𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊. 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲/𝐡𝐞. adult. writing blog.
dni/byf. requests open. masterlist.
october 2023 masterlist.
art by @/Nyang_kii on instagram.
Xuebing Du

Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

titsay

roma★

Product Placement

will byers stan first human second
RMH
YOU ARE THE REASON
Sade Olutola
hello vonnie

shark vs the universe

⁂
tumblr dot com
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
One Nice Bug Per Day

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@dilfzuku
𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊. 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲/𝐡𝐞. adult. writing blog.
dni/byf. requests open. masterlist.
october 2023 masterlist.
art by @/Nyang_kii on instagram.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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and it was a happy day.
(in catie’s immortal words: sometimes you just have to spray whipped cream directly into your own mouth)
»What do you think, Leon? People can change, right?«
it bothers me that you often don't really hear about people having a "favorite album" the way they might have a favorite movie or favorite video game
fuck it. reblog this and tell me in the tags what your favorite album is

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Pairing: Death Island Leon Kennedy x female reader
Summary: Leon is running a ranch, and you're the sweet girl living on a farm nearby. Every time you come over to love on the horses, he hates himself a little more.
Word count: 4,071
Notes: This is born out of pure lust and my love for the "I'm too old for you" trope.
Warnings: age gap (Leon-late 30s, reader-early 20s), he's a little mean in the beginning, male masturbation, fingering, smut, p in v, an animal death (I'm so sorry),
Leon wasn't here when you were growing up. He was new to the area. You assumed he was a veteran or something. Didn't speak of his past and there's a lingering darkness behind his pretty blue eyes. He'd taken over the stables because Mr. Hammond had gotten too old and was starting to forget crucial things. You still visited him when you could. His good humor and love for you remained.
this place is a shelter (leon kennedy x f!reader) cw: 18+ mdni, nsfw; soft morning smut + angst
Grief was fickle.
It waited, lurking, while you believed you had finally, finally sensed movement on the horizon, sunlight punching through its choking cloud, only to hunt you down in the din of a crowded room. In the silence of morning coffee.
At two in the morning when there were no distractions left.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. Only the tears. The way you’d collapsed beneath them.
And him, a steady presence behind you, his breath a comforting whisper in your ear. Holding you through it without asking for an explanation you couldn’t give.
It was there he remained, pressed flush to every curve; his bicep your pillow, his chest warm and rising in an even rhythm against your back.
Solid. Constant. The one certainty where the concept didn’t otherwise exist.
Your eyelids peeled open to the pale blue light of early morning filtering through the curtains. Your favorite time, or had been, in the way the world was still quiet, a bated breath before routine.
Now, an invitation for the familiar, heavy weight on your chest. The tightening beneath your ribs, the lump that you struggled to choke back.
Grief was fickle, yes. But so were you.
The movement was small, almost instinctive, when you canted your hips back into him.
A soft groan vibrated through his chest as his hand immediately settled over your stomach, his lips brushing the shell of your ear with his hoarse reply.
“Mornin’ to you, too.”
Something inside your chest let go at the familiarity of it, so relieving that it only urged you onward.
Another shifting movement, more insistent now, pulled him to full awareness.
The mattress dipped as he rose just enough to glimpse your face, the glassy, pale blue of his eyes stark under sleep-weighted lids.
Again, you pressed into him. “Please.”
He registered the dried tears, his thumb trailing their path, gaze lingering like he was searching for remnants of last night.
The line between his brows deepened.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, reaching back to rest a hand against his cheek. Leverage enough to crane your neck for the kiss. A confirmation and invitation.
He leaned into it. Your tongue parted his lips—gentle, no demand in it—and something in him gave way, a quiet loosening that you could feel immediately.
His fingers traced above the soft skin of your belly button, then moved lower, slow and deliberate. Just shy of the barrier he was clearly aware of. Not unwilling to cross it, but watching, reading. Waiting for any hesitation.
You exhaled into him, sharp and unsteady, grounding your hips a final time.
The restraint didn’t snap so much as fall away.
He edged into the light cotton, callouses dragging against sensitive skin, lazy in the haze of still skirting the edge of sleep.
Your breath caught against his mouth as you opened for him.
Slick warmth waited where he stopped to collect, then returned to circle the swell that pulsed with the frantic beat in your ribcage
Hand cupping the nape of his neck, you arched against his hand, and his answering groan met the staccato rhythm of his strokes. Urgent yet gentle, taking his time like he was hellbent on making sure you stayed here with him instead of dragged back by your own mind.
And you felt it—the weight receding, steadily backed into a corner as the world around you narrowed.
You came on a cry as his arm flexed beneath you, his palm meeting your forehead in a gentle stop to keep you pressed against his shoulder, his breath hitching in your ear.
Nimble, shaking fingers reached blindly for his waistband, your underwear simultaneously tugged away. Freedom for you both, his smooth firmness a brushed promise against your back.
His lips caressed your neck as he adjusted and you guided. Slow, steady, the sensation drawing a moan in tandem. He pulsed once, testing, then gradually bottomed out, slicing the coiled heaviness in your core, your pleasure a sharpened sword.
It always devastated him, the way your bodies met—so perfectly carved for one another that there could be no question where each belonged.
He didn’t hurry, a low noise in his throat as he savored it, his eyes languidly tracing the curve of your lips as they parted around his name.
Arm hooked under your knee, he edged your leg upward, wider. You met him with soft reverence, his opposite palm sliding along your jaw, your face arching upward to meet his—awash in bliss and nothing of the pain he’d witnessed only hours ago.
Then his name, again spoken like a plea.
It was his undoing. His pace stuttered, driving harder.
Refuge was too inadequate. It was sanctuary, this small bubble you occupied. Blankets tangled among the whisper of skin; I love you on hushed sighs. A complete un-anchoring from reality.
His fingers combed into the hair at your temple—not pulling, but firm. A heel to hold you closer still for the sharp angle of his hips to coax your release.
It came hard on a shattered breath, a devouring wave that built and eddied, built and eddied, pulling with it the last of grief’s tendrils from where they’d rooted too deep.
He held you while you rode through it, his hand anchoring into the flesh of your hip as he followed moments later on a broken exhale, hips stuttering, your name a prayer.
You captured it with a gentle bite, a stroke of your tongue, and he claimed you in return—a deep, grounding kiss.
Chests heaving, your eyes met in the comedown, your noses brushing as he pulled back, his thumb stroking gentle lines along your jaw. It stopped at the curve of your lower lip, pushing lightly.
No words, but the silence wasn’t empty.
Then, his arm, wrapping like a vice but softer around your middle to tug you again flush to him, back to chest, his thigh splitting yours. Grounding you there like distance was a threat.
"I've got ya," he murmured, a warm graze of his lips against your neck.
All you could do was nod, fingers intertwining with his across your stomach.
Grief, exhaustion, everything unspoken, had lost its hold. Not gone. Just… displaced. A pause where it wasn’t winning anymore.
Not with him.
a/n: maybe self-indulgent idk
Fem Asmo design finally
I draw her so rarely but think about her identity issues so often
One more outfit that I could finish if I weren't a coward
if I ever tell you “lmk what you think if you read/play/watch it!” I am firmly inviting you to send me a play by play minute by minute cataloguing of your thoughts about The Thing
We can never go back to that very first time experiencing something except through the eyes of another
personally I’m thinking about Leon S. Kennedy eating you out and as time goes on his breathing gets progressively shorter and shallower and his eyebrows are pinching upwards more and he’s losing the hold he had on his moans from before

