Im Not Kidding When I Say Resident Evil Writers Are Genuinely Some Of The Best Ive Ever Seen And Its

i’m not kidding when i say resident evil writers are genuinely some of the best i’ve ever seen and it’s all just for this… Guy.

understanding the kennedy

✎ Sadly, Leon is not the most optimal guy to enjoy the time with cause he is the bluntest man out there, but your time spent together and your adventures in the process of survival prove just how cuddly and sweet he can be… in an elevator, preferably his hands on your body.

cw: fingering, dirty talk bc auugh i love his voice, mentions of gore? kinda, fem! reader, MDNI

You’re about to throw up, no kidding. Your dubious gaze flies between Leon and Ashley, bouncing between two blonde heads. Okay, so how did you end up in this situation? Let’s recap. First things first, you’re an agent with an orderly and strict life under the rules of the government. Being good at your job is what pockets so much trouble plus fresh green dough, which you deserve to earn to the bitter end.

Let’s proceed to the second reason. When the President’s daughter suddenly disappears and an anonymous tip comes in that she’s been sighted in a village in Spain you’ve never heard of, the President himself appeals to two names he can rely on with his very life.

You and Leon Scott Kennedy.

As crystal clear as it is that you’ve heard his name before, pretty much every ear in this business you’re in has heard of this man at least at one point in time. Funny thing is that this may be exactly where things get tricky. People only know a name, Leon, but nothing about the personality or the story behind his name. You’re very much aligned with this category of people. Yes, and in the middle of the mission, not to mention how crucial it is, you don’t exactly expect to playhouse with Leon Kennedy, granted. Still, it’s not entirely flattering that the man projects himself to you with nothing more than a short nod. He certainly doesn’t like to talk, albeit occasionally overhearing him talking to himself, or cracking one liner to infected villagers that make the skin chapped and dry in winter, paints a much different picture of Leon in your mind.

He schemes on his own and rarely consults your point of view when he takes the matter elsewhere, which naturally leaves you feeling inferior to him. The sour grimace on your face is always preceded by a wisecrack, conveying the image of a self-righteous and, conversely, insecure man. Is this what the infamous Kennedy is like?

“Psst, amp up your game, agent.” A laconic tone, a haughty flow to his voice, as if to say, ‘I know best around here, and you don’t.’

In a riot you never expected to stumble upon, the villagers clogged with armaments composed of pitchforks, axes and hacksaws, your life is miraculously salvaged by an anonymous clarion call of a bell. Now you are looting a random house in the village for Leon’s ridiculous reasons, or rather he’s the only one doing the looting because there is no way you would ever touch anything of these ailing locals.

“Hunnigan warned that the sooner the better, herring brain.”

“Herring brain?” His back is turned to you so you can’t quite see what sort of emoticon is hanging on his face. But the inflection is the same. Sarcastic as hell. He jams his elbow into the glass of the vitrine and it’s not hard to discern whether he’s pivoting to protect his prissy face or to prove to you how pinched his frown is. Definitely the former one even though his face is too pretty to harm.

Putting a grenade in his gear as if it will be enough to slaughter the entire village because it certainly won’t be enough, he tosses another curt retort back at you, not that you weren’t born yesterday.

“Oh, nice.” It’s woven with acrimony and malcontent. Seriously, where does his assertiveness stem from?

“We need to get to the mill straight away.” You try again. Nothing that can’t be solved with a little more civility, right? It’s worth a try.

The soles of his boots crunch on the chunks of broken glass as he trudges forward in front of you. Okay, Mr. Vanity. All humor aside, his gaze is unnerving, as if there are vines tied around your ankles holding you in place, so much so that you can do nothing but loiter in his presence, bunglingly.

It’s as though for a moment you forgot about his joke, mainly about playing bingo and his usual goofy mentality, how dare you be demeaned in front of him, seriously this guy is nonentity, for his sheer size, he has a giant head full of cheesy jokes and an enormous high forehead that he tries to cover with a fringe of his hair. Ugh, lame alert. But… He’s still handsome, let’s face it. Could be the work of charm that these drone men so rarely acquire.

Still, don’t give him the time of day on this one, not after seeing how obnoxious he’s proven to be.

You roll your eyes, undeterred, your steps already dragging you forward, and you make your way down the stairs to exit this ramshackle excuse for a house that smells of dung and blood in equal measure.

