Some of you I’ve known for a long time, and some have just joined. So this is a reintroduction!
As you know, I’m a girl, a Russian girl.
Speaking of me, I am a very creative person with many hobbies :3
I don’t have many favorite fandoms: DC, MARVEL, Resident Evil, The Boys, and I don’t know much about Mortal Kombat. I write fanfiction whenever something stirs in my heart — sometimes hyperfixation just kicks in. My favorite characters are ordinary orphans or abandoned characters (it’s really strange, I know…).
Actually, I have two cats. One is still young, and the other is already old. The young cat’s name is “Demon” (the name suits him perfectly — he tears around the house like crazy), and the older one is Umka.
What about my favorite characters? I'd say from Marvel, my favorites include Matt Murdock — he's one of my favorites (I worry about his life more than my own! I think the black suit suits him better than the red one 🫦). I also love Bucky Barnes, Yelena Belova, Natasha Romanoff, Kurt Wagner, Ava Starr, Gambit, Rogue (and that's not even the full list...)
From DC, my favorite characters are Rick Flag Jr. (It's a shame he died... And don't ask me why I love him...), I also love Adrian Chase, Starfire, Selina Kyle, Harley Quinn, Jason Todd (and there are many more...)
From "The Boys," my favorite characters are Billy Butcher, Frenchie, Kimiko, Annie January (yeah, there aren't many...)
From "Resident Evil," my favorite characters — oh, I love everyone there: Leon Kennedy (who doesn't love him? 🤨), Ingrid Hunnigan, Sherry Birkin, Claire Redfield, Chris Redfield, Albert Wesker, Rebecca Chambers, Jill Valentine, Ada Wong, Luis Cera.
TAGS: Jokes and humor, Soft language, Accidental intoxication, Tifling antics, Established flirting, Family vibes, Drunken confessions (hallucinogenic variety), Caring for sick friends (Under the influence), Late night. Visitors
SUMMARY: The night silence is broken by an insistent knock on the door. You open it and find Mollimauke Tillyf, Jester, and four other very worried adventurers on your doorstep, fleeing a "minor misunderstanding" involving a stolen amulet and an angry merchant guild.
PROLOGUE: THE "LAST PORT" TAVERN
The silence of the night was torn apart by a persistent knocking at the door. Slowly, stretching, you approached and opened it. On the threshold, bathed in moonlight, stood six figures. Two of them you recognized instantly.
At the front, with a characteristic languid smirk, stood Mollymauk Tealeaf – a purple-skinned genderfluid tiefling in his dazzlingly bright coat. His ram-like horns were adorned with new delicate rings, and his red eyes gleamed with a familiar mischievous spark. Slightly behind, shivering from the night chill and shifting from foot to foot, was Jester – a blue-haired tiefling in her usual dress, her freckled face illuminated by a wide, expectant smile.
But behind them loomed other silhouettes. Your gaze swept over the strangers: a red-haired human with sad blue eyes and a worn cloak; a tall green-skinned half-orc with scars on his face and a wary look; a small figure in a hood, beneath which a yellow eye glinted; and a muscular woman with a chestnut bun and multiple piercings, whose posture radiated readiness for battle even on a welcoming threshold.
"What the hell...?" you breathed, narrowing your eyes and pulling your thin silk nightgown tighter around yourself. The neckline and lace inserts on the chest suddenly felt far too revealing for such a gathering.
Molly, without waiting for an invitation, stepped inside with his usual elegance, his tail with a spatulate tip gliding smoothly along the doorframe.
"Darling, apologies for the late visit," his velvety voice rolled out. "But we've had a tiny, entirely insignificant little adventure that required immediate disappearance. And your doorstep seemed the most hospitable within twenty miles."
The others, somewhat hesitantly, followed him.
The red-haired man — Caleb Widogast — nodded politely, but his gaze lingered for a second on your attire.
"You have... a rather specific look for greeting unexpected guests, fräulein," he remarked, blushing slightly.
You made a slight, barely perceptible movement, as if about to slip a strap off your shoulder.
"I can take it off if I'm making you uncomfortable," you said with feigned innocence.
A chorus of objections arose: "No!", "That's not necessary!", "Please don't!" Molly bit his lip to keep from laughing, while Jester giggled into her hands.
"Alright, alright, I won't," you gave in, smiling. "Though I'm sure some in your company clearly enjoy the view." You gave a meaningful wink toward Molly, who responded with a languid look.
"Oh, believe me, darling, I always appreciate beauty," he parried, playing with the tip of his tail.
"Tieflings!" you exclaimed with exaggerated sigh, turning to the others. "Always obsessed with physical charms. Their own and others'. Ready to discuss them for hours on end!"
Beauregard only rolled her eyes, demonstratively crossing her arms over her chest.
"We have, just so you know, a potential pursuit on our heels, and you're talking about... aesthetics."
Caleb frowned slightly, lost in thought. Nott, the goblin, was already thoroughly examining the room, clearly looking for something shiny. Fjord, the half-orc, merely raised one eyebrow inquiringly, his yellow eyes with vertical pupils expressing polite bewilderment.
"And as for you, unfamiliar half-orc," you continued, pointing at Fjord, "you are, without knowing it, the subject of tender and quite... detailed fantasies of my tiefling friend." You nodded toward Jester, who instantly turned as red as her hair.
"So, if you're planning to stay, I suggest you get used to very intimate topics over breakfast."
"Oh," was all Fjord managed to utter, looking from the fidgeting, embarrassed Jester to you.
At that moment, Molly, who had already gotten a closer look at you, stepped forward. His attention was caught by your hand resting on the back of a chair.
"Wait a moment, what do we have here?" He gently but insistently took your right hand in his, turning it palm up. His fingers touched the pad of your thumb, where a new, small, neat freckle was clearly visible. "A completely new spot. It wasn't there before. I would definitely have remembered."
His touch was warm, his gaze intrigued. Jester, forgetting her embarrassment, instantly bounded over, peering eagerly.
"Oh, you're right! What a lovely little dot, like a button! When did it appear? Does it itch? It's so interesting when something new appears on the body!"
You felt heat rising to your cheeks under the intense scrutiny of the two tieflings. The other members of the Mighty Nein exchanged glances. Beau snorted, but a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. Caleb turned away, pretending to study the bookshelf, while Fjord and Nott shared looks full of silent questioning: "And this is the safe haven Molly was talking about?"
But Molly didn't let go of your hand, running his thumb over the freckle.
"You know," he said quietly, so only you could hear, "I collect such moments. Such small, intimate details. And this new little piece of you... it's delightful."
The relationship between you had always been a game — flirting, a dance on the edge. But in moments like this, amidst the chaos he brought with him, his words carried genuine, warm tenderness. And you understood that despite all this crazy company on your doorstep, you were still glad to see him. Even if he had brought an entire circus along.
"Thank you," you replied just as quietly. "But, darling, before you continue collecting, maybe you could explain who or what you're running away from? And why I'm currently receiving an entire party of adventurers in my nightgown?"
Molly turned to his team with a radiant, guilty smile.
"Ah, yes, that's... a small story about a misunderstanding with the local merchants' guild and a magical amulet that, as it turned out, wasn't magical at all, but very much stolen... But that's a completely different story! Don't start arranging chairs so menacingly, Beau, we're guests!"
A pause hung in the room after Molly's question. You, still feeling the chill of the night and the stares of strangers, sighed and walked deeper into the room, toward a large worktable cluttered with fabric scraps, thread spools, and dried herb bundles hanging from the ceiling.
"The story can wait. First — basic survival rules in my workshop," you said, turning to face them. The silk of your nightgown rustled softly as you moved. "I don't know what you've been through, but in here, we don't yank at threads, we don't shoot fireballs, and we don't draw daggers unless absolutely necessary. Understood?"
Your gaze swept over Caleb, whose hand instinctively reached toward the components at his belt, and Beau, whose posture was still somewhat battle-ready.
"We will... try, fräulein," Caleb muttered, lowering his hand.
"Good."
Then your gaze fell on Nott, who was crouched in a corner, examining a box of shiny scissors, thimbles, and spools with unhealthy interest. Her yellow eyes burned.
"And for you, little green one," you said more softly, "to keep your fingers from itching, here." You bent down (Molly immediately pretended to study the ceiling pattern, while Jester let out an admiring sigh at the lace trim on your hem) and pulled a large glass jar from the bottom shelf. It was filled to the brim with buttons of every conceivable shape, size, and color: mother-of-pearl, wooden, metal with embossing, glass ones that looked like gemstones.
You set the jar on the floor next to Nott with a soft, tinkling thud.
"A collection. You can touch, sort, even take a couple if you really like them. But only from this jar. Everything else — hands off. Deal?"
Nott, eyes wide, immediately forgot about the scissors. She pressed herself to the jar as if it were treasure, her thin fingers with sharp nails carefully reaching for the lid.
"A-all of it?" she whispered, and for the first time, something other than wariness appeared in her voice.
"All of it in the jar," you confirmed, watching the tension in her small shoulders ease. The kleptomania problem was solved, at least for now.
You turned to the others. Molly watched the scene with a smile, leaning on his staff. Jester was already twirling by the herb table, carefully sniffing a bundle of lavender.
"You're a seamstress?" Beau asked, her voice losing some of its initial sharpness. She nodded toward a mannequin wearing a half-finished jacket of dark green wool.
"A seamstress, an herbalist, and, as you've probably guessed, the hostess of this refuge, which you so kindly decided to visit in the middle of the night," you replied, walking to a small stove and starting to light it to boil water. "I have willow bark and chamomile tea. Calms the nerves. After your 'little adventure,' I think everyone could use some."
"You're too kind to a gang of uninvited fugitives," Fjord said quietly, his deep voice unexpectedly polite.
"Oh, don't be fooled," you parried, tossing pinches of dried herbs into a large ceramic teapot. "I'm just practical. Cold and nervous guests make bad guests. Besides..." you glanced at Molly, who had already made himself comfortable in your favorite armchair, one leg draped over the armrest, "some here can be very... persuasive when they want something."
"That's one of my modest talents," Molly agreed without missing a beat, catching your smile.
Caleb moved closer to the table, his scholar's gaze sliding with interest over the herb bundles and the folio with bookmarks lying nearby.
"You're knowledgeable about the healing properties of plants? Wirklich?" he asked, and for a moment, interest flickered in his eyes, overriding the usual weary sadness.
"Enough to heal needle pricks and soothe headaches from overly noisy visitors," you nodded. "And yes, wirklich. I have some comfrey if anyone has fresh wounds. And calendula salve."
While the water came to a boil and the room filled with the warm scent of herbs and wood, the atmosphere began to change. The sharp wariness gave way to tired but calmer anticipation. Nott quietly sorted through the buttons, clinking them together. Jester, sitting on the floor at Fjord's feet, muttered something about a "cozy nest," while Beau finally uncrossed her arms and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.
You, still in that silk gown that now seemed less seductive and simply homely amidst this chaos, poured tea into mugs.
"So," you said, handing the first mug to Caleb. "Tea — for starters. And then, Mollymauk Tealeaf, you'll tell me everything. From the beginning. About the merchants' guild, about this 'not magical at all' amulet. And most importantly — how long can I expect to not have very angry people with torches and pitchforks showing up on my doorstep?"
Molly accepted his mug with exaggerated reverence, his fingers briefly touching yours.
"I promise, the story is worth it. And believe me, darling, we won't stay long. Just long enough to let the dust settle... and, perhaps, to ask you to sew on a few missing buttons." He shamelessly indicated his coat, which was indeed missing one of its decorative silver buttons.
You just shook your head, but your smile betrayed your weakness.
"From you, as always, darling, double. And not just in silver."
A near-domestic coziness settled over the room. You poured tea into mugs, watching out of the corner of your eye as Nott sorted buttons with a guttural purr, as Caleb finally sat in a chair, clutching his mug as if he'd forgotten when he'd last had anything warm. Beau relaxed her shoulders and even allowed herself a yawn.
