Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Two weeks before everything falls apart, Leon Kennedy begins losing a battle he never expected to fight—one against his own body. Determined to shoulder it alone, he hides the truth from the one person who has always seen through him: his wife. But when his carefully guarded secret finally surfaces, they’re both forced to confront a future neither of them is ready to face… and discover that some burdens were never meant to be carried alone.
Pairing •
Leon S. Kennedy × Y/N (Female Reader • Established Marriage)
Resident Evil 9 / Requiem Era — Two Weeks Before the Events of the Game
“You don’t get to decide which parts of your life belong to me.”
⸻
The front door unlocked at exactly 8:17.
Not because Leon was punctual.
Because exhaustion had made him predictable.
Y/N looked up from the couch before the lock had even clicked open. The television continued murmuring to itself in the background, forgotten, while rain whispered against the apartment windows.
“Hey.”
Her smile appeared automatically.
His did too.
Only he stopped halfway.
“…Hey.”
Something was wrong.
It wasn’t dramatic. There wasn’t blood soaking through his jacket or a limp in his step. Leon Kennedy had come home looking worse than this a hundred different times.
This was quieter.
His shoulders hung lower than usual beneath the leather jacket. His complexion had lost what little colour it normally carried, leaving him almost ghostly beneath the hallway light. Damp strands of blond hair clung to his forehead—not from rain, but sweat.
Too much sweat.
He closed the door carefully behind himself.
Almost…
Deliberately.
Like every movement, it had to be considered first.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The answer came too quickly.
She stood, a look of concern painting her features.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I had a long day.”
“You always have a long day.”
“I know.”
He managed a tired smile that never reached his eyes.
“I’m okay.”
Y/N crossed the room anyway.
The moment she reached him, she slipped her hand against his forehead.
Leon let her.
Normally, he’d tease her.
“Doctor now?”
“That's your official diagnosis?”
Tonight…
Nothing.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Leon.”
“I’m alright.”
“You’re burning up.”
“It’ll pass.”
She looked at him harder.
No.
Not just warm.
He was clammy.
Cold sweat covered his skin despite the fever radiating beneath it.
“Hospital.”
“No.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Not even a second.
“No?”
“No.”
“Leon—”
“I’m not going to a hospital.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I said I’m fine.”
His voice wasn’t angry.
Just…
Firm.
Final.
The same voice he used during operations when arguing wasn’t an option.
Y/N folded her arms.
“…You’re lying.”
Silence.
“You never call yourself fine.”
Another silence.
“You say you’re functional.”
His eyes flickered away.
“I know your tells.”
“…Honey.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She stepped closer again.
“So tell me why you’re shaking.”
Leon looked down.
Only then did he seem to notice the faint tremor running through his own hand.
He quietly slid it into his jacket pocket.
“…I’m tired.”
“You’ve been tired.”
“I’ll sleep.”
“You’ve been sleeping.”
“I’ll sleep more.”
She searched his face.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
The realisation landed gently.
He wasn’t dismissing her.
He was avoiding her.
“…You know what this is.”
His jaw tightened.
A heartbeat.
Then another.
“…Leon.”
Nothing.
“I’m not asking as your wife because I want to argue.”
Still nothing.
“I’m asking because I’m scared.”
That finally made him look up.
His blue eyes carried something she’d rarely seen directed toward her.
Guilt.
Deep.
Quiet.
Unbearably heavy.
He reached up, brushing his thumb across her cheek.
“I’m supposed to be the one worrying about you.”
“You always are.”
“I’m supposed to keep you safe.”
“You do.”
“So let me.”
“You don’t keep me safe by hiding things.”
His smile broke.
Not disappeared.
Broke.
Like glass giving way under pressure.
“…I’m just tired.”
She knew better.
But she also knew Leon.
Pushing harder now would only make him retreat further.
So…
She kissed his forehead.
“…Okay.”
He blinked.
“…Okay?”
“We’re dropping it.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
A tiny smile.
“But you look like you’re going to fall asleep standing up.”
“…Probably.”
“Shower?”
“…Please.”
⸻
Steam filled the bathroom until the mirrors disappeared completely.
The water ran hot enough to chase away the chill clinging stubbornly beneath Leon’s skin.
He stood beneath the spray with his eyes closed.
For several precious minutes…
Nothing existed.
No missions.
No reports.
No infection.
No ghosts.
Just warm water.
And her.
Y/N worked shampoo through his hair with slow, gentle fingers.
Circular motions.
Patient.
Unhurried.
She’d discovered years ago that Leon practically melted whenever she washed his hair.
He’d denied it every time.
She’d ignored every denial.
His head leaned almost imperceptibly into her touch.
“…Feels nice.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I never said that.”
“You absolutely have.”
“…No.”
She laughed softly.
“You literally just did.”
“Hm.”
Another slow pass through his hair.
