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Good afternoon

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how it feels to be in your twenties

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why arent men ashamed of having a mustache or beard... u have pubes growing on ur face, its disgusting and highly inappropriate in public..

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lizzy grant at the cutting room

july 9th, 2007

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currently braindead over the smut part of a leon fanfic pls i now ostensibly hate thinking abt dicks :c

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“Emotes” : Leon.S.Kennedy ……( ͡ʘ ͜ʖ ͡ʘ) FORTNITE フォートナイト

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dirty little secret

hii, part 2 is... painfully chaotic in a way that even i wasn't expecting (aka my ass writing and the inconsistency + typos yes) at the beginning i thought i was going to end the day with something sweet and funny, but then in the middle of the day i got my period and the end of the chapter turned out to be quite messed up... ouch ouch ouch. cw! for the mentions of childhood drama/ gender stereotypes/ emotional abuse/ internalized shame

chapter 2

Settling into your home culminates in a much calmer climax after a long week. Now, chunks of luggage are no longer lurking around every corner. That is a good sign, right? It’s not to be trifled with that you can get used to your apartment in such a short time.

How about the neighbors?

Quite frankly, it’s as though the sweetest people in the world got together and collectively decided to live in the same apartment. Allegedly, life has been in a hectic flurry for the last week.

And while you have been running around in this hustle and bustle, what has Leon, the neighbor’s pretty son, been up to? Let’s provide a simplified answer.

Leon, in his last year at the academy, is of course self-oriented this year. Not to brag, but he has always been the kind of kid who grew up staying up all night to get satisfactory grades. No doubt he will get the same results this year. Such a smartie.

But a little break never hurt anyone, or that’s what Leon precisely thinks.

Feeling quite stuffy because neither Giselle nor his father is at home, Leon takes it upon himself to venture out. He relies extensively on the tandem of a walk and a distraction, and of course it’s a welcome feeling to see familiar faces. He preferably wants a glimpse of your face, 'cause you've been haunting him, have been giving him more than enough of a head rush, jitters—whatever they call those flutters on his skin. He doesn’t care.

Since he wants to address this ‘issue’ later on, it now seems like a healthier choice for Leon to ignore the frequencies his subconscious sends him (your eyes and, of course, that fucking pencil skirt and glasses frequency cluster you always style with heels). But it isn’t.

Leon catches you as soon as he steps through the front door.

“Christ! What a coincidence, ma’am.” Leon greets you with a baffled stance. It screams the counterfeit of the good boy facade that he always puts on in your presence.

Ah, yes, what a coincidence! The two neighbors simultaneously strode out of their very doors.

You crane your head and scan him with your eyes. A dim, heartfelt smile lights up your face the instant you memorize his face.

“Hey, Little Kennedy!” You wave to him, but that Little Kennedy nickname sounds awfully disheartening.

Seriously, Little Kennedy?

Leon can’t quite work out whether his heart leaps or whether he feels like a simple imbecile in the background. But the beating of his little heart leaves a bittersweet sting in his mouth, as if it were a porcelain vessel, and when it falls to the floor, it shatters into a smattering of smithers.

Yet he doesn’t show any signs of easing his laughter.

It’s dry.

“I... take it you’ve met my dad.” Leon zooms towards you in small steps as he pulls the door to his apartment closed and puts the key in the pocket of his iridescent indigo jacket. You don’t know if it’s inadvertent or something instinctive, but you find yourself recoiling. By the time your back is against the wall, he’s halfway in front of you. It feels... wrong... to be cooped up and not make a peep even though you realize what’s exactly happening. The screams of an unnamed person in your brain are warning you. They’re crude, vehement, and lofty.

Push the boy away and get inside your apartment, you stupid attention whore.

But no one is fucking moving.

‘Little Kennedy’ is definitely everything but little right now.

“Ma’am?” Leon furrows his brows, a flash of mystification crossing his face. The little bastard plays with innocence so well, as if he has no idea what he’s provoking—playing the perfect masquerade of innocence and the concerned next-door boy. You’ve officially forgotten how to move your tongue inside your stamped mouth.

