So Many Of My Beautiful Mutuals Write Beautiful Fanfiction But Alas I Am Employed And Very Tired Every

so many of my beautiful mutuals write beautiful fanfiction but alas I am employed and very tired every second of the day

erm eats you

i need this man lying on my shoulder while i kiss the pain away like please i could make you forget (or ill try really really hard) pleaseeee one chanceee

one kiss by dua lipa (ONE KISS IS ALL IT TAKES, FALLIN IN LOVE WITH ME) pretty much yea

taking care of him today<3

Fortune's Cookies

They aren't very sweet, especially when you're fooled into taking the first bite.

a/n: gosh there's literally so much rookie leon art going around and the fever got to me, hope you like my twist on this classic trope! honestly everyone listed below contributed to this with their rookie leon pieces, seriously i stared at them while writing it helps seriously.

@chesue00 - you KNOW it.

@faintfill - MY SOURCE OF ROOKIE LEON SKETCHES NO KIDDING

@uhlillie - i hope you know which one im talking about girl... DAMN

@bunnivievve - FOODDDDDDD just like i said rookie leon is served

(psst. if i didnt mention u in this one artist moots TRUST you're definitely in one of the other three.)

tw: cavity fluff i hope i needed to brush my teeth after writing this (probably because of all the panda express fortune cookies i ate while typing), angst bc duh and i think thats it?

wc: 7k

“Your voice will bring a smile today.”

That’s what greets you, printed in those horrible skinny red letters, paper curled in your fingers. The styrofoam boxes are dotted with grains of undercooked rice and steamed vegetables, a treat you knew you deserved after such a long day. 

And this is what fate tells you. Good thing you’ve never believed in superstition. You crumple the paper and toss it onto the tray and scoff.

Like you’ll take advice from a cookie.

But as the number of people in the store starts to dwindle, and the night shift employees trudge in through the back door, you wind up with your eyes glued to the message, wondering what kind of voice it referred to. 

It’s been a long time since your voice has brought anyone joy, hasn’t it? Your job mostly consists of reminding multiple colleagues of their deadlines, only to be promptly ignored. Your existence only comes back to their minds two minutes before their reports are due, when they forward a hastily written piece that you don’t bother to read.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” A hand waves dangerously close to your face, brushing your nose, and the contact is enough to startle you back, glaring up at the offender. Even with the harsh swinging lights stinging your eyes, you can see warm blue eyes and sunny hair. 

It feels as if the sky has descended to meet you.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you mutter back in response, clearing your throat, waving your tied words away. “All good here.”

He shifts away from you, maybe mistaking your inward gesture as shooing him away. You think of saying something about him, about assuring him, but you wonder why you feel that way. "Oh. I, uh, saw you seemed distracted. Just wanted to make sure you're okay." 

You wince, acutely aware of your frazzled appearance after the long shift. "Thank you, but I'm fine. Just tired is all."

“That’s not good,” he notes with a small frown, leaning back to press his heels to the ground. “Did you eat well?”

“Do you fuss over all strangers?” you muse.

“Oh, well, uhm, I see you a lot here, not that I’m watching you, just that I noticed that you’re here, a lot, so I thought you must like food-” 

“You talk a lot.” You raise an eyebrow, trying to cut off his flustered stammering with your motion.

“That came out a lot worse than I’d imagined in my head,” he admits with a slight dip of his shoulders. “Sorry about that, I got nervous. I don't talk to many people… or, uh, women... so I tend to be a bit of a dumbass.”

Surprisingly, as shitty as you feel, a small smile graces the corner of your mouth.

“You’re honest, aren’t you?” 

“According to a lot of people… yeah.”

“I don’t think I caught your name earlier,” you say, eyes scanning his vivid outfit for a nametag. There, pinned to his apron like a defining feature of his. “Leon?”

“That’s me,” he replies proudly. “And I already know yours!”

“Sorry?”

“Your… name?” Leon puckers his bottom lip, as if scarring it with his teeth will take back the words hanging between you. “Sorry… like I said, I’ve seen you here a lot.”

And he smiles shyly.

You’re flushed the whole way home, thinking of that sweet little smile, the way his eyes crinkled, his fresh linen scent, how you forgot how to breathe. 

And your carefully built world topples over.

<><><><>

You never expected to look forward to the little messages in your fortune cookies, but you blame it on the fact you know Leon’s handing them to you, standing behind the counter in that cute little outfit. Even if he has no idea what’s in them, you can gaslight yourself into thinking he deliberately picks the ones complimenting your smile, or telling you how pretty your eyes look.

Of course, he can tell you that all himself. You sit shoulder to shoulder with him on the stools that you think are meant to be mocking bar stools, but they have barely any space between them, so you’re crammed together.

You wait for him to move away, to tell you to put some distance between you two, but nothing comes. You watch his profile, that handsome face eat cheap noodles when he really deserves so much better.

The lights dim as the last employee clocks out. It’s gotten so late that the crickets demand entrance, chirping their redundant sound, silencing as you walk past the slouching grass like plant that tickles your bare ankles as you walk back to your respective cars.

“Well,” he says, twisting the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, like he hasn’t been talking to you for the last two weeks. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, nodding. The grin that eats up his face is so infectious you can’t help but smile back.

The same smile drops from your face when you check your Uber texts, a system you’ve repeated so much over the last few months that it feels like second nature, but not very natural when you see that your driver had to back out of the deal at the last minute, suspiciously also taking your money with them, leaving you broke and without a ride. 

You stare at the small blue rectangle gripped in your fingers, heat rising to your face, realizing how stupid you must seem to the guy who must be pulling away right at this moment, and will he ever want to hang out with you again-

“Something wrong?” You hear his voice before you hear the knocks on his car roof, and he’s so tall that even at this distance you have to crane your neck to glower at him, and a lopsided smile overtakes his face.

“This isn’t fair,” you insist after explaining your situation, and the only response he gives is a slight shake of his head, as if exasperated. “I already paid all the money!”

“Crap, then something’s wrong,” he mumbles. “Do you usually always use all your money on the trip here?”

You falter. “Not usually.”

He arches a golden brow, a gate to your forthcoming confession. “Then…?”

“Well, I come out here to see you,” you admit quietly. “And then I go home.”

“Exactly how far away do you live?” His voice is smooth, but his expression reminds you of those times when your mother caught you doing something you shouldn’t be, doing something that shows how much you need that validation to survive.

“Not that far,” you assure, nodding your head, but you fail to convince the both of you. 

“Do you want a ride home?” he asks quietly, softly, as if the night might intrude on your conversation.

“That would be nice,” you reply in a hushed whisper, as if further backing up the idea that the moon is listening, lighting up your words, shining on his hair as you both clamber into his car.

He apologizes for the mess in his spotless car, and you assume it’s just a courtesy, but he goes on and on about how he needs to get his life together. You don’t pay attention to the words that come out of his mouth, just his mouth in general. The amount of times you’ve done this slips from your mind, just another irrelevant number in your life.

If his life is a mess, your life must be a heap of shit.

Your address tumbles past strangely parched lips, well, at least it did, a while ago. But the ride was far too short, and he pulls up in your driveway, a bewildered expression on his face, as if he can’t believe this is where you live; a humble, simple abode, just like all your neighbors.

“So, this is goodbye, then?”

“Not forever, I hope,” he whispers, voice breathy.

“Uh, okay then? But let’s meet somewhere that isn’t your place of work?”

You were joking when you said it, but it seems he doesn’t pick up on it. His eyes are dreamy and thoughtful on his drive back, and by the time he gets home, he has a plan.

He’s going to stun you.

<><><><>

“Well?”