His shoulders loosened.
The tension he’d carried home gradually dissolved beneath warm water and gentle hands.
His breathing steadied.
For the first time all evening…
He looked peaceful.
Then—
The bathroom tilted.
His stomach lurched violently.
A sharp, blinding pain exploded behind his left eye.
Leon sucked in a breath.
The world fractured.
The shower tiles doubled.
Tripled.
His hearing disappeared beneath a high-pitched ringing.
“…Leon?”
Another bolt of agony shot through his chest.
His knees buckled.
He caught himself against the tiled wall.
Barely.
“…Leon?”
This time her voice sounded distant.
Like it was underwater.
His vision blurred into pale streaks.
Something hot spread beneath his skin.
Burning.
No—
Moving.
His fingers suddenly refused to obey him.
He tried answering her.
Nothing came out.
Then everything went black.
Only—
For a second.
Maybe two.
Strong hands caught him before he hit the floor.
“Leon!”
Cold air replaced steam as she hurriedly shut the water off.
“It’s okay—”
No.
It wasn’t.
He couldn’t feel his legs.
She wrapped towels around them both with trembling hands, somehow managing to get his arm over her shoulders.
“Come on.”
Another step.
“Just—
Come on.”
She practically carried him into the bedroom.
He hated every second of it.
Not because it was her.
Because she shouldn’t have needed to.
She eased him carefully onto the edge of the bed.
His breathing sounded wrong.
Too shallow.
Too uneven.
She crouched in front of him.
Both hands immediately find his face.
“Look at me.”
He couldn’t.
“…Leon.”
Nothing.
Her voice cracked.
“No.”
He finally looked up.
Tears had gathered in her eyes.
Not falling.
Just…
Waiting.
“I am done pretending this is exhaustion.”
“…”
“We’re going.”
“…”
“I’m putting my foot down.”
He stared at the floor.
She had never seen him look…
Ashamed.
“I know you.”
Silence.
“I know every scar on your body.”
Silence.
“I know when you’re lying.”
Longer silence.
“I know you’re terrified.”
That finally broke something.
His shoulders sagged.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He let out a slow breath.
“…I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t want…”
His voice almost disappeared.
“…I didn’t want you looking at me like this.”
Her eyes filled.
“Oh, Leon…”
He laughed once.
Humorless.
“I kept thinking…”
He swallowed.
“If I ignored it long enough…”
“…”
“…maybe it’d ignore me back.”
She took his hands.
They were shaking.
“I need you to tell me what’s happening.”
He squeezed them weakly.
Then…
Very gently…
He lifted both hands to cradle her face instead.
His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes.
“Don’t panic.”
Her heart sank.
“Leon…”
“This…”
His voice trembled.
“…This isn’t the type of sick a hospital can fix.”
Slowly…
Almost reluctantly…
He reached for the collar of his shirt, which lay beside him.
Instead of putting it on…
He pulled the damp fabric aside where it rested against his shoulder.
The skin beneath wasn’t skin anymore.
Dark.
Threadlike veins spread beneath the surface.
Black.
Not bruises.
Not burst blood vessels.
Something alive.
Something growing.
They crept down across his collarbone as ink dropped into water.
Y/N stopped breathing.
“…No…”
“I know.”
“…Since when?”
“…A few weeks.”
“You knew?”
He nodded once.
“I was hoping…”
He couldn’t finish it.
She stared at the spreading infection before looking back into the face she’d loved for years.
He looked impossibly tired.
Not afraid for himself.
Afraid…
For her.
“I kept thinking…”
He whispered,
“…if this is finally it…”
His voice cracked.
“…I didn’t want your last memories of me to be hospitals and tests.”
She broke then.
Wrapping both arms around him with enough force to make him nearly lose balance.
Love doesn’t come out of him as something spoken. It doesn’t arrive polished or easy to name.
With Leon S. Kennedy, it’s built out of repetition instead—habits that formed in survival and slowly reshaped themselves into care.
He notices things before they become problems. Remembers details without announcing that he does. Moves through rooms like he’s always accounting for exits, even when the only thing waiting there is you.
He doesn’t talk about love like a concept. He practices it like muscle memory.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
✦ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✦
Leon S. Kennedy × Wife!Reader (Civilian • She/Her)
Era: Post RE8 • Pre RE Requiem
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄 ✦
Headcanons • Domestic Fluff • Married Life • Canon-Compliant Leon • Comfort • Soft Romance
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
★ “Home”
His messages never quite relax into casual language.
“Home.”
“In.”
Short. Functional. Like he’s still half inside a system that required reports instead of conversations.
Then, after a pause that feels heavier than the words:
“You good?”
He doesn’t mean it like small talk. He means it like checking a lock twice.
⸻
☾ The apartment is dim except for the blue glow of the television and the soft spill of streetlights through the blinds. You’re curled into the couch, blanket half-draped over your legs, not really watching whatever’s playing anymore.
