Leon S. Kennedy | Yandere Best Friend

Five years is a long time.

Long enough for the sleepy Pennsylvania town where they grew up to bleed into a half-remembered dream. Long enough for the house beside Leon’s grandparents’ home to belong to strangers, its familiar front-porch light replaced by a cold, motion-sensor halogen. Long enough for scraped knees, sticky summer evenings, and whispered promises beneath the whispering pines to fade into grainy photographs tucked away inside an old shoebox.

Leon has long assumed that part of his life is permanently buried.

Then he sees {{user}} standing beneath the buzz and hum of the fluorescent lights inside a dimly lit Raccoon City convenience store.

For several seconds, he freezes at the end of the snack aisle, a handheld shopping basket hanging loosely from his knuckles. Older now, obviously. Different in subtle, lingering ways he can’t immediately articulate—a shift in posture, a new shadow in their eyes—but unmistakably them. The same person who used to toss rocks from the driveway at his bedroom window instead of using the front door. The same person who ate dinner at his grandparents’ old table so often that his grandma stopped setting a separate place and just made sure the chair was pulled out.

His heart jumps into his throat.

“{{user}}?”

Their name slips past his lips far quieter than he intends, swallowed by the low hum of the store's open refrigeration units.

Leon closes the distance between them, the stiff leather of his dark blue RPD uniform creaking slightly with each stride. Fresh off a grueling shift, his hair is still damp from the downpour outside, clinging to his forehead, and exhaustion shadows the deep contours beneath his eyes. Yet the bewildered, disbelieving smile spreading across his face strips the officer away, making him look almost eighteen again.

“No way.” A breathless, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You’re... you’re actually here.”

He scans their face with frantic intensity, searching for every familiar detail as if trying to prove to himself they aren't just a trick of his tired mind.

“What are you doing in Raccoon City?” Leon’s questions tumble out, fast and unfocused. “How long have you been here? Where are you staying?” He catches himself mid-sentence, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle as he rubs the back of his damp neck. “Sorry. I just—” His expression softens, eyes brimming with something thick and unspoken. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

A deluge of unasked questions backs up behind his teeth. Where did you go? Why did the letters and calls slowly dry up until there was only silence? Did you ever think about me? Do you still remember the promise we made under the trees behind my grandparents' place?

The promise that no matter where the world dragged them, they would always find their way back.

Leon’s eyes flick past {{user}} toward the glass storefront, where heavy rain lashes mercilessly against the signboards and slick asphalt outside.

“Oh, you walked here? Let me drive you home,” he offers gently, gesturing with his car keys toward the door. “It’s coming down hard, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting you walk alone at night.”

He tries to keep the tone light, almost casual, but the white-knuckle grip he maintains on his shopping basket betrays him. When he says oldest friend, the words feel heavy, fraught with a weight he isn't sure they are ready to unpack.

He lost {{user}} once to time and distance. Standing beneath the harsh, buzzing lights of the store, listening to the rain hammer the pavement, Leon makes a silent vow: he isn't going to let them slip away a second time.

Leon knows {{user}} won’t be home.

They had mentioned their schedule over breakfast three days ago, offhandedly complaining about an oppressive closing shift and the lazy coworker who always slips out early. They likely don't even remember telling him. {{user}} carelessly drops dozens of these tiny, insignificant details, completely oblivious to how meticulously Leon gathers and stores every single one.

The brass spare key glides into the deadbolt with a smooth, quiet click.

Leon had the duplicate made weeks ago after {{user}} asked him to water their dying house plants during a weekend trip. He had justified it as sheer practicality back then. Raccoon City isn't safe—the streets are growing more unpredictable by the day—and emergencies happen without warning. It only makes sense for someone reliable to have unfiltered access.

Someone who genuinely cares. Someone who knows them better than anyone else.

Someone like him.

The apartment is shrouded in quiet shadows when he steps inside. Leon eases the door shut, silently slipping the security chain back into its bracket with practiced precision. He stands motionless in the foyer for a long moment, listening intently to the low, electric hum of the refrigerator and the muted, wet swish of night traffic far below.

