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cherubify · 13 hours

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i loved beta reading for this!! tysm for letting me read + listen to ur ideas for this aoidaiohda i love (leon's) monster cock!!

now playing: <fucking your demons (literally)> 00:00/1:30:00

starring: re4r demon (?)/Leon x recluse-ish/reader

MDNI + tw: horror, dubcon/noncon, smut, masturbation, bad mental health depictions, implied trauma/abuse, corruption, angst, monster fucking, creampie (?), blood and pain depictions, squirting, toxic

☆ star's note: special thanks to @cherubify for beta reading ❤️ this was inspired by that one convo i had with @dilfloving ages ago about monster fucking LOL hope yall enjoy 🫶

☆ starlets: @mrswint3rs @ghostsghoul @elihii @iixtsmee @admirxation @ressespearlz @shiawaseorii @rigorwhoring @sqiim @localkiss @d10nyx @valslullaby @bonnibuckets

you remember the funeral clear as day. you were seated near the front, forced into stiff black clothes you would never wear in other instances. speaker after speaker went and droned on and on about what great people your parents were, how they would be missed, and how sad you were about losing them. well…at least how sad you were supposed to be because you didn’t feel anything really. your eyes kept flitting to the clock behind the podium where the next speaker stood, time was oozing by relentlessly and your leg bouncing began to worsen.

“so will the daughter please stand in front here to present a eulogy for the two deceased?”

it sounded so far away. everything did. a sharp pinch in your side snapped you out of it. grandma was sat next to you and her eyes bored holes into your own sockets. the bouncing of your legs ceased immediately. she pointedly looked at the podium and turned towards you, a gesture for you to get up there and give a parting speech for your dead parents. even grandma wasn’t crying so why did you have to? the only good thing they had ever done for you was leaving the house and life insurance behind.

you staggered forward in a daze, feeling your feet drag up the stairs of the podium. you watched your fingers whiten as you gripped onto the wood and winced as the interference rang sharp through the echoing space. the faces that stared up at you were fuzzing and melting together. they were bored, upset, angry, judging, and melding together like hot metal. your skin crawled and you felt queasy. you could hear your breath blowing into the mic like some sort of loser creep breathing down their victim’s neck. your vision blurred and you retched, hurling to the side of the podium. some people rushed up towards you, noses scrunched and eyes filled with disgust hidden within the sheer veil of sympathy.

and then you were home. you don’t know how long you stood in your doorway smelling like vomit and patheticness. grandma had dropped you off, refusing to even look at you when she did. you had never been a sight for sore eyes. rather, you induced eye soreness. so you shrugged off your stiff constricted clothes and kicked it to the side leaving you in a loose tank top and shorts you hadn’t bothered to take off earlier when grandma made you put on all of those presentable grieving clothes. you shuffled to your bedroom, the only place in that whole house that had felt even remotely like home to you and plopped on your worn and creaking gaming chair.

even in their death, your habit of locking your room door behind you stayed. their death meant that you were free but you had always been good at trapping yourself in your own head. you could make intangible threats feel like physical hands around your throat and your demons come alive. you slipped on your headphones, fingers moving on autopilot as it clacked across your dusty greasy keyboard. the familiar four letter word on an incognito browser popped up and results loaded up. you sighed, sinking deeper into your chair and spreading your legs. your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts and began sliding into your dry folds.

moaning and panting began to fill your ears as the two actors on screen began to get it on. the man was rutting into the woman like a beast in heat, grunting and drooling like one too. and the woman was mewling with such a shrill intensity, cowling with her back arched as loud plapping sounds echoed in their filming room. her eyes were rolled back and her neck was tilted back from how he yanked her hair with every thrust. your fingers toyed with your clit, rubbing circles, giving it pinches, tugs, everything you could think of to start the slick flowing so that you could thrust into your dry cunt less painfully.

video after video played and your clit was beginning to get sore. nothing was oozing out. your face scrunched in frustration. with one hand, you began to scour through catalogues of every genre. soft porn wasn’t working and neither were rougher sex videos. even those borderline illegal ones weren’t doing it. this must be god’s way of punishing you for wanting to jerk off right after your parents’s funeral. you groaned in exasperation. the need was there but your body was refusing you the fruits of your labour. so you forced your fingers down your throat, gagging and coughing to coat it with the perfect type of saliva. the one that was slippery enough.

you pulled it out, watching the stretch of dribble down your lips and onto your clothes. the slipperiness slipped easily between the fold of your cunt and you began thrusting it upwards, teeth gritting at the burn from how dry it is and from the stretch. you never got used to it. you began thrusting, fingers curling aimlessly within your cunt to find that sweet spot everybody talks about. your face was all scrunched and you began to get wetter. your fingers grazed against a spot that made you shudder so you continued curling against it.

“you’re a useless child.”

“why aren’t you smart enough?”

“we are literally stuck in an unhappy marriage because of you.”

“i should have aborted you when i had the chance.”

“if only you were a son, maybe i would understand you better.”

the whispers were finally fading out, the glares, the pain, and the sounds of banging doors dissolved into nothing. your stomach began to coil. tighter and tighter. you bit the back of your free hand as your hips bucked desperately against your fingers, grasping and clawing at the high that was beginning to peak. and then it snapped and you came. harder than you had in a while. your chest rose and fell rapidly, head filling with cotton and heart slamming against your ribs. your eyelids grew heavier and heavier. this was the only way you could sleep.

even if it was just for a moment, you felt a warmth akin to an embrace as you fell asleep. what you assumed an embrace felt like anyway.

as your heaving slowed and bluelight from your monitor cradled your face and wispy lashes, you fail to notice the glowing eyes from the corner of the room. a silhouette shrouded in thick black smoke filling into the room, dragging along with it the feeling of impending doom and horrors beyond mankind’s imagination. it began gliding closer to you, your monitor screen growing static and the room dropping in temperature.

you shivered a little, teeth chattering slightly as he closed in. clawed fingers emerged from the black shrouds and traced over your features with a gentle curiousity. the creature’s head tilted as it observed the way you were sleeping. neck bent awkwardly, one hand down your shorts, and a…sweet smell. a long black tongue like appendage ran itself across his sharp canines. you smelled sweet. so much so that he could taste it.

