OF DIVINITY & DISPOSITION
MDNI: leon kennedy x fem!reader
word count: 3.0k
content warnings: non-con, coercion, kidnapping, facefucking, blowjob, degradation, virginity loss, dacry, p in v, unprotected, pussy spanking, blackmail, rough sex, zip ties
note: second fic hello… admittedly super self-indulgent bc i’m a whore for religious themes in smut LOL proofread but still like 0.5% dialogue :3
For Leon, the Catholic church had yet to naturally occupy his life.
He’d been dragged along to mass as a kid, on occasion. Nestled between his parents with a hymnal splayed open on his knees. The priest’s voice wasn’t distinctive enough to recall intricately, but in the incessant pomp of childhood, it held more in common with a police siren than a man. Ironic. Of all the memories he’d repressed beyond repair, caught sometime long before his parents’ deaths and Raccoon City, his of Sunday mass had suffered the worst. He tried to remember what it was like, being a blond child in the comfort of half-normalcy — but any glimpse that God offered him was like sand in his palms. He’d try to hold on as it flickered, threatening to shove itself away forever, but the more he gripped, the more it would slip between his fingers and into the abyss.
He’d started to crack somewhere around 21, but by 37, a breath could’ve shattered him. Flattened little pieces of his soul across the floor. Too sharp to stick back together, if anyone had the nerve to try — and hell, after the shit he’d pulled on the mission that got him dismissed? He’d be lucky if someone looked. Sherry, maybe, out of obligation. Claire, too. Ada might feel a little pity, for once. They still didn’t really know what he was.
He’d gotten a strange look when the agents above him asked what he wanted to do with himself from now on, and he’d answered that he wanted to give Catholicism another shot. He understood the confusion — it wasn’t every day that someone of his position intentionally tried to get himself killed during a mission, inadvertently risking the lives of everyone involved — only to calmly ask to rejoin organized religion. But they granted it to him. He was puzzled, initially, but by the time he’d gotten settled in studies, he understood — better to cut ties with the loose cannon than to keep dressing him up at the expense of his superiors.
Seminary school was tiresome in the way he’d yearned for, until the moment it was his reality. He didn’t know why he chose Catholicism — something between reminiscence and absolution, maybe — but it was nice to feel needed again, albeit lonesome. He’d forced himself to be satisfied with the aimless life he’d carved out. He expected to have about as much influence on the parish as the priest of his childhood ultimately had on him — little to none. Days trudged on, until he laid his eyes upon you — one of the newer nuns, anxious and eager.
Something within him hated you out of sheer envy in the instant that your eyes met for the first time. You’d averted eye contact quickly with a shy smile, tone still glowing with admiration as you spoke. He offered you baseline courtesy. He had no legitimate reason to hate you. You were devout enough to be a priest’s wet dream, just not his. He didn’t hate you for the devotion he inherently lacked — rather, he hated you for the way your eyes shone during sermons. You smiled in a way that reminded him just a little too much of early 1998 and what he wanted the RPD to be. You embodied hope. He embodied regret. But the wires in his brain had gotten scrambled a bit more with every trauma, and now, he could only cum at the prospect of ruining you. Bringing you down to the level he’d been forced to when he was still blond and hopeful. When it came to you, he stopped thinking. So, naturally — as natural as things could be with the way he was now — when he found out you liked to pray alone in the church, before the sun came up, he started to schedule his nights around watching you while palming his thick cock.
You weren’t like he was now, he’d realized, pumping his cock in a closet, transfixed upon your praying form. You kept sweet. Working to become a nun didn’t mean scrubbing your hands clean, like he had, in a desperate attempt to start over. No matter what he lectured on Sunday, he knew that sin would follow him to the end of the earth. Or at least to the confessional. Your lips, soft and full, parted as your brow furrowed in devotion. He squeezed his cock at the sight, pre-cum dripping to his knuckles, unable to force the groan that rose in his throat back down.
Of course you heard it. You were innocent, not deaf. You stood up, eyes widened like you’d heard a ghost, rather than a priest jerking off. You took a few cautious steps back, eyes darting across the room — when they happened to lock with his in the closet’s opening. Stuffing his dick out of view, he stepped out of the closet, calculating how he’d use the pleasantries to think of an excuse. Unfortunately, you weren’t dumb enough to settle on small talk after something like that.
“Father Kennedy?” you tilted your head to the side, brows knitted together in concern. He couldn’t tell if you suspected him of anything or not. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. What are you doing here?” he deflected flatly, as if you were the degenerate in the house of God, rather than him.
You bit your lip, eyes falling to the ground in embarrassment. “I like to come here, when nobody’s around. Feels like it’s just me and God. If that’s not alright, I can come back during the daylight—“
He raised a hand to shush you on instinct. He’d lost his appetite for porn, so you were the closest thing to a Playboy he had. You stopped, watching him in confusion.
