.
He kissed you.
It wasnât a frantic, rockstar kiss. It was soft. Questioning. A silent communication more profound than any lyric youâd 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. âY/n, IâŠâ
You didnât 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.
â â
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 heâd 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, âI forgot what this felt like.â
âWhat?â You asked, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
âJust⊠liking it. The music. Not the show, not the circus. Just the making of it.â His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm. âYou made me remember.â
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.â 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."
Helenaâs 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!"
â â
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 heâd 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.
â â
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 wasnât 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.
âHey,â he said softly, leaning close so only you could hear over the roar of the crowd. âTheyâre just people with cameras. And youâre the most real person in this whole damn circus.â
You looked up at him, and a genuine smile broke through your nerves. âSays the ringmaster.â
He grinned. âTonight, Iâm just your plus one.â
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.
âNervous?â he asked.
âA little,â you admitted. âItâs a tough category.â
âYouâve got this,â 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.
âIâm going to get us some drinks,â he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple. âChampagne for my winner.â
âI havenât win anything yetâ you replied with a loving smile
âDonât be modest, the trophy is yoursâ 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.
â â
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.
âAnd the Silver Sound Award goes toâŠâ the presenter drawled, milking the moment. ââNeon Echoes,â by Chase Sterling!â
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 everyoneâs throats by radio conglomerates for the past eight weeks, eight weeks, thatâs 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 industryâs sexism often disguised as something else, but being used to it didnât mean it didnât hurt.
He needed to get back to you. He needed to be with you. To tell you it didnât 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, Iâll 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.
âDon't let that rock punk princess clip your wings, man, youâre 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. âTheyâre idiots,â he whispered, his mouth close to your ear. âYour song defined the year. That one will be forgotten in six months.â
You gave him a grateful, sad smile. âItâs fine. Really.â
But it wasnât. He could feel the frustration radiating from your, and as he comforted you, Jakeâs 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.
â â
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 didnât know why he lied, it wasnât 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 werenât 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.
â â
Jakeâs 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.
âLeon,â she said, her voice a purr. âI knew youâd come.â
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 Avaâs 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.
â â
You sat in your pristine, sunlit kitchen, a cup of tea going cold in front of you. Youâd 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.
Helena sat across you, a silent sentinel of support, your manager, David, was on the speakerphone.
âThe press is a shitshow, but we can manage it,â David, said, his voice carefully neutral as he scrolled through his tablet. âThe narrative is on your side. Youâre the hardworking artist, wronged by the industry and then by⊠him.â
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."
â â
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.
â â
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 youâd 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."
â â
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, theyâd 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. Youâre professional, youâre 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.
â â
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.
â â
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 albumâs worth of new material, each song a sharper, more polished shard of glass from the window youâd thrown your heart through, you did interviews, maintaining your cool, professional facade.
âLeon and I have always maintained a strictly and merely professional relationship.â Youâd 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 heâd 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 wasnât the vibrant, chaotic leader they were used to, he was a ghost, going through the motions.
âThe new stuff is shit, Leon,â Chris said bluntly during one session, after Leon had presented a particularly hollow-sounding riff.
âI know,â Leon admitted, running a hand through his hair. âI canât⊠I canât find it right now.â
âItâs because youâre trying to be who you were,â Luis said quietly from behind his keyboards. âNot who you are now.â
âAnd who am I now?â Leon asked, the question genuine and desperate.
âA guy who got his heart broken,â Chris said, uncharacteristically gentle. âMaybe write about that.â
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 didnât care. It was the only honest thing heâd done in months.
â â
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 Leonâs 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.
ây/n.â
His voice was low, rough. It sent a tremor through your whole body. You turned slowly. He was alone.
âLeon.â
âCan we⊠can we talk? For five minutes. Somewhere private.â He gestured to a secluded alcove off the main hall. âJust talk.â
Every instinct told you to say no. To walk away. To preserve the hard won youâd built around yourself. But the look in his eyes, it wasnât 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.
â â
In the quiet of the alcove, the noise of the gala faded to a distant hum.
âYou were right,â he began, not wasting a second. âAbout everything. I was a coward. I was so fucking terrified of what we had because it was real, and Iâve spent my whole life in the fake. The party⊠I went because jack said it was for the ârealâ 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 didnât deserve you or the peace you gave me.â
He wasnât looking for pity. He was stating facts.