Lo and behold, a pungent odor filters up your nostrils, cleaving this little trailer of an adventure between the two of you in the middle, maybe even in the most pivotal and action-packed scene.

The blues of his enameled eyes are darker, shorn of their normal baby blues, and you’re getting the third degree. It’s your apartment building reeking of a charred (?) odor. Even though you catch that smell and know something is wrong, what do you do?

You give the boy those haughty, chimerical looks.

How traditional of you.

“Please don’t tell me you forgot your pan on the stove or something.”

To both your chagrin and the shock, Leon catches you by the forearm and lugs you backwards. Not in a brusque way... but in the heroic fashion of a doctor rushing to the injured person who has been in a car accident and is lying on the ground, repelling the mass of junkies around him. It’s a tour de force; you can’t quite pass by.

“Leon?” You call after him and scurry around. In a perfectly normal case, you’d be wiping the floor with a man who just waltzed into your house. That would be perfectly legitimate. Only now you’re chugging along in your Manolo Blahniks behind the boy who’s bustling around in the kitchen.

“Oh, my God!” You bash your hand on your head, and a wince of dismay jams your chest. “I was baking a cake. Oh, it must have burned!”

Walking into the kitchen and crouching in front of the oven, Leon blinks and watches with a somber, strangely dramatic frown at the crispy, browned, and crumbly cake in the oven. He flips a few knobs and then shuts off the oven.

“Oh, man. That’s a big waste of some big ol’ cake.”

You find yourself biting your knuckles when you hear Leon’s voice, shellacked with his obvious dislike.

You assume that the strange jokes he spouts in such situations are his coping mechanism for the petty stress he’s under (and which he refuses to show on his face).

You’re not here to judge.

You sit down next to him and glare at the carrot and cinnamon cake languishing in the oven, your gaze mottled with lengthy drought and disappointment.

“I spent hours on the batter, been up since seven in the morning. This cake... has burned and ruined everything!” With an exasperated snort, you tentatively draw your face nearer to the tempered glass of the oven to spy on the cake, which is still billowing steam from the top.

On your right, Leon gets the gist and gives you a little pat on the shoulder. To tell the truth, his touch is a boon—the kind that recharges your energy. But your pain is great, and you opt to mourn your cake over him and his warm hand on your shoulder.

Leon knows better than to brood about it, and he should even eject himself from your house, notably after he had the audacity to cram you into a corner of your own apartment hall door and dare to use his ‘charm’ (awkward flirting!) on you.

But the fickle heart wants what it wants. Quick and titillating excursions.

That said, he’s not a particularly hard-core boy to resist the prickle of sheer misery on your face.

It’s his job to save the day.

“Hey, maybe if we scrape the burnt top off, we can scarf this cake down.”

“Can we do that?”

“I don’t see why not. Now stand back and watch how you save a piece of cake.”

You hang back as he tells you. You don’t inquire about it, since your inner desire to save the day and to listen to a voice inside you prevents you from doubting. The difference in the boy’s voice is worth the extra.

Neither you nor Leon know exactly how it happened, but the edible parts of the cake are now on your plate with a glass of lemonade on the coffee table in the center of the living room.

He really did save the day. Somewise.

“My hero,” you give him a broad smile. Leon catches it as it happens. The flush of heat on his cheeks warms his skin into a tawny puce. Only this time, unlike him, you’re the one who miss his unobtrusive enthusiasm.

To your credit, the cake is delicious, and you’ve been starving all morning.

So poor Leon swallows and forces the funny sensations inside him into the garbage bin of his coronary heart. Oh well. It’s better that you don’t see it. For whatever reason, the profile he’s invoking in your mind is definitely not that of a boy who’s a wimp and who blushes irately at everything.

He’s your hero. When all is said and done, you said that, not him. In that case, he means not to let you down.

“Is it true you’re in the academy?” You already know the answer; you heard it from a random neighbor.