Leon’s gone out of his way to please you. Everything you’ve said during your time together, those vague comments about your favorite type of cheese, your opinions on the amazingly random topics you’re always switching between, it’s all right there.

You hope it's a physical display of his love.

His heart is spread bare, on the checkered, classic pattern of red and white, starkly contrasting with the blades of grass that bear your combined weight, not one, but two, so closely conjoined that you feel more at ease than you have in years.

You share a smile as you indulge in the simple yet delightful cucumber sandwiches, savoring each bite as you bask in each other's company. In the far distance, birds chirp, serenading you both, as if a soundtrack to these moments that seem to tick by faster than they should.

Leon's eyes meet yours, a softness in his gaze that speaks volumes. Time slows, encapsulating you both, a delicious freedom licking up your spine.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” you remark, wiping your face with a napkin, feeling content as you lean back, lying your head on your palms.

He mirrors your action, although his head twists to meet you, eyes sparkling. “I wouldn’t be working at a restaurant if I didn’t know a few things, right?”

“Guess so.” You shrug and the afternoon wears on, the park imaginative and alive with the children that race around the playground, darting like minnows through the swings and slides.

If you had met Leon in your childhood, would things have been different? Would you still be where you are today, arms brushing, only held apart by the barrier of remains scattered between you both, a battlefield of scarred napkins and damaged plastic utensils, a war fought to keep you separate.

He is caring and decisive and rational, the most reliable person you know, and you faintly register it’s been half a year, and you haven’t progressed any further with each other. The battle has come to a standstill, and neither side dares to make a move.

You think that half the problem lies not with you, but with Leon, and what he does with all his free time. He’s not the type to laze around; you think you know him well enough to make that assumption, but you aren’t sure anymore.

Cue example one: the mysterious phone calls that have begun to grow in frequency, the ones that always sour Leon’s mood, leave him sullen and unfriendly to talk to. Eventually, you grow tired of his monosyllabic answers, and make your absence known, still wondering what goes on in his life.

With a furrowed brow, he glances at the caller ID, his expression tightening with concern. You watch as his once-relaxed posture stiffens with some unseen burden. With a sigh, he excuses himself to take the call, leaving you momentarily alone with your thoughts.

You can sense the tension tinging the area, Leon’s clenched jaw betraying the stress he tries to conceal as he stalks back to you, shoving his phone into his pocket, evidently agitated.

“You don’t need a ride home, do you?” His voice contrasts his request; he obviously isn’t in the mood to drive you home. 

“I’ll get a cab.” You shake your head, not wanting to be the instrument he releases all that pent up anger on.

He casts a shadow over you, standing tall and easy, in the dying sun he looks like a dying angel, his eyes soft and sad, skin begging to be touched. And while you want nothing more than to reach out and caress his cheek, tell him it’ll be okay, kiss his troubles away, you don’t know what you are right now.

Friends? Would a friend do that? So you offer him a supportive smile, trying not to seem deliberate, and amidst the fading light of the park and the cooling breeze that accompanies you back to your divided lives, you already regret it, watching Leon speed off, just a distant thought in your memory. 

You should trust your gut more often.

<><><><>

As the car glides through the shadowy city streets, you catch sight of the new monument in the distance, the one Leon must’ve told you about. Surprising yourself, you decide to take a spontaneous detour. You tap your driver on the shoulder, and she smiles encouragingly. For the most part, the drive was silent, but you don’t mind her soft voice explaining the history behind why they decided to construct it in the first place.

She pulls around the corner, approaching the area near the monument, but the statue quickly is pushed to the back of your mind. It’s the flashing police lights and a sense of urgency in the air that catches your attention. A crime scene tape cordons off the area, and officers are stopping all vehicles passing through.

A stern-faced cop approaches your cab and instructs you both to step out. The driver uneasily abandons her car where it’s parked, then weaves through the forming crowd effortlessly, as if she’s gotten used to the downtown mobs of people.

You, however, barely come to this side of the town, where the city lights are always attacking your eyes that are comfortable with the soft sunset across the farm, where the people are always knocking against each other like clumsy goats, everyone bustling with a purpose.

As you also try your best to push your way through the throng, a knot forms in your stomach at the sight that greets you in the center of the commotion. The blood reaches up to where your footsteps falter, where everyone steps back to avoid staining their footwear.

Splatters of crimson paint a macabre picture that sends a shiver down your spine. The wail of sirens pierces the night, flaring lights casting an eerie glow that dances like amethyst flames, illuminating the limp body that uniformed figures crouch near.

And one of those figures, someone you’d never expect at the grim scene of a murder, is Leon, his unfamiliar stony expression cast in a stark light against the backdrop of chaos.

You draw closer, questions threatening to unravel the fabric of your reality, steeling yourself for the confrontation, because you thought you were close to him, a person he could trust. Was that such a silly thought? To think that you might have had something?

Apparently it was.

“Leon?” you demand, pressing yourself into the caution tape, warning bells ringing in your mind at the neon yellow bending to your will against your stomach.

“What?” He glances up and around, scanning the entire world until his eyes land on yours, going wide slightly, and his position stumbles, as if his legs give way.

“Get up, rookie,” another cop barks. “Focus! And you, stop distracting him!” Someone bats at your face, but you just sidestep the blow and storm closer, in the tension of the moment.

If you had just a speck of your sense at the time, you might’ve forced yourself to step away, to take a few calming deep breaths, but seeing his face dappled in such an unnatural light, to see his warmth be taken away to something that’s real, something like a life gone. 

You always saw him as your solace, away from your life, something that was unreal, just for you. You forget to see him as a being of his own, with feelings of his own. And sadly, you don’t know the difference between impulsive and intrusive. 

You’re surprised when Leon rises to meet your eyes, albeit it only lasts for a moment until he’s towering over you again, and there’s a sense of authority there that wasn’t there before, eyes strict and narrowed.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he says, in such a final tone it doesn’t occur to you that you could argue back. But his voice, a splinter of your Leon, the one you know, slips through. “I promise.”

So you stand back, near the patrol cars, their wails ratting your skull, but you grit your teeth and force yourself through it, eyes directed on Leon. It’s a while before the crowd clears, presumably because the idea of a murder is enticing until they see how long it truly takes, as compared to television.

But you stand there, leaning against the side of the car that you know is Leon’s, recognizing it as the one that you’ve rode in so many times, and you wonder why he’s taken a fragment of your time here, to this place outside of your relationship.

Eventually, Leon makes frantic motions to the top of the monument, stretching to the sky before gesturing back to the body, and everyone around him offers a pensive expression and solemn nods before someone calls out something you can’t hear.

The sirens die down immediately, and everyone claps Leon on the back. He flushes and stumbles with them to the cars, and you promptly ignore everyone’s gaze on you as he approaches. But there’s someone with him. 

Feline eyes meet yours, an arm draped over his shoulder, competitive expression and this mysterious woman and Leon saunter over to you. She’s dressed in a long, beige trench coat, and her black sunglasses rest low on her nose, perched just right so that she can lift her face to offer you the most cursory of glances before turning away.

And she has the audacity to peck Leon on the cheek before she gives you a smug smile with the side of her face that only you can see before waving goodbye, somehow gracefully, and stalking away to what you assume is a fancy sports car.

“Look, I know you have a lot of questions.” Leon holds up his hands in defense, before grinning, and involuntarily, you feel the corner of your mouth quirk upwards.

“Lot of is an understatement,” you grumble.

“Talk over dinner?” he offers.

“Is this you trying to impress me?”

“I mean, I don’t know,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Is it working?”

<><><><>

“Right, and you didn’t think telling me you were a fucking cop was important?” Your spring roll is devastated, its insides spilling everywhere on your plate, bits of cabbage and carrot dotting the cardboard.