If only you could get out of the seconds, you’re in now, as you got out of that moment. It’s not that simplistic, it transpires.

“Hey Leon, there’s some armor. Bet you could use it like a bulletproof vest.” Well, Ashley is a cute girl and denial can be deemed as a blind existence, or deafness, whatever. But when she starts to fill up your patience drop by drop, as it has been the case ever since you reached the Salazar Castle, she gradually grows more and more friendly with... Leon, not with you. The president’s daughter’s words are clear and concise, one hundred percent of flirtation. It’s fine, you don’t care. But usually speaking to you as if you are not the part of this mission, or sometimes outwardly ignoring you, is an aspect you don’t understand.

“Little old fashioned for my taste,” Leon quips in the world’s blandest tone. Damn.

It’s a wonder what happened to the girlhood chumminess. Maybe Leon and Ashley are more apt to form a closer friendship, or perhaps you’re the low-key of the group, or else Leon alone spotting Ashley in the church fostered a stronger bond of trust between the two of them, when you went your separate ways and found out that Leon had gutted a lake monster or something. Absurd as fuck. To your credit, you weren’t a fat lot of good, a few diary fragments of your findings were the remains of a scientist who had scribbled on a piece of paper about a brand new virus, the plagas. Anyway, back to the shit you’re in. It’s pretty obvious that there’s nothing too serious damage of emotions here, in fact Leon is so thick that he turns Ashley down time and time again, not in a rude way, never in a crude way, but just with his inane and arid jokes.

“Too bad. I think you’d look pretty dashing,” Ashley’s chirping, but it’s no good. She gets no reaction. You think this is the signal for the end of their conversation, and you just follow the two of them into the moonlit room, keeping silent. I mean, why join in, since watching this awkward thing going on between the two of them is frankly like a cutscene in a sit-com. You know, Leon sucks at the whole flirting thing, you figure it out, so all that bravado, all that stoicism, it’s all a veneer. Insecure, yet cute.

The romp with Luis is a very specific narrative. It’s short and abrupt, so sudden that it’s unreasonably all tied to him. The only thing you know is that Luis has the medicine to treat the poisoning of Leon and Ashley by the parasite that was probably written on the pieces of scrap paper you found and... that’s it. It’s obvious that you’re his ticket out of here, and that he’s telling you how he no longer works for Los Illuminados as a way out of this clusterfuck while ogling your boobs is extra hassle.

He‘s a completely alternative man to the intangible and abstract man Leon is, flirting is Luis’ breakfast, lunch, appetizer and, of course, his dinner. Like the water, he has to drink so he can exist. Like his cigarettes, you can say.

One small maneuver could stop him, you could even tell Leon that you won’t go along with his scheme to trust this guy (he somehow doesn’t like the attitude), put a bullet in his head and take his life on the spot. But it’s the inner attention whore fairy in you that permits Luis to flirt like there’s no tomorrow simply because you like the limelight. That and he’s pretty cute, his hair looks great, you can work with that.

Basically, it’s a peculiar combo. There’s nothing stopping Luis. Even when you’re underground, literally underground, and you’re trying to get back up, there’s not a single thing stopping him from alternating between you and Leon, sometimes putting a few bullets in the infected villagers in between, and watching you and Leon do most of the work. Two hot agents wrestling their way out of the mess, what can he say? It’s hot. If Leon asks him to participate and assist, he just shrugs and says, “Hey, I’m the brains. You’re the brawn and the señorita is the vision.” A walking paragon of bisexualism.

But what impression did this little oversight strike in Leon’s eyes? Just one word, bleakness. The others are sour, unpleasant.

Trusting someone, especially someone he didn’t necessarily know, to get things fixed was beginning to become a habit of Leon’s. Yes, he wants to help everyone whenever he can and that’s where all the shit hits the fan for him. He is, notably, reluctant to put his trust in someone (formerly) working for a corporation that has razed a young rookie full of dreams and wrecked several lives in one simple night. Call it a survival instinct or whatnot. Besides, it’s quite asinine for Luis to act so laid back or to think he has that luxury in the midst of so much grime and squalor. The flirting game doesn’t cease, and Leon’s pestering you as well, blatantly flaunting around with a flamboyant of a flirt would suggest that you’re neglecting your expertise and don’t give a damn about the mission.