Still and all, your questions keep coming and coming. That’s a good thing—bombarding someone who’s dying to talk to you with a barrage of questions. Problem is, he needs to wipe that glowing, malignant blush off his fucking cheeks.

“Oh, yes!” Leon chimes in. He flaps his cheeks with his hand; his cold fingertips do little to soothe his flaming skin.

“Police academy, actually. It’s my last year, ma’am.” Leon mildly interjects. Upon the eye contact, the pathetic boy is quite left tongue-tied when you notice his cheeks grow pinker and pinker. Perhaps it’s flattery that makes his eyes light up at such a pictorial.

So why not lavish a little more flattery?

Cheer the boy up even. No harm done.

“Police academy?” You simply raise an eyebrow. The smitten curve of your lips betrays him from the inside out. “Your mom and dad must feel so incredibly proud, Leon. I, for one, am.” You keep it real short. Deep down, it strikes you as particularly brutish to expect him to sink to the ground, all spineless and utterly embarrassed after your flattery.

The sight you see, however, drives a nail into your gut. Leon’s face is scratched like chalk. You’re reeling with a wave of culpability. Did you say something wrong? No, no, you didn’t. So not at all. You actually lauded him to the skies.

Not feeling sufficiently awkward to let the silence between you stretch, you drop something small in the middle, or rather, you call out to him so that he can come to you, “Leon?”

The finesse of your voice rings in his head like an alarm. How could something so brittle could pulverize the images and thoughts that slide through his mind and consign them to oblivion?

“Yeah?” His voice is breaking for the first time. Perhaps miffed.

“Are you okay, honey?” Unintentionally, that angsty spirit inside you reaches out to him like a doting mother. For both of you, the tenuousness of the present moment lingers in the air.

You could swear that you can discern in the tinkling fountains of his eyes the telltale slits of redness before the tears. All Leon has always been taught otherwise.

“Don’t fucking cry. Boys never cry, Leon. If you cry, how are ya any different from a girl with a shrill voice? Might as well wear a pink dress, boy.”

The worst part was that these words came directly from his father’s white, mustachioed mouth. Whenever Leon'd break down and crumple, his dad would reprimand him. All that and then some, the little boy's attempts to hug his father were always one-sided. Leon could barely get his arm around his father’s considerable bulk, and that was that. No pats on his hair, no kisses. His mother was different, though. When she could still hug her son, she loved peppering his chubby cheeks with kisses and showered him with pure endearment.

The rest is a path he’s always walked alone.

It’s not Leon’s thing to go back and dally and reminisce; he doesn’t like to do that anyway. His principle is always to look to the future. Yet certain words sometimes conjoin so unbidden with a certain magic that they bring to the surface of our minds what we want to keep bottled up. How can something that is in our brain wreak havoc on our heart? Don’t memories stay encumbered in our brains? Why then does the heart personalize this long suffering?

It’s easier to give him a moment of silence and let him regroup his thoughts, but you don’t expect him to lift his head with unusual agility and peer at you with those sunken eyes. In every quadrant of his gaze, it is written that he hopes to ask you a favor. You have never had children—that is a story for another time—but you know how that puerile, faraway look lodges in the eyes of most children. This big boy is no different from them.

“I’m sorry. Uh, I’m so terribly bummed. My mother wasn’t mentioned in conversation for a long time.” Ultimately, he’s piecing stuff together and talking about it. He apologizes, somewhat. Or maybe in that split second, he decides that he has to go. In retrospect, it was a day of very stupid decisions. Walking into the house of a neighbor he had only known for a fucking week and thinking that he could really astound her might have been the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life.

And as it dawns on you, you realize what had happened—the meaning behind those paltry, weak words—you realize all over again that you should have thought twice before opening that snide mouth of yours.

The pall of pent-up attrition inside you bids you give the boy a hug and tender an apology, but deep in the recesses of your brain, the voice of reason implores you to let the boy go and put an end to anything that might grow between you and this episode.

Unfortunately, that saying is always inerrant, infallible. The heart wants what it wants. Never let the keeper of the heart rest until it has taken it.