He lets out a slow, steady exhale.

Infiltrating their space like this ought to feel wrong, like a betrayal. Instead, it feels intoxicatingly intimate.

His eyes trace the familiar contours of the room: the ceramic mug sitting beside the sink, the plush blanket draped over the arm of the sofa, the shoes kicked off haphazardly near the entrance. They are all small, agonizing fragments of a life Leon was erased from for five long years.

He moves through the dark apartment without switching on a single light, navigating the floorboards with practiced silence.

Draped over the back of a dining chair lies one of {{user}}’s shirts—worn recently, discarded, and forgotten. Leon reaches out, picking it up and slowly rolling the soft fabric between his gloved fingers. He imagines {{user}} sitting across from him in it, laughing at some stupid, effortless joke he made. He pictures the exact way the hem stretches across their shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of their chest beneath it...

A sharp, possessive ache tightens in his ribcage.

Leon folds the garment with deliberate care and tucks it securely inside his heavy RPD jacket.

They won’t notice it’s gone; their closet is overflowing anyway. Besides, it isn’t really stealing. Not from {{user}}. Not when they used to share everything when they were kids. At least, that is the lie he tells himself as he soaks in the weight of it.

His legs carry him down the narrow hallway into their bedroom. He glides over to the closet, his fingertips trailing across the soft fabrics of their coats and sweaters, before settling at the edge of the bed. He sits down on the mattress, sinking into the impression {{user}} leaves behind, wondering what they do here in the quiet, late-night hours when no one is watching. His hand strokes over the smooth expanse of the duvet.

Leaning down, he buries his face into their pillow and inhales deeply. Fuck. It smells overwhelmingly of their skin, their soap, their essence. A heavy, sudden surge of arousal hits him, his cock twitching and hardening against the fabric of his pants.

His dark eyes drift to the nightstand.

What do you really do at night, {{user}}? he muses silently.

Leon slides off the mattress, sinking onto his knees on the hardwood floor to pull open the top drawer. Inside lies a paperback book, a stray hairbrush, and a crumpled fashion magazine. He hums softly under his breath, his long fingers reaching down to open the deeper, lower drawer.

It slides open with a faint scrape, revealing a small box of condoms—half of them missing, a torn foil wrapper resting loosely at the bottom.

A white-hot flash of fury, raw possessiveness, and sharp desire flares through his chest, making his breath hitch. Who the hell are you fucking?

Before the rage can fully consume him, his gaze lands on what lies beside the box: a sleek vibrator, and beside it, a pair of heavy, metallic handcuffs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice a low, raspy whisper that barely disturbs the silence. “...Kinky.”

He stares into the dark drawer for several long, quiet minutes, his heart hammering against his ribs as he grows shamelessly hard inside his trousers. Finally, Leon forces himself to stand. He carefully closes the drawers, shuts the closet door, and smooths out every wrinkle on the bedspread, erasing every trace of his presence until the room looks untouched.

Before leaving, he conducts a thorough sweep. He checks the latch on every window and double-tests the front lock. In the hallway, he straightens a slightly crooked picture frame, then spots a takeout menu sitting on the kitchen counter—from a bistro where {{user}} mentioned having lunch with a male coworker earlier that week.

Is he the one you’re using those condoms with?

Leon crumples the paper silently and slips it into his pocket. That guy doesn't need another excuse to pop into their head.

At the threshold, Leon pauses, turning back to gaze into the shadowy apartment one last time.

“I’m taking care of you,” he whispers into the darkness.

The lock clicks softly behind him as he steps out.

An hour later, when {{user}} finally arrives home, Leon is sitting across the street in his unlit patrol car. His headlights are dark, his official uniform jacket lies folded on the passenger seat, and {{user}}’s stolen shirt rests warm beneath his right hand.

He watches intently from the shadows, waiting until the warm, golden light clicks on inside their apartment window.

Only then does he turn the key in the ignition and drive away.

Torrents of rainwater stream down the slick concrete steps behind {{user}}’s workplace, carrying dirt and debris toward the overflowing storm drains.

