cutiestdoe

[cutiestdoe]

little miss hate studying

[cutiestdoe]

shaded beauty

✏ The vista is all sweet and heartwarming and Leon’s resolved to treasure this moment forever. Only he doesn’t have a very good grasp of how to use a camcorder...

cw: nothing but fluff;3 (unless you count the tech-phobic leon) married couple, short af, husband leon will always haunt me 🫩

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Leon holds a little camcorder in his hand. It’s brand new – out of the box less than 48 hours ago – and each of its buttons feels like a bomb set with a cryptic code. He is, however, bound and determined: he needs something for himself beyond work. Gunning down terrorists, hacking through zombies, trashing the government... Sure, that’s all well and good. But the man could do with a niche.

On the beach, his steps oscillate thoughtfully. The California breeze tousles the rich caramel streaks of his hair, and his boots dive into the marshmallow-hue sand. Gunmetal eyes catch your figure dressed in cerulean blue, a gem among the tranquil crystals of the sea.

You – with your shoes off. A fat ice cream in hand. A sunny expression so sweet that even the ocean would blush at someone smiling at her like that.

Inside, Leon thinks: Gotta do it. Let me capture my wife.

Finally, a cinematic delight, an endeavor he might even grow attached to (maybe even become a die-hard fan of!).

He tilts the device. The optical lens flickers at his command. Hold on, hold on! Where’s the button? Whatever – just mash something. Click.

���Say cheeeeese!”

You incline your head a shade further. He’s already watching you, of course. Guilt lies forever frozen in the strata of his irises – buried below zero.

You simply smile back. Striking poses – from dainty to dorky. You even step to the side and brush your hair back like a top model. “Draw me like one of your French girls, Leon.”

Leon’s insides sing; he’s all soft and creamy for you. He’s no more an agent, not a man in a midlife crisis. Only a man encapsulating absolute happiness.

Many hours later, when the sun paints an orange blood across the horizon, the two of you settle on a bench. Feet matted in granular sand, knees sore, but hearts candied.

“Want to see the pictures I took?” he offers blithely.

You shake your head in assent before you give it a second thought. At your bidding, your husband flips on the screen. In the following delicious tens of seconds, a curious glow settles on both your faces.

“Oh.”

What’s that first picture?

Your hair is completely out of the frame. What about the second one? Bright sun – only an electric blanket of white. Looks like a divine force descending from the heavens.

Then the third one? Half the sea. No sign of you.

Fourth? Leon’s thumb over the lens.

Fifth? At last, you. Smiling... but blurry. A misty grin. Pearly bliss.

You laugh your whole heart out.

“These are amazing!”

Leon stares in blue puzzlement. “Really? They’re all... uhh. They’re so fuzzy.”

“Aww, what does it matter, honey?”

Leon lowers his head, a tentative grin on his lips as he cradles your hand in his lap.

“Maybe... next time I’ll make a video,” he shrugs. He’s got a reputation to save.

You powder a peck on his cheek.

“But first you have to figure out where the recording button is, Kennedy.”

[cutiestdoe]

im so mature collected and sensible...

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THEY'RE SO CUTE :,)

I gotta practice drawing people kiss and it's their turn

[cutiestdoe]

it's my birthday and i was crying all day omg😭 twenty's hit different i think

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i like to yap knowing that i only have like 4 followers and one of them it's the cheezbot lmaoooo

[cutiestdoe]

☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

𝘋𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦!𝘓𝘦𝘰𝘯 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴

Fresh-Faced Good Boy He’s still that wholesome, eager-to-please guy. First day on the force, he shows up too early, shirt pressed, tie straight, coffee in hand for everyone. Literally everyone. He’s the guy who says “yes, ma’am” to sweet old ladies and holds the door open for everyone at the precinct. Just an absolute ray of sunshine.

Dates Straight Out of a Rom-Com Dates are wholesome af. Bowling nights where he tries to act cool but ends up laughing at himself when he gutters three in a row. Weekend flea market strolls, late-night diner, watching old dramas and critiquing the procedures with a mouth full of popcorn. He loves driving you around (despite being an ass driver). One hand on the wheel, the other reaching for yours. He’s totally the “I made a playlist for us” type.

Smitten as Hell He falls hard and fast. Gets this goofy smile when he talks about you. His coworkers tease him mercilessly for it, but he doesn’t even deny it. Always says things like, “You’ve gotta meet them, seriously...they’re amazing,” to literally everyone. You’re his favorite topic.

Overachiever He’s still trying to prove himself, and that spills into your relationship. Plans perfect little surprises, keeps track of your favorite coffee order, and acts like any mistake on his part is the end of the world. He’ll literally apologize for sneezing too loud around you. That’s how much he wants to be a Good Boyfriend™.