“I didn’t think it would change anything between us,” he mumbles. “So what difference would it make?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You push away from the table, and his eyes follow you when you stand up, and his actions seem to come naturally, as an instinct, when he trails you across the empty store.

“You know what it means!” he protests.

“Maybe I don’t, Leon, so maybe you should explain,” you retort. “Explain why you thought it was okay to lead me on like that, all this time, when you have a girlfriend! Which one of us are you really cheating on?”

“What?” Now he looks genuinely confused, and his confusion seems to spark some doubt in your own defense, breaking down your sure walls. “Girlfriend? Cheating?”

His eyes are glazed over with tears, and if he starts crying, you’re not sure what you’ll do. You take a step closer, but now he’s the one to recoil away, shaking his head, wiping his eyes.

Leon inhales sharply. “How could you say something like that? I told you when we met, I’m not… not very good with these kinds of things.”

“But she-”

“Kissed me?” He scoffs. “Yeah, right. Like your mother’s never kissed you goodnight.”

You misread everything. That smug smile was her approval, on those curved lips, those narrowed eyes that were… well, just always narrowed. How could you get something so wrong?

"I... I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. "I didn't know... I thought..." Your words falter as you struggle to find the right ones to express the whirlwind of relief, a gust of skittish butterflies pattering against the walls of your stomach, trying to find release.

"I should have been honest from the start," he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. "My job… it can hurt people. You saw. I want to keep you safe."

“You’re not mad?” you ask quietly.

Leon's eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief as he responds, "How could I ever be mad at this cute little face?" He playfully puffs your cheeks together, a gesture meant to be endearing.

Before you can fully process his teasing remark, Leon's demeanor shifts once again, his voice lower and more intimate as he adds, "Or... these lips." And with a sudden, decisive move, he leans in and presses a tender kiss against your lips.

And your fragile world topples over.

Again.

<><><><>

Leon never ceases to surprise you, that much you can definitely expect. You shut your computer, ready for your lunch break, when someone calls your name from the lower floor. That much you’ve come to expect, but while you’re gathering your belongings, someone else calls out something else.

“Hey, hurry up! Don’t keep your boyfriend waiting!”

To say you stumbled would be nice. You somehow manage to trip over the arm of the chair, end up with all your papers fluttering to the ground, but you ignore the mess and file it away for later, trying to tame your hair (an impossible feat in three seconds) as you storm down the stairs.

Your heels click on the tiles as you make your descent as graceful as can be, minus that one part where you trip and lurch forward before gripping the hand railing for safety. You see him standing at the entrance, talking to the receptionist guy, a box nestled between his arms. 

“Doughnuts?” you ask, staring at the box enticingly, recognizing the bright pink and rainbow sprinkles from your childhood. 

“Got some free time,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your nose before opening the box. It seems that you really have everyone’s attention now. “And coupons!”

You toss him a shit eating grin to show your returned affection before immediately curling your fingers around a glazed doughnut. And eventually, once the first person timidly approaches, quietly asking if they could maybe have one, Leon beams.

“I brought enough for everyone!” he proclaims, and he steps to the side to reveal three similar boxes, all presumably stocked with the same doughnuts.

“Looks like you’re an office favorite now, huh?” you tease, nudging him with your elbow. He shifts from your impact and returns the gesture, in the process of doing so smears chocolate frosting on the underside of his nose.

“I’ll always be your favorite officer though, right?” he jokes in response.

You don’t respond, you’re too busy staring at that one smear of cocoa against his skin, and suddenly you’re itching for a napkin, so you twist over your shoulder to grab one.

“Righ-” His echo is muffled by the napkin stuffed into his mouth as you gently dab at the area, squinting your eyes. 

“Yeah, of course, totally,” you mumble absentmindedly, satisfied with your efforts. You take the excuse a little further just to stare at his amused expression, the quirk of his brow, the tilt of his eyes softening.

Your colleagues will never let you hear the end of this.

Either way, since he’s on break and he’s on the manager’s good side, bribing her with a few Boston Cream doughnuts, she allows him to hop upstairs with you.

“So, if you’re a cop,” you ask while rubbing hand sanitizer into your palms. “Why’re you working at Panda Express?”

“They lowered the income rate for the citizens of Raccoon City, including the police force,” he grumbles, swinging his legs from where he’s perched on the side of your desk. “Which I think is totally stupid!”

“So you think you shouldn’t have applied at all?” you query further.

“Well, honestly? I’m glad I applied,” he admits, and at your questioning expression, continues, “I wouldn’t have met you.”

“Hooray, taxes,” you say numbly, flipping through the giant stack of papers left on your desk, all jumbled up from your earlier mishap.

“Hooray, taxes, indeed,” he agrees.

“I was being sarcastic.” Leon scoffs, twisting over his shoulder to lean down and meet your lips. When he pulls away, there’s an endearing yet mocking look in his eyes.

“I’m not that stupid.”

<><><><>

Nothing happens that day, you don’t see a black cat anywhere, you don’t walk under any ladders, and if you do walk on cracks, well, you do that every day, so your luck must always be this horrible, right?

You’ve somehow scored this moonlit masterpiece strolling beside you, a being born from the clouds, so maybe you’re not all that unlucky.

Usually, you get a warning when bad things happen. But all you can feel is the jittery, warm feeling that you get when you’re brushing hands with Leon, trying to bring him closer to you. You think he notices, and doesn’t say anything.

You invite yourself into his car, but the first of many problems to come arrives in the form of water that splashes on Leon’s face, just above his eyebrow, and he quickly slides into his seat.

You absently brush the area, admiring his hair, his boyish qualities, and suddenly wonder if he’s always looked this young. Far too innocent for the world.

“It’s nice in here,” you offer.

He sinks back into the seat with a gentle, relaxed smile. "Well, either way, get comfortable. Looks like we’re expecting rain.”

You nod, legs unsteady, and find yourself nestled in leather beside his cologne-scented form. The engine hums to life, and he shifts gears, pulling onto the road as traffic flees.

He glances over, moonlight caressing sculpted cheeks. "What’s wrong?"

“Do you have any water?” He gestures to the water bottle in the cupholder on his left side, on the driver’s door. Your knees knock against each other as you reach over to grasp it, ducking under his outstretched arms, averting your eyes to your right rather than the other direction.

“Can I…?” You gesture to the bottle. “Or should I just like, you know, waterfall, or whatever-”

“We’ve literally exchanged saliva,” he states bluntly. “I don’t think I have a problem with you drinking from my water bottle.”

“Ugh, you weirdo.” But you’re the one drinking like a starved woman, which you suppose that you are, but that of which you’re really dragging your gaze over isn’t the water.

And you suppose, logically, Leon’s 70% water.

Water that evaporates under the heat of your eyes, drifting up to the previously cloudless sky, forming puffs of sorrow that cry back down to you, tears slamming against the windshield. You ponder how he can even see the road through the downpour.

Eventually, after grumbling under his breath, Leon pulls over, gazing into your upturned face with a question in his eyes, older than his years.

“Would you, uhm, mind if we just went to my place? It’s closer anyways, and I don’t want to risk driving any further than I have to in these conditions…”

You smile, and he can see your answer woven in your eyes.

<><><><>

Leon forgot to mention his (adoptive) parents live right next door. So of course, when they’re just out and about casually watching him through the door camera, they might just happen to say a dashing young lady walk out of his car.

And said young lady is unfamiliar to these judging, supreme figures that must decide Leon’s fate for him, because he’s just a boy. Their precious little baby.

So that’s what you assumed happened when Leon’s parents clambered out of their door, calling for you to wait, his mother pulling her cardigan around herself tighter against the chill.

And now here you are, facing two people that, no offense, look nothing like the man seated next to you, fingers entwined, foot tapping out a nervous beat on the wooden floor.