That’s exactly what bothers him, never for any other reason. Yeah, right? Uh, or... How an agent of your reserve, like you, falling for Luis’ tricks and snubbing Leon might be playing a small part in his aggravation.

“Really? I didn’t take you had such a low standard,” he says so casually in the elevator that’s now hauling you upstairs, in a rare moment when you can have some privacy, and you wonder if he’s never spoken or at least ever bothered to talk to you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You quirk an eyebrow and watch as he cocks his gun, giving it a quick once-over, an idle thing he almost always does, but one that makes your skin prickle with welcoming tingles. What the fuck is going on? Intensifying gun kink moment, perhaps.

“WhAt is thAt suPpoSed to mEan?” He emulates your intonation effortlessly. Hey, come on, your voice isn’t that squeaky.

It would be a challenge for him not to miss the wintry glower on your face, he’s observant and to tell the truth, watching your face makes him feel good, at times. At times is the key ingredient. For after all, he had made that mistake once before, of falling into the maw of the sweet trap of the woman he had known overnight in Raccoon City and in whom he had tormented his heart. Except things are, otherwise, he’s not a rookie anymore and he even finds these traps interesting. Or rather, he likes you.

“You need to watch your mouth, asshole.” Your voice lectures him with a sharp vibrato.

“Huh?” Quite the sport that he is. What, was he guarding his stone-like reticence in order to torture you for hours on end? Or has he gotten over the familiarization period and is suddenly expecting you to click like best pals? Reading men is the toughest exercise in the world, everyone knows for a fact that they don’t use their brains, but reading Leon is much more demanding. It’s a lot of strain and it’s the kind of maltreatment that can cripple a person both physically and cognitively. It takes a lot to tune in to the energy of the likes of Luis, a verse of assertive words for a few more ambitious words and, well, he’s a good warm-blooded friend now. Then Leon? It is very very shaky to figure out what to do to stay on his good side.

“Whatever.” Your voice echoes with finality and your follow-up answer is disrupted by the juddering of the elevator accompanied by a beeping sound. Lights flicker and breaths are held in short gasps, as these things often don’t augur well. Then darkness blankets the space like the teasing gloom of a sky before the copious rain patters fall on the soil.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” His peevish voice is more sizzling, smooth like butter. So caressing against your skin, now you can give people with vocal kink their due. If it weren’t for his absurd jokes, you would fall to your knees thoughtlessly and su—

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Better tune your ears.”

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, are you daydreaming in the middle of a mission? Man, looks like you’re not as polished as the president thought you were.”

He points a flashlight directly at your face, before a clicking sound, an endeavor to render you legally blind.

“Stop it,” you hiss in rebuke to which he reciprocates with a ragged snort. There is something staggering about the fact that the man who didn’t say a word to you last night is surprisingly toying with you like a schoolboy. So much so that there can be no other conceivable answer to the vermouth tint of your cheeks. The grin on his face provides a unique glimpse of his crooked teeth. Or his soft jawline. Up close, he’s full of his flaws, but he looks cute, you can’t lie. And you can’t just imagine being dissuaded by someone so full of little foibles. Especially on duty, in a malfunctioning elevator.

“Shy, or am I living things in my head?”

“The latter and for the first, dream on, buddy.”

“Oh, well. I shouldn’t be dreaming then.”

None of these rejoinders are smooth, they’re frankly lame, painfully corny. Except that you have an infinite penchant for pretty-faced men and their languishing eyes, namely Leon.

Which is why in the darkness you can’t visualize how his hand is tucked into your pants. The sound of his fingers curling inside you is the root catalyst for the darling mantle on your cheeks, and the pilgrimage is the secondary motivator. Alongside his drenched and glove clad hand, his other hand is under your shirt, cupping your right tit, which is sticking out of your bra, with gusto.

“Tsk tsk, how long have we been on post, hm? For how many hours?”

He bombards you with queries as if you have the breath to center on his inquiry. How blunt. Leon jeers when he sees your eyes blinking disproportionately at his. You’re a dumb blur, wet and yes, only for him. Not for Luis, not for anyone else. It’s just a finger dipping in and out of you and the second he sticks a second one in, you adopt a piquant pout, your lips pursed, eyes glazing over. Too pretty a spectrum for Leon.

“Let me answer that for you, sweetheart, it’s been about 7 hours and you’re getting fingered by someone you barely know.” His scratchy drawl tickles your ears like a freshly scabbed wound scratching vigorously like he’s the only thing that will soothe the pain inside you.