Softie He gets along so well with kids. You see him talking to a little boy at the station one day, kneeling down to their level, asking about their toy dinosaur, and you just know: yeah, he’s The One. Also, animals love him. He’s the type to stop mid-patrol and feed a stray cat, then text you a blurry picture like, “new friend 🐾”

Nervous Confession The way he asked you out is SO awkward and endearing. He fumbles through it, “I mean, only if you want to—like no pressure—just maybe dinner? Not like, dinner dinner—unless you want dinner dinner?” You say yes, and he’s all boyish smiles, like he just won the lottery (he did).

He's Always Checking In Texts like, “Hey, did you eat yet?” or “Let me know when you get home safe.” He genuinely cares.

Loves Being Domestic with you Grocery runs with you are his idea of peak romance. He’s pushing the cart, tossing in snacks he knows you love, and grinning when you catch him sneaking in too much cereal. Makes you breakfast on his days off. Pancakes shaped like hearts that are kinda wonky but made with so much love.

Officer Kennedy Is Kinda Bad at Saying No People at the station totally take advantage of how nice he is. He’s always covering shifts, staying late, running errands. You’re the one who gently reminds him, “You don’t have to say yes to everything, Leon.” He pouts, “But they needed help...” You roll your eyes, then kiss his forehead.

He's Weirdly Obsessed With Holding Your Hand On walks? Holds your hand. Sitting next to each other? Pinkies linked. Driving? One hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, or fingers laced with yours over the center console. Says he just likes “knowing you’re there.”

Brings You Little Things All the Time Coffee. A cute sticker. A weird magnet from the gas station. A rock that “looked kinda cool.” He’s always thinking of you. You’ve got a growing drawer of “Leon Things” and every time you add to it, your heart gets a little softer.

He's Secretly Incredibly Sentimental Keeps notes you wrote him in his wallet. Has a photo of you taped inside his locker. Saved your first voicemail and listens to it sometimes when he misses you. You tease him for being sappy and he just grins, shrugs, and goes, “Guilty.”

[cutiestdoe]

BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAAA YES GAWD

—Time off

On twt someone @ to make this so here it it’s!! 😭💓 ty for giving me ideas I love making them

I miss ID cleon so much UGHH, this what actually happened on the White House

[cutiestdoe]

the early bird special

pairing: leon x reader

cws/tags: ddlg, erectile dysfunction, somnophilia?, could be dubcon in theory but leon is actually not upset he just has attitude problems, not beta read, a little proofread

summary: leon and his soft dick

a/n: okay ik i said no more ddlg but we all know i was lying

wc: 1.2k

taglist: @poselysscripts @rigorwhoring

masterlist | ko-fi | commissions | join my taglist | discord server

Leon’s not old enough for this to be happening. Isn’t erectile dysfunction supposed to hit after 50? He’s barely 40. Or, he was barely 40 a few years back, but he’s not quite pushing 50. Point being, he does not qualify for the early bird special, but no matter how early any bird gets into bed with him, they won’t get more than a sad, flaccid worm beneath his sweatpants.

Regardless, he wakes up to the warmth of your mouth engulfing his soft cock. You’ve managed to crawl under the covers and take his dick out of his boxers without him noticing — the sleeping pills seem to be working, he notes. Another thing that’s come with age: pills. More and more of them. He’s got stuff to combat his high blood pressure, insomnia, high cholesterol, and soon he’ll probably have to start Viagra. He’ll get that in the mail, though. He doesn’t need his doctor to mess around in his pants and humiliate him more than you do. Unintentionally, of course, but why can’t you just ignore it when it’s soft? Give him a break.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a yawn that sands down the sharp edges of his tone real nicely.

You pull off with a pop and poke your head out from under the covers. “Playing,” you say.

“You should be sleeping,” he says, though the headache-inducing sun piercing through the window suggests it’s morning.

Plus, you’re an adult. The bedtime he enforces is a flimsy little rule you suggested. Leon doesn’t actually have control over your sleep-wake schedule. He doesn’t even have control over his own at this point. Not since he became your daddy. Not a father, no, but a daddy. To become a father, you have to stick your dick in a woman and blow your load inside her — and Leon clearly has issues in that area. In a way, it’s probably for the best. Leon would rather see a BOW barreling toward him at maximum velocity than two little lines on a stick. A slash or a bite is instant but a baby is 18 years of torment.

But having you as his baby isn’t so bad, even when you’re all over him, poking and prodding and playing.

You emerge from the covers suddenly, like a little whack-a-mole, and If he was hard right now, he thinks, he’d use his cock like a toy hammer and smack you on the cheek. You’d love it.

“Why?” you whine, protesting Leon’s insistence that you go back to sleep.