tiny tendrils of smoke erupted from his clawed fingers seeping itself into your mind. he groaned as he skimmed through your thoughts, eating at your every memory and filling up the chewed up holes with more pain and hurt. you brows drew into a scowl and your face scrunched. he grins. you’ve always looked beautiful in a tragic way. the more pain he filled you with the more nightmarish the world in your head becomes. but you must have wanted this all along because after all, you were the one that kept feeding off your essence and pain to him.

he watched cold pearls of sweat bead at your hairline and your breathing grow erratic. did he overdo it again? he couldn’t help himself…you always looked so pretty waking up all disoriented and exuding that…that feeling that he had grown to miss over the years. fear. he longed to hear your voice that you had locked away for far too long. a scream, a yell, and those sweet whimpers you let out when you watch those brain melting human films of them mating with one another. he let out a loud guttural moan that sounded like a million shards of glass exploding and yet nothing at the same time. a million voices all melded into one.

he pressed his cold smoky lips against your hairline, black tongue darting to capture the beads of sweat that felt. he whispered straight into your mind.

“you’re mine.”

you woke up gasping and choking for air, fingers clawing at your throat. your nose was stuffed and your head felt like it had been split in half by a hatchet. your vision swam and there was blood, all over the front of your tank top. you were panting frantically, fingers reaching up to your nose and pulling away covered in a sticky crimson that dripped down your forearms. you felt your chest tighten and then your vision darkened.

you wake up the next day, coughing. an unexplainable throbbing in your head and an ache in your ribs. and there was also the blood. lots of it down the front of your tank top and even on your shorts. must have slept weird and slammed your head onto the desk or something. you groaned and dragged yourself to the bathroom.

time seemed to ebb away from then. oozing past your grasp and you’re always a second too late. you’d blink and it’d be day. another blink and it’s night. the only thing telling you the day and date was the small little rectangle on the bottom of your monitor but the dust, it was beginning to pile.

the only thing you remember is flashes of your favourite game that had become a routine activity, brain rotting videos that you simply scrolled down endlessly on autopilot, and then jacking off so that you could sleep. it was the only time you could get that perpetual quease in your stomach to settle and your head to be freed from the reign of all the memories you wish would have been kept under lock and key from your own mind.

the nosebleed hadn’t happened in a while now but the feverish cold and the paranoia never left. you needed to fix the heater. you made a mental note but with each passing day, the note gets murkier and murkier. there was something wrong about this house. something or someone was watching you. you could see flashes of dark shadows in your peripherals that disappear whenever you turned. no matter how fast you whipped around. and then there were those eyes that stared at you in the dark when your eyes were bleary from sleep. eyes so blue and void they made your skin crawl.

there was also that one time you were washing your face and then your ears started ringing. when you looked into the mirror you saw him. pale skin, soft blonde hair, and blue eyes. you froze, scream dying in your throat. he was beautiful and oh so familiar. and then he grinned inhumanly wide, baring teeth that glinted and dripped with tendrils of black smoke as he unhinged his jaws beyond anything humanly possible. his being shrouds in smoke and you shriek. so loud that you were sure it would alert your neighbours. or someone. but…nobody came.

you hadn’t felt this way in awhile. you hadn’t felt anything really but the fear that gripped you with every passing day was growing to be too much. jerking off was no longer helping. sleeping always ended up with paralysis as those blue eyes and that haunting face keeps coming closer and closer. so you shakily picked up your dusty home phone, and clicked numbers that felt so foreign to you. grandma would come to help, right? you were family after all. she had to. you needed to get out of there now. you needed help-

“the number that you have dialled is not available.”

the robotic voice repeated over and over into your ears as you trembled and shook.

“fuck! fuck! fuck! pick up grandma. please. please…”

you whispered, eyes tearing up. and then the line grew static. that ring in your ears started again and you pushed your fingers into your ears. your heart was pounding and you started running to the door, ignoring the burn from muscle disuse. your fingers latched onto the doorknob, another hand shakily undoing the locks.

“you’re leaving?”

his words hit you with an agonising pain that made you nauseous, you gagged. crimson droplets dripped endlessly from your nose. your head felt like it was going to explode from the amount of pressure.1

“get out of my head! please!”

you shriek in agony, vision blurring with tears as you doubled over coughing. you could taste the blood in your mouth.

“this is the only way to speak to you, darling.”

the creature or man or whatever it was that stood before you tilted his head. he looked almost hurt and confused by your anger. you felt like someone had poured a cold bucket of ice down the back of your shirt. darling? what the fuck is going on?

“s-stay back! you have to stay back!!”

you yell with a waver as he stepped closer, plumes of black smoke lining his every step.

“you don’t remember me.”

he spoke into your head again, the pain almost blinding you once more. remember? you don’t…remember…? he placed a clawed hand onto your head, the cold surface of his hand making you shiver. and then you saw him. that blonde boy who sat by your hunched over crying figure every night when you were little. he would hold your hand and keep your doors locked. he would shut your ears when they banged on your doors, and he would lap at your wounds when they hurt you. tears brewed in your eyes and they rolled warmly down your blood smeared cheeks. Leon.

you remembered him now.

and then the warm golden memories began to dim and flashes of you growing up began to play. how the light in your eyes faded to nothing, how you would immerse yourself in games for day, how you would continue to neglect and lose yourself down a spiral of self hatred and hatred for the world. how apathy took the light out of everything for you, how Leon began to fade despite how he begged you to listen. how he was hurting because you were hurting. all of it fell on deaf ears, you could no longer see or hear or connect with him. you were both disconnected from each other, spiralling into an agony of your doing.

you watched yourself through his eyes, how his love and care for you began to be shrouded with determination to reach you again. how he began to feed off of your hate and pain, gagging at the taste of the black and red essence that he continued to guzzle down. he had to reach you. he had to. even if it meant his eyes losing it’s shine, his angelic shimmer turning into dark murky smoke, and his skin losing all the warmth that he once held you with. he no longer cringed away from the taste, he had grown addicted. if this was the love you chose to feed him, he would happily accept it. long for it even. all if it means he can reach you again. his little darling.

all you felt was guilt, the tears and the blood running down your face had become one. you curled in on yourself, body pressed against the hard cold floor. sob after sob wrecked through your broken form.