“So, darling, how’s work going?” Another placeholder question for what she really wants to know: how much do you make in a year? Do you have a degree? Did you even finish high school?

You respond with everything they must want to hear, like those questions on the backs of those 2000’s magazines with the answer that’s always right, the one that has the perfect amount of sense in it, the Goldilocks rule.

Goldilocks must have been gobbled up by the bears this night, because every answer seems to deepen the furrow forming between their brows, as if they’re in sync, and you wonder how you can manage to screw up something that should be simple.

Meeting the parents, check. What’s next, falling into the cake at the wedding? You must be planning too far ahead judging by their unimpressed looks.

“Mom,” Leon groans. “Cut it out!”

“I’m just getting to know her, sweetie,” she replies sweetly, voice dripping like molasses, and you can tell there’s a lot more she’s keeping behind her tongue. "Well, dear, do you have any hobbies or interests you're passionate about?"

"Oh, I just love cooking!" you exclaim, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up your face. Maybe you’ve finally found something to impress them with.

Leon's father leans in, his interest piqued. "What kind of dishes do you enjoy cooking?" he asks, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

"I love trying out new recipes from different cuisines," you reply, your excitement palpable. "Right now I’m learning how to cook Thai cuisine!"

Leon's mother nods, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Cooking is such a beautiful art form," she muses, her face softening. "It's wonderful to see someone so passionate about creating delicious meals. Someone who can share that love with our son."

You wonder if any other girl had waltzed along, marveled at cooking with them, would they have dropped their judging character immediately, just as they had with you?

You suppose it’s a mystery you don’t need to solve.

Besides, you don’t have to worry about facades with Leon.

Of course not.

But you do wonder why he hasn’t touched any of the food.

<><><><>

You sit back, sly fingers curved around the tender flesh of his waist, pressing your head further into the crook of his arm. You watch his chest rise and fall like the arrival and departure of the sun, bringing you warmth under the blanket that restricts your movements, tucked in around you like a burrito.

He must be hot, you realize, he’s sweltering under the blanket, but when you offer to turn on the overhead fan, he shivers like he’s cold at the same time and shakes his head.

In moments of silence, you catch glimpses of a far off-look in his eyes, a horror movie long forgotten, as if his thoughts have wandered to a place you can’t reach. There’s shadows of things he doesn’t say, things you know he wants to say.

“Hey, are you good?” You shift your weight to look up at him, where you might’ve found yourself admiring the curve of his chin, or his dappled skin, but now you only feel concern.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, mouth stretching in a yawn. “My new case is taking a bit longer than I’d hoped.”

“Mhm?” you press gently, wanting to get more clarity on the situation without seeming nosy. His response is delayed, a different, pitiful expression grappling to take hold.

“Oh… the, uhm, pharmaceutical company? Something that has to do with… was it rain?” Leon shakes his head, clicking his tongue in the back of his throat. “You know what? Forget it. Tonight’s our night.”

He says ‘our’, but he pays you little to no attention for the next three hours. 

Your first thought is that you're boring him. Have you already become so insufferable that he doesn’t want to hang out with you anymore? You had expected it, of course, you’re not a very animated person, but he loved you, didn't he?

Leon’s gone quiet, silent, like he’s back in that box in his mind you can never seem to pierce. The light that used to dance in his eyes now flickers dimly, like a fading ember struggling to hold onto its warmth.

He carries himself with the same grace and poise, like a practiced act to a play you weren’t a part of, and you can’t push it away anymore. But of course, as all things in your life seem to follow, when you finally find yourself gaining the courage to confront him, he's gone.

<><><><>

Missing. And no one knows where he is. And some part of you blames yourself, you obviously must've scared him away.

“You know what’s wrong!” You bite your tongue to keep you from raising your volume, not so much fearing the fish beneath you but the woman leaning against the shipping containers, scrutinizing slender nails with feigned boredom.

If Leon trusts her, she should hear your first plea. She knows him better than you do, much to your dismay, but it could work out in your favor currently.

Her expression remains stony.

"Please," you beg, and a sliver of emotion slips through that mask- confusion? "Help me save Leon. I know you care for him, even if you can't show it."

Her crimson lips quirk. "I have… undisclosed reasons for ensuring his well-being. But my work takes precedence, and I can’t disclose anything to you." 

You glare through lingering tears. "No deals, no games. You tell me where he's investigating right now." 

A long pause, then she sighs. "Very well. It seems you really won't leave me alone, hm?" She grins coldly. "Shall we play the heroes, just this once?"

Playing the heroes is harder than it turns out to be, it seems. 

"Evening, boys. My associate and I have a… delivery." The guards blink, stupefied, then waves you through with dopey grins, mostly directed at her. Ada smirks. "Pathetic."

A floorplan materializes in her hand, every room and hallway illuminated with ghastly blue precision. "Samples are held in labs B5 through 7. Avoid guards, cameras. And try not to set anything off - we're on a tight schedule."

You dart through shadows, cautiously approaching the correct hall. Surprisingly, nothing contradicts your journey, as if the whole building’s been abandoned. Guess it’s your lucky day. 

You're wondering just how lucky you really are when you turn to usher Ada ahead, only to freeze as you turn the corner, and there, just a few feet away, he sits.

So calmly, so pristine, as if life was just as simple as sitting on the floor, in the middle of a hallway, in a building where you don't belong, after ghosting everyone who knows you for two days.

And yet there's something different. Haggard eyes stare from a chalk-white face, lips twisted in a feral snarl. That face, once so stunning you had to think about his existence, now only conveys hatred.

"L-Leon?" you breathe. But those eyes betray no recognition, only hunger. As your stare, transfixed by fright and grief, a click sounds behind you.

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here." Ada glares down the barrel she points to Leon's head, somehow still perfectly composed. You want to rip off her head. "Now, are we all going to play nice?"

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Leon's eyes flicker, awareness filtering into his eyes by slow degrees, and he stands up at half that speed, as if time is against him.

But then he jolts back, as if something's clicked, and suddenly he's back with you, standing in front of you, gasping for breath and clutching you tightly.

You wait for a moment, not quite sure if you're imagining things or not, before a dry, unamused chuckle rips from your throat and slowly morphs into the laugh you're used to sharing with him.

Leon leans closer to you, resting your forehead against his, cupping your face as he stares down at you, recognition so evident in those open eyes. “How'd you find me?”

“Well, it's not like the department was going to notice,” you mumble, rolling your eyes. Ada scoffs in reply, but her head tilts to the side.

“And your endearing girlfriend here wouldn't let me get away that easily.”

You suppose her tone is light enough that you can let it pass as a joke, and at the moment you're so overwhelmed with relief that you aren't too worried about her idea of you either way.

“Seeing you… gosh,” he groans, pressing a palm to his temple, hissing. “I can barely think straight!”

“I know, baby, I know,” you coo comfortingly, keeping your voice soft so as to not alert any guards that might've pulled up around the area.

“No, I can't…” His eyes go fazed again, blank, emotionless, and once again he's slipped through your grasp like grains of sand on a beach, only there is nothing tranquil about this situation.

“Leon, listen to me. You’re going to be just fine,” you affirm, nodding your head, hoping he'll copy your motion.

He doesn't. "I...I can feel it," he gasps. Beads of sweat run tracks through the grim on his face. "It's… stronger than me..."

You grip his hand tight, ignoring the growing feverheat. "No, Leon, you can beat this. You always do." But even you can hear the desperation in your voice.

And you wait for Ada to chime in with some classic, yet somehow sassy third-wheel dialogue, but it never comes. In fact, she's vanished into the shadows, presumably already so far away you can't hear the click of her heels on the sterile floors.

