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d10nyx · 7 hours

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I'M JUST A KID I KNOW THAT ITS NOT FAIR NOBODY CARES CAUSE IM ALONE AND THE WORLD IS HAVING MORE FUN THAN MEEEEEE TONIGHTTTTT

I'm just a kid (and life is a nightmare)

Pairing: Scene!Leon x gn!reader (ft. Ashley, Chris, and Claire).

cw: Just a comment about jerking off... otherwise sfw!

an: do these count as drabbles? these are leftovers from my Blasphemous Rumours fic that I don't think I would elaborate on, idk. You don't need to read the fic it goes with, but if you want to... Rawr xD

Another time, there was a get together at your apartment with Chris, Claire, and Ashley. After a few drinks, Ashley pulled out the ouija board she bought recently.

“Who wants to play?” Ashley asks. Her blonde hair now a bright neon green, teased to the heavens. “Not me,” Leon answers immediately. The man has his limits and inviting ghosts into the mix is not something he wants to do.

“Come on, Leon. We could ask for a nice ghost.” Ashley says as she places the board on the table. Leon shakes his head, “no thanks.”

“Dude, it’s not even real.” Chris pipes up.

“How do you know that?”

“Because ghosts aren’t real.”

Ghosts are real! At least to Leon. He thinks about ghosts at least once a day, especially at night when he’s just jerking off—what if a ghost is watching him? Buries himself in his blanket so he can quickly finish.

“I just don’t want to.” Leon then says, sinking back into the couch, his legs thrown over the armrest.

“Why don’t we just play,” you suggest, trying to help Leon out. The corners of Chris’s mouth twitch into a small smile and he throws his hands up in surrender. You, Ashley, Claire, and Chris huddle around your small coffee table. All hands on the planchette.

First, Ashley introduces the group to the spirit board. The planchette moves to spell out hello. All the while, Leon’s watching from the couch. Of course he is, he’s a curious fellow. “It moved!” Leon exclaimed with wide eyes, jumping off the couch and moving to sit at the coffee table.

“Who wants to ask the first question?” Ashley asks, looking around the table.

“I do!” Claire says.

“Will Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson ever break up?” Claire asks. You give the redhead an exasperated look, “really, Claire?” Of all questions, does the spirit even know what Fall Out Boy is? Why would a ghost that died years ago know who this band was.

The planchette moves towards yes and Claire’s eyes grow big. Yes! Claire has a chance with Pete Wentz (delusional!). “I like Pete and Ashlee, they’re cool.” Chris says, only getting an eye roll from Claire.

As the group asks more questions, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that someone, not you, is moving the planchette. This fact is missed by Leon, poor baby is eating this up.

“How would they know that?”

“Oh my god, what if Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson do break up?”

“Do you think they’ll know who’s headlining Warped Tour this year?”

That one time Leon was using your computer. He really needed to update his MySpace profile picture because you just helped him dye his hair. He was scrolling through the front page of MySpace when he saw a pop up that read, “Free Evanescence tickets if you can answer these questions.”

“Dude! They’re offering free evanescence tickets!” He exclaims as he looks over at you. You were busy cleaning up after the hair dying session, one day you’ll learn to wear gloves, but it’s so much easier to use your hands! Now your hands look like you were the one who harvested the pigs blood to throw on Carrie White.

“Who is?”

Leon shrugs, “I dunno. But free tickets!?” Before you could say anything else, Leon clicks it, why wouldn’t he? Amy Lee is hot as hell. The website is slow to load, his face too close to the computer screen.

The next thing you hear is Leon’s shout and in his attempt to flee from whatever, he falls back in the chair. Oh wow, Leon's been fooled by another screamer. What's new?

Leon stares at you, his bangs falling over his face, “oh my god,” he pants out. Screamers plus a whole can of monster do not mix. Leon’s heart rate is through the roof.

Instead of offering a helping hand, you only glare at him. “I better not get a virus on my computer, Leon!”

Another time, Chris somehow talked Leon into playing ‘Bloody Mary.’ Leon’s manhood was at stake here, he couldn’t look weak in front of Chris. Chris is that cool big brother that Leon never had, he wants to be as cool as him! A fact that Chris knows and loves to exploit just to see Leon make a fool of himself.

“Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.” Leon chants into the mirror. Chris is right beside him, holding a candle. They wait for a few seconds, staring into the mirror. All Leon can see is the pair of them reflected in the mirror.