“i’m sorry, Leon. i’m so sorry…”

you mumbled with barely any coherence. he watches you with a distant look before laying by your side and wrapping his cold arms around you. his smoke enveloped you in a cold that set off every alarm in your body, filling you with dread but you simply held on.

and then he began to lap at your tears, long blackened appendage swiping at the mixture of blood and tears as his claws jabbed uncomfortably against your body. his whole being seemed to shift and change without ration. and then his tongue swiped against your lips. he began to lean in closer.

“let me take care of you, darling.”

your eyes rolled as he spoke and in your pained state, he slipped his tongue between your lips and began kissing you. his sharp canines pricked at your lips and his tongue was shoved down your throat so far you could barely breathe. your fingers pressed at his shoulders trying to get a breath but he continued claws lightly scratching your skin as it trailed lower. the dread at the pits of your stomach was becoming overwhelming.

“L-leon what are you doing?”

your voice trembled as he materialised long tendrils of smoke which began to seep beneath your shirt. he hiked it up with one tentacle while the other two began to caress at your tits. you flinched at the cold. he wordlessly dipped his head to bury his face into your chest. he had mini tendrils growing from his main ones, tugging at your nipples and pulling them as he ran his tongue over it.

“ngh Leon what-”

he shoved two fingers down your throat, gagging you effectively as it massaged your tongue. it tasted like nothing, just pressure. as you instinctively sicked on his fingers, another tentacle began to tug at your waistband. your fingers curled into the floor as it rubbed at your warm folds.

“so sweet. need more.”

his voice in your head sounded strained. you let out a cry everytime he spoke, blood continuously streaming. the pain felt like throbbing behind your eyes. a purr like sound emanated from him, his blue eyes stared at you as he took both your nipples into his mouth. his sharp teeth sunk into them making you cringe and hiss as he licks the pain anf blood away. just like he used to in the past. always lapping at your wounds like a loyal dog.

his tentacle in your pants began to spread your folds at the same time he sat up and spread your legs. the amount of tentacles were dizzying and the cold was making your teeth chatter. your legs were spread and you were bare as he knelt between them. you watched his tongue flit out of his mouth as he began to bury his face into your soaked cunt. he gave your inner thigh a bite that made you whimper before stuffing his inhumanly long tongue up your cunt. it was coarse and it reached into you like you had never felt before.

his eyes were fixed on yours as his tongue continued to fuck into you, curling relentlessly against your sweet spot over and over, eliciting mewls and whines from your throat. and when he pulled away with strings of your slick bridging his mouth and your cunt, you felt empty. he seemed to relish in the taste of you as his tongue returned to his mouth, eyes closed and a soft keening sound that sounded like multiple voices from his core erupted. your ears began to ring again but the bliss from having your hole tongued relentlessly was making it all fuzzy.

something cold and large pressed against your folds. your eyes widened in your haze and he grins at you as he loomed over your frame. you freeze as it began to press into you, tip stretching you out and the rest beginning to bully it’s way into your sopping hole.

“jesus! Leon s’too big! fuck i-”

incoherent babbles spilled and dribbled from your bloody lips along with drool. he began thrusting into you, canines latched onto your collar bones. his other tentacles pressed against your ass, your tits, and even in your mouth. they all felt like cold pressure making home within you. your back began to arch as he pulled one orgasm after another from your shaking form.

his tentacle dipped into your lower stomach and you began to feel a push on your womb. he was pressing it down to meet the thrusts of his cock (?) as he growled against the shell of your ear. you began to see stars and your voice was choked.

“mine. mine. mine. you’re perfect, darling.”

throbbing pain, blood, your vision was darkening and the pleasure was too much. you squirted all over his form and felt him twitch before he filled you up with something that felt cold and sent your nerves into a frenzy. he smiles at you, canines peeking and you found your hazy mind follow suit. his rough fingers swiped away the blood that had dripped from your nose and pooled on your upper lip. he licked his fingers and curled around you like a satisfied cat would, enveloping your body in his cold one. you felt so full, cold ooze leaking down your thighs. it felt like a permanent weight of anxiety had pooled at the pits of your stomach.

and as you laid there, head throbbing and blank with cold substances leaking out of you, you felt empty. helpless and filled with a despair like no other. this was your fault after all. you had made your bed and now you had to lie in it. he gently strokes your hair, filling your senses with fight or flight as blood and tears dribbled down your face.

“we’re finally together again, darling. just us against everything. the way it’s supposed to be.”

and in despair’s embrace you found a semblance of comfort. a warmth in his freezing touches and a void to fill the caverns of your chest. you were never meant for a happy ending but at least, you weren’t alone anymore.

#🔖:inarecs:#leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #cw: smut #cw: hardcore #cw: monsterfucking #minors dni #yes i said it on main #no i dont feel ashamed

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cherubify · 8 days

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the best finale for a series- what a way to end it! i love the mentions of cognitive dissonance, and i loved peering into his mind, seeing what led to all this. loved the depiction of the reader going thru the trauma n struggle of processing it all + coming to terms wif it. it circled back to the start, to the reader's mama n how it all began. n also how both the reader and leon will hav to live on convincing themselves that they are both good people, though for different yet similar reasons. loved this series so much, em! <3 thank you for your hard work! this was amazing and will live on in my brain til i return to the earth as dust and ash.

SHOULD’VE BEEN A SON, finale!

MDNI, corrupt cop/dad!leon kennedy x fem! reader

word count. 6.5k

cws. daddy-daughter incest, noncon (m receiving), discussions of past noncon, p in v, unprotected, gunplay, death threats, coercion, slapping/hitting, degradation, allusions to death, intoxication, references to suicide

note. happy sbas sunday!! i did not mean to make this so long, honestly — illness kicked my ass for a second but we’re back!! a million thank-yous to all of my readers — your input and attention means more than i can express. love y’all!!

tags. @bunnyclaire , @leonseyeliner , @sqiim , @xoxostarlet , @d10nyx , @ressespearlz , @shiawaseorii , @wherenymphsroam , @arminsbf , @localkiss , @admirxation , @bonnibuckets , @lilyberrythoughtss , @boredmantaray , @argreion , @mrswint3rs , @fairry1 , @valslullaby

index. [pt. 1] [pt. 2] [pt. 3] [pt. 4] [pt. 5] [Bonus.]