Molly gestured for you to come closer, extending his hand palm up. His red eyes glowed with something warm and simultaneously mischievous.
"Come here," he said quietly when you approached. "You're too busy with the guests, and you've forgotten about me."
You sank onto the armrest of the chair, and Molly, taking your hand, brought it to his lips. His kiss was light, almost weightless — right on the pad of your thumb where that new freckle was.
"I still think this is the most interesting thing that's appeared in your life recently," he whispered.
You rolled your eyes, but smiled.
"The amulet, the merchants' guild, the pursuit — you think that's less interesting?"
"Undoubtedly," Molly kissed your finger again, then a second, a third, with the unhurriedness of a cat who's gotten into the cream. "Because this is yours. New, tiny... and only mine tonight."
You didn't resist. After all, these two deserved a little silence and tenderness amidst all the madness they carried on their shoulders.
No one noticed exactly when Jester detached herself from the floor at Fjord's feet and crept over to the worktable. Her blue fingers slid over the herb bundles, stopping at a small clay jar without a lid, sitting next to the calendula salve. Inside was a strange, dark, almost black powder — a mixture of dried mushrooms you had gathered last autumn for complex concoctions not intended for casual tasting.
Jester leaned in, sniffed. Then sneezed. Then, unable to resist, dipped a finger in and licked it.
Within a minute, her eyes were round as coins. Within two, she began to giggle, first quietly, then louder, more uncontrollably, completely helpless with laughter.
"Jester?" Fjord called warily, but it was too late.
The blue-haired tiefling sprang to her feet, swaying like a ship in a storm. Her tail whipped wildly from side to side, and a blissfully mad smile frozen on her lips.
"O-o-oh," she drawled, looking at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. "Is the ceiling... moving? Or is it me? It's definitely me. No, it's the ceiling. And you're all so... so... beautiful!"
"Oh, hell," Caleb muttered, the first to notice the open jar on the table.
"What did she take?" Beau demanded sharply, straightening up.
You turned just as Jester took an unsteady, drunken step and collapsed bodily onto Fjord's shoulder. He froze like a statue, his tusks gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
"Fjoooord," Jester sang, clutching his arm and gazing up at him with undisguised adoration. "You're so... so green... everything. Do you know that I... that I always... huh?" She reached for his cheek, clearly intending to leave a wet kiss there.
"I..." Fjord recoiled, but Jester was surprisingly tenacious. "Could someone..."
Jester's second step was aimed at Molly. She released the half-orc and, swaying, moved toward the armchair where you still sat on the armrest while Molly held your hand in his.
"Oh, look at that! Molly!" she exclaimed, and before anyone could react, Jester bent down and with a wet smack kissed Molly's hand — right on the same spot he had just kissed on you. "You're such... such a couple! Can I join you? Right now? Huh?"
"Jester, what the..." Molly began, but didn't get to finish.
Because you had already launched yourself off the armrest.
It was a lunge. Lightning-fast, precise as a needle's prick. In one instant, you were standing next to Jester; in the next, your fingers were already gripping her face on both sides, tilting the blue-haired tiefling's head back.
"Jester, no, bad!" you yelled, not mincing words. "Spit it out! Right now, dammit!"
Your fingers pressed at the corners of her mouth, forcing her jaws apart. Jester let out a surprised "Mmf-mff-mff!" Her eyes, pupils blown wide, stared at you with absolute incomprehension.
"What did she take?" you barked, turning toward the table but not releasing Jester's face.
"Dark mushrooms," Caleb answered quickly, darting to the jar and sealing it with its lid. "From the smell... hallucinogenic. And highly concentrated."
"Oh, for the love of..." you clenched your teeth and turned back to Jester. "Listen here, blue. Here's what you're going to do: bend over, open your mouth, and... induce vomiting. I'm not joking. If this reaches your stomach, you'll be sick for three hours, and you'll see gods that even your Traveler has never met."
"But they're so... pretty," Jester hiccupped, still trying to smile. "And you're pretty. And your gown... it's... it's moving... like... like a dance..."
"Jester!" you snapped, shaking her by the shoulders.
The commotion brought Nott running, dropping a button, and she immediately froze to watch the scene. Beau moved closer, ready to help. Fjord stood with a stony face and a faint blush on his green cheeks — right where Jester had almost reached with her lips.
"Help her," he finally managed, trying not to look in the direction of your gown. "Please."
You took a deep breath, released Jester's face, and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her toward the door.
"Outside. Now. You're going to breathe fresh air and look at the moon until this passes. And if you so much as try to kiss me, I will tie you up, understood?"
"What about Fjord?" Jester asked hopefully.
"Fjord especially not! Move!"
You pushed her out onto the porch, where the night wind immediately hit her face, and stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
Molly came out behind you, standing beside you, and said quietly, with a slight smirk in his voice:
"You can be quite fierce."
"I can be responsible," you corrected, not turning around. "Unlike some people who drag a gang of idiots into my house and then let one of them get high on my supplies."
"Her," Molly corrected.
"What?"
"Jester — 'she.' You said 'let one of them get high.'"
You turned around. Molly was smiling his special, lazy smile, and there wasn't a trace of guilt in it.
"Sorry," you said more quietly. "I'm worried."
"I know. And you're handling it brilliantly," he took your hand, the same one with the freckle, and kissed it again. "Even when you're yelling curses at three in the morning in a silk nightgown."
"Shut up, Molly."
"Can't. This is my favorite show."
From inside the room came Jester's voice:
"I see the moon worms! They want me to dance with them!"
"NO DANCING!" you yelled back. "SPIT!"
Fjord groaned quietly, covering his face with his hands. Beau, for the first time all evening, genuinely laughed. And Caleb poured himself more tea, deciding that tonight was going to be very, very long.
TAGS: Established Relationship, Morning Sex, Cunnilingus, Married Couple, Teasing, Fluff and Smut, Post-Mission, Sleepy Sex, Emotional Vulnerability
SUMMARY: A year after escaping Spain and getting married, Y/N wakes up before Leon. Despite her happiness, a small part of her wishes he had proposed properly.
They slept in that special pose that develops over years, when it no longer matters who is the "big spoon" and who is the "little spoon." It was just comfortable. Today, you were behind his back — pressing your chest against his shoulder blades, your arm wrapped around his waist, your nose buried in his hair. It was so warm. It felt so right.
The room was bathed in a gray pre-dawn twilight. Outside, it hadn't dawned yet, but the birds were beginning their first timid chirps. A silence you didn't want to break.
Leon was asleep. Truly, deeply — apparently, yesterday's mission had thoroughly exhausted him. You could hear his steady breathing, feel his chest rise and fall rhythmically.
You had woken up about ten minutes ago. Not from a nightmare, not from back pain — your body just decided you'd had enough sleep for today. And now you lay there, inhaling the scent of his shampoo (you shared one because you refused to buy a separate bottle, and he never complained), and thought.
You thought about how it had been a year since Spain. A year since you got out of that hell. A year since you blurted out to him, in the middle of a corridor littered with cultist corpses: "If we get out of here, I'll marry you."
And you did get out. And you did marry him. In a suit, no white dress, no veil, in the presence of two witnesses and a priest who, it seemed, still hadn't recovered from marrying a couple with files like yours.
But...
You propped yourself up on your elbow, peering at the back of his head. He never actually proposed to you. A real one. With a ring, on one knee, with a tremor in his voice. He just agreed. Just said "yes" back in Spain. Then came the wedding, because you said "let's go, a wedding is waiting for us," and he went.
You didn't regret it. Not for a second. But sometimes, in quiet pre-dawn hours like this, you wondered — could it have been different? Could he have gotten down on one knee in some cheesy restaurant while waiters applauded? Could he have pulled out a box with a ring he'd spent weeks choosing?
You smiled at your own thoughts. Leon? With his eternal doubts? With his "what if you don't want to"? He'd rather die than make such a public gesture.
But the resentment still sat somewhere deep. A small, stupid resentment, completely unlike you. And now, in this silence, you decided you had the right to voice it.
Your way. The Y/N way.
You nuzzled your nose into his hair. He didn't move. You kissed him — lightly, barely touching your lips to the hair on the back of his head. No reaction.
You moved lower. Into the little hollow below his head, where the neck meets the shoulders. You kissed him — bolder now, with a light nibble on the skin.
Leon twitched in his sleep. Mumbled something.
You didn't stop. Your lips moved further — down his neck, slowly, teasingly. You knew he was waking up. You knew by how his breathing changed, how the muscles tensed under your lips.
"Stop it..." he whispered, sleepy, but the hand resting on yours squeezed a little tighter.
"I don't want to," you exhaled against his skin.
You reached his ear. You lingered here — ran your tongue over the lobe, then gently bit down. Leon sighed — deeply, no longer sleepy at all. His body turned toward you, but you didn't let him — you pressed closer, holding him in place.
"Leon," you whispered into his ear.
"Hmm?" His voice was hoarse, sleepy, but already interested.
"I've been thinking..."
"Dangerous."
"Shut up." You bit his ear harder. "I'm serious."
"I'm all ears." He tried to turn again, but you held him back.
"Don't turn around. I want it this way."
He obediently froze. You smiled — still a puppy. The best puppy.
"Actually," you began slowly, putting all your "resentment" into each word, "by all the male canons, you were supposed to propose to me."
He went still. Stopped breathing, it seemed.
"Y/N..."
"Quiet. I'm not finished." You kissed his neck, just below his ear. "You just agreed. Said 'yes' back in Spain. That's it. No ring, no knee, no trembling voice."
"You don't like all that stuff," he whispered. "You said yourself that a white dress is for fools."
"I say a lot of things." You licked his neck. "Sometimes I want to be a fool. Sometimes I want to be asked. Begged. For you to be afraid of rejection."
"I'm already afraid," he admitted quietly.
Of what?"
"That you'll leave."
You froze. Then laughed — softly, into his shoulder.
"Idiot. Where would I go without you?" You kissed his shoulder blade. "But you'll have to make up for it."
"How?"
"Well..." You ran your hand over his chest, down to his stomach. "A little bit of your lips between my legs might fix the situation."
He jerked — either from your words or from where your hand had wandered.
"Y/N..."
"What?" You bit his shoulder. "Don't you want to make amends?"
"I do," his voice was completely gone. "Very much."
"But!" You abruptly pulled your hand away and leaned back on the pillow. "Not for long. I'm still offended."
He finally turned. In the dim light, his eyes gleamed — completely sleepy, but already with that familiar spark that always turned everything inside you upside down.
"So," he said slowly, "you woke me up, got me all worked up, and now you're saying I don't get to continue?"
"I said: you get a little." You smiled, looking up at him. "And then I'll be offended again."
"That's blackmail."
"This is marriage, sweetheart."
He looked at you for a long time. A very long time. Then his face broke into a smile — that same puppy-like smile that made you melt for the first time years ago.
"You're insufferable," he said.
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know." You reached for him, pulled him by the neck. "Now come on, make amends. You have... let's say, half an hour. Then I'll be offended again."
"And if I try really hard?"
"Then maybe after half an hour I'll change my mind about being offended."
He moved lower. Slowly, kissing every centimeter of your body, as if he wanted to memorize it all over again. Chest, stomach, thighs — everywhere his lips touched your skin, you exhaled quiet, uneven sounds that made his own breath catch.
"Leon..." you whispered when his kisses grew bolder, when he reached the place where you wanted him most.
You closed your eyes, tilting your head back on the pillow. That familiar warmth spread through your chest — the warmth you allowed yourself to feel only with him. Only with this puppy who had burst into your life years ago and turned everything upside down.
His lips touched you. Gently, almost weightlessly — he seemed to be asking permission, even after all these years.
"Leon," you exhaled, and your hand found the back of his head, pulling him closer. "Don't stop..."
He didn't stop.
You felt every movement — timid at first, then bolder. He always did this: learned, tried, memorized your reactions. And you responded — with quiet moans, uneven breathing, fingers tangled in his hair.
