annie

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀leon s. kennedy x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with Leon pt2. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ leon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Your daughter is growing and Leon have a hard time let her go...

She’s thirteen now.

Thirteen going on fire.

She slams doors. Talks too fast. Leaves her shoes everywhere.

Her music is loud. Her laughter louder.

And when she cries, it’s like watching the moon crack.

You’re learning to give her space.

Leon—he doesn’t know how to let go. Not when it comes to her.

He watches her like she’s made of glass in a world full of hammers.

Follows her to the kitchen just to check the locks on the windows.

Drives her to school but circles the block three times after dropping her off—just to be sure.

You told him once:

“Leon. You can’t save her from everything.”

He looked at you and said, quietly,

“I have to try.”

She wants to go to a sleepover.

Just a simple one. Four girls. One big living room. Pizza, movies, laughter.

She begs. Pleads. Gives you the eyes. Gives him the eyes.

“Please, Dad? I’ll call every hour. I swear. I’ll send pictures. I’ll send a video of me being alive. Please?”

He stares at her a long moment.

Then turns to you.

Then back to her.

And he says: “...I’ll park outside.”

She screams. Falls to the floor. Clutches her heart like he’s killed her.

“YOU ARE ACTUALLY THE WORST FATHER EVER—”

He smiles. “Still alive, though.”

You finally talk him into letting go a little.

Not because he’s ready. But because Lily is.

She’s braver than both of you. Fiercer, too.

And it kills Leon a little—how fast she’s growing, how much of her life he can’t protect.

You catch him one night sitting on her bed after she’s gone.

He’s holding a stuffed lion she used to sleep with.

His fingers trail the frayed fabric like it’s a relic.

“She doesn’t need me like she used to,” he says.

You kneel behind him, wrap your arms around his back.

“She does. Just… in different ways.”

He leans into you. The lion falls into his lap.

“You think I’ll know what to do when she’s twenty?”

“I think you’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t want her to turn out like me.”

You kiss his shoulder. “She won’t. She’s turning out like us.”

Then comes the boy.

Sixteen years old. Soft voice. Soft hands.

Too pretty. Too polite.

Smells like overpriced body spray and nerves.

Leon’s smile when he opens the door is cold.

You are so close to dragging him to the kitchen when he says,

“Have you ever fired a weapon?”

The poor boy blinks. “Uh—no?”

Leon’s voice is deadpan. “Wanna learn?”

Lily nearly tackles him down the stairs.

“Dad, stop! I like him!”

Leon doesn’t respond. Just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flat and unreadable.

But that night, when you’re lying in bed, he turns toward you and murmurs,

“I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

He shrugs. “Exactly.”

Then she comes home crying.

It’s late. Almost midnight.

She stumbles through the front door—face blotchy, mascara smeared.

You’re on your feet in a second. Leon’s already behind you.

“What happened?” you breathe.

Lily just shakes her head, wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Leon’s voice is quiet. Too quiet.

“Did he touch you?”

Her lip trembles. “No. He just… he kissed another girl. At a party. Said it was a mistake.”

You exhale.

Leon doesn’t.

He walks past you. Grabs his keys.

“Leon,” you say. Firm. Sharp. “Stop.”

“He hurt her.”

“He’s a kid.”

“So?”

The room goes silent.

You move to him, place your hand on his chest.

“She needs you here. Not out there being the monster in her memory.”

He looks down at you, jaw tight.

Then at Lily, who’s curled on the couch, crying into a pillow.

Small. Shaking. Still his whole world.

Leon drops the keys.

Sits beside her.

Pulls her into his arms.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

He teaches her how to shoot a gun when she turns seventeen.

He doesn’t want to. He swore he never would.

But she asks. Really asks.

Not out of rebellion. Not for fun.

Because she wants to feel safe the way he always made her feel.

Leon takes her to a private range.

Shows her how to hold it. Breathe. Fire.

Her hands shake. He’s steady as stone beside her.

“You’re strong,” he tells her, watching her hit the target dead center.

“You made me strong,” she says.

He doesn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, when she’s asleep upstairs,

you find him sitting in the dark, eyes red, hands still smelling of gunpowder.

“She’s gonna leave one day,” he whispers. “And I won’t be there to protect her.”

You kneel in front of him. Take his face in your hands.

“She’s gonna be okay. Because you raised her to be.”

She’s gone.

Not in the way he once feared—not stolen, not taken, not lost in blood and smoke and fire.

No.

Just gone the way all daughters go.

Gone the way time demands.

Moved into a new apartment. Far from home. Far from him.

Not too far. She visits every week. Calls every other day.