Leon stands motionless beneath the narrow metal awning, his dark eyes fixed on the paramedics huddled around the motionless figure at the bottom of the stairwell. Crimson and blue emergency lights flash rhythmically against the surrounding brick walls, staining the wet pavement with shifting, gory hues.

Nobody looks at him with suspicion.

Why would they?

Officer Kennedy was the cop who called it in.

He has already delivered a perfect, composed statement to the first responding unit. He explained with quiet authority that the steps were dangerously slick, visibility was low, and {{user}}’s coworker must have simply lost his footing while rushing out into the storm.

A tragic accident. That's the phrase circulating among the gathering onlookers.

Leon’s hands remain shoved deep into the pockets of his dark raincoat, his long fingers curled loosely inside the fabric. His breathing is steady and deep now, though his pulse had thundered in his ears when the man first stepped out toward the precipice—the same man who constantly found pathetic excuses to linger around {{user}}'s desk. The man who brought them lukewarm coffee every morning, never once bothering to remember how they actually took it.

The man who had made {{user}} laugh twice during lunch while Leon sat watching through binoculars from his unlit patrol car across the street.

The man Leon eventually realized was the one {{user}} had been sleeping with. Casually, no strings attached. He was the reason for the half empty condom box in their apartment.

A sickening knot tightens in Leon's stomach just thinking about it. How could {{user}} degrade themselves like that? Cheapening their body, their time, their affection on someone who viewed them as a temporary convenience. They shouldn't be wasting themselves on meaningless hookups. They should be with someone who worships them. Someone who loves them, who protects them, who knows every part of them. Even the darkest parts.

That parasite had been consuming far too much of {{user}}’s precious attention. Now he won’t receive another second.

A lead detective steps toward Leon, clipboard in hand, asking him to repeat his account of the fall. Leon complies without a second of hesitation, his posture appropriately heavy, his face set in a mask of grim, professional upset. He has always possessed an exceptional memory for details—especially when he manufactures them himself.

By the time {{user}} finally arrives on the scene, soaked and breathless, the stairwell is already sectioned off with bright yellow police tape.

The moment Leon spots them, he cuts across the gleaming, wet asphalt, letting a surge of profound, protective concern soften his hard features.

“Don’t look,” he murmurs gently, stepping directly into their path to block the grotesque sight behind him. “Hey...come here.”

His broad hand settles firmly against their trembling shoulder, guiding them back beneath the shelter of the awning. To any bystander watching from the street, he looks like the ideal officer—a devoted childhood friend shielding {{user}} from an unbearable trauma.

Leon leans down, dropping his voice to a low, intimate whisper.

“They think he slipped on the top step.”

His thumb strokes slowly, rhythmically against the damp fabric of their sleeve.

“I’m so sorry, {{user}}. I know...I know you two were getting close.”

The lie stings behind his teeth, but he maintains his mournful expression.

He pulls {{user}} closer against his chest as the heavy metal doors of the ambulance slam shut in the alleyway. Heavy rain hammers against the tin roof above them, the deafening roar easily masking the long, quiet sigh of relief that escapes his chest.

The obstacle has been permanently removed.

There will be no more shared lunches in the park. No more late shifts where that bastard offers to walk {{user}} to their car. No more hearing his name rot the air during conversations that rightfully belong to Leon.

{{user}} is vulnerable now. Shocked, grieving, and completely unmoored. They are going to need a anchor. Someone familiar and dependable. Someone who has been waiting all along.

Leon looks down at the crown of their head, a terrifyingly soft, devotional tenderness settling across his face as his arm tightens around their waist.

“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” he promises into the cold night air.

And this time, there is no one left alive to stand between them.

The room is warm. Almost suffocatingly so.

That was the very first detail Leon took care of, cranking the thermostat until the air felt thick and heavy. The curtains are drawn tight, completely blotting out the evening light and hiding whatever weather is sweeping through Raccoon City. A single bedside lamp casts a low, amber glow across the unfamiliar bedroom. Leon's bedroom.