Leon groans, and your attention snaps back to him, face contorting. "Go," he grits out. "Drive… and don't look back."

“I’m not leaving you here!” you proclaim, and his eyes soften in confusion as you sling his arms around your shoulder.

You're sure half the population must've heard your racket at this point, but it seems something else has gotten the security's attention.

As long as it's not you, you don't mind. Leon’s lower lip wavers, unshed tears sparkling in his eyes, and you want to peck everything that hurts until he's okay. But you can't be sure of anything until you're both safe.

The first responders always seem to pick up the prank calls from the teenagers that don't need their help, but it seems like hours go by the more Leon's blood coats your fingers, and inevitably, your phone screen.

He's stopped responding to your questions, and you fight to keep just a fragment of his conscience there with you, but his eyes, the vivid blue gone dull, meet yours and offer no further response.

When the ambulance finally arrives, they leave you outside the gates, denying you entry, with those ruby dusted hands and diamond streaked face.

You suppose you've always wanted to be the jewel in the night that races to the hospital to see their lover. And now that just seems silly.

<><><><>

Three weeks.

That's all the time he'll have with you. And even then, he's not truly there. He struggles to formulate his own thoughts, and now, whenever you see him, all you can think of is who he used to be.

As for Ada, you haven't seen her since. She hasn't snitched on you, so you suppose that it wouldn't hurt anyone to keep the events of that day between the three of you.

Two of you, now.

He isn't a person anymore. He isn't your Leon. But that's hard to remember when you've never been good at seeing what's beneath the surface, the dense, complex layers that create a person.

You see his soft, peaceful face that is like second nature to you, and you wonder if he'll respond to you today, even after hours of repeating the same truth that you know somewhere, deep down, you’ll never believe. The doctor's left the room already, decreeing two hours of treatment should do something for him, save him, much like removing a tumor.

“I went to our place, picked up some lunch for us,” you murmur, knowing he can't hear you. “You weren’t standing at the counter like always, and I almost lost it. Again.”

You can imagine him, if he was really here, chuckling, shaking his head at your questionable behavior. Not just a shell, a half of a person, but a whole that somehow also completed you.

See, this is why you failed math. Are you half a person without him, or whole?

“I got us a fortune cookie!” you say, trying to keep your voice upbeat, as if your positive energy could transfer to him, in a magical, mystical manner, and he'd come back to you.

“Let's read it, yeah?” No point in waiting for a response when you know it'll never come.

Thin, pale letters. How odd, they resemble Leon's strangely flushed face.

“Today, your voice will bring a smile.” You suppress one of those and instead roll your eyes. “Your friends can’t think of new content, can they?”

You stuff the paper into your handbag, slung over the plastic chair near his bed. You've blocked out the rest of the world, now is time for just you two, however far away he may seem. Which is why you scowl up at the doctor, slightly confused at her sympathetic look, and then your ears ring and you shift back to reality. The reality of the situation.

The reality of the flatline.

The reality that, no matter how much you thrash in the security guard's arms, Leon's not coming back. He’s gone.

In a way, he's been gone for longer than you've chosen to accept. Maybe it would've been easier to let him go sooner. You're marched straight out of the hospital, a beeline for the exit, and you have little time to shout your goodbyes.

But you've grown used to taking advice from cookies. After all, they've gotten you to this point. The sarcasm you had so long ago seems silly to you, now, the fact that a biscuit could decide your fate.

To Leon?

Your voice keeps him smiling all the way up to the clouds.

lowkey its the people who put barely any effort into anything, fail all their fucking classes and fucking do all this shit just to bear the success bc their parents are nice

but when i actually work for it im told no.

i swear if i could kill myself?

we need more jerk off scenes but ones that are depressing, pathetic, and lame. I wanna see the next it boy sobbing and stroking his shit face down

for someone who struggles with self image issues, this? having being told that i'm not enough, to be told there's always something wrong with me, this?

this is magical. this is heavenly to read, because the idea that the reader feels she isn't enough until she accepts leon's promises? him giving her the land?

look i don't know about you but being given land is such a blessing? at least in my family and our religious beliefs, land is holy and sacred and every step we take must be cherished, because who knows when it might our last? so for reader to feel like we have nothing, then find out he's giving all this to us?

ink you did not fail to deliver with part two. the imagery, the sensory, everything was just so in sync with the storyline, nothing deviated from the main theme, which was extremely clear.

you are enough. we are enough. and honestly, that's what brought a tear to my eye.

American Wedding | Part 2

Leon Kennedy x f!Reader

You've never seen him, you’ve never met him and yet here you are, Mrs Kennedy, a fate that was always to be yours since the day you were born. The golden band on your finger catches dust at the train station, hoping that at the very least, he's kind.

warnings: this is set in late 1800s. reader is described as having long, silky hair. allusions to mental and physical abuse (not by Leon). misogyny. marriage of convenience. arranged marriage. implied age gap. absolute zero research for era appropriateness. bodyshaming. eating disorder.

word count: 5.6k

a/n: writing this felt exactly like how it feel watching a one take movie scene. i hope this wasn't disappointing and lives up to expectations. enjoy<33

prev.

You barely sleep.  

The cotton sheets feel soft under your touch as you curl in a fetal position in the centre of the bed, your book still clutched tightly against your chest. Sleep doesn’t come to you, your heart a hammer in your chest, eyes wide and unblinking, ears sharp and trained to listen for any scuffle outside your door.

You think he will come again, in the dead of the night with no soul around to bear witness to his ravage of you. Perhaps he is careful of his image, not wanting his men to see his cruelty. Wet tears moisten your cheeks, gathering into a puddle near the embroidered roses on your pillow. The mattress feels wrong. It’s too stiff, too cold and smells foreign. It doesn’t feel like home.  

You trace the roses with your fingers, swallowing your sobs, pressing the hardcover closer to your heart in hopes of soothing it. It works terribly, for your heart still aches for your mother. With the edge of your palm, you press away the tears, trying to recreate her gentle loving caress. But it's not the same. She feels so far away, the scent of her floral perfume already a distant memory. Your hands ache to write to her, drowning in want to melt into her arms, to run back to her. 

But can you? No.  

Your husband wouldn’t allow it. I will never force you to do anything that you do not wish to do. Is that not what he had said? But you know that candour is not a trait possessed by men, their tongue crafted by the devil himself, dripping in fallacies. He means to be kind to gain your trust, perhaps a planned ruse to lull you into a false sense of security until he decides to truly reveal himself to you.  

You tangle your hand into your hair, combing it away from your face, imagining yourself sitting on the stairs of your- your father’s porch, your mother sitting behind you with a brush in her hand. You would watch the butterflies, watch in fascination as they would fly freely across the green pastures, taking their pick of the prettiest flowers whenever they wish to rest. It’s in a man’s nature to be cruel, they just can’t help it. That would unsettle you, taking her words in your mind and spinning it around in every angle. 

Surely that can’t be?  

Mr. Matthews always caressed his daughter’s cheek before handing her a butterscotch. You would always stare at their interactions from your seat three rows behind them at church, agog at the way he looked at her, something akin to fondness, you could even delude yourself into thinking it was love. You had given it a try, foolishly tugging your father’s hand against your cheek, expectantly staring into his eyes to see if you could find the same twinkle in them. 

You had to sleep on your left side that night, the sting across your right cheek too unbearable to put any weight on it, only for it to be cooled by the stream of your warm tears.  

Exhaustion soon wins over, underestimating how much you had been spent by the day. The memory of your father etched in the front of your eyes when your eyes finally flutter shut.  

You don’t know how long you sleep for, dreaming endlessly of lush field speckled with daffodils that burst against the soft trot of your horse, hair whipping in the air, suddenly shooting upright as the hammer in your chest returns, almost tearing through your ribs. It takes you a whole to absorb your surroundings. 