“Because daddy’s sleeping.” And you’re being a little pest. You’re a little bed bug and Leon hopes to god you won’t bite him. Not there.

“But daddy—”

“Shh…” Leon finds himself guiding his cock back into your mouth like a pacifier. You latch on easily, eagerly.

“Good girl,” he says. “You can play down there as long as you let daddy sleep.” He pats you on the head, praising you for giving him some peace and quiet — a rare thing for Leon.

The pills have turned his dreams from terrifying to downright bizarre. Instead of running through the halls of a zombie-infested Raccoon City, he’s walking through the DSO HQ ass-naked, flaccid dick on full-display, and he usually ends up insisting to the president that he’s a grower not a shower.

Until he wakes up. And finds out that he has zero proof to back up that assertion — not that it matters — as you’re still fixated on his limp dick.

“Sorry, baby,” he says. “It’s still sleeping. Not gonna get up for you just yet.”

“I don’t care,” you say. “He can keep sleeping. I just wanna give him kisses.”

And somehow, Leon’s jealous. He’s awake and doesn’t get any kisses. “How ‘bout you come give daddy a kiss, huh?”

You hum a happy affirmative and climb up Leon’s torso to bring your lips to his. Even with his eyes closed, he knows you’re grinning. He can feel your smile and it warms his heart. But it doesn’t stir his cock.

With your legs straddling him, he can also feel your wet pussy on his bare thigh.

“What’s gotten you all worked up this morning?” he asks, reaching down to cup your panty-clad cunt with his palm.

“Daddy,” you say, both an answer and a plea, with your hand around his dick. Again. You still haven’t given up on that, it seems.

“That’s what’s making you all wet? I’m not even hard.”

It’s not your fault, he wants to add, but you don’t seem to mind either way.

“I want him,” you insist. “I want to make him give me kisses.”

“Kisses where?” Leon’s genuinely lost at this point. You ought to give him a dictionary of all of your euphemisms. He didn’t realize he was signing up to learn a new language when he agreed to be your daddy.

“Princess parts,” you mumble. You refuse to say pussy or cunt, but you get shy around the silliest term for it — the one you requested he call it. Sorry, her. Your cunt is a girl and daddy’s cock is a boy. You get pissy if he doesn’t abide by these rules.

“I wanna make them kiss,” you clarify. Like your genitalia are barbie dolls. Whatever. No matter how weird he thinks it is, he has no right to make fun of you when he’s a willing participant in your kinky bedroom activities.

“Go ahead and do whatever you want,” he says, resigning himself to the fact that you’re not giving up on this.

The next thing he knows, your pussy is sliding along his shaft, which is, admittedly, starting to stiffen.

“This is kissing?” he asks with a hint of a smirk on his lips. Last time Leon checked, this was at least third base.

“Yeah,” you manage through shaky breaths.

Goddamn, he thinks, you’re really into this. And if he were younger, he’d be rock-hard, leaking from the tip. But he’s not. He’s barely got a semi. Can’t even fuck you the way you deserve.

He lazily grabs your hips, more of an acknowledgment, maybe encouragement, rather than actually guiding you. You’re doing it all by yourself, and Leon’s proud, honestly.

“Gonna come like this?” he asks, intrigued, excited at the prospect. A part of him is dying to tease you for getting off so easily, but you have the perfect comeback at your fingertips, or at your pussy lips if Leon’s being literal.

He’s too flattered, flustered, really, to say much at all. And yet, he’s still not hard.

“Please, daddy,” you whimper. It’s not like you have to ask, let alone beg.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums. “Go ahead, baby. Come for daddy.”

And to his fucking surprise, you do. Your body jolts, tenses up then releases. Your pussy flutters around nothing as you soak the length of him.

You collapse on his chest, finally ready to rest. There’s only one problem. Leon’s dick. It’s fucking hard. And, for the record, it is absolutely your fault. So now you get to sleep and Leon still doesn’t? God, his life is so unfair.

When you reach for his dick and guide it towards your entrance, lazily, still flat on his chest, he swears you must be able to hear his thoughts.

“Daddy,” you say quietly. “You can play with me while I’m sleeping.”

God, life is so unfair, Leon thinks, this time with a smile, because he’s no saint — he does not deserve to play with you while you’re sleeping.

But, Leon’s no saint, so, he’ll take you up on the offer.

[cutiestdoe]

lazuli

✎ two years since the night Leon left you, and today is Leon’s 23rd birthday (yes yes yes!! part two of bye bye baby blue <3)

cw: emotional hurt / comfort, angst, grief, second chances, hallucinations, post-traumatic stress, unreliable narrator, and one more chapter to go! word count: 2.5k

⌕ part 1

You have been, for a while, in the habit of mingling with the gloom and the rain – either your ally or your persistent nemesis.