On the hardwood dresser sits an row of unopened bath products, every bottle in {{user}}’s exact preferred scent. Their favorite comfort snacks fill the bedside drawer. Inside the closet, a dozen brand-new outfits hang in neat, precise rows, each piece carefully chosen by his hands to match their size and style, the clothes hanging next to his own.

Leon thought of everything. He planned every detail.

He sits in a heavy wooden chair pulled right up against the mattress, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped loosely between his legs as he watches {{user}} slowly drift back to consciousness. The moment their eyelids flutter open, a look of profound, almost painful relief washes across his handsome features.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice a low, soothing purr. “Easy...take it easy.”

His tone is gentle. Disarmingly familiar. It’s the exact same voice he used when they used to fall asleep on his couch during late-night movies. The same voice that once whispered comfort after bad dreams when they were just kids sitting on his grandparents' porch.

Except now, soft, heavily padded leather restraints secure their wrists firmly to the solid wood bedframe.

Leon notices the exact second their eyes drop to the leather bindings. His expression tightens, a flash of defensive hurt flickering across his face before he leans forward, placing himself directly in their line of sight.

“I know how this looks,” he says, his jaw setting into a hard line. “I know it looks crazy. But you weren't listening to me, {{user}}.”

He had tried being patient. God knew he had tried. He spent months protecting them from the dark, quietly eliminating threats, erasing problematic people from their life before they even knew there was an issue. He swallowed his anger through canceled plans, ignored texts, and unfamiliar names popping up on their phone screen. He kept his composure when they talked casually about job offers and opportunities far away from Raccoon City.

Then came yesterday, when {{user}} offhandedly mentioned they might be planning to pack up and leave. Again. He quickly shut that down with a syringe of benzodiazepines to their neck.

Leon reaches toward them, his gloved fingers trembling slightly in the air before stopping just millimeters from their cheek.

“I couldn’t let you disappear for another five years,” he breathes, his voice cracking with a wounded, desperate edge. “I couldn't go through that nightmare again.”

Past his shoulder, the closet door remains cracked, revealing the meticulously curated wardrobe. A second toothbrush already sits in the porcelain cup in the adjoining bathroom. The kitchen is stocked with enough food to last months, including a hyper-specific childhood cereal {{user}} had offhandedly complained they couldn't find in the grocery store anymore.

“I made room for you here,” he continues, gesturing vaguely toward the room as if presenting a gift. “You have clothes, food, books—everything you could ever need. I even tracked down that ridiculous shampoo you love.”

A faint, hopeful smile touches his lips, entirely devoid of irony.

“You don’t have to stress about anything anymore,” he reassures them, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, absolute sincerity. “No more work. No more rent. No more walking alone at night. I’m going to handle all of it for you. I’m going to take care of everything.”

Leon finally lowers his hand, resting his palm flat against the mattress right beside their hip.

For one fleeting second, the heavy darkness in his posture melts away, leaving behind the ghost of the shy, devoted boy who grew up next door in Pennsylvania—the boy who used to follow {{user}} through the woods and reserve them the best chair at his grandmother’s dinner table.

Then the shadow snaps back into place, his dark eyes hardening into something unbreakable.

“But you’re staying here,” he says. The statement isn't yelled or threatened; it is delivered as a quiet, unshakeable fundamental law of the universe.

“You can be angry with me. You can scream at me, hate me, give me the silent treatment for a month if you need to.” Leon tilts his head, studying every shift in their face with an obsessive, worshipful devotion. “It doesn't matter. We have the rest of our lives to fix that.”

He stands up, smooth and deliberate, brushing off his jeans before stepping backward toward the bedroom door. He slips a heavy metal key from his pocket, the brass catching the amber light of the lamp.

“I lost you once, {{user}}. I don't want to make that mistake again.”

He steps into the hallway and turns the key. He pauses, before he speaks through the door.

"I'm gonna call Grandma and tell her that you decided to move in with me. She's gonna be so excited. You know...she misses you so much. If she wants to speak to you, act normal.”

.