Chatter rang strong from the RPD’s West Office. Hums of the upcoming day off. There’d been an influx of rookies, some strange rekindling of justice’s allure. Leon paid it little mind. Rookies were rightfully understood as wet behind the ears. Gifted with the sort of optimism you couldn’t put a tax on. If anything, he was thankful to be rid of the label. Didn’t suit him well since he’d drawn Irons’s attention.

Amongst the buzz, Leon slipped into the hall overlooking the dark room — nodding to his superior as he approached.

“Lieutenant Branagh? You wanted to see me?”

Marvin looked up, gaze stern. Brow furrowed in a sort of exasperated disappointment. “Yeah, I did,” he sighed, unsure how to begin. He cleared his throat, gaze slowly trailing to Leon’s. “I’m leaving the RPD. Just cleaned out my desk.”

Leon shifted his weight to the heel, lips parting in bewilderment. “Lieutenant, you…” he started, unsure where to continue. He gave up rather quickly, shaking his head in disbelief as he spoke again: “Why?”

He sighed, letting the motion muffle itself behind closed lips. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” he asked, nodding briefly to the chief’s quarters. Leon noticed him keeping the motion subtle — not that he didn’t understand. Irons prompted a sense of unease within just about anyone with an amygdala, and the RPD seemed to relearn it daily. “Bastard’s got this place in a chokehold. He’s getting older every day, y’know?”

Leon chewed on his bottom lip. Had he been spending too much time with Irons as of late? Being old wasn’t much of a crime. It should be, he’d declared to friends over gas station beer. They’d dreamt of champagne, but come Leon’s first day, they’d not saved enough for it — even in a celebratory context. Long was his second day’s hangover, but before then, he’d decided that the geriatric fools handling the finances of higher education ought to be stopped. Escorted back to their nursing homes. Wasn’t fair for him to bear the fruits of incompetence — until the tree itself was displaced. Rather, until he was displaced. The rookies fell beneath Irons, now — he got to reap what bubbled at the top.

Marvin gave him a minute to respond, but he didn’t. He didn’t know quite what to say. A year ago, he would’ve agreed — but that was before he garnered favoritism from the geriatric fools. Now, he profited from the system. Wasn’t worth criticizing anymore. Marvin only seemed to get it when Leon averted his gaze.

“I’m saying this is wrong, Kennedy,” he said, slowing the sentence. “I’m saying that Irons isn’t retiring. You know what that means? I’ll be covering up patchwork taxidermy till I retire if I stay here.”

“It’s a hobby,” Leon defended — the sentence coming out a little harsher than he’d aimed for. Nothing Marvin hadn’t already suspected. “Keeps his mind sharp.”

“Verbatim,” Marvin chuckled, low and humorless in his chest. “Christ, son… you’ve gotta get away from that man.”

“He’s not hurting anyone,” Leon argued, glancing down at his badge like it was going to defend him. “I don’t see why this matters, Lieutenant. The station’s fine, the city’s fine, we’re fine. A stuffed tiger’s not gonna take your job.”

“You know it’s more than that,” Marvin said, voice intensifying with his gaze. “You were in the office when she came in to file.”

Leon’s eyes darted instinctively to the woman in question — a rookie behind the glass that Irons had taken abrupt interest in. Not the sort he took in Leon after noticing that he was a strong boy who knew when to keep quiet. She’d garnered the immediate sort. The sort Leon’s mother had discouraged exhibiting before her demise.

And, shit, Marvin made sense for a moment. She’d looked scared that day — Leon hadn’t gotten the report directly, but he’d heard the way her voice ebbed and rasped. He’d seen the way the whites of her eyes made themselves more prominent than her pupils. Her hands trembled a little when they had something to hold onto. They trembled a lot when she couldn’t even grasp her own. And he’d known what happened, in time — managed to catch ‘Irons’ from behind the door. They spoke quietly; the word was just repeated often.

“What did you tell her?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly. Marvin glanced at the girl, avoiding eye contact for a moment as he cleared his throat.

“I told her to get the hell away from here,” he admitted, shaking his head. “In any other instance, I could’ve arrested the bastard. Made sure he didn’t get the chance to make good on those threats. But I knew I wasn’t gonna have any power here…” he sighed, eyes suddenly downcast. “Only way I’ll get the power needed for this job is to defend him. That’s why I’ve decided to leave.”

Leon clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, unsure what to say. Marvin was right. That girl wasn’t safe. It’d be better if she sought alternative employment. He’d never have to see that report — he could go back to sifting through the cases of sexual assault that he’d managed to detach himself from.

But he didn’t want to lose Lieutenant Branagh. When Irons ran him dry during that first week, Marvin took over the patrols he personally deemed excessive. Coached him when he froze. His friendship with Irons, while it was good to feel important, was political.

Marvin sighed again, seeming to recognize that Leon had drifted a little too deep into the role. “You’re not a bad man, Kennedy. You just can’t expect it to stay that way if you keep eating straight from his hand.”

That was the last time the two spoke, but in Leon’s mind, the conversation looped. Leon found himself muttering the first sentence under his breath often. The one he wanted to remember. The one he still wanted to be true.

“You’re not a bad man, Kennedy,” rang through his head as he helped Irons forge the third incident report of the week as faulty. He’d gotten a little better at it — Irons was going senile, surely. You couldn’t go overboard when trying to make a victim seem malicious or insane. A little did it when you worked at the RPD.

“You’re not a bad man, Kennedy,” hummed with the cars as he decided which of Irons’s enemies to fine excessively for fictional speeding. It felt stupid, carrying around that notepad, but at least it helped him keep his false charges straight.

“You’re not a bad man, Kennedy,” carried itself with the wind as he stumbled across the same girl that had fled with Marvin one night. Speeding down a backroad after a particularly bad shift. Leon had been having a rough week — hell, a rough month. Being Irons’s lapdog was increasingly developing into a burden, rather than a privilege. Still, her features softened in relief when the shadows cast away from his face. Unaware that Irons had instilled a little bit of himself in Leon’s brain. A parasite, slowly eating away at his frontal lobe. Leaving bits of his brain in shambles. The bits one would need most to be a good cop.