But Leon wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night,

thinking he hears her door creak open,

thinking he hears that sweet little voice saying:

“Dad? Can I sleep with you?”

It’s not her voice anymore.

She’s grown. A woman now.

And God, she’s beautiful.

She’s got your smile. His eyes.

Her own fire.

She’s working at an NGO now—organizing recovery for trauma victims.

Says she wants to help people the way he helped her.

It makes him proud.

It makes him ache.

“You’re everything I couldn’t be,” he tells her once.

And she just frowns.

“Don’t say that. I am who I am because of you.”

You notice it first.

The way Leon breathes heavier when he kneels.

The way his hands tremble a little when he buttons his shirt.

The growing silence in him. A deeper one than before.

You ask if he’s okay.

He lies like he always has.

He doesn’t want Lily to worry.

She’s busy. Living. Healing.

So you sit with him, in the dark, and you hold his hand while he says nothing.

She gets engaged.

You cry when she tells you. She glows with happiness.

Leon… doesn’t speak at first.

He nods. Smiles a little. Says, “That’s great, sweetheart.”

But that night, he sits alone in the garage. On the old workbench.

You find him there with an unopened beer and your wedding photo in his hands.

“She was just learning how to ride a bike,” he says. “I turned around and now she’s… marrying some guy.”

You kneel beside him. Take his face in your hands.

“She’s still your little girl.”

He laughs. Bitter. Soft.

“She was never mine to keep.”

He walks her down the aisle.

The music swells. Everyone stands.

Leon’s wearing a dark suit. The one that still fits.

Hair silver at the temples now. Face worn and carved from years of living too hard.

But his hands are steady when he holds her arm.

His voice steady when he whispers in her ear:

“You don’t owe me anything. But thank you… for letting me be your dad.”

She turns to him, tears in her lashes, and kisses his cheek.

“I’ll always be your girl.”

He walks her to the altar, places her hand in the groom’s.

Smiles. Steps back.

His jaw clenches so tight it aches.

He does not cry. Not here. Not yet.

But his whole world shifts.

He realizes—for the first time—

his job is done.

Years pass.

Photos fill the walls now.

Pictures of Lily at the beach. Holding a newborn. Laughing with her husband.

Smiling beside Leon. Always smiling beside him.

You’re older now too. He helps you with the stairs. Still brings you tea in the morning. Still calls you "honey" and "baby" and sometimes, just "you."

Sometimes Lily comes by with her children.

Little feet on hardwood. High-pitched voices calling:

“Grandpa! Grandpa!”

And Leon picks them up even when his back protests.

Hugs them close. Breathes them in like oxygen.

But sometimes he stares at them too long.

Goes too quiet.

You find him on the porch later, staring into the trees.

“Did I do okay?” he asks. “Was I a good dad?”

You sit beside him. Lean your head on his shoulder.

“You were the best. You are.”

He looks up at the sky.

Whispers, “I wanted to give her a world better than the one I knew.”

And you smile.

“You did. She lives in it.”

Sometimes at night, he dreams of Raccoon City.

He wakes in a sweat. Heart pounding. Hands clenched.

He sees Lily at seven years old.

In a burning street. Screaming his name.

He reaches for her. But the ground splits. The fire takes her.

You find him in the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face.

“She’s safe,” you whisper. “She’s alive. She’s okay.”

He nods.

But sometimes, he still needs to hear her voice to believe it.

So he calls her.

It’s past midnight. But she answers. Always.

“Dad?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no—it’s okay. I’m up. What’s wrong?”

“…Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

She’s quiet for a beat.

Then she says, “I love you.”

And he breathes. Finally.

“I love you too, baby.”

The house is quiet now.

It used to echo with laughter, footsteps, arguments, the sound of your daughter slamming doors and your husband muttering under his breath.

But the years passed. And life kept moving.

The kids are grown. Lily’s a mother of two now. She visits every week—always with flowers, always with warm hands and tired eyes that still look like Leon’s.

She tries not to cry when she sees him now.

You notice.

Because Leon is fading.

Not in the dramatic way he used to fear—no virus, no explosion, no chaos. Just… slow.

Quiet. Like dusk.

His hair is silver now. His body aches. His knees are wrecked from years of fieldwork.

But it’s not pain that’s stealing him.

It’s time.

The one thing he couldn’t outshoot, outrun, or outsmart.

You sit with him most days.

Out on the porch, where the wind is kind and the sun warms the wood under your bare feet.

He holds your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Thumb brushing your knuckles. Palm still calloused. Still strong.

But softer now. Tired.

“Remember when Lily broke her arm?” he asks one morning, voice a little slow, memory drifting in and out like smoke.