“You’re a Sister. Come back whenever you wish,” he said, extending a half-smile to you. Hardly a smile. More like flexing his lips upward, trying to convince you to keep coming back at night. You seemed to ponder it for a moment, before biting the inside of your cheek.
“What were you doing inside of that closet? Did you need something? I think I heard you in there a few minutes ago; I just didn’t know that… y’know,” you said, clasping your hands together. Gave you something to stare at that wasn’t him.
He cleared his throat — what the hell could he say? Only thing in that closet was a box of garbage bags. Cleaning supplies and shit. You knew the church better than he did — no way he could lie to you about what was in there. For the first time in years, something close to panic rose in his mind. But for Leon Kennedy, panic had learned to give way to pure impulse.
In half a second, his fingers intertwined between locks of your hair. Your face contorted in momentary fear, before reflexively scrunching as you winced with the sharp pull. He dragged you back into the closet with him, shutting the door fully — this time. In spite of the darkness, he could see your eyes widened to the size of saucers and your chest heaving up and down. Didn’t faze him as he forced you to your knees with a puffy gasp, grip tightening within your hair with his right as his left found itself back around his semi-hard cock. It became abundantly clear that you had genuinely no idea what his intentions were. The path of moral superiority had made you a ditzy little thing. You opened your mouth to speak again, whimpering as you shook your head.
“Father, what are you—?! Stop, I’ve—“
He didn’t listen, or handle you in the way you deserved to be, interrupting your little protest by bringing his dick forward. He tapped the leaky head against your pretty lips, watching your eyes darken in realization. You struggled back again, inclining away, but another sharp tug to your scalp pressed your lips flush against his cock again. At the cost of a couple hair strands. Precum dribbled down your bottom lip as you looked up, eyes shiny with tears.
“Open.”
And you did, lips glossy with pre and tongue warm with saliva. He pressed the underside of his cock to your tongue, watching you stare back, dumbfounded. He prodded the tip against the back of your throat, and with (what he deemed) an exaggerated choke, you closed your lips around him. Albeit inexperienced, you tried your best, he realized. You let your eyes flutter shut, like you were imagining anywhere else, brows knitting together as you tried, futilely, to deny his taste into your fantasy. You let your head bob shallowly. Something like you’d seen in the silhouette of a worldly movie. Not like you had anything else to reference. A twinge of guilt nearly took a toll upon his mind — he was raping a nun for the most mediocre oral he’d ever received. But instead of choosing the path of righteousness, he decided to manually improve your performance. (i.e. Make it hurt.)
“Quiet, keep your tongue flat,” he hissed out like you were to blame. Bringing his other hand to your hair, he resumed his unforgiving grip and worked his cock down your throat in half a second. Where your mouth had been able to relax at will, your throat contorted and spasmed around him as his tip bullied the back of your throat. You gagged beneath him, whimpering in agony at the stretch. He didn’t let up as your jaw ached, as spit dribbled down the corner of your mouth uncontrollably, as you choked out every molecule of oxygen you inhaled. To him, women had always looked prettiest when he’d left them breathless. Usually the blissful sort of breathless, but that wasn’t reserved for whores like you.
“Fuck, taking me good,” he groaned, the anxiety of getting caught melting somewhere between the saliva and precum coating your lips. “Knew you weren’t like them. They’d tell someone if I fucked ‘em like this. You won’t, though. You know better than to ruin the Lord’s home,” he gritted his teeth as he bottomed out against your lips, feeling your nose jab uncomfortably against his skin. “You know better than to tear this church apart.”
Despite the choking lessening substantially, you started to tear up — finally. Like you realized that God wouldn’t save you from this. Hot tears welled in the divot between his thumb and your cheekbone, and the second he noticed, he felt his knees give slightly. You had the same devastated look in your eyes, for a split second — the sort of look he’d failed to understand until 1998. Before the outbreak had taken away his future. He’d ruined something for you, too, something precious and beautiful, and the mere thought made him pump your throat with cum.
You gagged at the stickiness, letting him pry his cock from your mouth with a pop, desperately trying to choke it back up. No use, unless you wanted to ruin something else of the church. You’d rather lose your dignity than your devotion, even as it lay in shambles at your reddened knees.
There was a split second where he paused, realizing what he’d just done. Raped some twenty-something for being an optimist. Something ran through his mind in that instant, from one of the final conversations of his federal employment. Last mission he went on, he’d gotten cut up — but not as badly as he’d done by his fellow agents. He’d sighed audibly as another man was wheeled into the ER, letting a nurse stitch up his forearm, when she’d spoken to him.
“With what you’ve done for this country, you deserve to be a bad person every once and a while,” she’d said, finishing the suture and standing back up. He’d been left speechless — but now, your sputtering form would be his reply. He deserved to be unjust, for once. God was blessing him with domestic excitement within brutally mundane stability. You didn’t deserve to go back to the convent like you hadn’t just gotten facefucked within an inch of your life. No, he preyed upon your ruin as one had preyed upon his own.