"Good," you whispered. "Just like that... yes..."
He found a rhythm. Slow, languid, the kind that made your knees weak and your thoughts melt. You no longer controlled your sounds — and didn't want to. Let him hear. Let him know that only he could do this to you.
"Leon..." your voice broke as the wave crept too close. "I'm going to..."
He sped up — just a little, just enough to push you over the edge. And you fell.
A sob, an exhale, your body arching off the bed, your fingers tightening in his hair until it hurt. He didn't stop, prolonging your pleasure until you went limp against the sheets, breathing heavily.
He came up to you, lay down beside you, pressed his lips to your shoulder.
"Good?" he asked quietly.
You didn't answer. Just turned your head, found his lips, and kissed him. Long, grateful, tasting yourself on his tongue.
"I'm still offended," you whispered when you let go.
"I know." He smirked. "In half an hour?"
"We'll see."
"What can I do to make you forgive me?"
You looked at him. At this idiot who had just given you heaven and was now looking at you with puppy eyes, waiting for an answer.
"Repeat it," you said simply.
"Now?"
"No, you idiot." You smiled. "When we wake up. For now — just hold me."
He pulled you to him, settled your head on his chest, covered you with the blanket. You listened to his heart — steady, calm, alive.
"Leon?"
"Hmm?"
"I forgive you."
"Right now?"
"No." You yawned. "But soon. You're trying. It counts."
He kissed the top of your head.
"Sleep, Y/L/N."
"Kennedy," you corrected sleepily. "I'm Kennedy."
"Sleep, Kennedy."
And you fell asleep. With a feeling that everything was right. That this puppy was yours. And that you would never let him go.
You and Leon just came back from your mission and needed to do a report🙄
However, your supervisor is being a dick to you.
PAPERWORK AND WHISKEY
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF)
RATING: T
GENRE: Romance / Fluff / Hurt/Comfort
WARNINGS: Mild language, office stress, fluff, established relationship
SUMMARY: A stuffy office, endless report revisions, and a stupid chair — that's today's entire mission. But even amidst the paperwork and bureaucratic nitpicking, there's Leon, coffee, and a promise of an evening with no zombies, no bosses, and no reports. Just a soft bed, whiskey, and him by her side.
Report. The cursed report you were rewriting for the third time because management decided the "format didn't meet requirements." What requirements? You didn't know. They changed every time you submitted a new version.
You'd been sitting in the stuffy office for four hours now. The corset under your t-shirt was pressing into you as usual, but you'd stopped noticing it. Your back ached from sitting so long in an uncomfortable office chair. You shifted periodically, trying to find a position that hurt less, but it was useless. Add to that your shaking hands – from lack of sleep, from overtime, from the fact that Hunnigan (or whoever was your direct supervisor this week) had made you redo what had already been done perfectly.
"Burn in hell, bureaucratic bastard," you muttered in Russian, staring at another line. Your fingers flew across the keyboard with such fury as if the keys weren't buttons but enemies.
The door opened without a knock. Only Leon could get away with that. You didn't even turn around – you recognized his footsteps.
"Busy," you said, not looking away from the screen.
"I see," there was a smirk in Leon's voice. "You've been sitting here for three hours. I brought coffee."
You glanced over – sure enough, a paper cup with your favorite black coffee, no sugar, appeared on the edge of the desk.
"Thanks," you grumbled, still typing. "Leave it there."
Leon didn't leave. He stood behind you, and you felt his gaze. You knew that look – he always looked at you like that when he wanted to say something but hesitated.
"What?" you asked irritably. Your voice cracked because the accumulated exhaustion was breaking through. "I have a report due in an hour. If I don't finish this crap, they'll make both of us sit here for another week. And that idiot..." you nodded toward the door behind which the boss was presumably hiding, "that idiot said my work 'wasn't good enough.' Can you believe it? I've been through Spain, China, through everything imaginable, and this... this..."
"Hey," Leon put his hands on your shoulders and started gently massaging. You let out an involuntary breath – the tension in your muscles had been so familiar you'd stopped noticing it. "You're like a coiled spring. Relax."
"I'll relax when we get out of here," you replied, but your voice sounded a bit softer. "What did you want?"
"Nothing much," he continued massaging your shoulders, and it felt damn good. "Just wanted to ask if you'd like to... I don't know, go out somewhere tonight? No weapons, no reports, no dead people. And without your..." he also nodded toward the door, "without your 'darling' boss."
You thought for a second. Then you stopped typing and... leaned your head back.
You tilted it back so you could see his face upside down. Your eyes looked up at him, a mix of exhaustion, tenderness, and your usual defiance in them. Your lips were slightly parted, offered for a kiss.
"If you want to ask me something, Kennedy," you said in a low voice, "first fulfill your marital duty."
Leon froze for a second, then smiled that same smile that still (after all these years!) made your heart skip a beat.
"With pleasure, ma'am."
He leaned down and kissed you. In that kiss was everything: gratitude that you existed, that you waited for him, that even in this stuffy office you managed to be yourself. You reached for him, forgetting about reports, about the pain in your back, about that idiot boss, about everything in the world.
The kiss lasted a long time. So long that when you finally pulled apart, you realized you were sitting in a completely awkward position with your head tilted back, and your neck was stiff.
"Ow, damn," you winced, returning your head to a normal position. "My neck."
"Your own fault," Leon smiled, but already reached up to massage your neck. "You could have just stood up."
"Could have," you agreed, closing your eyes in pleasure. "But then I wouldn't have seen your face. It was worth it."
"What face?"
"Your happy face." You opened your eyes and looked at him. "You looked happy when you were kissing me. I love seeing that."
He fell silent, touched. Then he leaned down and kissed the top of your head.
"I'm happy when you're near. Even when you're stuck in this paper hell and cursing in Russian."
"I'm not cursing. I'm speaking figuratively."
"Uh-huh. And what does 'blin' mean?"
"That's..." you paused. "Well, like 'oh.' A culinary term."
Leon laughed. You smiled. For the first time all day.
"Okay," you turned back to the computer. "Go. I need to finish this report. And tonight... yes, let's go out. Somewhere with no zombies, no bosses, and no paperwork."
"Can't promise that," he teased. "In this city, you never know."
"Then at least somewhere with a soft bed. My back requires a horizontal position. And whiskey. Lots of whiskey."
"Promise," Leon nodded seriously. "Soft bed and whiskey, guaranteed."
He walked to the door, but turned around at the threshold:
"Hey?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
You didn't turn around, but the way your fingers faltered on the keyboard told him you'd heard.
"I know," you replied with a slight smile. "Now go, lover boy. Let me finish."
The door closed. You looked at the screen, but the lines blurred. You touched your lips – they were still burning from his kiss.
"Blin," you whispered in Russian, but now the word sounded completely different.
You went back to the report. The work went faster. Much faster. Because now you had something to rush home for. Because tonight there would be him. And a soft bed. And whiskey. And no reports.
You typed the last line, checked it again, hit "send." The screen went dark, and you leaned back in your chair.
"Hooray," you said to the empty office. "Done."
You stood up, stretched – your back cracked and ached, but it didn't matter now. Everything important was already done. The report was sent. The boss could go to hell. And you were going home. To Leon.
You left the office, walked down the hallway, took the elevator down. Downstairs, by the exit, stood Leon – leaning against the wall, holding two cups of coffee.
"Why didn't you leave?" you asked.
"I was waiting for you."
"What if I'd been late?"
"I'd have waited longer."
You walked over, took your coffee, looked at him.
"You're an idiot, Kennedy."
"Your idiot."
"That's true."
You took his hand, and you walked outside. The evening city greeted you with lights, noise, the smell of exhaust fumes, and freedom.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Home," you answered. "Then – wherever you say."
"I say a restaurant."
"Then a restaurant."
"And then?"
"And then – home. To the soft bed."
"And whiskey?"
"And whiskey."
He smiled. You smiled. And you walked – holding hands, the way you always had. For ten years. Through all those years. And it never got old. Because it was yours. Only yours.
"Leon," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for bringing the coffee."
"Anytime."
"And for waiting for me."
"I'll always wait."
You stopped, turned to him, looked into his eyes.
"I know," you said. "That's why you're the only one."
He leaned down and kissed you – lightly, almost weightlessly, but it made your heart skip a beat again.
"Come on," he said.
"Come on."
And you walked. To the restaurant. Home. Into your life. Together.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF); Jake Muller/Sherry Birkin (MF)
RATING: General Audiences
GENRE: Fluff / Domestic Fluff / Humor / Established Relationship
SUMMARY: You and Leon are living together in a tiny apartment with cracked tiles, a leaky faucet, and a bed that squeaks with every move. Everything is fine. Almost. For the past two weeks, you've been coming home later. Distracted. Covered in gray fur you never explain. Leon tells himself he's not the jealous type.
They were already living together—in a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, renting together. No temporary shelters, no government guest houses. Just their place. With cracked tiles in the kitchen, a perpetually dripping faucet, and a bed that squeaked with every move.
Everything was fine. Almost.
For the past two weeks, Leon had felt that something was wrong.
You started coming home later. Not by much—an hour, two—but before, you'd always warned him. "Kennedy, I'll be late." "Kennedy, I'll be back by eight." "Kennedy, don't wait up for dinner." Now you just came home. Silent. Without explanation.
When he asked, you just shrugged.
"Stuff," you said.
"What stuff?"
"Work stuff."
"You didn't have work stuff today."
"It came up."
You'd go take a shower, and the conversation would end.
Leon wasn't the jealous type. At least, he thought he wasn't. But this silence, these excuses, the way you looked away when he tried to meet your eyes—it was driving him crazy.
He started noticing details. Your hair was sometimes disheveled when you came back—not the way it looked after work, but the way it looked after you'd run your hand through it too many times. Your clothes sometimes had fur on them—gray, fluffy. And you didn't smell like the city, or gunpowder, or coffee. You smelled like something else. Warm. Alive.
You'd never smelled like that after work before.
He couldn't sleep at night. He'd lie beside you, watching your back—the corset, the old wound, everything he knew about you. And he'd think.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" you asked once, without turning around.
"Can't."
"Nightmares?"
"No."
"What then?"
He wanted to ask. Wanted to grab your shoulder, turn you around, force you to look at him and say: "Where were you? With who? Why are you lying?" But instead, he said:
"Nothing. Just thinking."
You didn't answer. A minute later, your breathing evened out—you were asleep. And he lay there staring at the ceiling until morning.
A few days later, he couldn't take it anymore.
He came home earlier than usual—on purpose, to catch you. But you weren't there. The kitchen light was on, a cold mug of tea sat on the table—you had been here, but you'd left. You hadn't waited for him.
He sat on the couch, dropped his head into his hands.
Images swirled in his head. Each one worse than the last. You with someone else. You looking at someone the way you looked at him. You lying.
"God," he whispered. "God, God, God."
He didn't know what to do. Ask you directly? Make a scene? Follow you? Every option seemed worse than the last.
He sat like that for maybe an hour. Maybe two. And then he heard footsteps on the stairs.
You walked in—disheveled, cheeks flushed (from the wind? from what you'd been doing?), with that stupid smile you got when you were happy. Happy without him.
"You're home?" you asked when you saw him. "I thought you'd be late."
"Got off early."
"Good." You took off your jacket, hung it up. "I'll be right back, going to take a shower."
"Y/N."
"Yeah?"
"Where were you?"
You froze. Just for a second. But he noticed.
"Walking."
"Where?"
"In the park."
"What park?"
You turned to him. Something flickered in your eyes—irritation? fear? guilt?—but you quickly composed yourself.
"Kennedy, what's with the interrogation?"
"I was just asking."
"And I answered. I was walking in the park."
You went into the bathroom, closed the door. Leon heard the water start. He sat there, staring at your jacket, which had gray fur on it again.
"Damn," he whispered.
The next day, he decided to follow you.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But he couldn't stand the uncertainty anymore. He left his car at home, went on foot. Waited for you to leave—you were wearing the same jacket, the same jeans, the same boots.