âI 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 donât remember anything after that. I didnât sleep with her. I wouldnât. But I know that doesnât 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.â
You stood silent, your arms crossed, a statue. But inside, the walls were crumbling.
âThe band⊠theyâve been trying to keep me together,â he continued, a sad smile touching his lips. âChris threatened to break my fingers if I didnât show up to rehearsal. Luis, of all people, has been making me eat. Theyâve seen me at my worst for ten years, and they said the worst Iâve ever been was these last few months without you. Because I was actually present for the misery.â
He took a step closer, his hands shoved in his pockets as if to stop himself from reaching for you.
âIâm not asking for forgiveness. I donât deserve it. Iâm just⊠Iâm telling you the truth. For the first time since the night I met you at that godforsaken party, Iâm 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 Iâd already thrown it away.â
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.
âI believed in you. I let you in. And you made me feel like a fool.â
âI know,â he said, his own eyes glistening. âAnd I will spend the rest of my life regretting it.â
He didnât 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 wasnât a switch flipping. The hurt didnât vanish. The trust wasnât instantly restored. But the seed of something new, something fragile and cautious, was planted.
âIâm not saying I can do this,â you said finally, your voice steadier. âIâm not saying weâre okay.â
âI know.â
âBut⊠you can stop sending demos to my manager. If you have new music you want me to hear⊠you can send it to me.â
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. âOkay,â he breathed. âOkay.â
Summary: You and Leon celebrate your engagement in a nice all inclusive in Hawaii, the both of you finally taking a break from work, while you try to enjoy your time, Jill and Chris try themselves to solve this one virus emergency happening in Hawaii without disturbing you guys vacations
Or in other words, Leon and you having your vacations ruined due to Chris and Jill.
Content: suggestive content, humor, fluff, ft. Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine
An: hello guys!! How are youuuu! Sorry, I havenât posted in what feels like forever, but Iâm Iâm vacations right now and itâs mostly what inspired me to do this! Hope you like it! Again, for this one I had in mind a younger reader, around her 30s, and Leon being in his 40+
The sun was a brute. It hammered down on the manicured perfection of the resort, bleaching the sky white-hot and turning the Pacific into a vast, shimmering sheet of cobalt. Leon S. Kennedy, a man more accustomed to the gloom of European catacombs and the sterile fluorescence of blacksite morgues, felt like an imposter in this paradise.
Leon had never been a beach person. Beaches were for people with uncomplicated lives, people who didn't calculate sightlines and potential cover upon arrival. Heâd spent so many years in the rain and the dark that the unrelenting cheerfulness of a Hawaiian resort felt like a different planet.
He wore swim trunks, simple, black, and absurdly expensive, a pair of sunglasses that felt less like an accessory and more like a disguise. In his hand, a glass sweated condensation, containing something fruity, pink, and adorned with a tiny paper umbrella. A drink so far removed from his usual neat bourbon it felt like a declaration of surrender.
His mission parameters, for the first time in a decade, were blissfully simple: do nothing. His only objective was the woman stretched out on the lounger beside him.
You
this was your idea, he thought, not for the first time, and the notion alone was enough to smooth the perpetual tension from his shoulders. All of it.
Heâd never liked the beach, but you loved it. You loved the warmth, the freedom of it. And watching you love it⊠that was becoming his new favorite pastime. Heâd spent so many years in the grey concrete, grey skies, grey morality, that your vibrancy was almost blinding. you were color and light, dragged into his monochrome world and stubbornly repainting it.
This was your operation, your meticulously planned campaign of relaxation. Leon had thought the goal was sun and sand. He was slowly, happily realizing the real objective was him. Your entire presence here felt like a targeted assault on his legendary self control, and he was surrendering with a quiet gratitude that still felt foreign on his tongue. Thank you, he thought, the words directed at some unseen force he didn't believe in, but feeling the need to acknowledge this miracle nonetheless. Thank you for her.
âYouâre staring, Kennedy,â you murmured without looking up from your book, a sly smile playing on your lips.