And your ruin meant bare flesh, zip-tied limbs, and one of the bulky trash bags from the shelf pulled over your head.
You were wet. That’s how he justified this to himself, somewhat — he was thoroughly fucked between the ears, but you’d once emulated an angel. Or so he thought. Angelic pussy wouldn’t weep for his attention. You weren’t as perfect as you wanted to be, but, fuck, his cock jumped at the sight. Almost surprised him. Between his age and lack of temperance, he didn’t expect it to act more desperate than he was. Celibacy must’ve screwed with his head, he decided, looking over your bound form. Watching your cunt betray the way your breaths rattled along your ribcage.
For the time being, he’d stashed you up like decor in the rectory. It was about time God was on his side — he’d always thought it better to be head of an isolated church. Small rectory, but he didn’t have to share the place (or you) with other men. So he’d freely stripped you, zip-tied your wrists and ankles, and left you beneath the foot of his bed while he sat in it, papers splayed across the comforter. Feigned indifference quickly grew old.
“Whore,” he muttered, and you looked up like it was your name, eyes not quite meeting his. The duct tape hardly served a purpose, by now. As scared as you were, you weren’t the type to defy your God, or whoever came closest to it. You wouldn’t have screamed. Your throat was too raw from the way he fucked it, anyway. He knelt forward, cutting the zip tie binding your ankles, disregarding the way the knife nearly nicked your skin. You noticed more than he did — breath stilling for a moment in your lungs. He dropped the knife to the tile with a clatter, motioning to your hips. “Put ‘em up.”
You really were stupid, he thought, watching you raise your hips aimlessly, keeping your thighs pressed together. No shit, Kennedy, you’re raping a virgin. He scowled, gripping the fat of your thighs and forcing them apart — stifling a groan as you stifled a squeal. Your puffy cunt glistened with arousal, clit pulsing despite the cold air. His face stiffened into a frown — conflicted. He didn’t want someone like you getting off from this. Wouldn’t feel like he was rubbing his dick in sandpaper, at least.
Missionary didn’t feel like something he wanted to grace you with. Missionary is what he’d suggested to Ada once, who promptly rejected it, leaving him to gaze into the eyes of prostitutes and pretend that they were hers. Felt personal. He wanted to shove your face into the ground, but fuck, your tits were cute when they bounced. Missionary it was, but he’d take care not to take care of you, hastily hiking your thighs around his waist. He slapped his cock flat against your pussy, prompting your thighs to flinch.
You didn’t react as harshly as he had assumed you would when he finally forced the head of his cock between your folds. You tensed like he’d slapped you, sharp inhale muffled by the duct tape — but your hips stuttered forward, albeit mechanically. Like your body was processing something you had yet to comprehend. The way you reacted to cock, unbiased, felt good enough to make him forget about his unrequited hatred for a second. He gradually pumped the full length into you, watching you spasm in a mix of agony and euphoria.
You tried to say something, or moan. He couldn’t tell with the duct tape. That made him ram his hips into yours in a split second, prompting another muffled squeal from you. Tip kissing your cervix far too early on, just ‘cause he couldn’t contain himself at the thought of further stripping you of your autonomy. You whimpered through the tape as he fucked you with a similar fervor, thighs twitching with your neglected clit. Poor virgin was overstimulated in a second, but somehow, still wanted more.
He gasped for air as he rutted his cock into you, heart pounding at the sight of it completely sheathed by your cunt. Abstinence really had fucked with his head. Just the sight of his dick in a whore had him salivating like he’d been Pavlov’d for this sort of thing. You rolled your hips forward a little more, desperate for his head to nudge across that gummy spot you’d heard about, when he froze, realizing what you were doing. Without warning, he brought his hand down across your clit, hard.
“Godless whore, thinking she has the right to get off to this,” he muttered, watching the sting send your eyes rolling back into your head. Another slap to your pussy — this time, accompanied with a ring of slick around his cock every time he thrusted into you. The dull sting of his calloused palms resonated throughout your entire body as he fucked you, bringing his hand down harder on your cunt every time he bottomed out. Saliva beaded around the duct tape as neglected slick coated your inner thighs like paint. At least you’d learned to like it. At least you’d learned to make your hole clench around him with every slap, until your pussy was swollen and dripping.
It all came back to ruining you. When he watched your back arch against the covers and your thighs tremble in ecstasy, he considered pulling out, shoving you away, taking away your orgasm, too. But that didn’t compare to the thought of you unable to cum again without having your cunt slapped and tits zip-tied. That’s what made him cum into you, praying he’d been the one to mold you — though he didn’t intend on letting you go.
After all, God had been kind enough to let him ruin you.