Hereby you conclude to open your arms to him, perhaps because your heart desires to delude him or perhaps because you are a fool who needs to be certificated. This is not a metaphorical understanding. You’re, in fact, opening your arms for this boy. Are you doing this to give him the hug he has never received since that night years ago when his mother forsook him completely and spiritually one night? Or are you a mere stopgap on behalf of a father who has always been there for him physically but who has always had masculine paradox and duress in expressing his affection for his boy?

Leon can’t grasp it. His brain is slurry with turbidity and assorted muck of ideas. Far too heavy. Of what do you expect? What can a wounded boy with no time to heal do in this predicament?

“It’s okay.” You speak up once more, for which he’s secretly indebted to you. A dazzle swirls in his eyes yet again. Might he not always have to be strong, as he always thought? Or had his father always lied to him? Could it be that humans were essentially sentient animals?

You instill him with a dole of hope, and it’s all your fault.

He takes the plunge, casting himself into arms that should not be flung in the first place, his head in the most heavenly-smelling portion of your embrace, that intangible abyss where you pour a spritz of essential perfume every morning. Nothing in his heart has the remotest vestige of fallacy; indeed, everything is warm. You are warm; he is warm. Everything feels perfectly safe.

Could you apologize to him in the subtlest way and specifically without hurting anyone and close the case? Yes, you could have. This's the normal thing to do, but you begged off that notion. That voice inside you still detests you for your whims to hook the boy; you hate that woman inside you who is insatiable and rushes in where angels fear to tread.

And yet it is what it is. Your arms are clutched snugly around Leon. Wordlessly, without feud, you give him the little oaths that you will be his home.

It’s all your doing.

part 1?

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fav dilf fr

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dirty little secret

cw: age gap. leon is 21 and reader is in her late 30s. sooo. yeah. potential cheating? probably. awkward flirting. no beta reading. idek what to add ;(

a lil note: controversial topic but listening to artemas’ song i couldn’t help but think of re2 leon and the reader in her late thirties who is an aspiring milf... so yes... here it is the first chapter of the series and idek how many chapters it will take me to finish this bc lately im just feeling intense disorientation?? anywayz i just want some angst and some yearning and it’s all about rookie leon with his questionable mommy kink & his sad big blue eyes.

chapter 1

“Leon, ventilate your stinking room!" 

The morning routine begins with a refreshing shower and Leon’s combing his hair when the voice of Giselle, the biweekly working housekeeper, jars him out of his thoughts. He huffs and puffs since the song he was humming got halved halfway through. 

“Jesus, man. It’s not like I’m running away,” he rants to himself. He dumps his comb on his bedside drawer, barely finding a gap between the volumes of books. Careless and haphazard.

The morning breeze caresses his face when he reaches for his window and cranes it open; the zephyr brings a sweet repose after his long slumber. 

The fresh aroma of autumn rain wafts through the city. It rained non-stop last night while he slept soundly all night. The best time of the year—Leon’s absolute favorite season—had come barging through the door. Lovely morning. Gives him a certain contentment. 

Leon’s eyes, lit by the pale blue and cerulean purity as he surveys the block, fix on the move-in truck. It had been rumored for a few days that there would be other residents moving into the neighborhood. His curiosity about this new family was naturally piqued, considering he hadn’t personally heard much about the new family moving in next door. But all he could see were men working, packing things into the lift, and a few weary groups of old and some young faces. 

Maybe he should go down and help them. Sounds like a good idea. 

He didn’t have much to do on the weekend anyway. Except that the rumbling, fluttery growl of his stomach thwarts his plan of introducing himself. Breakfast time. Shouldn’t be too much trouble to grab a bite to eat right now, and head downstairs, he thinks to himself as he flaps the window shut. 

In the kitchen, he helps Giselle with breakfast, pours himself a fresh cup of coffee, and there’s an empty seat at the table. Somebody is out of the usual, all-too-cloying family picture. His dad is the missing part. 

It doesn’t take long. Leon knows his dad has already gone out, probably to the station. 