You walked quickly, confidently, not looking back. Leon kept his distance, hiding around corners, behind trees. You turned into an old neighborhood—where mostly Russian immigrants lived, where he could hear a foreign language, smell pies and something else.
You went into a courtyard. Leon stopped around the corner, peered out.
You were standing in the middle of the courtyard, and around you... cats. Lots of cats. Gray, black, orange, striped. You crouched down, took a bag from your purse, poured food onto a piece of cardboard.
"Well, you little hooligans," you said. "Hungry?"
The cats rushed to the food. And one—orange, fluffy, with white paws—rubbed against your leg.
"You're here too," you smiled, scooping him up. "Ryzhik. My good boy. I missed you."
Leon stood around the corner and watched.
You stroked the cat, held him close, whispered something in his ear. The other cats rubbed against your legs, meowed, demanded attention. And you laughed—quietly, happily, the way he hadn't heard you laugh in a long time.
"That's enough, that's enough," you said. "Everyone gets some. You too, and you too. And don't push, I said."
Leon stepped back around the corner, leaned against the wall. His heart was pounding—with relief, with shame, with the realization of what he'd almost done.
You weren't cheating. You were just feeding cats.
"Idiot," he whispered to himself. "Idiot, idiot, idiot."
He wanted to leave, but something held him there. He stood and listened to you talking to the cats—in Russian, which he barely understood, but in which he could hear warmth. You were different here. Not a fighter, not an agent, not a woman who wore a corset because of an old wound. Just a woman who loved cats.
"Ryzhik, you're eating too much," you said. "You'll get fat, and no one will love you."
The cat meowed. You laughed.
"Fine, they will. I love you."
Leon exhaled. Turned and walked home.
He went inside, took off his jacket, went to the kitchen. Put the kettle on, took out two mugs. Took out the cookies—your favorite, with chocolate chips.
When you came back, he was sitting at the table drinking tea.
"What's with you?" you asked, taking off your jacket.
"What do you mean?"
"You look thoughtful."
"Just tired."
You walked over, sat across from him. Took a mug, took a sip.
"You bought cookies?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"You like them."
You looked at him for a long time. Then smiled—that same smile that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"Thanks, Kennedy."
"Don't mention it."
You drank tea in silence. Outside, it was getting dark, and in this quiet, in this warmth, there was something that didn't need to be explained in words.
"Y/N," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
You looked at him.
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"I'm serious too." You took his hand. "What's with you today?"
"Just..." he hesitated. "Just wanted you to know."
You leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth.
"I know, Kennedy. I always know."
He didn't explain anything. Didn't tell you he'd followed you, that he'd suspected, that he'd been afraid. He just sat and watched you drink tea, bite into a cookie, smile.
"Going again tomorrow?" he asked.
"Where?"
"You know... walking."
You froze. Looked at him.
"Why, you want to come with me?"
"If you don't mind."
You were quiet for a long time. Then you smiled.
"Fine. But you should know—there are cats."
"Cats?"
"Lots of cats."
"I'll manage."
You smirked.
"We'll see."
The next day, you went together. Leon carried the bag of food, you carried a blanket to sit on.
"You came prepared," he noticed.
"I'm always prepared."
You went into the courtyard. The cats were already waiting—sitting on benches, on windowsills, on the ground. And one—orange, fluffy—ran to you first.
"Ryzhik," you scooped him up. "This is Leon. He's a good one."
The cat looked at Leon. Leon looked at the cat.
"Is he judging me?" Leon asked.
"Yeah."
"And what does he think?"
"He doesn't know yet."
You laughed, set the cat down, got out the food. Leon stood beside you, watching you feed the cats, stroke them, talk to them.
"You love them," he said.
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know." You shrugged. "Thought you wouldn't understand."
"Why?"
"Because you're... well, you're a guy."
"Y/N, I've seen zombies, cultists, mutants. I can handle cats."
You smirked.
"Okay. Sorry."
"Don't mention it."
He took your hand. You didn't pull away.
"Ryzhik," he called.
The cat looked up.
"If you hurt her, I'll kill you."
You rolled your eyes.
"Kennedy, you're threatening a cat."
"I'm warning him."
You laughed. Loud, genuine, so that the cats scattered in all directions.
"You're an idiot," you said.
"But you love me."
"That's the only reason you're still alive."
He smiled. You smiled. And you stood there, in the courtyard, surrounded by cats, and it was strange, and wrong, and so, so good.
Because you were together. Because you weren't cheating. Because you just loved cats.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF); Jake Muller/Sherry Birkin (MF)
RATING: Mature
GENRE: Domestic Fluff / Humor / Established Relationship
SUMMARY: August 2015. The world finally gives them a break—three days of freedom by the sea. You, Leon, Sherry, and Jake in a small apartment with a kitchen that faces the ocean.
It happened in August 2015, when the world finally gave them a break.
No missions, no reports, no middle-of-the-night phone calls. Three days of freedom that you and Leon decided to spend by the sea—in a small town on the southern coast, where no one knew them and where they could finally breathe.
They rented a small apartment on the second floor of an old building. White walls, wooden floors, large windows facing the ocean. And a kitchen—spacious, bright, with a huge table where they had breakfast every morning.
Sherry and Jake came along. Not with them—separately, to avoid suspicion—but they stayed in the same apartment. The couch in the living room became their bed, and you pretended not to notice Sherry coming out of the shower with wet hair every morning while Jake hid his smile in his coffee mug.
They'd been hiding their relationship for over a year. You didn't know why—maybe they were afraid Chris would kill Jake (though Chris tolerated him well enough), maybe they just wanted to keep something for themselves, something not on display. You didn't pry. You remembered how you and Leon hid your feelings in those first years—how agonizing and wonderful it had been at the same time.
Leon fell asleep first.
They lay in the bedroom, in a large bed with crisp white sheets, and you listened to the ocean breathing outside the window. Heavy, steady—the way a person breathes when they've finally fallen asleep after a long night. You were on the edge of sleep yourself when something jerked your arm. Or you jerked it. You weren't sure.
You knew when Leon grunted.
"What's wrong?" you asked sleepily, not yet opening your eyes.
"You..." He covered his eye with his hand. "You got me in the face."
"What?"
"Your elbow. In my eye."
You sat up in bed, blinking. The room was dark—only moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. Leon sat beside you, pressing his palm to his left eye.
"God," you said. "Did I hit you?"
"Not on purpose."
You took his face in your hands, turned it toward the light. His eye was red, and a small bruise was already beginning to swell around it.
"God," you whispered. "I maimed you."
"It's just an eye."
"It's your eye. You see with it."
"I have another one."
"Y/N!"
You leaned down and kissed his eyelid—gently, barely touching with your lips. Then again. Then again, moving down to his cheekbone, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
"I'm sorry," you whispered between kisses. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. You startled me, I jerked in my sleep."
"You were just sleeping."
"I hit you."
"Accidentally."
"That's not an excuse."
He caught your face with his palm, made you stop.
"Y/N," he said. "It's okay. Just get some ice."
You froze. Then nodded, pulled back, put on your robe.
"I'll be right back," you said. "Stay in bed. I'll be quick."
You walked into the hallway and immediately knew something was wrong.
Sounds came from the kitchen. Quiet, muffled—the kind you'd learned to recognize many years ago. Controlled breathing, a faint creak of the countertop, whispers.
"Sherry," you thought. "And Jake."
You paused for a moment. Sighed. Shook your head. And kept walking, not turning on the light. Because you needed ice. Because you didn't have time for these games. And because, after all, you weren't their mother.
The kitchen greeted you with moonlight seeping through the large windows. You saw them immediately—silhouettes by the table. Sherry sat on the edge of the countertop, her arms around Jake's neck. He stood between her legs, his fingers gripping her thighs. Both froze when you walked in.
"Don't turn on the light," you said evenly, heading for the refrigerator.
Sherry made a sound—something between a squeak and a groan. Jake straightened but didn't step back.
"Y/N, we..."
"I need ice," you interrupted, opening the freezer. "My husband has a black eye. I accidentally hit him in my sleep. Nothing romantic."
You took out the ice, wrapped it in a towel. Turned to them.
Sherry was covering her chest with her hand. Jake stood there looking like he'd been caught stealing a car. Their faces in the half-darkness were red—from embarrassment or from what they'd been doing before you arrived, you didn't ask.
"Carry on," you said. "Just be quiet. Leon's sleeping."
"Y/N, I..." Sherry started.
"Sherry," you cut her off. "I'm forty years old. My husband just took an elbow to the eye. I want to sleep. I don't care what you do in here as long as it's not on my bed."
You walked out of the kitchen without looking back. In the hallway, you stopped and listened. Silence. Then Sherry's quiet laugh. Then Jake's whisper: "I told you she knows."
You smirked and went back to the bedroom.
Leon lay in the same spot, pressing his hand to his eye. You walked over, carefully moved his hand away, applied the ice.
"Careful," he said, wincing.
"Deal with it."
"You were in the kitchen forever."
"Sherry and Jake were there."
"And?"
"They were having sex."
Leon froze. Then opened his good eye and looked at you.
"And you... just got the ice?"
"What was I supposed to do? Scold them? Ask to join in?"
"Y/N!"
"Leon," you sighed. "They're twenty-nine and twenty-two. They've been hiding their relationship for a year. If they want to have sex on the kitchen counter at two in the morning—that's their business."
He looked at you for a long time. Then chuckled—and winced from the pain.
"Don't laugh," you said. "It hurts."
"It hurts because my wife hits me in her sleep."
"Accidentally."
"That's not an excuse."
"Shut up."
You leaned down and kissed his cheek—right where the bruise was starting. Then the corner of his mouth. Then his chin.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
"Already forgiven."
"I'm going to kiss that spot all night."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You put the ice aside, curled up beside him, pressing against his good side. He wrapped his arm around you, pulled you close.
"Y/N," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Are they still out there?"
"Probably."
"Is the door closed?"
"No."
"Should we close it?"
"Leon," you smirked. "I just said I'm going to kiss you all night. I don't care about the door."
He didn't answer. Just kissed the top of your head.
You kept your word.
You kissed his cheek—the one where the bruise was starting—over and over. Light, weightless, like a butterfly's wings. Between kisses, you whispered: "I'm sorry," "I didn't mean to," "You're my good boy," "Go to sleep."
He wasn't sleeping. He was listening to your breathing, feeling your lips on his skin, and thinking about how lucky he was. That you existed. That you were here. That even an accidental elbow in the night couldn't ruin this.
"Y/N," he whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Even when you hit me in your sleep."
"Especially then."
You smirked, kissed his lips, and he could feel you smiling.
Behind the wall, in the kitchen, it was quiet. Sherry and Jake, it seemed, had heard your words. Or had simply finished. You didn't know and didn't want to know.
You knew only one thing: here, in this bed, in this house by the sea, was your husband. And you were going to kiss him until morning. Because he deserved it. Because you deserved it.
Because you were together.
And that was enough.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, moonlight continued to flood the countertop, and Sherry and Jake still hadn't turned on the light.
After you left, they froze for a few seconds—both breathing heavily, thrown off rhythm, but not stopping.
"She knows," Jake whispered, his voice hoarse, his hands still gripping her thighs.
"I'm aware," Sherry replied, amusement in her voice. "She always knows."
"And she doesn't care?"
"She needed ice. Her husband got hit in the eye."
Jake started to say something else, but Sherry pulled him by the neck and kissed him—demanding, not letting him speak.
Conversation over.
His fingers slid higher, under the hem of her t-shirt, which she still hadn't taken off. He pulled it over her head, and the fabric fell to the floor. Sherry leaned back on her hands, looking down at him—at his face lit by moonlight, at the scar on his cheek, at his eyes that in the darkness looked almost black.
"You're beautiful," she said.
"So are you."
"This is going to end badly."
"Probably."
He leaned down, kissed her collarbone, moved lower. She bit her lip, tilted her head back, her fingers tangling in his hair.