Ever since the night of September 30th, you’ve been suspended in an ambivalent state. Insomnia and carmine question marks prowled in the depths of mind.

The trouble is that your memory, like your very dreams, has grown weary of storing the minute remnants of Leon.

So long has it been since you’d last seen or heard from him that sometimes, even when all alone – or in the midst of friends and interim ‘lovers’ – you’d find yourself searching for him in the measly details of your apartment.

It was a big, bare space.

The bedroom had become a strange void. The lonely, withered corner of the mattress felt too wide on its own. You were very little in that perfect bed, and yet so enormous – like some foolish victim of Procrustes, who should have been cut and reshaped to fit, just to feel whole again.

There were certain days when you’d find yourself evading people’s and coworkers’ probing questions as though skirting bullets.

Queries about the boy you were once engaged to, back in your hometown, would venture into your private matters like razor-edged knives through gauze. Mercifully, the silence that followed a lethargic ‘we broke up’ – spoken to eyes dilating with anticipation – came as ephemeral as the flight of a butterfly.

Friends, relatives, and colleagues soon learned how to retreat into the safety of their own routines, folding away their curiosity like a letter that needn’t be read in the first place.

--

Many more years rolled by, yet not once did he answer the letters of penitence you sent.

Time only ever flies, and all you ever do is wander through the decays of memory.

There begins the first stage of separation, ringing your doorbell.

Recognizing his absence, you suffer the lesions and tears of a once-treasured love, now gathering only grayish dust. A proper heartache for the sake of long years, followed by sundry seasons of solitude.

Nightmares precede a mosaic of nights and intricate dreams that can no longer be manually captured.

Phase two comes out of the blue.

You sell the house the very next morning. Donate what little remains of his belongings to a local orphanage, pawn the ring that once mattered, cut your hair shorter than ever before, and leave the shelter with a cat.

So, it happens. Leon is no more.

Blessed by the passage of seasons, you grow inured to this new state of reality.

April arrives bearing its recognizable heat.

It’s a crisp morning with the aroma of damp earth and tentative blossoms. The cemetery is deserted, save for the distant whistling of the brisk wind through the rows and lines of stonework.

You still stall around.

There are very many names written over the tombstones.

A bouquet of lazuli-pigmented forget-me-nots in your hand, the petals evanish glum beneath your grip. Always the same flowers. He would’ve liked them, you suppose. A pretty blue had always been his hue.

You once read it with a lump lodged in your chest: the contents of a frosty letter sent by the department. At the bottom, a single signature. No words of clarification. No remission.

Nothing but a grave and a date: September 30th, 1998. The date of the ice-cold night he stormed out of the house you two nursed.

Your fingers splay out to touch the name carved in stone.

Leon S. Kennedy.

Crouching next to the epitaph, you sow your flowers beside him, ritualistically so.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper aloud, although you’re not sure if your hushing has even left your throat. It’s all a misguided venture as it is.

Two whole years. So easy to count. So hard to go through.

And yet, for some odd reason, you never believed that he was truly gone. Not ever, not so much for the sensitive elements of a moment in space.

It may be your mechanism that’s playing a backstage trick on you. Perhaps science has another name for it: a molecular aversion for recognition, a chemical romance with escape.

Does it matter, and to whom?

Such is the viscosity of your staircase of thought that you barely register the voice beside you, even the second time it demands attention.

“Dying. It’s so strange,” the voice intones, neutral and dry.

What an absurd observation. Who even says that?

No, wait.

Who dares to say that?

Why should anyone seek a stranger’s take on the great hard knocks?

Much as this puts you in a tailspin, you decide not to look up and face the man talking to you. There are weeds growing underneath Leon’s tombstone, and you pluck them out in lieu of bothering.

“Strange or not, it’s the most real thing there is,” you mouth all the while.

“No kidding,” the man carries a glimmer of suspense to his phrasing.

Quietness creeps in between you. The April chill mingles with drifting dust motes from spring blossoms. The stranger, patient and hollow-eyed, waits for you to finish tending the grave.

“Who is this Leon guy again?”

Why prod, and to what end?

It’s his words, his calm, his stillness – all coalesce into one terminal voltage, a shock so searing that it rends your very composure.

You turn, face twisted into the sourish form it identifies itself with.

He looks back at you. An unfazed kind of smile touches his lips.

It could be right then – that moment when your world collapses in on itself. Your knees give a gross shake. The reflection of the man in your eyes dilates your pupils enormously.

“Hi, love,” he greets heartily, and you blink at the dead.

No dream has ever felt as visceral on the skin as it does now. No dream until today: the middle of April, the twentieth of the month. Leon’s 23rd birthday.