Leon had liked Psychology enough in school. The Academy had required its students to be well-versed in the brain’s mechanisms — after all, how was one supposed to police what they couldn’t understand? Not that Leon understood well enough to avoid a criminal’s psyche. As much as he’d generally forgotten, one lesson still stuck out to him, perhaps at random — the phenomenon of cognitive dissonance. The lecture that rang through his ears as he stared into the former rookie’s eyes.

On one hand, he knew his strength. He knew that this woman, albeit strong in her own right, had the sort of frame he could splay across the hood of a car. Or a tree. Or the asphalt. He knew that he was pent. The still-hard-post-masturbation sort of pent. And he knew that the woman before him was pretty enough to get the job done.

But on the other hand, wasn’t he supposed to be a cop? Wasn’t he supposed to cuff the men with these sorts of thoughts and interrogate them till they cried? Leon wasn’t supposed to be a rapist — he was supposed to be some sort of savior. But he’d failed to be one in the face of the police chief’s harassment, and now, he had to decide if he wanted to fail this woman again.

The thing about cognitive dissonance is, he realized, that it’s impossible for it to last long. Sometimes it’s a gradual process — sometimes it’s an instantaneous switch. Either way, the contradiction demanded to be eased. He either apologized to that woman and kept his dick far away from where it wasn’t wanted, or somehow justified it to himself. Turn rape into a mistake, rather than a felony. Hardly anyone wants to be a bad person, him included.

“You’re not a bad man, Kennedy,” buzzed with the hospital’s ventilation as he looked newborn you in the eyes for the first time — seeing enough of your mother in them to make him sick. He hardly had an excuse for that. Hell, she had all the reason in the world to shove you off into his arms and

It should’ve stopped with that gathering at the RPD, but it didn’t. He’d seen her again on the side of the road. And again at his front door. And again at the hospital, you in tow. And again in his bed. And again, and again, and again. He let her haunt him for awhile. It was the least he could do. Regurgitating the same quote wasn’t enough, sometimes, so he kept a log of his charity — until guilt became an afterthought.

It didn’t feel like anything, you realized abruptly. Having sex didn’t feel like anything.

Your friends had conveniently remembered you tonight. The bar they often occupied had a deal each Saturday — the Night Out special. If you came with a group of five or more, you’d get one round of free drinks per person. Their fifth had gotten into a particularly nasty fight recently — and while you’d typically argue that alcohol could numb the ache, you weren’t one to deny long-forsaken socialization. So you tugged on a coat, shook the dust off of your car keys, and drove out to meet them — fully prepared to be cast as their designated driver.

You didn’t care for this bar much. They liked it because the staff were relaxed to a nearly absurd degree — hell, you’d never even caught sight of an ID being retrieved here. But the music was shitty and the social scene was shittier. The room reeked of alcohol poisoning and sexual desperation. Your friends, as expected, largely cast you aside in favor of discussing their own affairs, leaving you to soak up the atmosphere. And soak it up you did. Every last drop of shoddy service and grime.

“Whatcha drinking?” a deep voice resonated behind you — suddenly enough to make you flinch. Everything seemed to make you flinch nowadays, sure, but this was a little more justified. You put a hand over your heart to steady it. He laughed. You found yourself laughing with him.

“Uh… Coke,” you’d said when the breathiness subsided. Took a second for you to remember — you’d hardly consumed any of it. He glanced over to your friends, seeming to connect the dots.

“Mmh. You’re designated driver. Mind if I have a seat?”

You shook your head, gesturing that the stool to your left was open. Truthfully, the one to your right was, too, but you hoped one of your friends would move back into it. Disclusion could be a memory, if they let it die, but they seemed to shift one space away from you anytime you inclined yourself toward them.

He inhaled, taking a long drink from his glass. You hadn’t encountered polite attention from men in a long time, now. You hadn’t met a man who looked at you like you meant something in months. And hell, if he was buttering you up by coaxing you into talking about the hobbies you used to enjoy, you accepted it, because that felt like normalcy — and lord knows you needed more of that as of late.

So when he asked to fuck you, you said yes.

He was conventionally attractive. Roughly your age — perhaps a couple years your senior. Let you work out a little arrangement to fuck, drive your wasted friends home, come back to his apartment, and fuck again. Held the door open for you on the way out of the bar. Laughed at your jokes about your friends ditching you. Bare minimum shit. But ‘bare minimum’ seldom described men today, you’d come to find. Courtesy had shriveled, paused to dig its own grave, climbed in, and silently died before the body could be found. Thank God, you thought, legs crossed in the passenger side of his car.

Problem was, you’d never really had consensual sex. That occurred to you as you shifted on the mattress beneath him, watching his brows furrow as he spoke: “Are you comfortable?” And you were. For once in your goddamn life, you were. His body felt big in the way a weighted stuffed animal did, not a hydraulic press.

And you liked kissing him. Aesthetically, anyway. You liked the way his stubble grazed your cheek and the his tongue slowly integrated itself instead of forcing itself down your throat. You liked the way his finger dipped beneath the elastic of your panties tentatively, the way he locked eyes with you to make sure nothing he did was too fast or too harsh.

But you didn’t want this.

Not in the sense that you were being taken by force. No, that probably would’ve gotten you wet, you realized. When he paused for a moment, seeming to contemplate why you weren’t, you lied and said that you were on antidepressants. Antidepressants would probably do you good, even if they didn’t reverse this. The disconnect. You wanted to revel in the fact that his cock was big and his hands were strong, but unless one of those hands wrapped itself around your throat, you couldn’t. Your father was a sick bastard who’d had the audacity to pass on the sickness.

And you knew that was it. Sex and your father had become entwined in your brain, and by further association, rape had wrapped itself in the guise of pleasure. You didn’t know if it was a coping mechanism or a disorder. A mix of both, probably. But rape was inherently greedy. For now, it wasn’t a matter of having a kink. It wasn’t a porn category you’d pray the network didn’t pick up on. To your mind, rape was sex, and consent wasn’t anything meaningful. Consent wasn’t what was supposed to get you off, anymore. Consent made you zone out, somehow, and when you came to, a man other than your father was pulling out of you.

So, of course you didn’t cum.

“You’re satisfied?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion as you fixed yourself up in the bathroom. Clean, you noted, hurrying to clip your bra and ensure the neckline of your dress was even. It felt wrong, lying to such a gentleman, but you’d been coerced into burying the truth next to the grave you were digging for yourself. It’s not like you could tell him what really got you off, so you settled for a ‘mhm!’