âJust making sure you donât burn,â he lied, his voice a low rumble. âThatâs what Iâm here for. Sunscreen duty.â
You lowered the book, pushing your sunglasses into your hair. Your eyes, sparkled with mischief. âIs that what weâre calling it? I thought you were on âbeach-boyâ duty.â
He grunted, taking a sip of the sickly sweet drink. âThe job description needs work.â
âThe performance review is pending.â You sat up in a single, fluid motion that made the lounger creak, and the tiny knots of your bikini top seemed to hold their breath. âSpeaking of duty, my back needs a re-application. Get to work, beach boy.â
He didnât need to be told twice. The bottle of sunscreen was cool in his hands. You shifted, turning your back to him and presenting an expanse of smooth, warm skin. He squeezed the lotion out, the white cream a stark contrast against your tan. His hands, usually so sure and steady when field-stripping a handgun, felt clumsy. He started at your shoulders, working the lotion in with his thumbs, feeling the resilient muscle underneath.
You let out a soft, contented sigh and dropped your head forward. âMmm. Youâre better at this than interrogations.â
âDifferent kind of pressure,â he muttered, his focus narrowing to the path his hands were tracing down your spine. His thumbs brushed the delicate line of one bikini strap, and he felt a jolt of something that had nothing to do with the Hawaiian sun. He was a decorated federal agent, a man who had stared down lords of nightmares and presidents of fallen countries, and he was being utterly undone by a few inches of spandex and string.
You leaned back into his touch, you voice a warm, teasing whisper. âThis is a nice view youâve got.â
âBehave,â he warned, his voice huskier than he intended.
He felt the vibration of her laugh against his palms. âMake me.â
---
The infinity pool was a turquoise jewel spilling into the horizon, filled with laughing couples who had no concept of B.O.W.s or viral loads. Leon tried to anchor himself at the submerged bar, the cool tile of the pool ledge under his thighs. You, however, were a force of nature. You swam over to him, a sleek otter in emerald, and then, with devastating casualness, slid directly into the space between his knees.
Your legs brushed against his under the water, a slick, continuous contact. You floated closer, draping your arms over his shoulders, your body pressing against his chest. The water magnified every point of contact. He could feel the delicate architecture of your bikini, the warmth of your skin through the wet fabric.
âYou trying to get us kicked out?â he asked, his hands finding their way to your hips of their own volition.
She grinned, droplets of water clinging to your eyelashes. âYouâd love that. An excuse to get me back to the room.â
He couldnât argue. He was losing this war, and he had never enjoyed a defeat more.
ââ
The next day brought a new front: a shopping excursion down the tourist clogged strip. Flip-flops slapped against hot pavement as you (wearing one of his dress shirts over your bikini) dragged him in and out of boutiques. You tried on wide brimmed hats and gaudy sunglasses, holding them up for his approval. He stood there, a silent, sun scowling sentinel with a wallet full of government hazard pay, playing the part of the indulgent boyfriend.
Then you disappeared into a dressing room with a handful of new bikinis, each one seemingly more audacious than the last. He leaned against the wall outside, trying to look bored.
A moment later, your head popped out from behind the curtain. âHey, Leon? A little help?â
He froze. âHelp with what?â
You gave him that look, the one that was pure, unadulterated trouble. âThe ties. I canât reach.â
It was a trap. A glorious, transparent, and utterly irresistible trap. He ducked inside the changing room. It was comically small, the air thick and warm. You stood with her back to him, the new bikini, a confection of navy blue and white polka dots with ties at the neck and back draped loosely on you. The mirror reflected your smirk.
âItâs tricky,â you said, your voice all false innocence.
His big hands, calloused and scarred, fumbled with the tiny, slippery strings. He was hyper aware of every inch of you, of the scent of your sunscreen and shampoo, of the way your breath hitched slightly when his knuckles accidentally brushed the bare skin of your back. He focused on tying a secure bow, his gaze fixed firmly on the task, refusing to meet your eyes in the mirror.
âToo tight?â he rasped.
You leaned back, just a fraction, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest. âTighter,â you breathed.
He finished the knot, his hands lingering for a moment too long on your shoulders. He was a man standing in a pool of his own willpower, and it was draining fast.
ââ
That evening, after the sun had bled out over the ocean, the campaign reached its zenith. Back in their lavish suite, with the balcony suit doors open to the sound of the surf, you performed a slow, deliberate parade at the foot of your massive bed. You had chosen the polka dot bikini for the eveningâs festivities. Leon, shirtless and reclining against a mountain of pillows, a real drink finally in his hand, watched you with the focused intensity of a predator. But he was the one who felt hunted.