Your phone lights up.
Home.
It’s not dramatic. It shouldn’t feel like anything.
But it does.
You smile before you even fully register why.
You: “Yeah. You?”
The typing indicator appears. Disappears. Returns again.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“Lock the door.”
You glance toward it automatically. It’s already locked, but you still stand and check it anyway—not out of fear, but out of understanding.
You: “It’s locked.”
A beat.
“Good.”
That’s all.
But you know him well enough to picture it—the way his shoulders probably drop slightly when he reads that. Like something in him has been quietly put back into place.
⸻
★ Busy Hands
Leon doesn’t settle easily into stillness.
Not because he’s restless, but because silence gives his thoughts too much space to echo.
So when he gets home, he keeps his hands occupied.
Not out of urgency—out of regulation.
A small system of repetition that keeps him steady.
⸻
☾ Warm lamplight spills across the kitchen table, softening everything it touches. The TV murmurs in the background, low enough to feel like atmosphere rather than distraction.
He’s at the table, breaking something down that didn’t need breaking down.
You lean against the counter, watching him with the kind of familiarity that doesn’t need explanation anymore.
“You know you don’t have to do that every time you get back,” you say gently.
His eyes flick up for a moment. “I’m not doing anything.”
A faint smile touches your mouth. “You absolutely are.”
He exhales through his nose—almost amused. “Helps me think.”
You walk closer, resting your forearm lightly on the table.
“You always sit in the same chair too.”
A pause. Then, quieter:
“Yeah.”
“Because of the door?”
This time he doesn’t dodge it.
“…Yeah.”
No elaboration. None needed.
You nod like you already understand the shape of it.
“I like it,” you say softly. “I like seeing you… in your element.”
His hands slow for half a beat.
“…Yeah?”
You lean in just slightly, brushing a light kiss to his temple—quick, instinctive, like punctuation rather than performance.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s you.”
And his shoulders ease like that sentence itself took the weight off his shoulders.
You never had realised just how much he cared about what you thought of him until that moment.
⸻
★ He is always looking after you, even when you don’t look after yourself sometimes.
You’ve been staring at your laptop for too long. The words stopped meaning anything a while ago, but you didn’t notice when that happened.
Leon does.
He always does.
“You’re not reading that.”
You blink up slowly. “Hm?”
“You’ve been stuck on the same line for a while.”
There’s no judgment in it. Just observation.
You exhale, closing the laptop slightly. “Yeah… I think I lost it.”
He nods once like that’s already solved.
“…You want something to eat?”
A soft smile pulls at your mouth. “Maybe later.”
“Okay.”
And that’s it. No pushing. No insistence.
Just acceptance.
⸻
☾ Ten minutes later, something warm is placed beside your workspace.
Not forced into your hands. Not announced.
Just there.
You glance at it, then at him.
The corners of your mouth lift faintly. “You’re persistent I’ll give you that.”
He sits across from you, leaning back slightly.
“
“You forget.”
You look at him for a moment—really look.
“What would I do without you, hmm?”
⸻
★ The Jacket
He doesn’t ask if you’re cold.
He already decided you shouldn’t be.
⸻
☾ You were on your way back from dinner when the weather turned.
The restaurant warmth is still lingering on your skin, the faint scent of food and citrus soap from the napkin still on your hands. You’re dressed up—more than usual—and you refused a jacket earlier because you liked how everything looked together.
Leon didn’t argue.
He just brought one anyway.
Now rain is falling hard enough to blur the streetlights into soft streaks of gold and white.
You instinctively pull your arms in, laughing softly. “That was fast.”
Before you can say anything else, his jacket is already around your shoulders.
You blink up at him. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
No irritation. No edge.
Just calm certainty.
You slip your arms into it, warmth hitting you immediately. It smells like him—clean fabric, faint cologne, something metallic underneath that never quite leaves.
He shrugs slightly. “Figured you’d change your mind.”
You step closer instead of arguing, tugging the jacket tighter and brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve.
“Thank you.”
He glances at you. “You were gonna freeze.”
“Still,” you say softly, and press a quick kiss to his cheek before he can overthink it.
He looks away for half a second like that wasn’t expected—but before you notice the tint in his cheeks he’s walking again, matching your pace without needing to be told.
⸻
★ The Doorway
He doesn’t choose where he stands.
He just ends up there.
⸻
☾ Frame of the Room
You’re cooking—something simple, something that fills the apartment with warmth and garlic and comfort.
When you turn, he’s in the doorway again.
Same position. Same quiet stillness.
“You know you always stand there?” you ask gently, a small, amused but warm smile spreading across your lips as you took in the sight of him.
He glances over. “Where?”
“Right there, in the door, not at the table, or in the other room...”
A small pause. “I’m just standing.”