You smile. “She told us she was climbing the fence to prove to the neighbor kid she wasn’t afraid of tetanus.”

He chuckles. Then coughs.

You rub his back gently until it passes.

“She’s just like you,” he murmurs.

“She’s just like you,” you reply.

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Eyes cloudy with age, but still blue. Still his.

The doctors told you not to expect miracles.

They didn’t know who they were talking to.

Leon was a miracle.

He should’ve died a hundred times.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Long enough to love.

Long enough to live.

Long enough to see his daughter grow up, and his grandchildren run barefoot through the grass he planted with his own hands.

But even miracles have an end.

He asks you one night if you’re afraid.

Lying in bed beside him, his body warm but weaker, curled slightly toward you like always.

You blink in the soft light. “Afraid of what?”

“Of me… not being here.”

You stare at him. Then slowly, deliberately, bring his hand to your chest.

“I carry you with me,” you whisper. “In every breath. Every step. You’ll never really go.”

His eyes fill. Just a little. He doesn’t blink them away.

“I wanted to give you more,” he says. “You deserved… the whole world.”

“You gave me you, Leon,” you say. “That was all I ever wanted.”

The last days are soft.

He sleeps more. Talks less.

Sometimes, he forgets things.

But never you.

Never your name.

Never your voice.

Never your hand.

And when the time comes, it’s not with violence.

It’s with peace.

He’s lying in your arms. Breathing slow.

Sunlight through the window, warm on his skin.

Lily is beside you, holding his other hand, weeping silently but bravely.

Leon smiles. Barely. Just enough.

His voice is faint. But clear:

“You made everything worth it.”

You kiss his forehead, just under the line of his hair.

He used to hate his grays. You always loved them.

“Go rest, baby,” you whisper. “You did so good. We’re okay now.”

And when he goes—

It’s like a breath.

A sigh.

Like someone finally laying down a burden they’ve carried too long.

No pain.

No monsters.

No regrets.

Just love.

And silence.

And you.

The house is quiet. But not empty.

Photos. Laughter in the walls. His boots still by the door.

Lily plants sunflowers in the yard.

His grandson carries his name.

And you sit on the porch with a cup of tea, wind in your hair, hand resting on your chest.

You can still feel him there.

In the way the light hits the trees.

In the soft creak of the swing.

In the warmth of your daughter’s arms when she hugs you.

Leon saved the world a hundred times.

But in the end—

he saved you most of all.

And that…

That was the miracle.

I found the fic! And I added an extra fic that I enjoyed and is pretty similar to the one you were originally looking for! <3

which to bury: us or the hatchet? by notyoongs (1/1 | E | 18,079)

“stop being a fucking brat, jeongguk,” snaps yoongi.

he already knows where this is going, but he’s powerless to stop it—as he always is. sometimes he considers what would happen if he took everyone’s advice and actually talked to jeongguk instead of letting it continue like this, all of these years later. but the truth is that he kind of likes it—likes the way jeongguk takes a step toward him, and then another, and another, until they’re standing toe to toe, jeongguk using the few inches of height he has on yoongi to attempt to appear imposing.

they stare at each other. then jeongguk whispers, “make me.”

love like war (we go together or we don’t go down at all) by notyoongs (1/1 | E | 66956)

jeongguk takes a moment, and then slowly closes yoongi’s notebook. “i know the only relationship you’ve had in your life turned to shit because you couldn’t be a good enough boyfriend or human to keep it alive,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean you can only write depressing love songs about fake love or being obsessed or needing to hide your true self from your partner. it’s a little pathetic, to be honest. you could try thinking love is a nice thing for once in your life. it’ll do wonders for your career.” and then he quietly gets up from the chair, turns, and leaves the studio.

and yoongi sits. and he sits. and he hates that maybe jeongguk is a little right—that he’s only known love in the soul-eating, angry, it never worked out sort of way. and he’s been putting jeongguk in all of his love songs. and none of them have had a happy ending, because yoongi doesn’t know what that looks like anymore.

these are all yoonminkook (unapologetically)

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE by notyoongs (1/1 | E | 15,434)

“actually, jimin and i were talking.” jeongguk winces when his character on screen almost dies, only half listening to what yoongi is saying and so he doesn’t quite catch what he says other than, “—when we fuck.”

his thumbs jerk, his character dying spectacularly as he turns to look at yoongi. “sorry, what?”

“i said jimin wants to watch us fuck.”

(or: jeongguk goes home to visit his childhood friend, jimin. but jimin is hiding a secret and both jeongguk and yoongi are interested in getting very intimate with it.)

LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE by notyoongs (1/1 | T | 6,585)