“See Chris, this isn’t—“

The candle blows out. Leon hears some shuffling and then the bathroom door slams shut. “Chris!” He shouts, unable to see in the darkness. Leon’s arms outstretched as he tries to feel for the bathroom door, his heart pounding in his chest. “Dude! Where are you!?”

No response from Chris makes his anxiety grow. “Chris!? Dude!” His hand finally reaches the doorknob and he turns the knob but it doesn’t open.

“Oh my god, what if Bloody Mary got him?”

#reblogs :3 #guys i love scene leon

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d10nyx · 7 hours

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guys if you were a monster/ummm supernaturalish creature of some kind, what would you be?

#dont ask why uh... just work with me here x

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d10nyx · 9 hours

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had to put them together for a c.ai bot they look like they're in love and they should kiss and be gay x

#me when i lie and i'm actually making a fic first bcs i cooked too hard with the idea x

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d10nyx · 9 hours

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READ THIS ON AO3 AND FORFOT TO REBLOG OOPS BUT UM I LOVE IT CHERRY COOKED AGAIN X

black water - one !

ft. og4!leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. cop!leon, corruption, mentions of harassment/rape/drugs, body horror, raccoon city incident never happened but there r bioweapons, suicide ideation bc leon, character death, there’s smut in later chapters i promise, public sex, creampie, hate sex, slapping, choking, gore descriptions

note. hi trying something new! i know raccoon city is in the midwest somewhere but to be frank idgaf ab the usa and know nothing about any part of it so i decided that it’s a southern state in this fic bc i wanted to make reader have the cute accent bc she’s a farmer :3 only the first chapter so like um this is honestly just more of a test to see if anyone would like this erm smut comes soon prommy.. reader implied poc but like um :3 PLEASE GIMME FEEDBACK N IGNORE MISTAKES!!

summary. there is something in the water, you want it gone before it eats more than just your livelihood.

You know pigs, so you know men.

This one has blue eyes, it is the type of blue you’d dip your toes into, you let the waves lap at your calves until it drags you under. His gaze taps a gun to the back of your head and demands full attention.

He is subjecting you to himself, and you hate it.

The glint of his blue-gold badge is nebulous in the dark. “Officer Leon S. Kennedy.” He offers you a look at his ID card - has the sort of face that lets him get away with things. “Criminal Investigations Department.”

Beside him, a dog with intelligent eyes stands sentinel. Officer Kennedy drops the leash and the dog sits back on its haunches. “Now, what’s this about pigs?”

The RPD is one great big circle jerk. Brian Iron’s doctrine is an easy one to follow, and Leon is not opposed to easy. His innards spill into the middle of it all as the lump in his throat dislodges, adding to the slurry of toxic waste that coats their blackened underbelly.

There is a horrible liminal quality to the place, footfall echoes in halls lit by jaundiced bulbs. The scent of sex is a wisp of smoke in his nose as he passes the chief’s office.

Raccoon City is a backwater bog, and to match the inhabitants are insular primitive beings who cling to antiquated ways. To be stationed here by choice was a lapse in judgement - snark is the currency of social interaction.

Leon is often taken by women.

He met this one back in Brooklyn, where he and his family lived above a Deli, an older southern lady with a gap in her teeth. Had the pleasure of crossing her path—Something about her just stuck. Led him to believe that all women round these parts had big hearts and even bigger bosoms. A place to rest his head for the night, a neck to hide his face in, blonde curls just shy of silver to tickle his skin flower-pink.

She talked all like:

Well, ain’t you just the sweetest peach I’ve ever seen! Oh, I could just eat a feller like you up, get me full as a tick.

Whatever it was that she said and meant, he liked it. And so guided by the expertise of his dick, Leon landed himself here.

There are a handful of beautiful women that Leon has seen, met, fucked.

(He weeded out the ugly ones the moment he was given access to the file room.)

The thing is, small town beautiful is different to New York pretty.

He has an ex over in Manhattan who could turn the sidewalk into a catwalk. She had Leon, a man built like a god, fumbling like a teenage girl. The last girl he fucked here was homely - she had the hushed urgency of a military wife and her monotony was sobering.

One girl he dated on and off for a year or two. She worked at a car wash and she was needy. Real needy. She missed the taste of his dick so he provided her with the scent of pussy instead. Every weekend he’d drive over and watch her clean the sex from the backseat of his cruiser just because he could.

Things are slow in this marshy cesspit, a never-ending conveyer belt of nothing much. The wind carries the scent of magnolia blossoms and sewage. It gives Leon a lot of time to think of the filth that is his underfurnished life. He lowers his head to the desk, allowing himself to fall in and out of spasms of lucidity.