They moved in a rhythm no one needed to teach—slow at first, then faster. The countertop creaked under their weight, but they didn't pay attention. There was only them—his lips on her skin, her whisper in his ear, their breath mingled as one.
He entered her—sharp but not rough—and she arched, pulling him closer. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her legs locked around his waist. He paused for a second, letting her adjust, but she shook her head.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
He didn't stop.
They came almost together—she first, pressing her face to his neck to keep from crying out; he followed, his nose buried in her shoulder, exhaling her name so softly she barely heard.
"Sherry," he whispered.
"I'm here," she answered.
They stood like that for a long time—embracing, pressed against each other, listening to their hearts beat. Then he pulled back, picked up her t-shirt from the floor, helped her put it on.
"Come on," he said. "Time for bed."
"What if they heard?"
"They're asleep."
"Leon has a black eye."
"Y/N is kissing it better."
Sherry smirked, took his hand, and they walked to the living room—to the couch, to the blanket, to each other's warmth.
"Jake," she said as they lay down.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here."
"Me too."
He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close. She buried her nose in his chest and closed her eyes.
Behind the wall, it was quiet. The ocean breathed steadily, and there was something calming in that breath. Like a reminder that the world was big, and they were small. And that their small problems, small joys, small secrets—were all they had.
"Leon, you and Jake have a lot in common," Sherry said, thoughtfully twirling her mug in her hands.
"For example?" Leon raised an eyebrow, looking up from his coffee.
You were sitting on the couch, adjusting the waistband of your pants—you'd just come back from a run and were still in your workout clothes. Without looking up, you said:
"A fondness for older women."
Jake choked. The drink went down the wrong pipe, he coughed, pounding his fist against his chest, and stared at you with red-rimmed eyes.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF) Ada Wong, Claire Redfield, Chris Redfield, Ingrid Hunnigan, Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira (mentioned)
RATING: Explicit
GENRE: Romance / Fluff / Established Relationship
SUMMARY: You came home after midnight, exhausted but happy. Gifts waited to be opened—from Claire, from Chris, from Jill and Carlos. And one more. A thin black envelope, no return address, with your name written in elegant, flowing handwriting.
You came home after midnight. You kicked off your shoes at the door, not even trying to put them away, and walked barefoot into the living room. Leon followed, undoing his bow tie, which finally gave up after several failed attempts.
"I'm tired," you announced, collapsing onto the couch. "I'm tired as a dog. No, dogs don't get this tired. Dogs sleep twenty hours a day."
"You haven't slept in two days," Leon reminded you, sitting down beside you. "It's normal that you're tired."
"It's not normal that at a wedding you have to smile at every idiot who comes up to congratulate you."
"You didn't smile. You looked at them like a wolf."
"That is my smile."
He chuckled, pulled you close. You buried your nose in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent—cologne, whiskey (he'd barely drunk tonight, you'd kept count), and something else that was just him.
"Presents," you said suddenly.
"What?"
"Presents. We haven't opened them."
"They can wait until morning."
"Leon." You lifted your head, looked at him. "I want to open them now."
"You just said you were tired."
"I'm tired, but I want to open presents."
He sighed—that particular sigh that meant "arguing is useless."
"Fine. I'll get them."
He brought two boxes and several envelopes from the hallway. You sat cross-legged on the couch and started sorting through them.
"This one's from Claire," you said, opening the first envelope. "A gift certificate to a kitchenware store. Is she hinting that we need real plates?"
"We have plates."
"We have two plates. And one of them is cracked."
"It's cracked, but it's loved."
"Leon, it's a plate."
"It remembers our first meal together."
You looked at him. He was serious. Completely serious.
"You're an idiot," you said.
"But you love me."
"That's the only reason you're still alive."
You set the certificate aside and picked up the next box. From Chris. Inside was a bottle of whiskey—expensive, old, with a meaningful label. You turned it over in your hands, then looked at Leon.
"He shouldn't have," Leon said.
"He meant well."
"He knows that I..."
"I know." You set the bottle aside. "We'll put it on the shelf. For guests."
Leon didn't answer, but his shoulders relaxed slightly.
Then came gifts from Hunnigan—a set of stationery labeled "for reports"; from the operatives at USSTRATCOM—a restaurant gift card with a note attached: "Use it before we change our minds." You smirked and tucked the card into Leon's pocket.
"Where?" he asked.
"For a date. Take me somewhere that doesn't smell like gunpowder."
"Deal."
Two envelopes remained. One thick, heavy, with a return address you recognized immediately. Jill and Carlos. You opened it, pulled out a card.
"Congratulations! Wish we could have been there. Jill says you're the perfect couple. I say you're both insane, but insane people who deserve happiness. Carlos."
Attached to the card was a receipt. You looked at the amount and whistled.
"They bought us a dishwasher."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. I guess Jill saw our cracked plate too."
Leon laughed. A real, living laugh, the kind you didn't hear as often as you'd like.
You took the last envelope. Thin, made of heavy black paper, no return address. Just your name, written in elegant, flowing handwriting.
You froze.
"What is it?" Leon asked, noticing your pause.
"I don't know." You turned the envelope over in your hands. "But I have a bad feeling."
"Who's it from?"
You didn't answer. Instead, you opened the envelope—carefully, unhurried. Inside was a note on the same heavy black paper, and a small velvet box. You unfolded the note first.
"Open without Leon."
You smirked.
"What is it?" Leon repeated, trying to look over your shoulder.
"Nothing." You pressed the note to your chest. "It's personal."
"From who?"
"From a woman who knows how to make surprises."
Leon frowned but didn't ask further. He knew that look—when you closed a topic, you closed it for good.
"Alright," he said. "I'm going to take a shower. You'll be okay?"
"I'm always okay."
He left, and you were alone. You unfolded the note, read it again:
"Dear Y/N. I'm not good at saying these things in person, so I'll write. You're the only woman I can't hate. Maybe because you never tried to replace me. Maybe because you're just honest. Take care of him. And yourself. P.S. The gift is not for his eyes. Trust me, it's not something you want to explain to a man. Ada."
You smirked. Shook your head. Then opened the velvet box.
Inside was lingerie. Black. Lace. The kind you would never have bought for yourself—too revealing, too provocative, too... Ada. You held it up by the thin straps, examining it in the lamplight.
"Damn," you breathed. "Damn, damn, damn."
You didn't know what to do. Part of you wanted to throw it in the trash—on principle. Another part, the one that lived deep inside and whispered that you were still a woman, still wanted to be desired—that part insisted on trying it on.
"Just once," you said to the empty room. "Just to see."
You took off your jacket, blouse, trousers. Put on what Ada had sent. The lace was cool against your skin, the fit was perfect—as if tailored. You looked at yourself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door.
"God," you whispered.
You didn't know if it was shock, admiration, or the urge to take it off immediately. On one hand, you felt ridiculous. On the other—for the first time in a long time, you saw in your reflection not a fighter, not an agent, not a wife who bandages wounds and checks magazines. But a woman. Just a woman.
From the bathroom came the sound of water. Leon wasn't out yet. You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought. Then you heard the water turn off.
"Y/N!" he called. "Do we have any clean towels?"
"In the closet!" you answered, but your voice cracked.
You didn't have time to change. Didn't have time for anything—he came out of the bathroom sooner than you expected. Towel over his shoulder, wearing only sweatpants, hair wet and plastered to his forehead. And he froze.
You stood in the middle of the bedroom in that black lace, and even your composure cracked.
"Leon," you said. "I can explain."
He said nothing. Looked at you the way you look at something impossible—something that exists only in dreams.
"It's Ada," you continued. "She sent it. As a gift. I just... wanted to try it on. Didn't think you'd come out so early. And anyway, this is stupid, I'll take it off and—"
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't take it off."
He stepped forward. Then another step. Came so close you could feel his breath on your skin.
"You..." he began and stopped. "You're incredible."
"It's Ada's gift. I don't know whether to laugh or—"
"I don't care whose gift it is." His hands found your waist, fingers tracing the lace. "You. Just you."
You looked at him. At his eyes—darkened, with an expression you didn't see often. At his lips, which you'd kissed a thousand times. At his hands, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered.
"Leon," you whispered.
"I love you," he said. "You know that, right?"
"I know."
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. In that stupid lace thing and without it. In trousers and in a dress. With a knife and without."
"You just want to fuck me right now," you smirked.
"That too."
You couldn't help but laugh. And he leaned down and kissed you—gently at first, then deeper, more demanding. His hands slid down your back, over the lace, over the skin it revealed. You threaded your fingers through his wet hair, pulling him closer.
"Bed," you breathed. "Now."
"Won't make it," he answered, pressing you against the wall.
You didn't argue.
He didn't carry you to the bed. You fell onto the floor, knocking the blanket off the couch, tangling in the lace that never quite came off. You ended up on top—it was more comfortable for you, so you could control the depth, the rhythm, the angle. And so you could see his face.
"Leon," you whispered, leaning down.
"I'm here," he answered, his hands sliding over your thighs, holding, guiding.
You lowered yourself onto him slowly, feeling him enter you—familiar and new at the same time, as if every joining was the first. His breath hitched, his fingers dug into your skin, and you knew he was trying not to rush, to give you time. But you didn't want time. You wanted him.
"Harder," you breathed.
He obeyed.
The movements became deeper, sharper. You gripped his shoulders, bit your lip to keep from crying out—not because you were afraid someone would hear, but because you wanted to keep that sound just for him. Leon was whispering something—you couldn't make out the words, only felt the vibration of his voice against your chest, his lips on your neck, his hands on your back, where the corset was, where the old wound was, where everything that made you who you were.
You came first—suddenly, intensely, arching your back, throwing your head back. He followed almost immediately, pulling you close, burying his face in your hair.
"Y/N," he whispered.
"Mmm?"
"Don't fall asleep on the floor."
"Why not?" you mumbled. "It's soft here."
"It's cold here."
"You'll keep me warm."
He chuckled, kissed the top of your head. Then, with obvious effort, got up, scooped you into his arms—you gasped, wrapped your legs around his waist—and carried you to the bedroom.
"You're going to drop me," you said.
"Won't drop you."
"You're drunk."
"Sober as a glass. You were counting."
"I could have been wrong."
"You couldn't."
He set you down on the bed—carefully, as if you were something fragile. You pulled him down with you, and he lay beside you, pressing against your back, wrapping his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair.
"Leon," you said.
"Yeah?"
"This was a good evening."
"The best."
"Even with Hunnigan's stupid toast?"
"Even with that."
You smiled into the darkness. He kissed your shoulder, and you felt his breathing grow steadier, deeper. He was falling asleep.
"Leon," you called again.
"Mmm."
"I love you."
"Me too."
You knew tomorrow would be a new day. Reports, calls, missions that no one had cancelled. But tonight—just this night, this home, this man who held you as if you were everything.
"Ada must never know," you said after a minute.
"Know what?"
"That we ruined her gift."
"We'll buy a new one."
"You think I'm going to wear that?"
"I hope so."
You turned your head, looked at him. He lay beside you, disheveled, with red marks from your lips on his neck, a blissful smile on his face.
"You're impossible," you said.
"I know."
You smirked and closed your eyes. Outside, dawn was breaking. A new day was beginning—the first day of your new life. And you knew it would be good. Because you were together. And because Ada Wong, strange as she was, sometimes gave very good gifts.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF), Claire Redfield, Sherry Birkin, Jake Muller, Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira, Chris Redfield
RATING: Teen And Up
GENRE: Angst / Hurt/Comfort / Established Relationship
SUMMARY: 2014. The world doesn't yet know what the next year will bring, and you and Leon are trying to pretend your lives aren't just endless missions, reports, and nightmares. An invitation to a charity gala arrives unexpectedly—someone in the government decided the presence of "Raccoon City heroes" would add weight to the event.