“Wasn’t dad on patrol yesterday?" 

“Yeah, kid, but he didn’t show up yesterday. Tried ringing him, sure, but Mr. Kennedy didn’t pick up the phone.” Giselle ruffles Leon’s hair as she always does before she settles the breakfast plate in front of him. 

With a gruff retort, Leon smooths back the hair that has fallen in front of his eyes. God, he hates when they fuck up his perfectly washed hair.

Now don’t get him wrong, Leon sees Giselle as the granny he never had—she’s a part of the Kennedies and a sweet aunty who knows some good cookie recipes, but this kind of cuddly gesture is starting to grate on him now that he’s all grown up. It’s been like this for the last couple of years, since he hit puberty, so to speak. 

“Why are you talking to me like I'm a 12-year-old kid?” It’s hard to comprehend, really. Leon isn’t a 12-year-old kid anymore—he’s a goddamned adult, and he thinks he should be treated like one. 

“Because your hair is always soft, my sweet boy.”

“Whatever.” He waves it off abruptly, but his cheeks do flush. 

“The folk moving in the next door got a boy just like you. Oh, how adorable. Unlike you, he thanked me when I brought some cookies and didn’t pout at me like you always do." Giselle grouses to herself as she walks over to the sink, to the dishes. Typical and ungrateful grandma. 

“Giselle, have you ever heard of the term first impression? The guy probably did that so he’d paint himself as a good neighbor. Jeez!” Leon bites into his morsel of food with a know-it-all lecture. So dramatic, as per usual.

“That still makes him a better boy than you, Leon. Have I ever told you before that you’re growing more like your father as you get older?" 

“Oh, come on. Don’t play the granny card with me now,” Leon says facetiously, but inwardly he knows Giselle’s making a valid point. It’s as if it’s Leon’s instinctive nature to emulate his father, even if he doesn’t want to, not necessarily anyway. But the motivation to be a cop just like his dad is pressing, driving. Knowing that the world he lives in is laden with acidic and poisonous clouds in lieu of rosy skies, Leon never lost his dreamy streak; he was welcomed into a warm home by this very cop when he was a little boy, before he even knew his own name. 

Little by little, Leon treads a path he has decided to take so that every person in trouble, not least kids without a mother or a father, can emerge with that feeling of penchant. Sure, it makes him uneasy; sometimes it’s hard to walk, but it’s always better than nothing. For many more Leon’s to save, to protect. Call it Pollyannaism, call it overly optimizing, even a White Savior complex—Leon wouldn’t mind. He has a solid goal, and that’s it. 

The pandemonium he encounters when he comes downstairs after breakfast is more chaotic than he expected.

“Jesus, a hell of a mess,” he maffles, sotto voce. 

Leon paves the way towards a burly man carrying a vast television set, its screen packed securely in bubble wrap. His eyes, searching for the owners of the apartment, fell on you for the first time—a woman he had never seen before—when he was watching this blight from his window this morning. 

With your back straight to him and a notepad in your hand, you’re recounting something to another staff member. Pencil skirt, button-up shirt ensemble. Ohh, professionalism is talking now.

You must be the daughter of the proprietor of the house or something, in Leon’s opinion. Maybe he should introduce himself before jumping into the conversation. 

Without further ado, he approaches you from behind and calmly pays a detached ear to your conversation with the second worker, who listens to your every word with a perpetual tartness on his face, as if he’s constantly sucking on an acerbically godawful lemon. 

“As I said, the leather on the canapés is authentic, very very prone to ripping. All I ask for is your undivided attention, sir.” 

“Of course, ma’am,” the worker sheepishly gives partiality to the subject, and, relieved that at least your belongings are safe, you look over at the... boy who stands next to you. His powder blue, beaming eyes are the first thing you notice. 

“Hey,” he begins, confidently, to say the least. A sweet attempt. Who could this be? 

“Do I know you?” 

“Oh, yeah— I meannn...” He opens his mouth, and with your proverbial raised eyebrow and probing gaze, Leon simply freezes. He should have known from the start that he was about to engage in a conversation with a hard-ass girl. 