“That’s what all your bitterness was for? To get me and keep me for yourself?” His questions almost never conclude, fingers pumping and scissoring the daylights out of you.

“Ashley walks out ‘cause you only want me for yourself. To be all yours?” In return, a protracted, keening whine rolls out of your mouth, your lips bruised from his previous kisses, his teeth. Ouch, so utterly ignominious. When this is over, you will definitely remember this moment and break your sleep. His swelling hubris just like the twitching dick inside his pants gives Leon a feeling of entitlement and conceit. At least he looks more appealing in that way.

“Wish I could understand your blabbering, beautiful,” he jests, his thumb darting over your puffy clit, rushed but attentive as he knows you’re inching close. The face buried in your bosom, his lashes and hair delicately brushing over your skin, shrinks the knot in your belly, warmth flutters. Leon’s urge is stirred by the tight grip of your lovely cunt squeezing the fingers inside of you that are ebbing and flowing incessantly. A harsh and crass mark, a tiny imprint his teeth leaves on your neck, faint, purple, the kind you will carry with you tonight, on this mission and for a time being as it appears.

A seal that is almost bruising, hard enough to draw blood and so irascible because it can’t draw blood, a brand that quickly grows purple, a sting that is the right match for the pinch it leaves on your nipple. A brand that says you are Leon’s, for a fleeting while. It’s absurd that it’s been so long since the last time someone fingered you that you can’t remember cumming. Guys just suck at this shit. And you never dreamed that you would just melt and cum in the fingers of a trite man like Leon. The sight of you paralyzed in rapture is so captivating that his craving to lick and devour you is eclipsed by the sudden illumination of the elevator lights. Pulling out his two fingers, he finally succumbs to his instinct to taste you and allots them close to your lips.

In a very non-sanitary, even grossly insensitive method, his fingers are swabbed thoroughly, as if your tongue were a gauze pad when he pushes them inside your parted lips. He’s spectating you in a blissful trance, and if he were to claim that he didn’t put his fingers in place of his cock gliding between your lips, he’d be the world’s biggest fibbing bastard, and he’s not the world’s biggest fibbing bastard—mind you. Only at the last second does he catch your hand sliding down his hip, grabbing it by your wrist.

“Ah, ah, not so fast.” He winces in pain and the longing to impale himself inside you eats him up, but he has some principles, and he doesn’t want to break them. So, he wipes his fingers on your shirt once they’re out of your mouth knowing it’ll leave a big ass stain. For real? Well, ew.

“H-hey, why the hell?” Your outburst is both about the dick he’s detraining from you and his juvenile antics. He just shrugs his shoulders and hitches up your jeans, notwithstanding that your panties are still damp and caked in juices.

“Sorry, but I’m keeping myself back for the right time. Maybe we can finish it in a hotel after the op, yeah? That’s if we survive.” Oh, but really? Did he just cockblock you?

“Don’t tell me virgin or something?” You just can’t let him let go that easily.

“Too bad it turns out you are a loser to cum on a virgin’s fingers.” Message received.

He reaches down under your shirt and grabs your utility belt lying pointlessly on the floor and your holster. On his knees, like a man designed to minister to you. What can you say? He knows he’s a fucking pain in the ass and he looks hot, that’s for sure. He fastens the belt around your hips, not too tight, certainly not too loose, snaps the holster back to its original place on your thigh, and adjusts the straps with a fair dollop of precision.

“There you go, agent. Ready for action and about to kick some serious cultist ass.” He pushes himself to his feet and strolls out of the elevator, as if his fingers, which minutes ago had been rearranging your pussy walls, had never been inside you. When he opens the elevator door, the gray eyes that await you greet you with a look as if they know everything, as the man waves the inoculum tube in his hand.

“Finally, eh? You should have paged me, Leon.” Luis says flippantly, while Leon looks at him with a dismissive dazzle and your insistence on biting your fingernails out of abject embarrassment is the solitary subject on your mind. Never ever again. (Lies!) It’s not like you’re here to shoot a porn video, right?

People only have substance within the memories of other people, and that's why there were all kinds of me's. There weren't a lot of me's per se; I was just inside all sorts of people, that's all.

Serial Experiments Lain (1998)

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

The Jill we could have had if capcom weren’t cowards and losers 😔