It happened in 2014, when the world didn't yet know what the next year would bring, and you and Leon were trying to pretend your lives weren't just endless missions, reports, and nightmares. The invitation to a charity gala came unexpectedly—someone in the government had decided that the presence of "Raccoon City heroes" would add weight to the event. You wanted to refuse immediately, but Leon said you needed to "show your faces." You weren't sure if he was joking.
The preparations took longer than the ceremony itself. You stood before the mirror in the bedroom, turning, examining yourself from all angles. The dress—long, navy blue, with bare shoulders and a slit up to the thigh. You'd chosen it yourself, without help from stylists, and now you doubted every millimeter of fabric.
"Well?" you asked when Leon came out of the shower.
He froze. Looked at you for a long time—so long you started to get nervous.
"Cat got your tongue?"
"No," he answered hoarsely. "It's just... you..."
"I?"
"You're beautiful."
"That's all?"
"Isn't that enough?"
You stepped closer, adjusted his tie. He was in a black suit, white shirt, and cufflinks you'd given him for your anniversary. Clean-shaven, well-groomed, with a faint scent of cologne. But in his eyes—that same weariness that had appeared after a recent mission. The one after which he'd started drinking more than usual.
"Leon," you said quietly. "Are you okay?"
"Perfectly."
"You're lying."
"A little."
You wanted to ask more, but he took your hand, raised it to his lips, kissed your fingers.
"Finally I get to see you in feminine form," he said, changing the subject.
"I've always been in feminine form."
"You were in feminine form with a knife up your sleeve."
"There's still a knife." You lifted the hem of your dress, showing a small garter on your thigh. "And a gun."
"Of course," he smirked. "No weapons is like no hands."
"Exactly."
You took his arm, and you left the house.
The hall was enormous—crystal chandeliers, long tables, waiters in white gloves. You felt uncomfortable in this sea of glitter and fake smiles, but you held yourself straight. You knew how to keep a straight face—it was the first thing they'd taught you in the service.
Leon stayed close, his hand on your lower back, and that warmth was the only thing keeping you from running away. He was tense—you could feel it in the way his fingers clenched every time someone approached too closely. Over the past few months, he'd become different. More nervous, more withdrawn. You knew why, but you didn't say anything. Not now.
"Y/N!" a voice called, and you saw Claire. She was walking toward you in a long burgundy dress, with a smile that lit up half the hall. Beside her—Sherry. Twenty-eight years old, grown-up, serious, but her eyes still held that same childlike spark.
"Mom!" Sherry exclaimed, running up, and you rolled your eyes.
"I asked you not to."
"I remember." Sherry hugged you, ignoring protocol. "You look..."
"Don't say 'stunning.' Someone already said that."
"You look like a woman who knows how to wear dresses."
"Is that a compliment?"
"The best kind."
Claire came over, pecked you on the cheek.
"Leon," she said, "did you make her wear a dress?"
"I only suggested."
"He insisted," you corrected.
"I know," Claire smirked. "He's always like that."
Beside Sherry stood a tall guy—close to six and a half feet, short brown hair, blue eyes, and a deep scar on his cheek. You recognized him immediately. Jake Muller. Wesker's son. Sherry had introduced you a couple of years ago, and since then, this strange duo had appeared everywhere together.
"Jake," you nodded.
"Mrs. Kennedy," he replied with a slight bow. "You look..."
"If you say 'stunning,' I'm leaving."
"Dangerous." He smirked. "Then I'll say you look like someone who isn't afraid of slits in dresses."
"That's better."
Leon shook Jake's hand, exchanged a few words, and you could see him relaxing. His people. Among his own, he could breathe.
Then Jill and Carlos came over. Jill was in a short blue dress, with perfect hair and makeup—you barely recognized her.
"You look like a cover girl," you said.
"I look like someone who knows how to use makeup," Jill corrected. "Unlike some people."
"I know how to use makeup."
"You know how to use weapons. Different things."
Carlos, standing beside her, smirked.
"Don't listen to her," he said to you. "You look stunning."
"Thanks, Carlos."
"She looks stunning," Leon repeated, and something in his voice made Carlos raise his hands.
"Got it, buddy. Not gonna poach."
"Smart guy."
Chris came last. In a suit that looked like he'd worn it maybe three times in his life, with his usual bottle of beer in hand—even though they were only serving champagne here.
"Where's your uniform?" you asked.
"In the wash."
"You're lying."
"A little."
You hugged—Chris was one of the few you allowed that. Then he pulled back, looked at you seriously.
"You holding up?"
"Holding up."
"Is he?" Chris nodded toward Leon, who had gone to the bar.
"Trying."
"And you?"
"I'm trying for both of us."
Chris didn't answer. Just squeezed your shoulder and walked away.
You were alone for a few minutes. Claire had taken Sherry to meet some important sponsor, Jake and Carlos were arguing by the wall, Chris had disappeared into the crowd. Leon was at the bar, and you saw him order a second whiskey. A third. You were counting.
You were about to go to him when you felt someone's presence.
"What a beautiful dress," a voice said behind you.
You turned. A man—about forty, expensive suit, perfect smile. One of those who came to these events not for charity, but for connections.
"Thank you," you answered dryly.
"I haven't seen you before. Who are you here with?"
"Myself."
He smiled wider, stepped closer. You tensed internally, but outwardly remained calm.
"Bold," he said. "I like bold women."
"And I like it when men keep their distance."
He didn't get the hint. Or pretended not to. Instead, he took your hand—a quick, deft movement before you could pull away—and leaned down.
His lips touched your fingers. Too long. Too intimate.
"You're charming," he whispered, looking up.
You watched him with the cold calm you'd honed over the years. Your hand didn't tremble. Your face didn't change.
"Let go," you said quietly.
He didn't have time to answer.
Leon appeared beside you. You hadn't heard him approach—he moved silently, as he always did when he was angry. His face was impassive, but his eyes burned with something you knew too well.
"Is there a problem?" he asked. His voice was even, calm. Too calm.
The man released your hand, looked Leon up and down appraisingly.
"No, we were just chatting," he said, not sensing the danger.
"Are you finished?"
"And who are you?"
You didn't let Leon answer. You stepped closer, took his face in your hands—a familiar gesture that always made him freeze—and kissed him. Long. Deep. So that everyone in the hall would understand.
When you pulled back, the man's face was priceless.
"Oh," you said without looking at him. "You haven't even met my husband."
You took Leon's hand and led him away from the bar, feeling him shake. Not from cold. From barely suppressed rage.
"Don't," you said quietly when you were far enough away.
"Don't what?"
"Make a scene."
"I wasn't making a scene."
"You were about to."
He didn't answer. His jaw was clenched, his breathing heavy.
"Leon," you said, stopping and turning to face him. "Look at me."
He looked. His eyes were bright—not from tears, but from what he'd already drunk.
"I handled it," you said. "I always handle it."
"I know."
"Then don't be angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You're lying."
He exhaled. Loudly, long.
"He touched you," Leon said. "His lips were on your hand."
"It's just a hand."
"It's not just a hand. It's your hand. And he had no right."
You looked at him. At this man who had seen so much death he'd stopped being afraid, but who was afraid of losing you. Who drank to forget, and forgot so he wouldn't go mad. Who was your husband, your partner, your puppy—even now, at thirty-seven, with gray at his temples and shadows under his eyes.
"Leon," you said softly. "I'm here. I'm with you. And I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"Then drink some water. Instead of whiskey."
He looked at his glass, which he was still holding. Set it on a passing waiter's tray.
"Okay," he said. "Water."
"Good boy."
You walked to the table where your group had gathered. Claire was watching you with concern. Sherry—with understanding. Jake pretended not to notice anything.
"Everything okay?" Claire asked when you sat down.
"Perfectly," you answered.
"I wasn't asking you."
Leon took a glass of water, took a sip.
"Everything's okay," he said. "Really."
Claire didn't believe him, but she nodded.
You sat beside him, feeling his hand cover yours under the table. His fingers were cold, but alive. Yours.
"Leon," you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"You'll get through this."
He looked at you. In his eyes was fatigue, pain, doubt. But there was also you.
"I'll get through it," he said.
"Because I'm here."
"Because you're here."
You squeezed his fingers.
"And don't you dare die. I'm tired of burying friends."
"I promise."
You smirked and kissed his cheek. Lipstick remained on his skin—red, bright, like a challenge.
"Now you're marked," you said.
"I've always been marked."
"That's true."
You sat like that, surrounded by friends, beneath the light of crystal chandeliers. It was one of those evenings you don't remember—because there are too many of them. But that you don't forget—because you were together.
SUMMARY: One year after Raccoon City. You and Leon are living together in a tiny apartment with cracked tiles, a leaky faucet, and a bed that creaks with every movement. When Leon gets sick after getting caught in the rain, he refuses to take his medicine. You find a very effective—and very memorable—way to change his mind.
It happened one year after Raccoon City. They were already living together—in a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, which they rented together. No more temporary shelters, no more government guest houses. Just their place. With cracked tiles in the kitchen, a perpetually leaky faucet, and a bed that creaked with every movement.
You stood by the window, watching the rain. The very same rain that started it all. You'd gotten caught in it three days ago, coming back from a mission. Soaked to the bone, laughing, running through puddles, and then spending the whole night warming each other up. You hadn't thought it would lead to anything. You rarely thought about consequences.
Leon got sick the next day.
At first, just a cough. Then a fever. Then that terrible chill that made him shake even under two blankets. You looked at him and felt guilty. You'd gotten wet too. You'd run through puddles too. But your body, hardened by years of training and old injuries, hadn't even sneezed. And he—your puppy, your gentle, naive puppy—was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, looking at you with glassy eyes.
"How are you?" you asked, coming closer.
"Fine," he croaked.
"You're lying."
"A little."
You sat on the edge of the couch, put your hand on his forehead. His skin was burning.
"Leon, you need to take your medicine."
"Don't want to."
"Not up for discussion."
You held out two pills and a glass of water. He looked at them with such disgust, as if you were offering him a live spider.
"They're bitter," he said.
"You're twenty-two years old, Kennedy. You're a grown man."
"That doesn't change the taste."
You sighed. This was your third argument of the day. The first—in the morning, when he refused soup. The second—at lunch, when you tried to make him sleep and he insisted he "felt fine." The third—now.
"Leon," you said patiently, though your patience was running out.
"Y/N," he mimicked.
"Take the pills."
"They're gross."
"It's medicine, not candy."
"The taste is still gross."
You looked at him. At his flushed face, his sweat-damp hair, that stubborn look you knew so well. And suddenly you realized arguing was useless. This idiot would hold his ground to the end, even if his temperature hit forty.
"Fine," you said. "We'll do this my way."
You took a pill, put it in your mouth. Leon looked at you in confusion, not understanding what was happening.
"Y/N, what are you—"
You leaned down and kissed him.
Not quick, not soldier-like. Slowly, deeply, so he'd open his mouth, so the pill would pass to him. He jerked in surprise, then relaxed, and you felt his lips kiss back.
When you pulled away, Leon was staring at you with a completely stunned expression. The pill was gone—he'd swallowed it without even noticing.
"You..." he began.
"Shut up," you said. "And open your mouth."
You took the second pill. Repeated. The kiss was longer—probably because he wasn't resisting anymore. Probably because he liked it. When you pulled back, his cheeks were burning from more than just the fever.
"More?" he asked.
"No more pills."
"Too bad."
"Kennedy."
"What?"
You sighed, but you smiled. Then you took the glass of water, held it out to him.
"Chase it down. Otherwise your mouth will taste bitter."
He obediently took a sip. Then set the glass aside and looked at you.
"You could have just said you'd kiss me," he said. "I would have agreed without the pills."
"You wouldn't have agreed. You're stubborn."
"I'm loving."
"It's the same thing."
He tried to answer, but coughed instead. You adjusted the blanket, wrapped it around his shoulders.
"Sleep," you said. "You'll feel better tomorrow."
"Stay."
"I'm not going anywhere."