Leon has done bad things, but he doesn’t qualify as a bad guy. The badge and the blue forbids it. Take Redfield for example, that guy got deployed in Penamstan. Y’know what happened there? He shot a kid or two and now he can’t get it up. He’s not a bad guy, not at all, he’s got a photo of his smiling face plastered in the lobby.

He’s a hero.

The only problem folks have with him is that heroes have nice, hard cocks and they fuck for hours. No matter his sex drive atrophied by gore splattered on the barrel of his gun, or how the studded underside of his boot caused flesh to crumple like the newspaper with his name on it—It doesn’t matter. To be built like a brick shithouse and have something soft between your legs, well, that just ain’t right, is it?

Over in Penamstan, he would say, you introduce yourself over the sound of gunfire, shake hands as the earth is split in half, kill an orphan to bond.

A good man for sure. So good his little sister went ghost.

(Leon finds her postcards in the mailroom. For Redfield’s sake, he hides them in the bottom drawer of his desk alongside all sorts of ephemera. He’s acquired quite the stash.)

Valentine is alright. She’s quiet. The moral fibre has been plucked out of her with a pair of forceps, and now she doesn’t think much about where she points her gun. They often sit in shared silence, and sometimes it is like looking in a funhouse mirror that creates a shape far slinkier than his bulk.

Chambers is too nice. Vickers is fat. Burton is old. Frost is ugly. These are all irrefutable flaws, but none of them are bad, and none of it is intentional. Not bad by Leon’s standards at least.

(The entirety of the STARS unit would be better off if they stopped kissing Captain Wesker’s flat ass, but that is like asking for sympathy from the devil.)

Man, he has too much time on his hands.

“Kennedy, you busy?” Rita knocks on his desk. The fabric of her shirt creases inwards to grasp the dip of her waist as she places a hand on her hip. She’s poised, but something about her gait is wobbly.

“Mighty busy.” He nods.

What they have is not history, but something much smaller. It is a word blotted out on a torn page from a burnt book, it is ground into powder by mortar and pestle.

It is Leon’s hand in her back pocket when nobody’s around.

“I’m sure.” She straightens her spine, eyes heavy with the weight of her lashes. “Up in Black Water, something about a dead pig.”

“They have gators,” Leon points out. He may be bored to the point of suicide, but he is not in the mood to wrangle any gators.

“I know,” she says, lifting her eyes from the ground to meet his sidelong gaze, “go check it out, she sounded real spooked, take a dog if you have to.”

She, huh.

Wonder what she looks like. He hopes she has big tits. He hopes she isn’t a cousin-fucking, peat-smelling hick.

Black Water has a lot of those.

“Took ya long enough.” Your voice skims the air like a bullet, it strikes Leon in the chest.

You are she. And you, well—You’re both the needle and the spoon.

Doused in the lantern glow, the egg-whites of your eyes are streaked by small, bloody streams, your mac is zipped up to the chin, and your rainboots are the same colour of boxed rubber duckies.

You’re no sole-crushed peach, making the ground its canvas in a pitiful splatter, you’re a tart cherry that he would like to pick, melt into a glaze and store in a jar.

“Oh, we’re mighty busy.” Leon wipes Rita’s wet from his fingers on the front of his tailored pants, it’s gotten sticky like pomade. He thinks of her tailbone digging into the flesh of his stomach as he sits her on his lap.

“I bet.” You raise your brows. “How many lines did’ja do?”

Leon leans forward to watch your face with unblinking eyes. “Don’t say that too loud, Wesker’s gonna get worried, y’know, start digging through his stash.”

“Hah.” Your laugh is hidden into the collar of your mac. “He seems like the type.”

“You met him before?” An unpleasant squelch is heard when he steps where you do, it seems deliberate for a moment, that you’re avoiding a well-trodden path to give him a hard time. He stumbles forward in the dark—His shoes are fucked, and these socks deserve a funeral service.

“Think we all have.” Your body is lost in the shapelessness of your attire, clothes draped over your frame like you are more hanger than human. Effortless femininity lost to androgyny. “You’re not from these parts.”

“You don’t look like you’re from these parts, pumpkin pie,” he mocks your twang and is met with a tut.

You stop and Leon bumps into you with a grunt.

He shines his torch at the ground and isn’t quite sure of what he’s looking at. “That’s a pig alright.”