He clears his throat. Awkward tension is killing the both of you, but you do a better job of hiding your emoticons than he does.

“As a matter of fact, yeah. Say hello to the boy next door. I’m Leon Kennedy.” Undeterred, precocious Leon still does what he has in mind: cracking a more sophomoric joke with a raised hand for a handshake. 

“Oh!” You draw on. No need to get rude now. 

His eyes twinkle and agleam. And you give your name to the boy you consider to be the next-door neighbor’s son, shaking his hand cordially. Piece of cake, baby; he knows your name now. 

“It’s been an exhausting day, Leon. Please forgive me if I started with a rude attitude.” You release his hand and then smack your forehead with the hand holding the notebook. Leon thinks it’s very amiable—the moue on your face and the way you switch off the bitching mode almost immediately. 

“No problem, no problem.” Leon raises his hands, palms open and facing outwards. 

“Man, where are your parents? Are they running off with all the work on you?” 

Your parents? Parents?

Aww, that boy’s got it all so wrong. Normally, if you weren’t so knackered, you would have burst out laughing. Anyway, keep it as a memory that you will remember later and laugh your head off. 

“My parents are on vacation in California, Leon." 

“What?” His jaw slacks open. “That’s cruel, damn.” He shakes his head in negativity, as though he has heard the world’s most insipid news. 

“Sure, of course, dear. Only, I must tell you, as the woman of the house, I can take care of a small house relocation.” You cross your arms beneath your chest, tucking them close. 

A pause.

Okay, did you really call him dear and, oh, so randomly? And why are you talking like you’re a character out of those grievous novels?

He’s tense. You’re making Leon reconsider everything he’s done and endured as the numskull he believes himself to be.

The what? The lady of the house? What’s a what? 

You’re married?

...

You’re married.

And most importantly, was Leon mindlessly flirting with a married woman? A chick, actually, just look at you! That, however, isn’t the point. 

His pupils are pinpoint; his blues are narrow and indigo spheres. The poor boy is in a state of sheer perplexity. 

“Holy shit!” His reaction doesn’t last long to be blurted out of his plump lips; it’s visceral, and the picture is unbelievably ridiculous to follow. 

“You’ve got to be kidding. You barely look in your twenties. Ahem! Well, you look great, ma’am.” He mumbles again and again; he’s rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

Where is his initial and boyish verve now? 

Alas, you let him compose himself. Let the poor boy take a breath, right? 

“I feel like I should be thanking you,” you interrupt, so that the boy who’s fiddling uneasily with the fabric of his jacket sleeve will feel a little better. You don’t want to look like a scary and heartless witch in his eyes, anyway. 

“Heh,” he snorts, but futilely. It’s not a pleasant feeling—the guilt wracking fumes swelling deep inside his belly and clenching his muscles in a huge balloon that will eventually implode and burst. 

“Anyway,” he says resolutely; there’s no need to drag it out any further. Let this little talk be a funny, unforgettable, and endearing first impression for both of you. 

“There seems to be a lot of stuff here. Thought I’d drop by to help you out with those,” Leon smiles, all warm and sincere. Playing the role of a wonderful and helpful neighbor, a hero, is his favorite sport. 

“I never turn down a kind helping hand.” 

And you’re up for it. 

With your hands on your hips, you take a cursory glance around and tip your head at the rows of plants in large pots on the floor. 

“I’d be truly grateful if you could help me take these up to the living room. I’ll need them watered, those poor, poor lovelies.” Your eyes fall on his blues again, and it feels gratifying to capture that sheen of sparkle in them. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He... salutes you.

Alright... Boy with a goody-goody attitude. 

You don’t have to tell him twice. Carefully and effortlessly, Leon lifts two heavy pots (show off!), almost child-sized, and you follow him into the elevator with the tiny cactus succulents in your hands. 

part 2?

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WTF LIAM FROM ONED JUST FUCKING DIED LIKE WTFF

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Gabriette for Rhode 🎂 🎀