He gave you a look. Like he didn’t really believe you. Probably thought you were following customs you’d inherited from some patriarchal nightmare. “The female orgasm is a myth” sort of bullshit. You offered him another smile, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you, I had a nice time…” you said quietly. You meant it, for once. He seemed to believe that much.

“Yeah, uh… of course. You leaving?” he asked, nodded briefly to the hand you’d sneaked to his doorknob. You bit your lip, shifting your weight awkwardly between each foot. Exposed in half a second.

“Yeah…” you chuckled, unable to convert the awkwardness into anything more palatable — leaving it to uncomfortably marinate in the air. “I don’t want my friends to try and go home without me. They’re probably already pissed.” (That wasn’t a lie. They were probably pissed.)

He didn’t ask if you planned to come back after — the door didn’t lock behind you as you closed it. It was open, should you choose to come back and rejoin him, but there was a mutual understanding that you wouldn’t. That this sort of connection wasn’t for you, as much as it could’ve been.

As you drove back, drunken friend group crammed into the backseat, you thought of him and the way he seemed to regard you. Sheer guilt concealed his name, but he was warmer than you remembered men could be. The kind of man that Mama would probably want you to marry, if she was still around. And you could hear him, too, laughing over the table that had only seemed to get colder with every year that she was gone.

You could’ve married that man, maybe. If not him, someone like him. If your father hadn’t done something unforgivable to you, that would’ve been your first time. It could’ve been soft and slow. Could’ve been something beautiful. You’d understand why they called it ‘making love’ instead of failing to understand why your father would rip your body to shreds. If your father hadn’t ruined your perception of intimacy, you could still be capable of it.

You clenched the wheel, anger bubbling up in the way your pillow usually stifled. You weren’t exactly sure what to do with yourself. Maybe you should’ve been getting out more. Tried to find new ways to diffuse your anger before it pooled like this.

You ended up slamming the car door a little too hard once you pulled in, disappointed that you’d forced yourself to go home. Disappointed that you’d forced yourself to be realistic, after all — even when reality incessantly oscillated between drab and horrific.

You waved to your dad out of courtesy as you stepped in, somewhat disturbed by his presence — he wasn’t one to sit up and wait for you. Although, you weren’t exactly one to go out much anymore.

“Where the hell were you?” he slurred, trying to lift his chin enough to get a good look at you. Didn’t work — the muscles in his neck refused to stiffen accordingly, slumping him back over. Heavy lids drooped over his blue eyes — you couldn’t tell if his gaze was meant to convey lust or sluggishness. The latter, you rationalized, even as your gut pleaded you to reconsider.

“I was out with friends,” you muttered, tossing your bag onto the table. He winced in the dark as your keys came into contact with the wood, shoulders flitting upward — as if that would do anything to block the sound. Thankfully, he’d rendered himself pathetic while you were gone.

He thought on it for a moment, taking longer than he usually did to produce a sentence. Hopefully, you thought, his mind was starting to go, just like that police chief’s had when you were young. Unfortunately, you found the true culprit of his mugginess before the fantasy could blossom to fruition — a half-downed bottle of vodka. You’d been wondering when he was gonna drink that. Pondered drinking it yourself more than you’d like to admit, but your father wasn’t the sort to show you kindness.

“You’ve got friends?” he chuckled, the sound rasping a bit in his throat. “Figured you would’ve gone off with one of ‘em when things got bad around here.”

“I tried,” you narrowed your eyes in the dark, unsure why you were mentioning this in the first place. “I reached out. Then you decided to record yourself fucking me in my sleep.”

His face seemed to still in shock for a moment, like he’d genuinely forgotten — before his expression relaxed again. “Mhm…” he mumbled, the corners of his mouth upturning slightly. “You still keep that Polaroid?”

“I don’t want you to disperse it while I’m gone,” you admitted, suddenly very aware of the photo’s presence in your wallet. Your eyes darted to it on the table, and he laughed — mental acuity suddenly regained, in part.

“You keep it in there,” he realized, glancing from your own wallet to his on the coffee table. “I’ve got one of my own. If I wanted to show your tits off to my friends, I would’ve done it already.”

Something about that made your blood boil. Scalded your veins a bit too much to feign indifference. You’d almost gotten used to the way he talked down to you while raping you — but for him to brush off the event with such casualty outside of it had always chipped at your patience. You couldn’t respond to him, mouth suddenly dryer than it’d been in a few days.

“Were you looking to get hammered?” he asked, seemingly unable to compute that his daughter had a life (ish) and friends (ish) outside of him. “You look fine. Saw your car pull in straight.”

“I’m not an idiot,” you spat back, starting toward your room — too infuriated to be around him at all. He straightened a little, registering that you were leaving.

“Hey, no, not done talkin’ to you…” he slurred, as if you two were somehow acquaintances. Drinking buddies, if he still thought you’d had anything to drink. You turned around with a scoff, eyes catching his hastily-discarded equipment in the corner. Bastard probably planned to get shitfaced the moment he changed. The moment his pistol was reasonably far from him. You wished, for the split second before you snapped, that you hadn’t caught sight of the grip — that the gun had remained forever obscured from your thoughts. But it didn’t. Before you could stifle your anger, the same way you’d done a thousand times before, the gun was in your hand.

“Don’t move,” you spat, voice shaky as you stalked toward him. And he stopped when you asked, for once — watching your every move with wide eyes. Only thing he’d dared to do was flinch. You wouldn’t have pulled the trigger over a flinch — surely. That narrative was more comforting than the reverse. And you needed comfort. For his sake, too, you needed to breathe. In half a second, you’d crossed the living room’s rug, pressing the gun flush to his adam’s apple for support as you straddled him. He wheezed, airflow restricted for a moment, stilling once more when your thighs settled themselves over his hips.

“Gonna fuckin’ kill you,” you muttered, pressing the service pistol to his temple and tapping a manicured nail to the trigger. He flinched, ever-so-slightly, each time the tip of your index made contact with the safety — as much as he willed himself to stop. Like a button wired straight to his nervous system. You found it amusing, briefly — but not in the way that could satiate you. Your head was racing too fast for real thoughts to complete themselves, but you’d let one concept cloud your brain — an eye for an eye.