You stopped, hands on your hips, and just looked at him. Your gaze was a physical touch, slow and appraising. âSo,â you said, your voice a low purr. âRoom service?â
He took a slow swallow of his bourbon, the amber liquid a welcome familiarity. âAlready ordered.â
You expected a dry retort. You expected him to call you something.
You did not expect his hand to shoot out with that impossible, trained speed youâd only ever seen him use on the battlefield. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, and in one fluid, effortless motion, he yanked you off your knees and directly onto his lap with a soft oomph. Your carefully constructed seductress persona vanished in a burst of genuine, surprised laughter.
"Hey!" You giggled, squirming as his other arm banded around your waist, locking you in place against his chest.
Leonâs smirk widened into a full blown, roguish grin, his face inches from yours. The predatory look was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated amusement. "You're a terrible temptress." he rumbled, his breath warm against your cheek. "You always laugh at your own jokes."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, still laughing, the sound bright and unguarded in the twilight room. "I'm an excellent temptress! You're just immune to my charms."
"Is that what you call this?" he murmured, dipping his head to nuzzle the sensitive spot just below your ear, making you shiver. "Because from where I'm sitting, it's working just fine."
ââ
Later, in the deep indigo of the pre dawn, Leon lay awake. you were a warm, sleeping weight against his side, the polka-dot bikini top still tangled somewhere between you, a casualty of the nightâs activities. The sheet was pooled at your waist. In the faint light, he traced the line of your shoulder, the curve of your jaw. This, he thought with a clarity that was both terrifying and peaceful, was the only thing worth all the blood and the nightmares. Not the money, not the status, not the hollow victories. This quiet, breathing warmth. This was the sanctuary he never knew he was fighting for.
You stirred, cracking one eye open to squint at him in the dimness. âYouâre staring again,â you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.
âCan you blame me?â he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek.
You hummed, nuzzling into his touch. âKeep it up and Iâll make you buy me another one tomorrow.â
He chuckled, the sound rough in the quiet room. âAnything you want.â
---
The calm, like all good things in your lives, was a temporary ceasefire. The breach began subtly. On your third morning, as you were once again conducting your sun based operations, Leonâs phone, which was supposed to be locked in the room safe, vibrated with a single, encrypted alert. Heâd checked it out of habit, a Pavlovian response he couldnât break.
The message was from Chris Redfield. You alive?
Leon frowned, thumbs moving over the screen. Unfortunately. Vacay.
A pause, then: âI forgot, with Naomi right?â
Obviously, Leon typed back, a knot of dread forming in his gut.
The reply was instant and telling. âDonât answer your phone for 24 hours.â
Leon stared at the screen. He knew that tone. It was the verbal equivalent of a soldier cocking a rifle. Something was wrong.
Back in their room, as you combed out your wet hair after a swim, you caught his expression in the mirror. âOkay, what did Chris want?â You asked, your voice laced with a familiar, professional suspicion.
âNothing,â he said, adopting a lazy grin and falling back onto the bed. âJust checking in.â
You arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. âYouâre a terrible liar, Kennedy.â
âIâm an excellent liar,â he countered, reaching for your wrist and tugging you down onto the mattress beside him. âYouâre just too good at catching me.â
âSo? What is it?â
He nuzzled into your neck, inhaling the scent of chlorine and your shampoo. âIf I tell you, youâll want to fix it. And weâre on vacation. No fixing.â
You relented, curling into his side, but the ease of the morning had been fractured. The real world, with its claws and teeth, was scratching at the door of your paradise.
ââ
Unbeknownst to them, three islands over, that door was being kicked in. Jill Valentine and Chris Redfield stood in a sweltering, dilapidated warehouse, the air thick with the smell of salt and decay. A shipping container sat open, revealing crates that were supposed to contain agricultural equipment. Instead, they held the familiar, grotesque shape of canisters used for transporting biological samples.
âThe manifest is a dead end. Ghost company,â Jill said, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. âBut the markings⊠an old strain, this is G-Virus.â
Chris gritted his teeth, his massive frame radiating tension. âWe need the original Spain files. The full field reports on the parasiteâs behavior and weaknesses.â
âTheyâre buried under a mountain of DSO classification,â Jill replied, her voice tight. âWho else has them, Redfield? Who was there?â
They locked eyes. The answer was a gut punch. The only two agents with comprehensive, firsthand knowledge of the Los Illuminados Plagas were currently sipping cocktails and trying very hard not to think about work.