You let out a small chuckle. “Blocking the door, Mr. Protector.”
He exhales lightly—almost a laugh. “Habit.”
You nod, turning back to the stove. “I think it’s real cute, you’re like my big scary guard dog.”
That gets a look.
“…Yeah?”
You reach back without thinking, fingers briefly catching his hand as he passes behind you.
“Yeah. I like that you always protect me… even when there’s nothing to protect me from, it’s romantic.” She replied with a giggle, playful but still the truth.
He doesn’t say anything after that.
But he doesn’t move away from his “tactical” position either.
⸻
★ You Ate?
He doesn’t always say how much he loves you out loud.
He just gives you constant little reminders that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else BUT love
⸻
☾ Not a Question
“You ate?”
“I will.”
He pauses like he already knows that answer doesn’t count.
Then he’s gone.
No frustration. No repetition.
Just certainty.
⸻
Ten minutes later, food appears beside you again.
You laugh softly when you see it. “You’re relentless.”
He sits down across from you. “Not really, just persuasive
You take a bite, watching him over the rim of the plate.
“You know I notice all of it, right?”
He tilts his head slightly. “All of what?”
“This,” you say gently. “You taking care of me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
A pause.
You reach across the table, brushing your fingers against his for a second.
“Thank you.”
His gaze softens, almost imperceptibly.
“…Yeah, of course..”
And that’s all he gives you—but it’s enough.
⸻
★ Instinct
It doesn’t announce itself.
It finds you only when you don’t have time to overthink it.
⸻
☾ Close Enough
You’re walking beside him, distracted by your phone, drifting a little too close to the curb.
He shifts.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
Just enough to steer you with one arm to the other side of the pavement, away from the busy road. Putting himself between you and any danger.
“You’re doing it again,” you murmur without looking up.
“What?”
“That thing.”
A pause. “No idea.”
You smile faintly. “Every time I move on that side you move me back.”
He glances toward traffic. “Busy street.”
Silence settles between you.
Then, quieter:
“Don’t want you getting ran over by some drunk or something...” he grunted under his breath, he rolled his eyes but you could see clear as day that there was no real bite to it.
You lower your phone and look at him properly now.
“You’re a real sweetheart for a man who looks so grumpy.”
A beat.
“…Yeah?”
You bump your shoulder lightly against his arm.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
And he stays exactly where he is.
⸻
★ Nightmares
He doesn’t wake loudly, no yelling, no thrashing around…
He just wakes up sweat soaked, his hands shaking, he tries to still them but it only makes it worse.
But he knows what will make it better…
⸻
☾ “I’ve got you, always.”
3:12 AM.
His hand finds you before his thoughts fully catch up.
Wrist. Shoulder. Breath.
You shift slightly. “Leon?”
That steadies him.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”
You turn toward him instead. Slow. Warm. Familiar.
“Was it bad?”
A pause.
“…No,” he says finally. Then softer: “Just loud.”
You reach up, fingers curling lightly into his shirt.
“I’m here,” you remind him gently.
He nods once, like he needs that confirmation more than air. Then he does something that surprises even himself… he pulls you towards him with the arm that was wrapped tightly around your waist and lowers his head onto your shoulder, breathing in your scent for a few quiet moments. The hot air brushing against you neck and collarbone pulls a small content sigh from your lips.
“I know.” He replied finally after a long pause, his hands finally began to steady again.
╭────────────────────────╮
𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓
˚ 𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦: “don’t get attached” ˚
╰────────────────────────╯
˚ synopsis
she’s intelligence—patterns, translations, the kind of mind that turns chaos into readable language.
he’s fieldwork—Leon Kennedy and the long, exhausting habit of surviving things that were never meant to have survivors.
they weren’t assigned together because it made sense.
they were assigned together because someone needed a translator who could look at the abyss and make it back alive. Someone they could count on being useful.
𓆩♡𓆪 pairing
Leon S. Kennedy × (Y/N She/Her Reader)
— early RE9-era
The first thing Leon Kennedy said to her was, “You’re not coming.”
The second came immediately after, sharper, like it had already been decided before he walked in.
“Why is DSO Intelligence sending an analyst into a hot zone?”
Y/N didn’t stop writing.
The pen kept moving through the transfer paperwork, steady and mechanical. Initials, codes, signatures. The kind of task that made everything feel controlled, even when the room wasn’t.
The office was too bright, as government rooms always were—fluorescent lights that flattened colour and made everyone look slightly unwell. The air smelled like old coffee and warmed plastic from overused equipment.
She only looked up when the Deputy Director shifted beside her desk, like he was bracing for impact.
Leon was already in the doorway.
Not fully inside. Not fully outside.
Like he hadn’t decided if he trusted the space enough to enter it.
His posture wasn’t rigid, but it wasn’t relaxed either. Something in-between—functional stillness. The kind that came from habit rather than comfort. Rainwater darkened the collar of his jacket slightly. He looked like he’d been awake longer than the day allowed.