You lay down beside him on the narrow couch, pressed against his back. He was hot—too hot—but you didn't pull away. You wrapped your arms around him, buried your nose in his hair.
"You'll get sick," he whispered.
"I won't."
"How do you know?"
"I'm strong."
He smiled—weakly, almost silently.
"You're the strongest," he said.
"I know. Now sleep."
He fell silent. A few minutes later, his breathing evened out, and you knew he was asleep. You lay beside him, listening to the rain outside the window, thinking about how this man was the most insufferable, the most stubborn, the stupidest person you'd ever known. And that you would never let him go.
In the morning, he woke with a fever a degree lower. He still had no strength, but his eyes already held that spark you loved.
"Y/N," he called.
"Yeah?"
"If I get sick again, will you give me my pills the same way?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because next time, I'll just force you to swallow them."
"And if I refuse again?"
You looked at him. At his smile—weak, happy, stupid.
"Then I'll kiss you again," you said. "But only because you're helpless."
"Of course," he nodded. "Only because of that."
You rolled your eyes, but you leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Get well soon, Kennedy. I need you alive."
"Where would I go."
He closed his eyes, and you wrapped the blanket around him again. The rain outside was letting up, the room was warm, and in this morning, in this silence, in this simple act, there was something that didn't need to be explained in words.
Because this was their life. Yours and his. With sickness and medicine, with kisses and stubbornness, with rain outside the window and warmth inside.
If that's the case then what are Leon, Sherry and rumors has it, Chris wearing the same silver rings for? 💀💀💀
Is Leon even married or is he just wearing that ring as a tracking gift from the government or as a way to keep his health in check, since he's literally an old man now?
Nothing to offend anyone. Just a little analysis of mine because I'm not so sure anymore about the whole Leon's ring theory
I'll just remind you that Leon Kennedy's design in the game was created with the input of female colleagues (at Capcom), and I don't think they would have given him a family life. It's just that no one would want their favorite to be close to someone else and tied down in marriage.
Speaking of Sherry, I think she's married to Jake Mueller. Or maybe I just really like the Shake couple.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF); Grace Ashcroft
RATING: Teen And Up
GENRE: Angst / Hurt/Comfort / Established Relationship
SUMMARY: The air still smelled of smoke and blood when Leon crawled out of the ruins. He was dragging Grace—half-dead but alive, and that was the only thing that mattered. He called your name into the silence of his earpiece. You didn't answer...
The air still smelled of smoke and blood when Leon crawled out of the ruins.
He was dragging Grace—half-dead but alive, and that was the only thing that mattered. The girl was muttering something, trying to hold onto his shoulder, but he wasn't listening. He was listening only to the silence in his earpiece, which screamed louder than any siren.
"Y/N," he called into the microphone. "Y/N, answer."
Nothing.
"Y/N!"
Silence.
Grace fell to her knees when they reached the landing zone, where medics were already swarming, agents, black jackets with letters. Someone caught her, someone shouted for a stretcher, someone drilled Leon with a look, but he didn't see anyone. He stared at the smoke rising from underground, and felt something inside him tear.
"Mr. Kennedy!" Grace grabbed his arm. "Mr. Kennedy, she... she told me to go. She stayed to... she said..."
"What did she say?" He turned to her, and his voice was one Grace had never heard before. Not an agent. Not a partner. A man who was losing everything.
"She said to tell you..." Grace coughed, blood running down her chin. "'Tell that idiot that if he dies, I'll come back from the dead and kill him myself.'"
Leon froze. Then he smirked—bitter, terrible, and that smirk was like everything he'd lived through in the last thirty years.
"That's her," he said. "That's definitely her."
"Mr. Kennedy, I don't know if she made it out. There was an explosion, and she..."
"Don't."
He pulled away, stepped aside. Sat on the edge of a curb, dropped his head into his hands. Some agent approached, asked something—he didn't answer. Someone put a hand on his shoulder—he shook it off.
"Mr. Kennedy," an unfamiliar voice said. "I'm from Chris. He asked me to tell you that..."
"I don't care what he asked you to tell me," Leon said without raising his head.
"He said you should hold on. That she's strong."
"I know how strong she is."
"He said if you give up, she'll kill you."
Leon looked up. In front of him stood a young guy in uniform, with a face he didn't know. But his eyes were right—serious, understanding.
"Tell Chris," Leon said, "that I hate him."
"I'll tell him, sir."
The guy left. Leon was alone. People swarmed around him, cars, a helicopter in the distance. And he sat on the curb and stared at one spot, and that spot was nothing.
"You thought I'd give you to that bitch Wong?"
He didn't believe his ears. First he thought it was a hallucination—he'd had those after long missions, when his brain refused to believe in reality.
But the voice repeated.
"Kennedy, I'm talking to you."
He looked up.
You stood ten meters away. Tattered, dirty, with a split lip and a fresh cut on your cheekbone. On your shoulder—someone's blood, not yours. On your jacket—a hole from shrapnel. You were alive.
But something was wrong.
Leon looked at you, and his brain refused to process the information. Something had changed. Something important. And only after a few seconds did he understand.
Your hair.
Your hair, which had always been long—to your shoulders, to your shoulder blades, which you pulled back in a ponytail or let down in the evenings, which he loved to touch, stroke, kiss—it was gone. Now it only reached your ears. Uneven, longer in some places, shorter in others—cut with a knife. In some places—torn out.
"Y/N..." his voice broke.
You took a step forward. Then another. Walking with a slight limp, and on your face was that same expression he'd only seen in the worst moments of your lives—when you clenched your teeth and did what you had to.
"Y/N, what happened to your hair?"
"I had to cut it," you said, as if talking about something mundane. "You know, there are situations where long hair isn't an advantage."
"What happened?"
You came closer. Stopped a step away from him. Looked down at him—he was sitting on the curb, you were standing, and that felt wrong. You were always beside him. Always on the same level.
"I got stuck," you said. "In the rubble. Not by my hair, don't worry. By my leg. And all around—fire. And those things that... anyway, I was lying there thinking: 'Y/L/N, do you want to burn alive or do something?'"
"And you did something."
"I did something." You ran your hand through your short hair, and your fingers were trembling. "Took out my knife. Cut off what was in the way. Then the rest, because it was easier that way. And pulled my leg free."
"And the fire?"
"The fire was close. But I was faster."
You fell silent. Stared at the smoke, and your profile was the same as always—hard, determined, unyielding. But something trembled in your eyes.
"You could have died," he said.
"I could have."
"You weren't scared?"
"I was scared." You turned to him. "But I wasn't scared for myself. I was scared that you'd be left alone."
He didn't know what to say. He just pulled you close—tight, so that you gasped because your ribs hurt.
"Easy," you said, but you didn't pull away. "Easy, Kennedy. I'm here."
"Don't do that again," he said into your short hair. "Don't make me think you're dead."
"I can't promise that."
"Y/N."
"Fine." You pulled back, looked at him. "I'll try."
He looked at you. At this woman who cut off her hair with a knife to survive. Who crawled out of the fire to come back to him. Who had been his wife for thirty years and wasn't about to stop.
"You're incredible," he said.
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
You took his hand, intertwined your fingers.
"Come on, Kennedy. I think they're waiting for us."
"Let them wait."
"Leon."
"One more minute."
You didn't argue. Sat beside him, leaning your shoulder against his, watching the smoke rise to the sky.
"You know," you said, "I kind of like it."
"What?"
"The short hair. Lighter."
"You look like a fighter."
"I am a fighter."
"The best one."
You smirked. Crookedly, but this time almost without pain.
"Come on," you said, standing. "Enough of this. Reports are waiting, interrogations, and a mountain of paperwork."
"You hate paperwork."
"I hate it when you're sad. Paperwork I just don't like."
He stood, took your hand. You walked toward the cars, toward the people, toward the life that awaited you after this mission. Together.
"Y/N," he said as you walked.
"Yeah?"
"Will you grow your hair back?"
"I don't know." You ran your hand through the short strands. "Maybe I'll keep it like this."
"It suits you."
"You said I looked like a guy."
"A handsome guy."
You laughed. Short, but genuine.
"Kennedy, you're an idiot."
"Your idiot."
"That you are."
You reached the car. Grace was already sitting in the back seat, her head bandaged, staring at you with huge eyes.
"Mrs. Kennedy..." she began.
"Y/N," you corrected. "We're not at the station."
"Y/N... you're alive."
"As you can see."
"I thought..."
"Everyone thought." You opened the door, sat beside her. "But I'm hard to kill. Ask my husband."
Leon got behind the wheel, started the engine.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Home," you answered. "Need to wash, eat, and sleep."
"And then?"
"And then—we'll figure it out."
You leaned back in your seat, closed your eyes. Leon looked at you in the rearview mirror. At your short hair, at your split lip, at the fatigue that wouldn't disappear in one night. But you were here. Alive. His.
"Y/N," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you made it out."
You opened one eye, looked at him.
"Me too, Kennedy. Me too."
The car pulled away, carrying you away from the ruins, from the smoke, from everything left behind. Ahead was the road, home, life. And you were together.
GENRE: Fluff / Domestic Fluff / Established Relationship / Humor
SUMMARY: Rain drums on the roof, soup simmers on the stove, and you're sitting on your husband's lap like you have for thirty years. You talk about old photographs, changing bodies, and the weight of a life lived together.
Rain drummed on the roof of their house, and it was the kind of rain you loved most—calm, steady, lulling. Outside, darkness was falling; in the kitchen, soup was finishing its simmer; and they sat in the living room during one of those evenings when there was no need to run anywhere, save anyone, decide anything. Just to be.
Leon sat in his armchair, flipping through an old, battered book he'd found at a sale and was now pretending to read. In truth, he was watching you. You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, a mug of tea in your hands, staring out the window. Your back barely ached tonight—a rare stroke of luck you'd learned to appreciate.
"You're staring," you said without turning around.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"Not to me."
You smirked, set down your mug, stood up. Walked over to his chair, stood beside him, looked down. Then, without asking permission, you settled onto his lap—the way you always had, for as long as he could remember.
Leon automatically wrapped his arms around your waist, supporting you. His fingers found your lower back, where the edge of your brace could be felt beneath your shirt. After thirty years, this movement had become reflex.
"You're heavier than before," he remarked.
"Thanks, Kennedy. You really know how to make a woman feel good."
"That's not what I meant. Just... you've gotten heavier."
"I've gotten older," you corrected. "And fatter. It's called life."
He didn't answer. Just pulled you closer, buried his nose in your shoulder. You smelled like home—something warm, familiar, constant.
You leaned your head back against his shoulder. Stared at the ceiling, listened to the rain.
"You know," you said thoughtfully, "I was looking at old photos recently."
"And?"
"And I thought about how I used to be different. Younger. Thinner."
"You were different," he agreed. "But not better."
"Flatterer."
"Truth."
You turned your head, looked at him. Close, so close. In the dimness of the living room, his face looked carved from stone—lines around his eyes, gray at his temples, that particular weariness that comes to people who've seen too much. But his eyes were the same. Blue. Yours.
"You haven't changed," you said.
"You're lying."
"A little." You traced your fingers along his cheek, along the lines that had come not from age but from everything you'd been through. "But you're still mine."
"Always."
You shifted closer, looped your arms around his neck. He held you tighter, and you felt his breath warm your skin.
"Leon," you said.
"Yeah?"
"You know, your ass and chest are bigger and better than some women's."
He froze. You felt him stop breathing, felt the muscles tense beneath your hands.
"What?" he repeated.
"I said," you spoke slowly, deliberately, "that your ass is bigger and better than some women's. And your chest." You tapped his pectoral. "Right here. It's gotten bigger. And better."
"Y/N."
"What?" You smirked, looking down at him from the height of your years, your experience, your love. "You wanted me to lie? You're in good shape, Kennedy. For a man pushing fifty—great shape. But let's call things what they are. You have breasts. And they're bigger than mine."
"You have normal breasts," he said automatically.
"I used to have normal breasts. Now they're just... two things. That sag."