Jill sighed. âWe have to call them.â
Chris shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. âNo. Absolutely not. We can handle this. Weâll find another way.â
But biohazards operate on their own ruthless timetable. A local informant, the one who had tipped them off, was found later that day or what was left of him. The infection was swift, violent, and unmistakable. And the trail of the missing canisters led directly to the very island where Leon and you were pretending the world didn't exist.
Jill and Chris landed at a small, dusty airstrip as the sun began to set, their tourist disguises doing little to hide the lethal purpose in their steps.
âOdds they even pick up their phones?â Jill asked, checking the load on her sidearm.
Chris just groaned, staring out at the picturesque sunset as if it were a personal insult. âWeâre about to ruin their whole damn honeymoon.â
---
The end of the dream came not with a phone call, but with gunfire.
Leon and you had secured a private cabana on the resortâs edge, a thatched-roof sanctuary perched over the sand. You were feeding him slices of ripe, juicy mango, and Leonâs world had narrowed to the sticky sweetness on his lips and the woman in the polka-dot bikini. For a moment, it was perfect.
Then, bam, bam, bam.
The sounds were sharp, flat, and utterly out of place. Not fireworks. Not a car backfiring. It was the staccato language of a semi automatic pistol.
You froze, a slice of mango poised halfway to his mouth. Your eyes, wide and instantly sober, met his.
Leon let out a long, weary sigh, the last vestiges of relaxation draining from his body. âDammit.â
As if on cue, your satellite phone, buried somewhere in your suitcase, began to chirp with an insistent, encrypted frequency. You scrambled for it, flipping it open to hear Chris Redfieldâs voice, strained and urgent.
âY/n. Leon. You there? We have a situation. Youâre gonna want to see this.â
You closed your eyes, a string of impressively creative curses hissing through your teeth. âI am going to strangle him with my bare hands.â
Leon just leaned back, licking the last of the mango juice from his thumb with a resigned fatalism. âShouldâve booked the Maldives.â
You met in a stiflingly hot service corridor behind the resortâs main kitchen, the air thick with the smell of garbage and hibiscus flowers. The juxtaposition was jarring: Jill and Chris in full tactical gear, Kevlar vests strapped over dark shirts, standing under a garland of plastic leis left over from a luau.
Jill offered a weak, apologetic smile. âNice tan, you two.â
You responded with a crisp, unambiguous middle finger.
Chris, all business, handed Leon a tablet. âThe shipment we were tracking. Guess where the secondary distribution point is?â
Leon scrolled through the data, his face a stony mask. He looked from the screen to Chrisâs grim expression. âYou have got to be joking.â
You peered over his shoulder, your vacation glow rapidly being replaced by the pale, focused intensity of a field medic. âLet me guess. Right here.â
âBingo,â Jill said softly.
The next forty eight hours were a brutal parody of your vacation. The bikini was swapped for rugged tactical pants and a sweat dampened tank top. The lounger was replaced by the passenger seat of a stolen jeep, speeding through jungle roads. The fruity drinks were forgotten in favor of tepid water from a canteen. The only remnants of paradise were the grains of sand in your boots and the lingering tan lines on your skin.
You assisted in a rushed, violent raid on a makeshift lab set up in a deserted fishing shack. You burned files and shattered sample jars, the acrid smell of chemicals and something vaguely organic replacing the scent of salt and flowers. At one point, a wiry, terrified smuggler, seeing you, tried a sliver of a smile. âHey, sweetheart, you donât have toââ
He didnât finish. Leonâs hand was on the back of his head, slamming his face into the rickety wooden table with a crack that brooked no argument. You just rolled your eyes and continued securing the evidence.
You dragged themselves back to the resort as the sky was once again beginning to lighten. They were filthy, exhausted, and stank of gunpowder and adrenaline. Leonâs favorite shirt, a soft grey henley you loved, was ruined, stained with blood that wasn't his.
You collapsed onto the giant bed, too tired to even shower, your boots leaving trails of dirt on the pristine white duvet. The balcony door was still open, and the ocean breeze drifted in, a cruel reminder of what you had lost.