He didn’t bother with greetings.
“Answer the question,” he said.
The room tightened immediately.
The Deputy Director stepped in first.
“Agent Kennedy, she’s cleared. Translation, decryption, deconstruction of cult materials, and recovery support. She’s not field ops—”
Leon’s eyes flicked once toward him, then back.
“So I’m babysitting.”
Y/N closed her folder a fraction slower than necessary.
“I’m not a civilian,” she said.
That finally made him look directly at her.
Not aggressive. Just direct.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
A beat.
“I implied you don’t belong in a fire zone.”
That landed clean. No theatrics. Just the fact stated plainly enough that arguing with it felt optional rather than useful.
Y/N held his gaze anyway.
“I don’t,” she said. “But I can read what’s in it. That’s why I’m here.”
That changed the room more than either of them did.
Not visibly.
Just a shift in attention. Everyone recalibrating.
Leon studied her for a moment longer than necessary. Not sizing her up like a threat—more like trying to figure out where she fit in a pattern that didn’t usually include people like her.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
Y/N blinked once. “That’s your introduction?”
“It’s advice.”
“I don’t take orders well.”
A faint pause.
“I noticed.”
There was no smile.
But his expression loosened just enough to suggest he wasn’t completely locked in hostility either.
⸻
The village wasn’t what the briefing described.
That wasn’t surprising. Briefings rarely were.
The drive up had already made that clear—roads narrowing into something more suggestion than infrastructure, rain turning everything into shifting shades of grey. The mountains around them disappeared and reappeared through fog like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to exist.
Leon didn’t talk much on the way.
Neither did she.
He took both their bags before she could reach for hers when they arrived.
“I can carry it,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
“Then why—”
“Because I don’t want to stop moving if you get injured five minutes in.”
No edge in his voice. Just practicality.
That was almost worse than concern would’ve been.
“You assume I’ll slow you down.”
“I assume things go wrong,” he corrected.
They moved into the safehouse without another exchange.
It used to be a ranger station. Now it was stripped down to function—boards over windows, reinforced doors, maps still half-attached to the walls like someone had left mid-task and never returned.
Leon immediately checked the corners.
Not in a dramatic way. Just systematic. Doorframes. Sightlines. Entry points. Exit points.
Like the building was already part of a problem set he’d solved before.
When he was done, he set his bag down and chose a position where he could see every way out at once.
Y/N noticed.
Of course she did.
“You always do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Act like something’s already going to go wrong.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
No explanation. No justification.
Just honesty delivered without decoration.
⸻
The first days were friction disguised as procedure.
“Stay behind me.”
“You’ve said that.”
“Because you keep ignoring it.”
“I’m mapping structural damage and cult markings. I need proximity.”
“You were standing next to a tripwire.”
That stopped her.
She looked down properly this time.
The wire was barely visible—caught in debris and low light, stretched wrong between broken boards.
“…Okay,” she said after a moment. “Fair.”
Leon didn’t argue further.
He just stepped in, took the back of her jacket, and guided her back half a step.
Not forceful.
Not careful either.
Just precise.
Then he let go immediately, like it wasn’t worth turning into anything more than movement.
“You don’t have to grab me,” she said.
“You don’t have to stand on something that kills you,” he replied.
“I had it handled.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
That ended it.
Not because it was resolved.
Because it wasn’t worth continuing.
He moved on.
She followed.
⸻
By the second week, she stopped reading him as difficult.
He wasn’t.
He was consistent.
Constant awareness. Constant adjustment.
He tracked everything—doors, sound changes, distance, movement patterns.
And her.
Not in a controlling way.
In a monitoring way.
Like if she stopped being accounted for, something bad would slip through the gap.
One night, she found him by the window.
The glass was streaked with rain. Outside, the forest moved in slow dark layers, almost indistinguishable from the sky.
He had a mug in his hand.
Cold.
Untouched.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said.
“I do,” he replied without turning.
“That wasn’t the question.”
A pause.
“I sleep when I can.”
“That sounds like not sleeping.”
“It’s not optional,” he said.
That shut the conversation down cleanly.
Not avoidance.
Capacity limit.
Like, there wasn’t more room in him for explaining it.
⸻
The documents changed the tone of everything.
At first, it was just language work. Translation. Pattern recognition.
Then it became clear the material wasn’t just ideological—it was structured.
Cult doctrine mixed with technical language—biological schematics embedded in religious phrasing. Something is trying to sound spiritual while describing systems.
The Ascended Root.
Y/N leaned back after hours of work, rubbing her eyes.
“They’re not worshipping it,” she said.
Leon stood behind her chair now, reading over her shoulder without asking.
“They’re trying to use it,” she continued.
“Use it however.”
“That’s what we’re missing.”
She tapped the page.