As many times as you’d been raped by this man, you hadn’t quite made a guide on how to rape him back. Consciously. Whatever devil in the opposite hemisphere of your brain was doing just fine while you went on autopilot. Semi-autopilot. You trailed the gun from his temple to the hard line of his mouth, tapping the muzzle between his lips. “Open,” you hummed, letting your hand trail to the button of his jeans. “Nice and easy.”

He parted his lips, letting the barrel slide flat along his tongue — lowering his jaw with a grunt to accommodate the weapon. Seemed like it would taste bitter. Perfect. You silently thanked your friends for getting too drunk to stay out longer — otherwise, you’d have to deal with one of the insufferable belts he’d pair with his uniform, rather than a pair of jeans. Those belts provided a rape alibi by themselves — they were nigh impossible to remove in an efficient manner. Horrid. It disturbed you, for a minute, how easy it was to think of belts while prying your father’s cock from his boxers, wetting your fingers with your own saliva — but only for a moment. You were past rationality. Past being kind to the man who had ruined you.

He grimaced as you forced the gun back further, prompting another wheeze. You held his cock to your palm for a moment, briefly smiling to yourself — sick bastard was getting hard to you doing this. You abruptly shoved the gun back again, feeling him twitch in your hand, precum uselessly drooling against your wrist. At least he knew how to make this easy.

“You’re getting off to this?” you laughed — but you paused for a moment. The voice didn’t quite sound like you. You kept speaking, trying to shove away the dissonance. “You’re getting off to getting raped?”

“No,” he gasped out as you withdrew the gun, airflow suddenly restored. A string of saliva snapped from his tongue to the muzzle. “No, fuck—“

The way he looked at you — all pale and wide-eyed — made you feel sick. Guilt, probably. Satisfaction was a greedy emotion, though, so rather than stopping, you backhanded him as hard as you could muster — pumping his cock as his hips involuntarily bucked into it. Fucker was just like you, at the end of the day. Getting raped got him hard enough to fuck your fist like a fleshlight. Getting hit made precum drip down to the base, as hurt as he looked by it. Maybe it was shame. He was long overdue to feel shame, somehow.

“You’re pathetic,” you hissed, striking him again as you adjusted your panties to the side — tugging them by the gusset. “Real fuckin’ pathetic, asking me to stop—“ you gripped his cock a little harder than necessary, sandwiching the tip between your folds. Shit almost made your legs shake — forcing your father like this to begin with had gotten you wet enough to make your head fuzzy.

“Baby… baby, you don’t have to do this…” he groaned, words slurred a little more heavily than you remembered. You rocked your hips gently, grazing the tip inside for less than a second. His eyelids fluttered, another grunt rising from his throat.

“Your cock doesn’t want me to stop,” you retaliated, dragging the tip up to your throbbing clit — thighs trembling slightly at the tentative nudge. You found yourself tempted, for a moment, to get yourself off with that — but you felt that would spare him a fraction of his dignity. That would defeat the purpose. You wanted him, for once in his fucking life, to crumble as low as you had.

You straightened yourself, sliding yourself down onto his dick — letting him bottom out faster than his mind could take. You were fine, for once. You’d gotten fucked earlier. You could take it. All that mattered was that he couldn’t. His breath staggered, eyes wide as his head fell back — chest rising and falling in a sort of hushed panic. Oddly reminiscent of the way animals go still when they’re scared and hopeless. That didn’t phase you as you slid your hips up to the tip, letting your cunt clench around every overstimulated part of him.

“You happy?” you taunted, breath going a little ragged as you fucked him into the couch. Slick had started to make the motion audible — you’d be embarrassed if you were the victim. “What’s wrong, dad? Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you asked for?”

He opened his mouth, closing it when the pistol was guided back to his temple. As if he would’ve been able to coherently respond to begin with. Tears beaded across his waterline — but you weren’t sure if they were reflexive or emotional. You’d never seen dad cry. Not at mama’s missing reports, not when you moved out, never. Crying solely because he was forced to take what he inflicted was enough to piss you off further, somehow — pussy spasming at the mere sight of humbling him. Your free hand found its way to his throat, gripping around it as you felt yourself throb around him.

That’s all it took for you to cum, ultimately — the sight of his face, somehow more broken than you could’ve fantasized of. You dug your fingernails into his throat, gasping out as your thighs trembled, riding him till your cunt twitched and sex started to hurt. That was your cue. This was for you, not him. If he wanted to jerk off and cry to the bruises you’d left, good on him — that wasn’t why you’d raped him. You eased yourself off of him, dressing yourself before you had to look him in the eye. The orgasm high took most of the anger with it as it faded.

You curled up in bed that night, thoroughly exhausted, leaving him to rot in the living room. Metaphorically, for now.

That sort of post-rape uncleanliness you’d grown so accustomed to typically hit in the mornings — and this case was no exception.

You took the same scalding shower. Scrubbed the same skin raw. Unfortunately, most of the distress came from sheer confusion. You’d been the perpetrator, for once — why were you disgusted with yourself? Didn’t he deserve it?

Confusion gave way to guilt. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process how you’d live for a moment — realizing what you’d done to your father. Wouldn’t this make you two even? Couldn’t you go, finally? Couldn’t you find a therapist in the outskirts of Raccoon and grant shelter to a couple cats?

In the early hours of the morning, that seemed like a wonderful plan. Getting away in general, anyway. You didn’t know if you could bear to face him as you stepped back into the living room to retrieve your bag, heart lurching at the sight of him still there. You capitalized on the prospect of him being out cold for your plan — though, predictably, it was rather short-lived.

You crept by, breath hitching with his as he woke up — chest releasing with his as he cracked his neck. You reached for your bag, dragging it halfway across the table when he finally spoke up.

“Thought you’d be more eager to stay,” he slurred, groaning as he rubbed his temples. “Seemed like you wanted to rub it in my face a little.”

You bit your bottom lip, not anticipating how blunt he’d be about it — regret flaring up in your chest when you noticed the dark bruises strewn across his skin. Like you’d left a bit of yourself into his face when you hit him. Deserved, you reminded yourself, and you knew that you were right, but it didn’t sit well that you’d fallen into this. That you’d resorted to this sort of thoughtless brutality, like he had. You weren’t supposed to be capable of what he was.