Your voice was muffled against his shoulder. âThis⊠this is why we canât have nice things.â
Leon managed a tired, lopsided grin, his arm tightening around you. âWe did get a tan out of it.â
You poked him weakly in the ribs. âYou owe me. Another trip. Somewhere with no oceans, no palm trees, and definitely no secret bioweapon labs.â
He kissed your hair, which now smelled of sweat and jungle instead of resort shampoo. âAnywhere you want,â he promised, his voice thick with sleep.
Your phones pinged in unison on the nightstand. It was a final message from Chris. We owe you both. Big time. Tell your wife sheâs the best shot Iâve ever seen.
You, without lifting your head, flapped a hand weakly in the direction of the phones. âSee? Even your work-wife loves me.â
Leon let out a hoarse laugh, pulling you closer until you were fully sprawled on top of him. He could feel the steady, reassuring beat of your heart against his chest.
âLucky me,â he whispered into the quiet dawn, the words meant only for you. And for the first time, despite the chaos, the interrupted vacation, and the certain knowledge that this would happen again, he believed it with every fiber of his being.
Hello guys! How are youuu?? So, Iâve recently been thinking about making a high school au, but with a bad boy Leon or something similar or like, inside the concept, and give it more of an existentialist view, (Iâm really into philosophy Iâm sorry đđ) I wouldnât make it boring or too complicated I promise, I just want to like, give it a deeper view of love, anyway, tell me what you think
Would you like it?
Yesssss, thatâd be amazing!!
Thatâd be super boring, go back to writing the same fluff
Summary: Youâve been dating Leon for a while now, and yet somehow you still donât think youâve realized how much power or connections your boyfriend actually has until you see him in action.
Or, in other words, Leon using his govermental connections to his advantage
An: hey guys! How have you been? Iâm sorry I havenât posted đ I actually didnât know if youâd like this one, but Iâm pretty confident it end up coming out better than I thought, I hope you like it!
1,391 words
After a few years of dating Leon, you wouldâve thought you knew everything about the man that slept next to you every night, and, if you were being fair, you did, the issue actually was, you had no real notion of what Leon being a goverment agent actually entailed. The first real perk happened during what should have been a nightmare layover in Montana.
You two were supposed to catch a red eye to Billings, some urgent BSAA/DSO joint debrief, followed by a quiet weekend that both of you swore you would take off.
But the flight was overbooked, the gates were a chaos, and you had already begun nursing a headache while dragging your carry on behind Leon, who was completely unfazed by the swarm of exhausted travelers.
You were this close to snapping at the poor airline rep when Leon calmly produced a battered leather ID. The gate agent glanced at it, did a double take, then flicked her eyes to Leons face and physically straightened.
Leon murmured something you couldnât hear, you did distinguish the tone he used tho, low, polite, but carrying a weight that made the woman nod immediately.
Next thing you knew, she ushered around the desk, your boarding pass upgraded. First class. Private seats. A smile thatâs a little too stiff to be genuine.
You were still processing the situation as Leon steered you through the gate like nothing had happened.
âWhat did you just show her?â
He shrugged. âTravel credential.â
You squinted. âWhich one? The normal one or the âI kill bioweapons for the presidentâ one?â
He didnât even answer. He just tugged you by the wrist, pushed you down into the plush first class seat, and deadpanned âTry the champagne. Itâs free.â
ââ
Already in Billings, it happened again.
The hotel was overbooked, conference season, of course! How lucky you were. diplomats everywhere, and the snobby front desk staff refusing to budge. âSorry, miss, no rooms until tomorrow.â
You (tired and hungry) were already about to pick a fight, when Leon just sighed, grabbing your wrist softly to pull you back as he took out his phone, dialing a number you knew he hated using. He murmured something calm and clipped, and you only made out something along the words âYes. Same as last time. Thank you.â
The manager appeared in under two minutes. He was practically running, apologizing six times. âWe didnât know you were coming, Agent Kennedy.â
Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. Agent?
You were immediately upgraded to a corner suite, with a very comfortable looking king sized bed, two balconies overlooking the lake, a yummy fruit basket and a complementary bottle of French wine.
You tossed a grape at Leonâs head as he was unpacking his handgun by the window.
âAgent, huh?â
Leon caught the grape midair and then popped it into his mouth like it was nothing nothing. âEat your fruit, sweetheart.â
ââ
Then, back at D.C you guys were finally having a real date, no mission, no weapons, no B.O.W.s waiting to crash dessert.