“This phrase—‘beneath the sleeping saint’—it’s consistent across different documents. It’s not a metaphor. It’s location labelling disguised as doctrine.”
Leon read it once more.
Then nodded.
“So we find it.”
“We find what’s under it.”
No hesitation.
No discussion.
Just a decision.
“You’re always like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t give problems time to become bigger.”
A glance.
“They already are,” he said. “I just don’t wait for them to finish growing.”
⸻
The monastery wasn’t empty.
It had been staged to look empty.
That was the difference.
Dust is layered too evenly in some places, too disturbed in others. Footprints that didn’t match natural decay. Candle wax is still soft in the wrong corners of the room.
The air felt occupied even without sound.
Then gunfire broke the silence open.
Leon moved first.
Not fast in a way that drew attention.
Fast in a way that removed delay entirely.
Angles clean. Breathing steady. Motion is efficient without excess.
“Stay with me,” he called.
“I am,” she snapped from cover.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Movement in the corridor.
A cultist rushed—
Leon turned—
Late by half a beat.
The blade struck.
He didn’t go down.
Just paused.
Like the injury had to be logged before it could be acted on.
Y/N fired immediately.
Target down.
Silence snapped back too quickly, like the building itself was startled by how fast it ended.
Leon exhaled once.
Looked at the wound.
Then at her.
“You good?” he asked.
“You got stabbed,” she said.
“Still standing.”
A short laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
“That’s insane.”
“Not really,” he said. “It’s manageable.”
⸻
Back at the safehouse, she cleaned the wound without being asked.
He sat on the edge of the table, posture controlled, the way people get when they’ve decided pain isn’t worth prioritising.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“You’re bleeding,” she replied.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s accurate.”
She tightened the bandage slightly.
He didn’t react.
After a moment:
“Why do you act like it doesn’t matter?” she asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Rain tapped steadily against the window.
Finally:
“Because most of the time, it doesn’t last long enough to matter.”
That was it.
No drama.
No distance.
Just truth.
⸻
After that, she adjusted instead of pushing.
Coffee was left out early.
The gear was repaired when it started failing.
Ammo sorted without discussion.
Small maintenance instead of conversation.
He noticed.
Eventually.
“This yours?” he asked once, holding up a repaired sleeve.
“It was bothering me,” she said.
“You didn’t have to fix it.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“…Thanks,” he said.
Like it didn’t belong there, but he used it anyway.
⸻
The night before the extraction, she fell asleep over the files.
Pen still in hand. Notes half-finished.
Leon came in late.
Stopped at the doorway.
Didn’t move immediately.
Just looked.
Not assessing.
Not calculating.
Just observing someone who wasn’t actively surviving for once.
Then he removed his jacket.
Walked over.
Placed it over her shoulders.
No hesitation.
No ceremony.
Just instinct.
Then he left.
Quietly.
⸻
The mission ended the way they always did.
Fire. Extraction. Silence afterwards that never quite matched what it cost.
At the pickup point, wind from the helicopter tore through the clearing.
Y/N adjusted her bag.
“So that’s it,” she said.
Leon scanned the ridge out of habit.
“That’s usually how it ends.”
“I meant us.”
That made him look at her fully.
Not as a teammate.
Not as intel support.
Just her.
“You’re going back to intel,” he said.
“And you’re going back out there.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
No attempt to fill it.
The helicopter came closer.
Neither of them spoke over the noise.
Because anything said would’ve been incomplete anyway.
The wind took the rest.
⸻
Four months later.
Washington.
Paperwork. Fluorescent light. Controlled silence.
Her phone buzzed.
Found coffee worse than yours.
No name.
She didn’t need one.
That sounds like a challenge, she typed.
It is. I’m in town for two days.
Her heartbeat shifted slightly.
I was hoping you’d say that.
A typing bubble appeared.
I was hoping you wanted to see me.
A breath held too long.
I do.
Immediate reply.
Good.
Then:
Me too.
She set the phone down.
Didn’t move right away.
Outside, everything kept going as if nothing had changed.
Inside, it already had.
And this time—it didn’t feel like an interruption.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
╭────────────────────────╮
𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓
˚ 𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦: “don’t get attached” ˚
╰────────────────────────╯
˚ synopsis
she’s intelligence—patterns, translations, the kind of mind that turns chaos into readable language.
he’s fieldwork—Leon Kennedy and the long, exhausting habit of surviving things that were never meant to have survivors.
they weren’t assigned together because it made sense.
they were assigned together because someone needed a translator who could look at the abyss and make it back alive. Someone they could count on being useful.
𓆩♡𓆪 pairing
Leon S. Kennedy × (Y/N She/Her Reader)
— early RE9-era
The first thing Leon Kennedy said to her was, “You’re not coming.”
The second came immediately after, sharper, like it had already been decided before he walked in.
