you know that fucking cop is onto you, he knows more than you want him to but for some reason, even when you know you’ve messed up and are sure you’re gonna be caught, you’re not. no one knows about the evidence you accidentally left behind, clues that trace back to you. when you go back to try and ruin the crime scene to throw the police off the scent, it’s all gone. just a dead body and all of the blood you love to spill.

it bugs you a little bit. where did it go? but you watch as the cops search the crime, hiding in the bushes behind the house when you see the cop you… you just know is the one who did it. he looks like he’s seen that crime scene already, and there’s something bunched into his pocket. that looks almost like your glove that got caught on something and left behind as you were escaping.

you realize he’s looking you dead in the eyes as you make painfully awkward eye contact with him. he smirks and looks away. you wonder why he isn’t telling his colleagues about how he saw you, you wonder why he seems almost amused by you. it’s driving you mad.

you’ve seen him before. you recognize him now. you don’t know his name, but he’s got blonde hair, long enough to cover his blue eyes. looks like a doll. he’s a detective, always showing up to crime scenes in those pretty, expensive suits. he wears a nice watch, cleans himself up well.

you get your hands on his file, all of his records, the time he spent as a patrol officer, back when he was younger. his hair was shorter then. his eyes a bit brighter. he was cute. and now… he’s much more than that. he’s distinguished.

—

leon saw you once, before you could run out when you realized the cops were coming in. he remembers how you looked. bloody, gloved hands holding a kitchen knife. you didn’t see him, but he saw you. he sees you again in the bushes, and you see him this time. it’s a moment where everything stops, and leon feels his dead heart pitter pattering like it hasn’t done in years.

you kinda lose the light in your soul when you become a detective. he’s more somber now than he was when he was on patrol, but what can you do?

he finds out everything he can about you, cross referencing the evidence he finds that everyone else seems to miss with every little thing he can gather, in hopes of figuring out your name, or anything about you, honestly.

he’s come to the conclusion that your sloppiness is caused from the pleasure you take in killing. you leave too much evidence behind, too many clues, christ it’s like you want to be caught, but leon can’t help but be fond of you now that you’re intentionally leaving clues for him to find. little messages like ‘for my favorite detective, ♡’ on notecards next to the body. no one knows what you mean. leon’s becoming more obsessed by the minute.

he’s learned everything about you, every motive, every killing, why, when, how you did it all, and his coworkers know nothing. they’re not even sure how many you’ve killed, much less know anything about you.

it’s betraying his morals, sure, but who really cares? he’s killed people before, he’s no better than you. sure, he tried to convince himself he did it to protect the innocent, but he’s got his own thirst for blood. can’t really blame you for doing for fun what he does for work. you lose your morals anyway when you’re a detective.

he covers for you, gives excuses and ideas to lead the other detectives in the wrong direction. destroys evidence for you. lies for you. he’s desperate for you attention, and he finally gets it when you come into the police station.

you’re not disguised, not dressed to hide your identity. you look.. normal. you smile at the person working the front desk. you’re polite, charming, courteous. leon almost passes you by before double taking and realizing that it’s you.

“well, hello, it’s nice to meet you, detective kennedy,” you smile, reaching out your hand for him to shake, which he does awkwardly. you realize that he’s a lot less cool than he seemed when you first saw him. his lack of social skill is almost charming.

“are you… what are you doing here? are you turning yourself in o-or something?”

“i wanted to see you,” you say simply to him.

he blinks, confused.

“do you want to speak with me? or should i just go, detective?”

“i.. i think we should talk,” he smiles back eventually, “i want to talk to you. really talk.”

you meet him later, after his shift. you tell him your story, your motives. even though he knows them, he lets you talk. he likes listening to you. he tells you about his work, what he’s done to protect you, and when you ask why, he shrugs, “you’re too pretty for prison.” he matches your bluntness.

it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing, amused by leon kennedy’s mind, how his brain even works.

he continues, “but listen, if you’re gonna keep… you know, killing people, you need to run it by me after the fact. i need to get there and make sure there’s no evidence that other detectives will find. don’t worry, i’ll get you a burner phone and everything. just call me when you do it. i’ll help.”

“hmm.. alright. now.. do i owe you anything for your.. protection, detective? should i.. show you how appreciative i am that you’re helping me get away with murder?” you lean in close, suggestively. leon can’t help that he’s easy to seduce.

“i.. i think you don’t owe me anything, but.. if you’d like..” he stutters. you smile. he’s so cute to play with.

he takes you back to his place. you tell him he wouldn’t like yours, with the victim you have tied to a chair in your bedroom. he raises an eyebrow, and you try to calm his worries by saying, “its fine, i drugged him so he wouldn’t wake up until tomorrow… do you wanna watch me torture him?”

“i’m… okay, baby,” he says, his voice gravelly and soft at the same time.

you hook up obviously when you get back to his apartment, and it’s the best sex of his life. maybe it’s because he likes dominant women already, but there might also be something thrilling about a woman putting her hands around his throat who’s very well capable of squeezing until he stopped breathing entirely.

thankfully, you don’t asphyxiate him. you lay in his bed with him afterwards, and there’s something so strangely normal about the way you curl up into his side as he draws shapes on your back with his fingertips.

“are you ever.. gonna kill me?” he asks, out of the blue, stirring you from your drowsy state.

you look up at him, and he’s worried you’re considering it. there’s a gun on his nightstand. he panics. you would never get away with it, he’s sure. your dna is all over his body, his clothes, his apartment, surely you’re not that sloppy of a killers.

“i haven’t decided yet,” you say simply, resting your head on his chest.

“o-oh…”

you chuckle, sensing anxiety and tension in his body at your response to his question, “i would only ever do it if i thought you were gonna betray me or something, pinky promise. no matter how… beautiful you would look dying..”

he gulps, and you feel endeared by his fear. he’s.. cute when he’s nervous.

the next day, he wakes up. he puts on another suit, and another fancy watch. he drives you home before he goes to work, and he kisses your forehead before he gets back into his car, “am i gonna be seeing you again tonight?” he asks.