#reblogs :3

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d10nyx · 10 hours

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sigh

THIS IS GONNA BE ME. FUCK. WOMEN CALLING STRAPS COCKS AND SOEBWOXEKZBEOZNEOSNSJ. SQUIRTED MY HOUSE DOWN ACTUALLY X

d is for delightful

mdni

jill valentine x reader

warnings: incest, mother - daughter incest, fem!reader, jill fucks with a strap, reference to a strap as a cock, mommy kink, age difference, mommy kink, mother jill/daughter reader, dead dove: do not eat

a/n: would say this a 500 follower special but. that would be a lie. sorry xx. i'm not officially back from my hiatus but i just felt like writing so here x. tag for @prettyevermores because i promised i'd tag her x

title is from d is for dangerous by arctic monkeys

wc: 1.7k

There are many lines that you live by, ones that stem from plain stupid to ones that belong to the bible. Really, the Vehn diagram looks fucking messy when it comes to one liners to pull out.

‘Momma didn't raise no bitch’ is something you swear by, especially when you're stuck on a shitty date, with a shitty girl and with shitty food. You must've lucked out.

Multiple tactics cross your mind. Bathroom doors, main exit doors, a bar and many other possibilities to end this date flow freely in your head.

It's not like this girl can use the excuse that ‘the man should always pay on the first date’, because you're both women, and you're not butch either.

You're just mediocre, so the fact you even landed this date is calling yourself lucky. But with this bitch opposite you? A wonderful state of affairs.

“I'm going to use the bathroom.” The words tumble out, and you can't even take it back. Who even takes back about going to the toilet? Nature calling to you is a very serious situation and must not be taken lightly.

“Okay.” Not even a glance. Maybe you don't deserve one, and maybe it's better that way, because the look of sheer defeat of the stale date covers your face like you've caught the plague.

You don't even look back as you head outside and shakily pull your phone out. Ma needs to pick you up, and Ma also needs to hear about the gone to shit date.

So, yeah. You'd say ‘Momma didn't raise no bitch’ is your go to line. Even though you are a bitch, because you ditched a date and let a poor unassuming woman pay for it. And for what?

Getting the ick can be dangerous, maybe even fatal, you supposed.

“Your date went so badly that you had me pick you up in less than an hour?” Unfortunately, yes. Shit happens, and getting cold feet while on a date is one thing.

Your mother doesn't look impressed, and really, you don't blame her. Waste of fuel, waste of time, waste of a lot of things, but whatever.

But you're sitting in her car, the warmth blowing in your face as you head home. Rather than a stuffy restaurant, you're in a stuffy car. Just your luck.

“Either you have really high standards,” She pauses, then turns to you. “Or she was a bitch to the core.”

You look at your Ma, you really do look at her. Her hypotheses are sound, and you'd agree on the second reason because that is technically why you left.

The real reason is not there, but saying anything on it would be spoiling it for your mother on your true intentions, and you'd rather have her keep guessing.

“She wasn't uh--” The right words don't come, you just kind of sit there with your jaw ajar, waiting for the right words, until they do. “She wasn't great to be honest.”

Damn straight. And also that you're infatuated with your mother, Jill Valentine.

–

With many discoveries, there's always that clarity of realisation that strikes through man. It leaves you on cloud nine, leaves you rushing to figure out more or let your mind wander on it more.

Then, it's regret. To be fair, crushing on your mother isn't exactly the thing people win awards for. Moreso lands you with a jail sentence and lifetime regret.

You'd hoped it was a phase. Don't all adults say that? That depression you suffered when you're that youthful age of fourteen, with scars on your wrists or thighs, that's a phase.

What about the drugs? Thirteen year old you smoking cigarettes and clashing empty vodka bottles in parks on a swing until you threw up. That's just plain old rebellion.

Is being utterly besotted with your mother a phase? It's sick, and awfully twisted. Maybe it's just a set up to just drag you down, or maybe just to send you spiralling down a road you'd rather not go.

You were never crazy, by your standards. You are who you are, living regrets and such is foolish. But this? It's bound to cling to you, taint your whole being because although being in love with her may merely just be a phase, it also happened.

Such a subject is not something you can tell over a late night drinking session with your partner either. It's something that has to stay dead and buried in your head, six feet under and hope it doesn't swell up into some reanimated corpse.

A diary could work, but even so, a misplaced diary could be fatal. One of your future kids (god forbid you even do have kids, that's commitment that you'll never be ready for) goes looking for it.

Wouldn't that be a story to tell?

You don't want to think about whether your mother reciprocates these feelings. You hope she doesn't, simply because the thought of her finding out tends to a shiver in your bones.

Rejection is harsh, rejection clings to a poisoned knife and digs its way into your heart. Yet, it's also a blanket, one all fuzzy and keeps you and your toes warm.