Tearful, as if betraying your brain, which signals your twitching lower lip to halt. A blue color rudely paints the flesh as you worry it.

Love? What love? How come love?

Leon holds out his hand, but you don’t so much as flinch.

He stands there, breathless and tall, as if Hades had granted a day-pass for the dead men.

You’re still falling – not in love, no, but through the dented tunnel of disbelief.

“You’re dead,” you lock your jaw.

His helping hand comes to naught. On your own, you get back on your feet.

“I’ve got no time for this anyway.” You wear an overly stern expression and gesticulate awkwardly to be entirely convincing. Cast out the unwanted from your vision.

Leon sighs in the wake of this. His brows crease with something sedated, whilst the downward curve of his mouth speaks of a telltale concern.

He looks devastating.

His clothes (all dark and ink blue, tailored well to his physique) are disheveled and distinctly perfumed with the pleasant tang of his cologne in the breezy, pollen-laden air around him.

“Maybe I was dead,” there’s a bounce in his voice.

Does he ever hear the things he speaks? How completely impertinent can he be?

“Don’t give me that shit,” you blurt out the first thing that lights up in your thoughts.

“What shit, exactly?” Leon asks.

“This. Shit. This and that.”

Your gaze wanders to him. The patches of the past on his skin remind you of young bruises: yellow, pallid, and rimmed with green.

He’s as in your sleepless visions: cynical and, above all, blinkered. Maybe if you looked at him from a good angle, you could feasibly see the riverscapes of the things he had been up to. Pity you can’t do such a trick in a million dreams.

“Hmm,” is the most Leon says.

Hot reds pump through your veins. You tell yourself that if you only close your eyes, all should be well.

So, you close your eyes, reopen them, hoping to be taken all the way back to the earthly population of your dull, mean world.

“That won’t be at all necessary, sweetheart.” Endearment escapes him through a habitual slip of the tongue.

Fuck.

“No, it’s absolutely necessary,” you counter sharply.

“It’s not.

“Why don’t you shut the hell up?”

In that little snippet of the reunion scenario, the cooling affection of his hand falls from your shoulder and lingers in the palm of your hand.

“Can’t,” Leon says calmly. “I found you once against all odds. I’m not just going to leave you. Not like this.”

Your lover assumes the shape of your vision the minute you blink into existence. A larger Leon, with a face marred by the lines of tiredness. Longer hair that has faded to a shade of silken gold. Mocha once fondled his crown, but no longer.

What your eyes behold is not the sum of what your heart already knows.

“Bullshit,” your teeth kiss the bottom of your lip; Leon curls his fingers about yours, as if you might slip away from his hold.

“You can’t be real,” you breathe in deeply, “this has happened before. Happens all the time. You just walk in, piss me off, and walk out.”

I’m here anyway,” he returns in a controlled intonation, lest he wake the world around you.

“I had to come back for you.”

He brings your hand to the right side of his face. No other layer of skin has felt so genuine since flesh forgot tenderness and, instead, digested the mechanics of sex after he left you.

Cautiously, you take a small step. The gravel underfoot crunches listlessly away.

“This is a hallucination. That’s all it is. Side effect.” You shake off a chill first.

“The doctor told me,” you go quiet then.

Rubbing his chin with a gloved hand, Leon adopts the barest of attitudes.

“If I were your imagination, I would have a better way in. And what doctor are you—”

“Stop talking. This isn’t funny.”

The admonition strikes a jarring chord. A privilege, even after all these years, to have known him well enough to catch that flicker of mortification sparking briefly across his face.

This sting – not so readily trivialized. It hurts still.

He needs to see what an impossibly starless path you’ve meandered since his omission.

“They said you were dead. You were buried,” you broach the matter. He’s already marrow-deep in your gaze.

The buried aren’t meant to return, and it’s to the banshee’s dismay that the living should witness what has already died. It’s the rule, is it not?

Leon’s stare glaciates to shades of electric blues.

“You think I wanted this?” His question is fractured like the snap of a twig at his feet.

Impulsively, he closes in on you, one more step into your orbit. That’s his vivid tint shimmering in your irises.

“I was protecting you,” he talks trash under his breath.

Classic.

“By dying?”

“No,” he rasps, “by staying dead.”

“Oh, my God! Of course you did. Played the hero as always. Well, Clark Kent, where might your glasses be?” Sarcasm gushes from your tongue, and with good reason.

How utterly vulgar you can be when you want to be.

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Is it really that damn hard to put your trust in me?” he gnashes his teeth.

“Funny how you gladly dumped me that night.”

“That’s the part you know!”

“And that’s more than enough to hate you!”

Leon teeters and flutters an eyelid, gobsmacked in the most graphic condition possible.

It all makes little sense, and you have no understanding of it.