You picked the restaurant. Impossible to get into with a two months waitlist, all marble and soft jazz and impossibly pretentious staff who made you feel underdressed no matter what you wore.
You showed up fifteen minutes late because Leon insisted on driving, which meant you always ended up taking detours, cause âhe knows betterâ
The host raised an eyebrow at your name, he flicked through the reservation book, and then looked up at you. âIâm sorry, maâam, but it appears your table was given awayââ
Leon stepped forward before the man could even finish his sentence, smooth as sin, voice low enough only for you and the host to hear: âAny chance the White House liaisonâs table is free tonight?â
Your eyes flicked to Leonâs face in nothing but confusion, the hostâs eyes flick down to Leonâs hand were his phone was showing something you couldnât quite see from your place, a picture? A document? A note? Whatever it was, recognition hit fast and hard in the hosts face, and all you could do at the moment was watch the smug click in the manâs posture and the way he suddenly couldnât look Leon in the eye.
âOf course, sir, weâll make room immediately.â
Leon shoot you a sidelong smirk as you were ushered to a window seat within sixty seconds.
You hissed as you sat down: âYou hate pulling rank.â
He shrugged, opening the wine list like it was the weather report. âYou wanted oysters.â
You scuffed amused before kicking him under the table.
He simply winked.
ââ
The op was going sideways in the most bureaucratic way possible. You were stuck at a heavily fortified private airstrip in Oregon, a sealed case of T-virus variants in your trunk. Your local BSAA contact had just been turned away at the gate by a stone faced private security team. The paperwork, apparently, was "insufficient."
Youâd tried logic. You tried your credentials. Youâd tried thinly veiled threats about global pandemics. The head of security, a man with the personality of a brick wall, remained unmoved. "No clearance, no entry." The samples were time sensitive, and the clock was ticking.
Swearing under your breath, you did the one thing you promised yourself youâd never do specially during a mission: you called him.
He answered on the first ring, the background noise suggesting he was on his bike. "Hey? You good?"
"Does 'good' include being held hostage by a cop with a god complex?" You hissed, turning your back to the security booth. "Your⊠idiot badge. The one that makes people soil themselves. Can you get me through a gate?"
A low grunt of amusement came through the line. "Location?"
You gave him the details. The name of the cop, and fifteen minutes later, the brick wall security chiefâs radio crackled. He listened, his face gradually losing all its color. He looked at you, then back at his radio, his voice an octave higher when he spoke. "Ma'am, you are⊠cleared for entry. My deepest apologies."
You swept past him without a second glance, a wicked, triumphant grin on your face.
ââ
But the truth was, Leon never bragged about his connections, that wasnât his style. The power of his badge was a tool, not a trophy. But heâd made a single, quiet call after he bought you the car, adding the Porscheâs plates to a very short, very privileged list. It was a small thing, an invisible shield. A way to give you one less headache in a world full of them.
So, it became a quiet, unshakable law of the universe, your Porsche never got tickets. Not in D.C., not in the labyrinth of government-heavy Virginia, not even when you were blatantly parked in the space of two cars for forty-five minutes.
You were convinced it was your own impeccable driving karma. âItâs about being respectful of the law, Kennedy,â youâd tease, sliding into the driverâs seat while he eyed a âNo Parkingâ sign youâd just ignored. âSomething you wouldnât understand.â
Leon would just grunt, buckling his passenger seatbelt.
The pinnacle of your delusion was parking. You were, by any objective measure, a terrible parker. The Porsche always ended up at a jaunty angle, two wheels dangerously close to the curb. One afternoon, after youâd squeezed the car into a spot clearly meant for a motorcycle, Leon finally spoke up.
âYou know, one of these days, youâre actually going to have to learn how to park that thing.â
You shot him a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. âLearn? I literally have never gotten a parking ticket. Not one. My record is cleaner than your service record is redacted.â
He just looked at you, at the absolute, unshakable confidence in your face, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. You genuinely believed it. You thought you were the most law abiding citizen in the District.
He never told you. He never would. Heâd you have this one thing. Let you believe, with all your heart, that it was your own brilliant skill that kept the traffic enforcement drones at bay. Heâd just lean back in the passenger seat, watch your smug smile in the rearview mirror, and keep his secret.