"They don't sag."
"Leon."
"They don't sag," he repeated firmly. "I checked. This morning."
You couldn't help but smirk. He looked at you seriously, almost offended, and there was something about it... something so familiar. As stubborn as thirty years ago. As beloved.
"You're insufferable," you said.
"I know."
"I tell you you have a woman's chest, and you argue about whether my boobs sag."
"They don't sag."
"Leon."
"What?"
You took his face in your hands, made him look at you.
"I love you," you said. "With all your chest, ass, and other... acquisitions."
"You're welcome."
"Don't mention it."
You kissed him. Long, deep, so he would understand—you weren't joking. Not about him. Not about them.
When you pulled back, his eyes were bright. Not with tears—with that light you saw in them every time you were like this, alone together.
"You've changed," he said.
"Yes."
"But not for the worse."
"I know."
You pressed against him again, buried your nose in his neck. His hands rested on your back—where the brace was, where the old wound was, where your whole life together was.
"Leon," you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"We're old."
"No."
"We're old," you repeated. "My back hurts, your knees hurt. My hair is gray, yours is too. I'm fat, you have breasts. We're old."
He was silent. Then his arms tightened.
"We're alive," he said. "That's what matters."
You lifted your head, looked at him. In the light of the desk lamp, his face seemed softer than it did during the day. Without masks, without armor, without that familiar defense he wore on missions. Just him. Just your husband.
"Yes," you said. "We're alive."
The rain outside grew heavier, pounding against the glass. The house was warm, smelling of soup and old books. You sat on your husband's lap, feeling your back slowly relax, the tension you'd carried all week finally easing.
"You know," you said, "I sometimes think about how we must look to outsiders."
"And?"
"Like two old, tired people who've seen too much and slept too little."
"Romantic."
"Honest."
He chuckled, kissed the top of your head.
"I think we look like people who survived. Like people who found each other. Like people who..." He paused, searching for words.
"Who what?"
"Who still want each other. Even after everything."
You pulled back, looked at him. His eyes were serious, but a smile hid at the corners of his lips.
"Are you talking about my chest right now?" you asked.
"That too."
"Kennedy, you're hopeless."
"I know."
You laughed. He laughed with you. And in this laughter, in this house, in this rain outside the window, there was something that couldn't be bought, couldn't be earned, couldn't be explained.
Just life. Just them.
"Y/N," he said when the laughter faded.
"Yeah?"
"Your breasts don't sag."
"Leon."
"I'm serious. They're... the same as before. Only better."
"You said I'd gotten heavier."
"Heavier isn't about your chest. It's about... well, life. Everything we've been through. What you carry inside you."
You looked at him. At this man who had burst into your life with a gun drawn thirty years ago. Who had been too scared to propose for six years. Who now sat in an armchair, holding you in his arms, telling you your breasts didn't sag.
"You're an idiot," you said.
"Your idiot."
"That you are."
You kissed him again. Brief, but so he would understand. So he would know. So he would remember.
"Come on," you said, pulling back. "Help me up."
"You want to get up?"
"No. But the soup will burn."
"Let it."
"Leon."
"What? We'll order pizza."
"We're pushing fifty. We can't eat pizza every Saturday."
"We can. I allow it."
You smirked, but you stood. He stood after you, took your hand, led you to the kitchen.
The soup hadn't burned. You sat at the table, the way you'd done thousands of times over thirty years. Across from each other. Close.
"Leon," you said as he poured you tea.
"Yeah?"
"I love you. Even with your chest."
"Me too. Even with your back."
You smirked, sipped your tea. The rain outside was easing, the house growing quiet, and this evening was one of those that don't stick in memory—because there are so many of them. But also one of those that can't be forgotten—because they are life.
Your life. Long, complicated, full of losses and gains. But yours. Real.
"You know," Leon said after you'd cleared the table.
"What?"
"I wouldn't want to be with anyone else."
You looked at him.
"Even a woman with a smaller chest?"
"Especially a woman with a smaller chest." He took your hand. "I like yours."
"You said I had normal breasts."
"They are normal. Perfectly normal."
"That's not a thing."
"It is. With us."
You didn't have an answer. You just stood there, looking at him—this man you'd spent half your life with. And you knew you'd spend the other half with him too.
"Let's go," you said.
"Where?"
"To bed. Tomorrow's our day off."
"And what will we do?"
"I don't know. Maybe stare at your chest."
"Y/N."
"What? You said it was perfect."
He laughed. You laughed. And you walked to the bedroom, holding hands the way you always did.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The house was warm. And ahead was another night, another day, another life. Long. Happy. Yours.
SUMMARY: A rainy Saturday. No missions, no calls, no reports—just the two of you at home. You're finally organizing your makeup table when Leon appears in the doorway with a strange request.
It happened on a Saturday, when rain was pouring outside and the two of you were finally home. No missions, no calls, no reports—just the two of you, silence, and that endless gray day that begged to be spent in pajamas with a book.
You sat in your little makeup corner—the part of the bedroom you'd claimed from Leon in the first month after Spain. A lit table, a mirror, several drawers of cosmetics, accessories, and other women's things he called "magical artifacts." Today, you'd finally decided to organize this treasure trove—throw out expired products, sort what you needed, figure out what you actually used.
Perfect order reigned on the table, the result of the last half hour's work. Eyeshadows in one direction, eyeliners in another, lipsticks separate. Everything in neutral shades: beige, sand, soft pink, a little brown for smoky eyes. Nothing bright, nothing flashy. Just what accentuated your eyes without drawing too much attention.
"Trash," you muttered, examining an old blush you'd bought once and never used. "Trash. Keep this."
You worked intently, not noticing Leon standing in the doorway watching. He leaned his shoulder against the frame, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at you with that expression that usually preceded something unexpected.
"May I?" he asked finally.
"You've already entered," you answered without turning around. "I mean—you're standing there."
"I want to come in."
"Come in."
He walked over, sat on the edge of the bed—close enough to see you in the mirror. You kept sorting through your makeup, but out of the corner of your eye, you watched his reflection. He was silent, which was suspicious.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing."
"You're quiet. That always means you want to say something."
"Maybe I'm just enjoying the view."
"Kennedy."
He smiled. Then cleared his throat—and you knew something serious was coming. Or stupid. With him, it was always either serious or stupid; there was no third option.
"Y/N," he began.
"Mm."
"I have a request."
You set down another eyeshadow palette, turned to face him. He sat there, slightly embarrassed, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt—a habit from his younger days when he was nervous.
"Out with it," you said.
"Will you do my makeup?"
Silence. You blinked. Then blinked again.
"What?"
"Makeup," he repeated. "You know... like you do on yourself. But on me."
You looked at him for a long moment. He wasn't joking. His eyes didn't have that familiar spark that appeared when he was preparing another pun. There was something else—interest, curiosity, a hint of embarrassment, and, it seemed, a desire to understand.
"Are you serious?" you asked.
"Absolutely."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"I want to know what it's like. You always get ready so fast, and I don't even know what you're doing. Plus..." He hesitated. "Plus I watched some videos where guys get makeup done, and they look... well, not bad. Interesting."
"You watched makeup videos?"
"On YouTube."
"Leon Kennedy watches YouTube makeup tutorials."
"It was an accident. The algorithm suggested them."
"The algorithm suggested makeup videos to a special forces veteran."
"The internet is weird."
You couldn't help but smirk. You stood up, walked over to him, took his face in your hands. Turned it side to side, examining him.
"You have good skin," you said thoughtfully. "Clear, no issues. You won't need foundation."
"I don't know what that means, but it sounds like a compliment."
"It is a compliment. You're not ugly, Kennedy."
"Thanks."
"That doesn't mean I agree."
"Y/N."
"What?"
"Please."
You looked at him. At his serious face, at that strange, almost childlike curiosity in his eyes. At the man who'd been through Spain, China, dozens of life-or-death missions—and who was now sitting in front of you, asking you to paint him like a doll.
"Fine," you said. "But you do everything I say."
"Deal."
"And don't flinch."
"I won't."
You went back to your table, grabbed a stool, placed it in front of the mirror. Sat him down, sat beside him, face to face.
"Close your eyes," you said.
He obediently closed them.
You took a sponge, applied some primer. Ran it over his face—forehead, cheeks, chin. He shivered at the coolness.
"Cold."
"Deal with it."
You worked slowly, intently. Base, then a light dusting of powder—just a little to remove shine. Eyeshadow—neutral, beige, with a barely noticeable shimmer. You applied it with your fingertips, blending it over his eyelids, and you could feel his lashes tickling your skin.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a model?" you asked.
"No."
"Too bad. You have good bone structure."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a fact."
You picked up the eyeliner—a thin brush, black. Leon opened his eyes, saw what you were about to do, and tensed.
"Is that going to hurt?" he asked.
"Not if you don't flinch."
"I'm not flinching."
"You're flinching."
You drew a line along his upper lash line. Leon froze, even stopped breathing. You smirked but said nothing. A second line—on the lower lash line, barely visible, just to add definition.
"Done," you said. "Open."
He opened his eyes. Looked at himself in the mirror. Froze.
"That's..." he began.
"Don't you dare say it suits you."
"What if it does?"
You rolled your eyes, but you smiled. You took a blush brush, applied a light dusting of pink—a barely noticeable rosy hue. Swept it across his cheekbones, and he obediently turned his head where you directed.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a makeup artist?" he asked.
"No."
"Too bad. You have a light touch."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a fact."
You smirked, set down the brush. One thing left. You picked up the lip gloss—clear, with a slight shimmer. Leon saw it, and his eyes widened.
"No," he said.
"Yes," you answered.
"Y/N."
"Leon."
"That's too far."
"You asked for a full face. You're getting a full face."
You leaned toward him, swept the applicator across his lips. He sat there, not breathing, with the expression of a man undergoing open-heart surgery. When you finished, he exhaled.
"Done?" he asked.
"Done."
You picked up the mirror, handed it to him. Leon looked at himself. For a long time. A very long time.
"I look..." he started.
"Beautiful."
"I was going to say 'weird.'"
"It's the same thing."
He turned his head, examining himself from different angles. Then he looked at you.
"Do you always look like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like I do right now. Beautiful. You know... with all this."
You didn't know what to say. You just looked at him—at this man who'd asked you to do his makeup so he could understand what it felt like. At this man who wasn't afraid to look foolish, who wasn't ashamed to ask, to try, to learn.
"You're insufferable," you said.
"I know."
"Go wash your face."
"In a minute." He took your hand. "Kiss me first."
"You have gloss on your lips."
"So?"
"It'll smudge."
"I don't mind."
You leaned in and kissed him. Briefly, so as not to smear everything you'd just applied. But he pulled you closer, and the kiss stretched out.
"You did that on purpose," you said, pulling back.
"Of course I did." He smiled. "Now we have matching makeup."
You looked at your reflection—the gloss had indeed transferred to you. Then at him—with shadows on his lids, blush on his cheeks, and that stupid happy smile.
"Go wash your face," you repeated.
"Come with me."
"Leon."
"Please."
You sighed, took his hand, and walked to the bathroom. At the mirror, he stopped, looking at both your reflections.
"You know," he said. "I like this."
"Like what?"
"Everything." He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you close. "That you exist. That we exist. That I can be silly, and you agree to it."
"I don't agree. I tolerate."
"It's the same thing."
You smirked, leaned your head back against his shoulder.
"Go wash your face," you said one last time.
"Come with me," he repeated.
You turned, took his face in your hands, wiped the gloss from his lips. Then you kissed him—for real, long, so he would understand everything without words.
"I love you, Kennedy," you said.
"I love you too, Y/L/N."
"Kennedy."
"Kennedy," he corrected.
You smiled and pulled him toward the sink.
Water ran, washing away the eyeshadow, the blush, the gloss. And you stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and in this simple act, there was something that didn't need to be explained in words.
Because this was your life. Yours and his. With makeup and without, with silly requests and serious answers, with rain outside the window and warmth inside.