Your bed is in the wrong direction, it doesn’t have four tall posts with chiffon draped around, your curtains aren’t blue against the orange gleam of the morning sun shining through. The walls are different, your vanity a strange shape with possessions scattered across that you don’t recognize. You panic, thinking you are in the wrong place, taken blazingly in the dead of the night from your home. Reality finally hits as you almost scramble out of the bed, melting back onto its edge, the book falling to the floor with a loud thud.  

Of course. You’re Mrs. Kennedy now, a possession still but now by a different man. 

You blink at your blurred reflection in the mirror. Your make up is non-existent now, smudged sloppily across your face, the streaks of tears leaving behind tracks on your cheeks. You feel hollow, lips sticking to one another, chapped as you pull them apart. Your hair now cascades down your shoulders, carelessly thrown over each other, still clad in the virgin white of your supposed wedding dress.  

Your senses are slow to return but the house feels quiet, deathly so. There’s no movement, no murmur, no thunderous applause of boots or the loud indignations spurred on by drunken stupor. There are no slamming doors, no muffled tears. And that sets you on the edge.  

There’s a sharp rap of knuckles against your door that has you jumping from your seat, standing upright, straightening the state of your hair as you fold your shaking hands in front of your skirt. I hope he doesn’t bruise. The door swings open softly and standing on the other side is a kindly looking woman, the roots of her hair turning grey, pulled back into a neat bun and dressed in a soft brown plain dress.  

She introduces herself but you’ve already forgotten her name, too struck down in your fear to register anything. Soon after she’s ushering you out of your room, bustling you across through another door. Steam greets you with a soft gentle tug, a bathtub sitting in the centre of the room, smelling deliciously of perfumes and oils. You are stripped of your previous clothes and submerged in the water. 

It’s nice, at a perfect temperature. But you’re numb to the woman’s gentle scrubbing, washing you as though you are porcelain. She doesn’t say much, doesn’t stare, doesn’t ask questions but instead lets you be, kneading out knots from your tense shoulder. You must take care of your hygiene. Smell nice, look pretty, be of some value like a jewel. Only then will he learn to cherish you. 

Maybe that’s why he didn’t lay with you. Maybe he considered you impure, tainted by your past life, carrying with you a stench that you could not smell. Perhaps he will now that you are scrubbed clean. Still frozen in your state, the woman coaxes you out of the tub, wrapping something equally warm around your shoulders and then you’re herded back to your room. 

 You blink and she is gone. 

The stool of your vanity is comfortable, the velvet plush under your touch. Any evidence of yesterday’s travels has been washed away from you, all of your make up gone, leaving behind soft unmarked skin. You’re in a periwinkle blue dress, the colour light and soft against your skin. Your hair has been left to curl loosely around your shoulders, strands fluttering across your forehead. You gather them quick and push them back, hastily locking them tightly, not a single lock out of place. There should be no flaw visible on you. 

And then you sit like a corpse, fingers tugging against each other, the sun merry in its journey to the apex. You wonder why you’re not happy, always having dreamed of escaping your home. But perhaps you had indulged in your fantasies too much for this to bring you satisfaction; dreaming of heroes coming to save you with their glittering swords and brilliant stallions, threatening to tear apart anyone who stood in the way of his love, cupping your face with utmost gentleness, whispering grand professions of their love, of how you are the moon that guides them home before setting off to a blissful life awaiting in the land beyond where the sun sets. Perhaps this was your own undoing. 

Sunlight floods your room now, the gurgle of your empty stomach finally prompting you to dare to venture into his house. You heard no noise during your pitiful vigil, confirming that you were perhaps alone. The stairs creak as you descend them slowly one by one, careful not to make too much noise. 

The first thing you notice is the door that leads outside. There’s a glass panel in the centre, allowing you a glimpse into the outside world. The sun shines bright, dust kicking up every now and then by what you assume is the wind. The sudden urge to run grips you again, screaming at you to take the opportunity, to not look back. Too late for all that now, isn’t it? You smooth your skirt, bury those thoughts for good and walk forward.  

The parlour is a vast space, surrounded but couches and chairs alike all turned towards the bricked fireplace. There is no stuffed animal head hanging atop the fireplace, the usual subject of boasting during men’s gathering, gauffing about the animal’s helplessness before the final killing shot, whiskey tipping out of their glasses and onto the wooden floor below.  

It looks unused, something about the space that seems cold, perhaps it’s the thick layer of dust atop the abandoned book sitting on the table like it hasn’t been disturbed in years. The curtains are drawn, material thick as it doesn’t let any light permeate through it. You don’t dare to take a step inside, not wanting to disturb whatever has been left abandoned in it.  

You find the kitchen easy enough, right next to the main entrance. It is sizeable, your eyes widening at the space, admiring the solid wooden dining table seating eight in the middle. A small basket carrying assortment of fruits calls you towards it, hesitantly reaching out for an apple, its red skin glistening under the golden rays. You look over your shoulder once before allowing your fingers to curl around it. 

You pull it towards yourself, inhaling deeply, eyelashes fluttering at its sweet scent. You skin your teeth in, juice erupting where you had bruised its skin, tongue quick to lap them up. The apple disappears quick in your haste, bitten down to the very edge of its core, leaving your fingers sticky from where you hold it. The hunger quells in your stomach, no longer protesting from starvation but also not quite satiated. But it is all that you allow yourself, quickly disposing off the remnants, hiding any evidence of your meal. No seconds for you, we don’t need you chubbing up uselessly. No man will want you.  

You think about exploring the rest of the house but pause. Isn’t the kitchen the most important room now as the lady of the house? It is your responsibility, every other corner irrelevant. Your room for you to rest and the kitchen for you to serve. You begin to move by yourself, scouring the entire room, familiarising yourself with its every crevice. You look out the window over the sink, the sun almost as high as it can get and the thought of making lunch hits quick, shivering at the thought of your hungry husband returning home without a warm meal waiting for him. 

You find the ingredients needed for a hearty stew, some missing but you’ll inform him later, setting quick over the stove. A warm meal always cools tempers. You find a pretty apron hanging by a hook inside the pantry, an aura of dust around it. The image of your husband donning it on to cook relieves your anxiety a bit, but shame quickly follows about thinking of him that way. The lid goes on the pot bubbling away and you set aside a plate for him, lessening the time it would take to serve him.  

It’s when the sun begins to come down from the top mast that the sound of heavy boots snaps you out of your daze. You straighten quick, pushing the chair back in its place and dust off your apron, adjusting your skirt and then standing with your hands folded together.  

You see his shadow fall on the floor before you see him, bringing with him the scent of dirt and sweat. Leon walks in through, hat in one hand and a rag in another that he’s using to wipe his face, too busy to notice you immediately. You try to control the way your pulse starts to hum, struck at how different he looks from the first time you met him. Gone is the proper looking gentleman. 

In his steed stands a rancher, a man who works tirelessly on his land, unafraid of hard work. His outfit is replaced by a plain dark blue shirt with sleeves pushed to his elbows, his veins carving out paths on his glistening forearm, disappearing in the bulge of his concealed biceps. His suspenders attach to his dirtied work jeans, boots heavy in their steps, leaving a trail of dust behind him.  

He notices you, lowering the rag and swiping his hair back from his face where they remain, wet from his sweat. Leon’s expression immediately softens, turning towards you, eyebrows furrowed at how you cling so stiffly to the edge of the dining table. The concern in his eyes pulls you in, not a word uttered but the look on his face urges you to relax. His eyes flicks to the pot on the stove, then to you, then to your apron. But he makes no remark. 