The air chokes the soul. Pinpricks of raindrops flutter and splatter in the heart of a moment of whirlwind daze. Dappled on his shoulders and dripping on his face, a drizzle catches on his lashes like the dew on cast iron.

Leon’s everything aches: his cadence, his posture. His hand twitches in an attempt to gloss something indecipherable and unspeakable. You no longer listen to him.

Against all sense, you come one step to the fore. You desperately need to be sure he’s the genuine article.

Halfway through his sentence – “If I had stayed, they would’ve—” your mouth collides with his. Teeth knock.

There’s no precision to it. No poetry written into the pell-mell kisses. No. It’s rather an open wound under the gelid water.

His lips are mist-tinged and piteous, but just a touch belated. Yet as your hands reach for his collar and fist the sodden fabric, something inside him gives way. His breath betrays him. Mouth softens, and the kiss burrows deeper with a distant clap of thunder in the sky.

His fingers clamber up to frame your mizzle-kissed face. Flesh and heat and bone.

He feels it all in the precious jostle of a millisecond into the present.

At last, the skin honors the color of his touch.

“I fucked up real bad. Shit, sweetheart. I lost you.” He leans close to you then, severing the kiss.

His eyes twinkle like they’ve been washed in the storm and then reddened in the incandescent flames.

You trace a cool hand along the faint arch of his jawline, newly chiseled since the last time your lips connected with his.

To draw him closer to you is to abrogate every wound that is still healing.

To pull away would be to abandon the part of you that has never stopped waiting.

Oh, but this is no fantasy; gone is the brutal game born from the illicit marriage of chimera and sorrow.

He’s real.

What a way to get a hit in. What a kiss.

Like the first breath after drowning, it’s a lovely but cold blue sinkhole. Takes much to last.

“Oh, God,” you breathe through lips bitten raw. “The letters… they… God. No way.”

A shallow draft of wind punches through your lungs. You come to a stop.

“They said… ‘Leon was like this and that. Very brave, and sooo— Uhh.”

Beautiful cursive on blank paper – robotic condolences from men and women in polished shoes – flare up behind your eyes like credits ticking down within the frame of a movie’s swan song.

“Sweetheart, I can’t really understand you when you’re like this.”

“Do you feel the ground moving, or is it just—”

Your knees give out as if you’re an archaic scaffold. A marionette whose cords have been snapped.

Leon catches you in the nick of time – but only just.

Your sepia-tinted filter, already bleeding at the margins, begins to blur his features.

Leon’s flustered shock hangs above until his visage is brush-stroked in a moonless black.

[cutiestdoe]

I NEED HIM BADLY

Forever and a bit Longer

Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, MNDI, Drunk Sex, Soft!Dom Leon, Soft Sex, Established Relationship, Missionary as always because it's not boring I promise...., Pantie Sucking, Needy Leon, little to no plot

Request: hey queen hope you’re doing well! i was wondering if you could do a drunk fic of leon and his gf and they have sex but it’s just so intimate like they’re both just saying how sweet they are to eachother and it’s just like out of pure love and then reader gets emotional and he comforts her? - 🪑

Tumblr out to get us 🪑 again...🙄😭 Not proofread very well...please let me know of any mistakes

Leon tipped the Uber driver a little extra as you both stumbled out of the car. The longing looks, wandering hands and giggles were sure to add to the poor guy's horrible night. Perhaps the driver would excuse some of the behavior when you would look at the ring on your finger regularly. The shiny stone Leon had gifted with the promise of marriage.

A life together forever.

"You deserve this Leon"

Your body was draped in the silkiest white dress, you felt like butter against his roughened hands as Leon attempted to guide you to the door. Not that he was much help either, apparently cocktails were his worst enemy, a simple Cosmopolitan wiping any co-ordination he had left at the end of the night. The whole journey home seemed to be the blind leading the blind.

Yet, even with his bleary eyes either from the drunken haze they bore or the pure happiness he felt tonight, he managed to get you both at least through the door. His tears threatened their exit every time he saw you glancing at the ring, proudly showing it off in the light like you did the day he gave it to you.

A phrase he had heard over and over tonight despite the fact that he didn't truely believe it himself.

How did he deserve it?

They made it sound like you were some accomplishment in his life and he hadn't just burdened you instead with the promise of himself forever. He knew you didn't feel like this, he knew it from the way you were currently cupping his balls. Dragging those freshly painted nails along his zipper, the same ones you demanded he paid for before you took photos of the ring for the announcement.

Leon felt his knees go weak as you looked at him through your lashes, batting them at him like it was some kind of trance. He supposed it was as you lead him by the tie you insisted he wore tonight. A wicked smile forming on your face as you watched him follow like a lost but eager puppy.