It became apparent that you weren’t going to respond, so he made do — he filled in the gaps where conversation should’ve gone by himself. “I realized something, last night…” he mused, looking up at the TV. It’d stayed off for longer than you could remember; the remote’s absence had rendered it more useful as a mirror. He squinted as he spoke, peering into it more deeply. “I look old.”

Your face remained stoic — but you permitted the slightest bit of confusion to downturn your expression. Stepping forward, part of you couldn’t help but agree — between the white hairs sprouting across his scalp and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, he looked older than your mind’s eye had conjured up. Wasn’t anything you’d take much note of, personally — but he seemed nothing short of bewildered.

“I mean, you look… forty-whatever,” you shrugged it off — as if you didn’t remember exactly how old your father was. Of course you did. You hand-made cards for him for every birthday he had, till you turned fifteen and realized it wasn’t reciprocated. You wondered where those cards had found themselves, nowadays — perhaps there was a second box of Playboys you hadn’t encountered. As if you’d go hunting after the first.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, expression tensing in irritation. “I’m saying that I didn’t get it till last night. Knew I was getting older, didn’t know I was looking the part.”

You pursed your lips, unsure if false sympathy would be an adequate apology for sexual assault. He seemed to imply that — but you didn’t particularly want to make amends with your father. You’d been raped more times awake than you could recall off the top of your head, and more times asleep than you could begin to process. So, you settled on: “Oh.”

“Time stopped after I joined the RPD,” he said, glancing back at the uniform, still draped over one of the kitchen chairs. “After about a year in, or so. Maybe two. Around the time I met your mother.”

You paused, suddenly intrigued — sure, it’d been easy to guess what had happened between your parents, but he’d never outright said it. Didn’t mention your mom unless it was to compare you to her. You straightened up a little, arms folding as you implored him to continue. He looked at you for a long moment and sighed, realizing you expected for him to elaborate.

“She was, uh… the first girl I… y’know,” he said, shifting his gaze in discomfort. Only drew discontent from you.

“Raped?” you said, words laced with a bit more venom than anticipated. Not that it wasn’t necessary. “You’ve assaulted your own daughter more times than you can count, but you’re scared of the word rape?”

“No,” he scoffed back. “No, I can say it. I’d rather not, now. Doesn’t feel good to recall.”

You wanted to scream back something at him — about how he was sick, how he was the worst hypocrite you’d had the displeasure of knowing. But the words lodged themselves in your throat. You knew he didn’t deserve your sympathy, but something within you still saw dad in that man. The stupidest fucking part of you, sure — the part that you wanted to cut off and roast over a spit, absolutely, but nonetheless, a part of you. Fuck, you’d hurt dad — you’d done something unforgivable to dad. It wasn’t enough to prompt an apology, but it was enough to cease the will to scream.

“Of course it doesn’t,” you settled on, rationalizing the response. “You don’t think mama felt the same way? You don’t think I feel the same way?”

“I didn’t think at all,” he chuckled. Sounded hollow. “You can’t think after you’ve done that to someone. I wasn’t thinking much at all when I met your mother — just thought about how I could still consider myself a good man after that.”

“First step’s probably not raping another girl,” you muttered, voice bitter as you heard out his attempts to save face. If that’s what this was. Didn’t seem organized enough to have much of an intent at all, once you thought about it.

“You can’t stop,” he responded. “Stopping means thinking about all of the shit you’ve done, instead of the ways you’ll get away with it. Thinking about all of the people you’ve hurt. I can’t do that, sweetheart — the guilt… it’s gonna kill me.”

“So die,” you said flatly. To your benefit, nothing much at all seemed to shock him anymore. He laughed off the remark, gesturing to the service pistol you’d discarded last night.

“Do the honors.”

Your mouth curled into a frown. Admittedly, you considered it. Really considered it. But you were far from dumb. “The RPD practically worships the ground you walk on,” you sighed in disinterest. “I’d rather not get convicted of your murder.”

“Well,” he sat up, groaning as he re-positioned his head. “You’re not leaving ‘cause I’ve still got that video, and I’m not leaving ‘cause you’d go straight to the station,” he shrugged. “What do you propose we do from here?”

You didn’t bother to think on it. “I’m gonna kill you someday,” you said, “You ruined me like you let the force ruin you, and I’m gonna kill you for it.”

He chuckled, amused by the threat. “I’ll be looking forward to it. Shame nobody’ll be there to pull the trigger when you can’t forget that you’re a rapist.”

The retaliation didn’t hit correctly. You stood there, lips still pursed, acting as if you felt neutral to the fact that you’d raped your father in an act of revenge. Logically, you knew — blaming yourself for the act was futile. When you trap an animal, it bites. Living within one’s childhood home in the context of captivity was enough to make anyone go stir-crazy. What you did was a natural response. What you did was realistic. You’re not a bad person — you knew it.

The opening of a cardboard case stirred you from your thoughts. Your father extended a cigarette to you, eyes still a little dull from the previous night’s intoxication. That didn’t do his presentation any favors.

“No, thanks. I’m saving my lungs,” you said, wrinkling your nose in exaggerated disgust.

“Smoke half of one, then. You’re gonna need it,” he insisted, pressing the cigarette to your palm before you could object and nodding to the lighter on the coffee table. You lit your own with a sigh, absentmindedly tossing the lighter to your father.

“Thought you drank.”

He shrugged, taking a drag. “Got too reliant on it. Tried to wean myself off with cigarettes. Now they’re both my vices.”

Mentally chastising him, you pressed your lips around the cigarette, taking the sort of drag you’d seen in the movies — immediately coughing as your lungs singed in protest. You groaned, nearly dropping the thing — feeling your dad’s hand steady yours till the fit subsided.

He made the motion of holding a breath before you let it go, so you tried that — you still coughed, sure, but your head started to go a little fuzzy. Your own actions started to root themselves out of your excuses. You were sick, your father was sick, and this whole house ought to be burned to the ground — but the revelation only prompted acceptance. Neutrality. Long-forsaken calm.

So you breathed in again. Cough. Let the dread stifle itself. Good people make mistakes. Rape, in this case, was a mistake. You made a mistake. You are good.

Your father laughed at the cough, again. You phased him out. Another drag, another breath, another beat.

You’re not a bad woman, Kennedy.

#🔖:inarecs:#resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x you #dead dove do not eat #minors dni

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