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Happy Birthday to the silliest guy ever 🎉💚
"ʟᴏᴏᴋ, ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴅᴏɴᴇ....ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ɢᴏ ᴏᴜᴛ?"
In every universe w these two 💚💙
Ref
Shayne as Crash Benreu
OH MY GOD IT'S REAL
Leon Kennedy in Resident Evil Requiem 11/??

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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clip studio paint : hi you can create complex and detailed drawings of ocs with me! or do realistic animations! me: leon
shower.
leon kennedy x wife!reader : none
she was a woman of habit. she did the same routine each day. maybe the products changed, but the scents were all similar. she always smelt of vanilla, especially when she was fresh out of the shower.
she had just exited their bathroom, just in her panties and a stolen shirt, still brushing her hair.
"do you wanna go out for milkshakes? i want a milkshake," she stated, wandering to turn on her little candle warmer on her nightstand.
when she approached the bed, he got a whiff of her. she smelt like vanilla icing. she reeked of it.
"whatever you wanna do, honey," he whispered, hand reaching over to grab her thigh, tugging her onto the bed.
"or maybe you can just make me one," she stated, tossing her hair brush aside.
"in a few minutes," he muttered, shoving his nose into her chest. she smelt so good, so much like herself. sure, he had met other women that smelt like vanilla, but it was never the same as her.
she laughed, fingers running through his hair.
"you're getting gray hairs," she teased.
"i wonder who's causing them..." he retorted gently, nose brushing against the base of her neck.
"people at work?" she asked.
"yeah, honey," he replied softly. leon knew well she was playing stupid, but he was too busy memorizing her scent once again to care.
little drabble bc i got a new body scrub and i lwk smell like vanilla heaven rn