His hands gripped the fabric of your dress once you stood in front of the bed. His grip tightening as the silk slipped between his fingers like you were a ghost and would disappear on him. Leon's kisses were messy and needy, probably because of the fuzzy feeling that mades way around his system. "You look so good in white" he mumbled against your skin. His lips tracing the side of you neck before moving across your collar bone.

Each nip of his teeth that was quickly soothed over with his young was intoxicating you futher. Your legs threatened to buckle, hoping that his strong grip was enough to keep you standing...at least until you backed up against the bed.

The more surface area he covered the greedier he got, his kisses leaving saliva marks along you skin that glistened in the dim light of the bedroom. You looked like a goddess, one that he was eager to worship, to prove his last name was worthy to replace your current one. You watched him sink before you, his body backing you against the foot of the bed where he spread your thighs.

The white lace was rude to have hidden his prize, the fabric was now see through as your arousal pooled in the gueset. You moaned his name so angelically as he sucked against it, pulling it away slightly which also caused it to brush against your clit.

His face was hidden from sight underneath the fabric of the dress though you could see his back perfectly outlined by the white shirt as he worked on sucking your panties. He sipped on it faster than any drink he had that night, his brain becoming addicted to your sweet taste. Did it taste sweeter now you were officially his, off the market with no chance of a break up? He hoped anyway.

Your fingers gripped at the hem of your dress, pulling the fabric so it pooled at your hips allowing you to see your pussy drunk finance. Your hand brushed through the blond strands delicatly admiring the few dirty blonde one that peaked through as his hair darkened with age. You were going to grow old with this man, be with him until your last breath. The thought caused your clit to twitch, the coil tightening as he flicked his tounge roughly against the fabric.

Eventually he pulled away, allowing that bliss to fly away as he stood over your form. Watching as your writhed and whined as his denial of your finish. Leon only wanted to watch you come undone around his cock, feel your legs trap him inside you as he spilled himself.

"so fucking perfect, my angel" he whispered against your shoulder. His dominating frame pushing you backwards against the bed, his knee keeping your legs spread. Your dress was the first to go, your bra following quickly too. You watched as his drunken brain tried and failed to work the small buttons of his shirt. His twitching cock causing his hips to jolt each time the tip brushed against the fabric of his boxers. He was down bad, so love sick for you that he was surprised he didn't run a fever.

His blood was hot and rushing southwards as you pulled his cock free. The fabric of his trousers barely reaching mid thigh before he pressed himself against your hips. His cock thumping against your clit as he poorly guided it to your weaping cunt. Giggles filled the room as he tried again and...failed.

You smiled at him brightly before wrapping your hand around his cock, laughing at his flinch when the cold ring touched it. You guided him to your hole, moaning at the stretch of him. His thrusts were sloppy, the rhythm was interesting. Yet somehow the smile he wore, the brightness and loving looks in his eyes spurred your once fading orgasm to return. Your toes curled, legs hitching at his lips.

"I love you Leon" you whimpered against his lips. His thrusts turned into grinds, you could feel his ass muscles clenched as they worked to drive himself in futher. "I love you too, angel"

There was no warning when he spilled himself inside you, of course there wasn't when his sentences slurred as his hips slowed. Smiling as he felt your walls clench anyway with your own flood of pleasure. Your chests met with every pant, his cock now softening inside you.

Leon laced his fingers with yours as he stared down at you, bathing in the afterglow of your orgasms. The ring was bright in the corner of his eye, a glowing symbol that you were soon to be his forever...and a bit.

[cutiestdoe]

Resident Evil 4, 2005

[cutiestdoe]

OH MY GOD😭😭😭😭😭 I WAS FEELING SO SAD BUT THIS IS TO SWEET AND NOW I'M 😞☹️🥹😔😭🫶🏻

WHEN HE SAID

“Does it have to be? What if our wedding isn’t perfect?”

I PANICKED. OMG I CAN'T WITH HIM. (yes i can... bring him over pls)

so so soooooo sweet tysm for this :,) it cheered me up a lot

Leon's no stickler for wedding traditions. But when no something blue has you feeling blue, he might just have a fix.

f / m fluff and cuteness before you walk down the aisle. leon is a sweetheart. one or two bad puns. you're a lil anxious but that's okay!! ft. your beloved's neck trauma </3

word count: 888 // read on ao3 // drabble masterlist

a/n: for zo from this ask. i got asked about what a wedding between leon and reader in my agent au might look like and this is SO BAD I'M SORRY. I WROTE AT 1 AM THIS WITH CLASS AT 7 THE NEXT DAY. posted on ao3 first bc i was too sleepy to make the tumblr banner 🤧 *gestures vaguely hoping you still like it*

“One peek. For half a second.”

“It’s bad luck.”