Rejection is easy, acceptance is complicated.

It's supposed to be the opposite way around, that's how it should be. For you, it's not. Self destructive tendencies and all, you reek of them.

“Honey.” A hand threading through your hair, moving it out of your face as you look up at her. “Shouldn't you be in bed?”

Yeah, you should. Instead, you're spiralling about an issue you should (need) to get a grip over. Shit like this happens, why can't you accept it? “Ma.”

You can't accept it. Truth is, you want to rip the bandage off, be out with your secret to your mother. It's better that way, easier that way. Rejection, right? “I love you Ma.”

Jill's got that smile on her face, that one where it displays her endearment for you, the one where you say something sweet. But she doesn't get it, she doesn't.

You cling to her, the signature blue tank top furrowing under your fingernails, scarred with creases from your grip. “No- you don't get it. I love, love you.”

Your mouth is open, the temptation to say more is but a second away, however a finger rests just shy of your lips. “You shouldn't think like that-”

“I know- I know but I really love you, and I know it's probably a phase-” The floodgates are out. Well, they aren't fully open, but they aren't completely shut.

Embarrassment fuels you, adrenaline of the cynical situation drives you to speak, drives you to do something, just anything.

But you don't, you don't do anything. Instead, she does something, your mother does.

She kisses you. Lips on lips, you know, the standard stuff. It's a peck, not on the cheek, but more. “Did that feel wrong?”

Thinking about it seemed foolish, because really, it's been awhile since someone else's lips touched yours in such a way, and of course it wouldn't feel weird.

But it's Ma's lips, not some girl you went on a date with, or a drunken mistake, or anything else of that calibre. It's your mother, it's Jill Valentine, Miss Valentine.

“No- no Ma- it didn't.”

–

Whines and heavy breaths escaped your lips, the twisting and turning of your body as the pleasure scars through your veins, dulling all your other senses.

“Do you like it?” Faint on your ears, but loud as it echoed around the room. ”Do you like my cock?” You follow it with a nod. What else can you do?

One thing leads to another, it always does. So when you're laid on your stomach, hands clutching at the bed sheets while your mother fucks into you with her ‘cock’, you wonder what it all meant.

“Pretty fucking girl.” It's tight on her lips, a hand already running through your hair and pressing your face down into the sheets beneath you, uncaring of how painful it is on your nose. “Aren't you my pretty baby?”

“Yeah– Mommy's pretty baby.” You're quick with that response, eagerness slipping through your tone like it had no business being there. “I wanna be Mommy's pretty girl.”

“Oh yeah?” She laughs, it's like silk woven into the sound, an easy rest on your ears despite the jabbing at your cervix. “How bad?”

“So– so bad, really wanna– shit– really wanna be perfect for you.” Holy shit, you're besotted. It's like you've been caught under a spell, an enchantment of sorts. “Perfect for mommy.”

A reassuring squeeze from the hand sewed into your hair, before it tugs and chokes. “That's what I like to hear.”

The strap continuously suffocates you, giving you near little of any coherent material. Not like you had any in the first place, you're in love with your mother.

But that isn't coherency, that's insanity.

Noisy squelching sounds blend in with the pleasure you feel, the vulgarity of them truly not hitting you as the rope in you threatened to snap.

You vaguely register Jill's hand pressing your head down into the mattress still, the grip on your hair faltering as she chases the pleasure for you.

“You close?” A nod suffices, well, that's what you think anyway. It's hard to nod with the way your head is positioned, but you make it work. “You gonna cum for mommy?”

Words don't reach you, but instead, your release hits you. It's like a tumble of emotions, like waves crashing against the shore.

“There we go.” Coddling, yet teasing and such. It's like she's caring for you after you'd scraped your knee, or got a papercut and there's tears rolling down your cheeks because of it.

A haze sets over you, one full of mindless words that are never uttered, yet they spin around your head and mush into nothing.

“Baby,” A pause, then the hand once woven into your hair now brushing it aside, making your face clearer. “Are you alright?”

You can't speak, you can't. You're like soup, and she's a fork, trying to pick you up but you only slip through the seams.

But you try, and the only word that leaves your mouth is her name. “Ma-”

A look, and you're able to push yourself up, just so you can fully see your mother. And you do, you see her. “Don't you-”

“No.” Stern, her hand gesturing for you to stop. It's like you've stolen a cookie, or something that you shouldn't have off the top shelf. “Let's get you in the shower, yeah?”

#reblogs :3

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