“Why is DSO Intelligence sending an analyst into a hot zone?”
Y/N didn’t stop writing.
The pen kept moving through the transfer paperwork, steady and mechanical. Initials, codes, signatures. The kind of task that made everything feel controlled, even when the room wasn’t.
The office was too bright, as government rooms always were—fluorescent lights that flattened colour and made everyone look slightly unwell. The air smelled like old coffee and warmed plastic from overused equipment.
She only looked up when the Deputy Director shifted beside her desk, like he was bracing for impact.
Leon was already in the doorway.
Not fully inside. Not fully outside.
Like he hadn’t decided if he trusted the space enough to enter it.
His posture wasn’t rigid, but it wasn’t relaxed either. Something in-between—functional stillness. The kind that came from habit rather than comfort. Rainwater darkened the collar of his jacket slightly. He looked like he’d been awake longer than the day allowed.
He didn’t bother with greetings.
“Answer the question,” he said.
The room tightened immediately.
The Deputy Director stepped in first.
“Agent Kennedy, she’s cleared. Translation, decryption, deconstruction of cult materials, and recovery support. She’s not field ops—”
Leon’s eyes flicked once toward him, then back.
“So I’m babysitting.”
Y/N closed her folder a fraction slower than necessary.
“I’m not a civilian,” she said.
That finally made him look directly at her.
Not aggressive. Just direct.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
A beat.
“I implied you don’t belong in a fire zone.”
That landed clean. No theatrics. Just the fact stated plainly enough that arguing with it felt optional rather than useful.
Y/N held his gaze anyway.
“I don’t,” she said. “But I can read what’s in it. That’s why I’m here.”
That changed the room more than either of them did.
Not visibly.
Just a shift in attention. Everyone recalibrating.
Leon studied her for a moment longer than necessary. Not sizing her up like a threat—more like trying to figure out where she fit in a pattern that didn’t usually include people like her.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
Y/N blinked once. “That’s your introduction?”
“It’s advice.”
“I don’t take orders well.”
A faint pause.
“I noticed.”
There was no smile.
But his expression loosened just enough to suggest he wasn’t completely locked in hostility either.
⸻
The village wasn’t what the briefing described.
That wasn’t surprising. Briefings rarely were.
The drive up had already made that clear—roads narrowing into something more suggestion than infrastructure, rain turning everything into shifting shades of grey. The mountains around them disappeared and reappeared through fog like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to exist.
Leon didn’t talk much on the way.
Neither did she.
He took both their bags before she could reach for hers when they arrived.
“I can carry it,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
“Then why—”
“Because I don’t want to stop moving if you get injured five minutes in.”
No edge in his voice. Just practicality.
That was almost worse than concern would’ve been.
“You assume I’ll slow you down.”
“I assume things go wrong,” he corrected.
They moved into the safehouse without another exchange.
It used to be a ranger station. Now it was stripped down to function—boards over windows, reinforced doors, maps still half-attached to the walls like someone had left mid-task and never returned.
Leon immediately checked the corners.
Not in a dramatic way. Just systematic. Doorframes. Sightlines. Entry points. Exit points.
Like the building was already part of a problem set he’d solved before.
When he was done, he set his bag down and chose a position where he could see every way out at once.
Y/N noticed.
Of course she did.
“You always do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Act like something’s already going to go wrong.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
No explanation. No justification.
Just honesty delivered without decoration.
⸻
The first days were friction disguised as procedure.
“Stay behind me.”
“You’ve said that.”
“Because you keep ignoring it.”
“I’m mapping structural damage and cult markings. I need proximity.”
“You were standing next to a tripwire.”
That stopped her.
She looked down properly this time.
The wire was barely visible—caught in debris and low light, stretched wrong between broken boards.
“…Okay,” she said after a moment. “Fair.”
Leon didn’t argue further.
He just stepped in, took the back of her jacket, and guided her back half a step.
Not forceful.
Not careful either.
Just precise.
Then he let go immediately, like it wasn’t worth turning into anything more than movement.
“You don’t have to grab me,” she said.
“You don’t have to stand on something that kills you,” he replied.
“I had it handled.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
That ended it.
Not because it was resolved.
Because it wasn’t worth continuing.
He moved on.
She followed.
⸻
By the second week, she stopped reading him as difficult.
He wasn’t.
He was consistent.
Constant awareness. Constant adjustment.
He tracked everything—doors, sound changes, distance, movement patterns.
And her.
Not in a controlling way.
In a monitoring way.
Like if she stopped being accounted for, something bad would slip through the gap.
One night, she found him by the window.
The glass was streaked with rain. Outside, the forest moved in slow dark layers, almost indistinguishable from the sky.
He had a mug in his hand.
Cold.
Untouched.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said.
“I do,” he replied without turning.
“That wasn’t the question.”
A pause.
“I sleep when I can.”
“That sounds like not sleeping.”