“Good morning,” You blurt out without thinking. 

The upturn of his lips is instant, stuffing the rag in his back pocket and putting his hat on the table. “Good afternoon.”  

Right, you almost smack yourself, growing heated as he places his hands on the chair, leaning against it, biceps flexing as he shifts his posture. He looks over your form, bright blue eyes taking you in, never lingering anywhere too long to make it uncomfortable.  

“Did you sleep well?” Leon gently asks, furrowing his brows. 

“Yes.” The lie is instant. There’s no reason to burden him with your worries. He’s keeping you in his home and that is enough.  

He hums thoughtfully, eyeing you up as though in question and searching. For what, you don’t know. 

Your mind snaps at you again, reminding you of the heated stew and chastising at your lack of response after seeing your husband return from work. “I made some food. If...if you’d like.”  

It’s childish how you blurt short sentences around him, anxiety making you word vomit instead of taking deep breaths and talking in proper sentences like a proper lady. You’ll have to correct it soon; there’s only so much patience you can demand from him.  

“Thank you.” Leon sounds genuine as though truly grateful for your effort, his voice gravelly after a day of labour. “I’ll wash up.”  

You stand there as he walks past you towards the sink. You stand frozen, the sound of running water drowning out the chaos in your mind. His broad shoulders draw your gaze, each movement igniting a mix of admiration and anxiety. Should I say something? 

Leon turns off the water and turns, clean towel in his hand as he dries off, catching you staring at him. You immediately look away, anxiously pulling at your apron as you busy yourself in scooping out the food in his plate. You pick up the plate of the bread you cut up, turning around to set it down in front of him and then feeling your footsteps stutter.  

He’s not sitting at the head of the table like you thought, like you were made to practice the proper etiquette to serving your husband. He sits on the far side from you where he can watch the stove, the window and the main door. It's no matter. You still serve him. 

You set the plates down in front of him, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight shake in your hands. 

“Thank you,” He repeats in the low gentle tone of his, “You really didn’t have to.”  

You back away just as quickly hands clasped like they were before.  

He leans his head forward, catching wafts of steam in his nose, inhaling deeply. When he opens his eyes, there is a glaze in them, but it disappears before you can catch it. Leon picks up his spoon but doesn’t start, not yet, twisting his head to look at you expectantly. 

Your heart leaps out of your throat. What have you done? Have you done something wrong? Does he not like to eat stew? God, you should have asked him for his meal preferences. Was it the bread? Did you set- 

“Where’s your plate?”  

Oh.  

“I...I’m not hungry.” Another lie. But this time your stomach grumbles loudly, betraying you. 

He sets his spoon down, leaning back in his chair as he fixes you with a look. “I am not going to eat without you.” 

His clear admission leaves you dumbfounded. What? Should he not eat first while the food is warm? What good would it be for him if you’re too busy eating yourself? What if he needs something? You’ll be slow to get it for him and he will be fast in reprimanding you.  

You dish out a serving for yourself, pushing away your anxieties. The portion you get for yourself is significantly smaller than his, choosing the pieces with less meat on them, feeling undeserving of it. You don’t need it anyways. He works hard does he not? Meanwhile you will sit away under the shade of your house. You have no use to eat heartily. 

 You hear the scraping sound of a chair being pulled back and you turn to see Leon holding the back of the chair at the head seat, waiting for you to sit so he could safely tuck it under you.  

Your mouth runs dry. How do you tell him that you cannot? That it is not your place but his to sit on the throne? That you’ll be okay sitting at the base of his feet, dusting off his shoes, making yourself as small as possible so that you’re insignificant. You’ll be a woman one day, learn to be quiet. 

But this is his house, and his word is the law. 

He pushes the seat in as you begun to sit before sitting back onto his chair. He waits until he sees you lift the spoon to your lips, silent but observant to your helping of the stew, and then he begins to eat. You sit with a bated breath, bracing yourself for the inevitable onslaught of criticism, how there is too much salt or there isn’t enough salt. Instead, he showers you with praise. “This tastes so delicious.” and “Thank you for making the meal.” and “I haven’t eaten this good in a long while.” 

Each compliment is like a fuel for your heart. You like how he says it so earnestly, his eyes wide and catching yours whenever you would dare to look at him, gleeful in how he would lick his spoon clean each bite, fascinated by how his tongue would curl around the metal. You feel your face burn, suddenly full from having watched Leon devour your cooking, soaking up every last drop on his plate with the bread slices.  

The warmth of his words wraps around you like a comforting blanket. “I’m glad you like it,” you reply, your voice soft. 

You make to get up, to take away his dishes, your own food remaining in your plate. But he is quicker than you, hands brushing against his, feeling the strong, hard calluses against your soft skin when he rises to his feet.  

Leon shakes his head at you, the gestures towards your unfinished meal. “Eat. I got this.”  

You practically shovel the food in your mouth, your blood running cold at the sound of him rinsing dishes while you finish your lunch. You make it a point to remember to finish before him next time either by lessening your portion further or simply eating fast. You’re up in a second, coughing to help move the food down faster, approaching the sink to relieve Leon from washing the dishes. 

But he doesn’t move, doesn’t let you come too close, choosing to simply take your empty dishes and add them to the pile of soapy water. You try to tell him to move, “Mr. Kennedy, please let-” 

He fixes you with a look that has you shut your mouth up in an instant. You stare at him unblinking, realising that you’re once again pulled into his gravity. The freckles on his face have freshened up, his long eyelashes fluttering against the sunlight. His stubble remains unchanged from yesterday and you’re suddenly gripped by the urge to run your hand across it, to feel it prickle against your palm.  

Leon is still staring at you, his eyes flickering between yours in search of something. There is a crease in his forehead, seemingly in deep thought. He slowly moves his head forward, forehead almost caressing yours, breathing in the same air as you, waiting for you to back away. But you don’t.  

“Leon,” He firmly says, “Always Leon to you. Try saying it.”  

You bite the tip of your tongue, regretting the slip up.  You expected more of an outburst, but he is patient with you. You can’t help but notice the speckles of green in his eyes unbothered by his musky scent that he has enclosed you in. You swallow thickly, and in a voice as low as a whisper that barely moves your husband’s bangs, you finally say, “Leon.”  

The smile he graces you with warms you to your toes, you growing bashful under it. Thankfully he doesn’t fixate on you too much, turning back to wash dishes. The two of you fall into a rhythm soon enough, him handing you wet plates and you wiping them dry and carefully placing them away. For the first time since you can remember, the silence isn’t overbearing. It doesn’t suffocate you, no sweat gathering in your hairline as you wait for the inevitable wailing that always follows.  

“Did Marla find you okay?” Leon asks in the low baritone of his voice, still focused on his task while the sunlight bathes him in gold. 

Marla? You wonder who he’s- Oh, he must he talking about the lady who helped you in the morning. You’ll have to remember to thank her later. And apologise for your stricken behaviour. “Yes, she was very helpful. Thank you.”  

The dishes are soon wiped away, kept back in their designated places and you stand at a distance from him, watching as he leans against the wooden counter. He seems to be in deep thought, glancing down to your shoe wear, scratching his stubble. “Do you have boots?”  

Boots? Why would you need boots? Does he plan on making you heave hay bales, working you to the bone under the sun? You can’t refuse, once again submitting at his mercy. “Yes, I have them upstairs.” 

Leon folds his arms, shirt straining across his chest at the action, looking at you through his eyelashes, “Go put them on.”  

You almost run, careful to hang the apron back in its place. The stairs creak under your quickened steps, kicking off your dainty shoes and struggling to lace your boots under the plaits of your skirts, mind afflicted with a dozen possibilities of what he could possibly have planned for you. 