“Since when have you cared about being lucky? You’ve never needed luck to land a bullet.”

Shoulder pressed to your dressing room’s door, laughter flutters in your chest. “You don’t get it. It’s the principle.”

“What kind of fuckass principle-”

“Leon!”

“-gets to tell me I can’t see my wife?” 

“Soon-to-be,” you smile, picking at the white lace of your bodice. 

“Oh man.” You practically hear your still-fiancé’s fingers fly up to pinch the bridge his nose. “Sweetheart, you should’ve told me you were such a goody-two shoes before I put that ring on your finger.”

“You didn’t get the memo after I’ve been landing you in hot water with Hunnigan for three years now?”

Leon’s palms clap dejectedly against the door. Half-surrender, half-plea.

“For the millionth time, go away,” you giggle. You lean your back against the door. Imagine him doing the same when the wood paneling seems to press back. Breathe for a beat too many before saying, “You’ll see me in a bit, I just…I need the luck for today to be perfect.”

You think you’ve finally won when he goes silent. For a second, anyway.

“So that’s what it is.”

“Hm?”

“Are you nervous?” Leon asks quietly.

“What girl isn’t nervous on their wedding day?” you whisper back.

“Does it have to be? What if our wedding isn’t perfect?”

Talk about a surefire way to spike a bride’s heart rate. You frantically check your reflection in the vanity mirror. Clutch your bouquet tighter lest it fall fantastically apart at his words. 

“See, this is why you’re not supposed to be here,” you hiss at the door, “now I’m panicking!”

One last roll call. You’re sure you’ve planned for everything. Your something old: your mother’s wedding veil. Something new, the diamonds on your neck. Something borrowed: the roses you’ll carry to the altar, gathered from your maid of honor’s garden that you’ll make sure to toss back. Something blue…

“Shit!” you cry out. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my something blue, Leon, I can’t walk without it!”

“You’re sure?”

Of course you’re sure. It’s Wedding 101, the one rule you can’t break. Everything you’ve been through with the man on the other side of the door has led up to this moment. Your jobs never allowed you the privilege of making mountains out of molehills, but today? This is the moment you’d been promised would be perfect – in spite of the endless trials and tribulations the universe seemed intent on imposing on the both of you. 

Sleepless nights. Far-flung disappearances. Knives at your throats. Knives at each other’s throats that one time with the parasites. Thanklessly saving the world from the brink of disaster only to have each other to lean on at the end of the day. Over and over, falling in love with the only person who understands the fatal mistake of taking normalcy for granted. 

Just once, you wished you could have it like everybody else waiting for you to walk down the aisle. 

“Open the door, sweetheart.”

Your voice cracks. The no doesn’t come out like it should. 

A muffled swish of fabric sounds from the other side, and Leon repeats himself, tacking on a soft please this time. “Do you trust me?”

Nobody more than him.

“Just stick out your leg,” he murmurs. “I won’t look.”

An odd request. You crack open the door. Hesitantly step out your right foot. 

“Little more, please.”

If you’re not mistaken, the faintest of sighs sounds the moment you do. Leon presumably drops to his knees at the muffled thud of carpet that ensues, and it’s suddenly your turn to gasp. He’s reaching up your dress, fingers skirting over your leg, along your thigh-

“What are you doing?” you squeak, gripping the doorframe.

“Not that I’m into the garter thing, it’s kinda gross, actually – phew, you’re not wearing your holster – but maybe this will work.”

Smooth, silky fabric encircles your thigh in seconds. 

“Too tight?”

“Mm-mm…”

He chuckles softly and ducks out, taking care to fix your skirts as if nothing ever happened, looking decidedly the other way the whole time. You pull your foot back into the safety of your dressing room and bunch up your dress in confusion to find-

A navy bow tie wrapped around your upper thigh.

“How’s that?” Leon ventures hopefully.

It’s something. It’s blue. You relay this to him, disbelief eventually bubbling into laughter. 

“But now you don’t have a bow tie, stupid!”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been waiting for an excuse to get rid of it? You know how much I-”

“-hate things around your neck.”

“Right?” The exasperation in his voice makes you giggle. “And they wouldn’t listen when I told them, baby. I told you, I’m hopeless without you.” 

Leon’s hand reaches out on a mission to find yours, one that it fulfils, complete with a kiss on your knuckles. A mission with ulterior motives; you pretend not to see the flash of something blue that glances up at you. The blue you can’t wait to wake up to for the rest of your life.  

“Perfect wedding or not, I just wanna marry you. Don’t you?”

You don’t save the I do for the altar.

What’s one more imperfect tradition?

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[cutiestdoe]

leon stimboard

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☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

Love You [Leon]

[cutiestdoe]

carlos doodles based on images on my phone

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Me and vendetta Leon