“It’s not optional,” he said.
That shut the conversation down cleanly.
Not avoidance.
Capacity limit.
Like, there wasn’t more room in him for explaining it.
⸻
The documents changed the tone of everything.
At first, it was just language work. Translation. Pattern recognition.
Then it became clear the material wasn’t just ideological—it was structured.
Cult doctrine mixed with technical language—biological schematics embedded in religious phrasing. Something is trying to sound spiritual while describing systems.
The Ascended Root.
Y/N leaned back after hours of work, rubbing her eyes.
“They’re not worshipping it,” she said.
Leon stood behind her chair now, reading over her shoulder without asking.
“They’re trying to use it,” she continued.
“Use it however.”
“That’s what we’re missing.”
She tapped the page.
“This phrase—‘beneath the sleeping saint’—it’s consistent across different documents. It’s not a metaphor. It’s location labelling disguised as doctrine.”
Leon read it once more.
Then nodded.
“So we find it.”
“We find what’s under it.”
No hesitation.
No discussion.
Just a decision.
“You’re always like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t give problems time to become bigger.”
A glance.
“They already are,” he said. “I just don’t wait for them to finish growing.”
⸻
The monastery wasn’t empty.
It had been staged to look empty.
That was the difference.
Dust is layered too evenly in some places, too disturbed in others. Footprints that didn’t match natural decay. Candle wax is still soft in the wrong corners of the room.
The air felt occupied even without sound.
Then gunfire broke the silence open.
Leon moved first.
Not fast in a way that drew attention.
Fast in a way that removed delay entirely.
Angles clean. Breathing steady. Motion is efficient without excess.
“Stay with me,” he called.
“I am,” she snapped from cover.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Movement in the corridor.
A cultist rushed—
Leon turned—
Late by half a beat.
The blade struck.
He didn’t go down.
Just paused.
Like the injury had to be logged before it could be acted on.
Y/N fired immediately.
Target down.
Silence snapped back too quickly, like the building itself was startled by how fast it ended.
Leon exhaled once.
Looked at the wound.
Then at her.
“You good?” he asked.
“You got stabbed,” she said.
“Still standing.”
A short laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
“That’s insane.”
“Not really,” he said. “It’s manageable.”
⸻
Back at the safehouse, she cleaned the wound without being asked.
He sat on the edge of the table, posture controlled, the way people get when they’ve decided pain isn’t worth prioritising.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“You’re bleeding,” she replied.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s accurate.”
She tightened the bandage slightly.
He didn’t react.
After a moment:
“Why do you act like it doesn’t matter?” she asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Rain tapped steadily against the window.
Finally:
“Because most of the time, it doesn’t last long enough to matter.”
That was it.
No drama.
No distance.
Just truth.
⸻
After that, she adjusted instead of pushing.
Coffee was left out early.
The gear was repaired when it started failing.
Ammo sorted without discussion.
Small maintenance instead of conversation.
He noticed.
Eventually.
“This yours?” he asked once, holding up a repaired sleeve.
“It was bothering me,” she said.
“You didn’t have to fix it.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“…Thanks,” he said.
Like it didn’t belong there, but he used it anyway.
⸻
The night before the extraction, she fell asleep over the files.
Pen still in hand. Notes half-finished.
Leon came in late.
Stopped at the doorway.
Didn’t move immediately.
Just looked.
Not assessing.
Not calculating.
Just observing someone who wasn’t actively surviving for once.
Then he removed his jacket.
Walked over.
Placed it over her shoulders.
No hesitation.
No ceremony.
Just instinct.
Then he left.
Quietly.
⸻
The mission ended the way they always did.
Fire. Extraction. Silence afterwards that never quite matched what it cost.
At the pickup point, wind from the helicopter tore through the clearing.
Y/N adjusted her bag.
“So that’s it,” she said.
Leon scanned the ridge out of habit.
“That’s usually how it ends.”
“I meant us.”
That made him look at her fully.
Not as a teammate.
Not as intel support.
Just her.
“You’re going back to intel,” he said.
“And you’re going back out there.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
No attempt to fill it.
The helicopter came closer.
Neither of them spoke over the noise.
Because anything said would’ve been incomplete anyway.
The wind took the rest.
⸻
Four months later.
Washington.
Paperwork. Fluorescent light. Controlled silence.
Her phone buzzed.
Found coffee worse than yours.
No name.
She didn’t need one.
That sounds like a challenge, she typed.
It is. I’m in town for two days.
Her heartbeat shifted slightly.
I was hoping you’d say that.
A typing bubble appeared.
I was hoping you wanted to see me.
A breath held too long.
I do.
Immediate reply.
Good.
Then:
Me too.
She set the phone down.
Didn’t move right away.
Outside, everything kept going as if nothing had changed.
Inside, it already had.
And this time—it didn’t feel like an interruption.