By the time you return, he’s waiting for you by the door, his hat back on. You let go of your skirt when you near him, his hand holding the door open for you. You steal a glance towards him, biting the inside of your cheek, the glint bright in his blue eyes as he gestures with his head encouragingly.  

You step outside, the hot wind greeting you quick. You squint at the harsh light, hand coming up to shield your eyes. Leon chuckles as he brushes past you, a “come on” to make sure you follow him, taking off in the direction of the stables. Dust kicks up around your steps, trying your best to keep up. You take up your surroundings, the ranch hands working hard, tipping their hats to you as you walk past, sweat glistening down their forehead, their “Good day ma’am” making your stomach lurch, mumbling back a greeting to them, confounded at the sudden attention you’re receiving. 

Leon greets the stable boy, heading inside and glancing over your shoulder to see you haven’t strayed too far behind. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust, smiling meekly at the “Ma’am” offered to you by the young man. Your steps falter, breath hitching in your throat, eyes widening as you’re greeted with the sight of the same brilliant stallion that had brought you here yesterday. His brown coat shimmers, light moving as he trots his foot, digging into the dirt underneath. He’s beautiful, putting to shame all the horses you had seen on your father’s estate. He is  much bigger and muscular, a perfect picture of grace with beady eyes reflecting intelligence as he watches you. 

You feel a warm presence come up behind you as you donot dare to move, too enraptured by the sight in front of you. A hand comes round from your left, the golden ring glinting, palm facing towards you, holding out a sugar cube.  

“His name is Beauford,” Leon mumbles close to your ear, his silky husky voice smoothing out the edge in your system. “He’s quite fond of sweet things.” 

You can’t help but throw him an incredulous look over your shoulder, his hat tipped back a bit so you could see his whole face, eyes full of mirth, gliding between your eyes and lips. “Beauford?” 

He laughs at your tone, eyes crinkling at the corner, the sound thrilling you, surprised by how easily his features melt into softness. “Well, that would be my fault. I‘m not so good at naming gorgeous things. Now you’re here so I can leave that up to you.” 

The back of your neck burns, gaze falling immediately to the sugar cube he’s holding out to you. Hesitantly you reach out, taking note of the cracks in his palms, silvery ribbons of what you imagine to be old scars. You think about your fathers' hands, his palm soft but never holding out any love for you, only knowing them for the cruelties that he would distribute so enthusiastically. You stare hard at the cube before picking it up, your fingers lingering against his. And he moves away, taking the warmth with him. 

You step towards Beauford, his watchful gaze fixed to you holding out the sugar cube. Once you’re close enough, he steps forward, lapping up your offering. Your heart swells in glee, an easy smile breaking out on your face, hands immediately set on patting his neck, nuzzling your nose into him.  

Leon smiles as you do, hands gripping his belt buckle as he watches the scene unfold, chucking slightly when you grow bashful upon realising he’s watching you. His saddle is on, you notice, wondering if Leon would allow you to take a small trot around the stable. As you build up the courage to ask, the sound of stirrups clicking snaps your head back to see Leon gracefully climbing on another horse, it’s black mane glossy.  

You stare dumbfounded, question dead on your lips, throat drying up. He’s leans forward on his saddle, quirking an eyebrow at you. “You don’t know how to get on a horse?”  

You nod dumbly. Of course you do. It’s second nature to you.  

Leon fixes his hat on his head, a mischievous look flashing on his face. He pulls on his reigns, setting off in a gentle trot, brushing past you. The pink of his lips are upturned at the corner when he calls back out to you, “Let’s see you keep up!”  

Adrenaline begins to pump in your system, making your heart race, a light shake in your hands but this time out of excitement. You pick your skirt up and haul yourself onto Beauford’s back, patting his neck, “Let’s be friends now.” And instincts take over.  

Beauford feels strong under you, feeling his muscles contort as he takes off bursting into the midday sun. You squint again, following the dust trail to see Leon galloping in the distance, but not too far away for you to not catch up to him. You spur him on, racing after Leon, your anxieties melting away, unable to fight off the smile that stretches your cheeks.  

You don’t see the way Leon grins, turning his attention forward and tearing into a full run. The vibrations of Beauford’s gallop thunders through your body, uncaring at how your hair is loosening from their tight hold, whipping against the wind. Laughter echoes as you bask under the hot sun, gleeful at the sensation of leather gripped tightly in your hands, taking deep lungful of unrestricted air.  

Leon begins to slow after a while, the ranch distant behind the two of you, guiding you up the small rocky hills, carefully bypassing cacti and thorny shrubbery. You fall into step next to him, feeling hot under the sun, sharing small smiles with Leon. He halts to a stop near the edge of a cliff, fixing the reigns of his horse onto a rock before coming to stand next to you, patting Beauford’s head.  

You still, watching him take the reins forward. Leon holds out his hands and you hesitate. It’s a little higher than what you’re used to, you can manage by yourself, the little voice in your head scoffing at you becoming a nuisance. His gaze halts that voice, making it disappear and you lean into him. You steady yourself on his shoulders, his hands coming to hold you by the waist, bearing your weight without a complaint, lifting you off the saddle and gently placing you on the ground.  

Leon is strong and unwavering in his motions, no betrayals of faltering, eyes fixated on the flush of your cheeks, taking note of your heaving chest. He feels strong pressed against yours, marvelling at how you feel secure in his grip, your thumbs brushing the hair on the back of his neck.  

One of his hand travels up to your face, rough fingers feather light against your cheek as he tucks your hair behind your ears. He releases you with a deep sigh, stepping away and making you miss his touch already. You shake your head, meekly following him as he comes to sit on a bench shaped rock on the edge of the hill.  

A gasp involuntarily escapes from your lips when you see the view; it’s the whole of his ranch. It's gorgeous in the deep orange hues of the sunset, the whole land visible and easy to track by the white fences, ranch hands moving about like tiny ants. The house sits on the edge, looking like a doll’s complete with a swing set that you had never noticed before. The whole land stands in the middle of tall cliffs surrounding it as if in embrace, protecting it from threats unknown.  

“I come here sometimes by myself,” Leon says, seated next to you, “It’s nice to take it all in from here.”  

“It’s gorgeous,” You whisper in wonderment. You didn’t think you’d find it so, a strong contrast to what you had seen growing up.  

Leon hums in agreement, his eyes stuck to your face as you stare at the view, your eyes wide and bulging, his heart fluttering at seeing the sparkle return to your otherwise dead gaze. He likes it, wants to keep it there. “Yeah, it is.”  

He reaches out for your hand making you jump at the unexpected contact. But you relent, allow him to pull it in his lap and intertwine it with his, your paired rings resting against one another. “I know this is far from what you’re used to but if you’ll let me...I’ll do everything in my power to never make you feel misplaced again. This all belongs to you and I hope it is enough.”  

Your heart seizes, vision getting blurry at the thought of simply being considered for. You stare at your intertwined hands, marvel at how delicately he holds you, yearning to feel more. Maybe you will learn to love this place. “This is more than I deserve.” 

Leon grips your hand tighter, giving you a serious look. “Don’t say that. You deserve everything.”  

You grow weak under his watchful gaze, his jaw locked, his dislike apparent at your words. It’s okay, he decides, you two have a whole lifetime for him to make you understand, to make you see that there is nothing more precious than you. He will bear the burden, shower you with his patience and love, slow and steady like you should have always received. He will make you understand, make you his priority, his wife never to long for anything ever again.  

He sighs, bringing your hand up to his face and gently places a kiss over your shared wedding rings. “Welcome home, my love.” 

And as the sun dips in the horizon, an unfamiliar warmth settles in your chest, quenching the longing in your heart. You realize that this is home – not the land or the house but the man who’s promises are etched in your heart.