SOMETHING BORROWED
MDNI: leon kennedy x fem!reader
Ten minutes before he's set to walk his daughter down the aisle, Leon takes matters into his own hands.
word count: 8.1k
content warnings: daddy-daughter incest, kidnapping, noncon, p in v, unprotected, bondage, suicidal ideation, reader is threatened with a gun & gets hit with it, dacry, mentions of past dv/sa (leon not reader), aeon mention technicallyyy she just rejects him, unreliable narrator leon
note: hii i’m home!! there have been five drafts of this fic & the plot’s changed so pardon possible inconsistencies… feedback appreciated!!
You were on the phone with your fiancé when Leon first realized that he wanted to fuck you.
It was three days out from your wedding, dead of July. The air was hot — the sort of hot that gets tangled up in your lungs. With the windows closed, Leon could still feel the oxygen molecules outside rearranging themselves into something thick and oppressive, something closer to jam or gel than air. It draped itself over the sky, stiff and heavy, miserable enough to make men go mad.
You were in the passenger’s side, face pressed up against the A.C. — they never lent Leon the good cars, so this one never got quite as cold as it was supposed to and rattled something awful when the road inclined. Your fiancé’s voice buzzed against the dash, low and unintelligible. Leon hadn’t met your fiancé yet. Somehow. He’d caught sight of him in your lockscreen, heard the way you spoke to him over the phone, but there’d always been something keeping them from speaking directly — a couples’ errand, last minute-cancellations, conflicting plans. You’d wanted to introduce him properly — over tea or coffee or something else Leon pretended to drink when guests were over. Instead, your finger slipped down the screen, ticked up the volume just enough for Leon to hear:
“—And wear that bra again tonight. Makes your tits look bigger.”
He’d hung up before you responded. Gone with the wind. Gone with the cell tower. You cleared your throat, fingertips drumming across your lap in that way they always did when you were nervous.
“He, um… he was just kidding, dad.”
The way you’d kept tense throughout the entirety of the call said otherwise, but Leon kept his mouth shut. Not by choice. His mind was reeling hard enough to launch him back into the hangover he’d just nursed off. Your fiancé had the sort of voice that made Leon wonder just where things had gone wrong with you. Something between the nasally way he’d said bra and the way he’d drawn out the word tits, like you needed help remembering what tits were. You didn’t. He knew his girl; his girl had a good head on her shoulders and a better rack under them.
“That was your fiancé?”
“Mhm.” You accentuate the period more than the word, shutting off the conversation like a tap. It’s disturbing. He’s not used to leaving words unsaid with you. He’s not used to giving up his place in your life, either, but there’s more inevitability to that. Not this — this is odd.
“Have you been talking to your mama again?”
Dumb question. Mama’s been ignoring you since your eleventh birthday, save for that text she’d sent you the following Christmas. It’d been meant for him — something about leases or assets or another legal word you didn’t quite understand. But running off with a week’s notice to marry a guy who ended conversations with things like makes your tits look bigger seemed like something your mama would advise — not you. Not his angel. You cock your head to the side after you shake your head, ‘cause you’re too lovely to call your dad dumb outright.
“No, it’s been… well,” you start to count the years that’ve passed since Mama’s acknowledged you on your fingers. Leon slips a hand off the wheel and presses it to yours, pushing your fingers back down.
“Don’t worry about that. Just wondering,” he pats the back of your hand. “Thought you might’ve sent her an invitation.”
“I did,” you admit — of course you did. There’s a heart of gold between your lungs, Leon thinks. Unfortunately, your mama’s got something shriveled up and rotten between hers — he knew she’d never mailed back before he’d thought to ask.
The drive home was that stiff sort of quiet Leon had come to associate with doctor’s appointments and Ada Wong. Two things dawned upon him as he watched you step out, dialing your fiancé again:
One: You were a pretty girl. Prettiest he’d ever seen. Too pretty for him to make peace with giving away.
Two: Pretty girls are bound to get married and leave their fathers all alone.
Leon had found out that you were getting married six days in advance. You swore up and down that you’d meant to tell him sooner. Pinky promised. It’d just all happened so suddenly, you’d explained. Suddenly enough to make your brain fog over with expenses and invitations and catering and consummation. He took some creative liberties with your thought process, but regardless, you didn’t seem to think of him at all. He’d become an afterthought, a memory, the invitation shuffled to the bottom of the stack. So he blamed your fiancé. He blamed your mama. He blamed whoever had decided it was good and natural for pretty girls to grow up and marry nasally men that talk about push-up bras over the phone.
His head starts to hurt the second you walk away. There’s not a voice in this world he hates more than yours when you talk to your fiancé. It’s the same way Ashley used to talk to him, inhibited and dreamy. After she got married, it stiffened up. Bruised his ego. He doesn’t hate it in the same way he hates your fiancé’s voice; anyone with a working set of ears should hate the way your fiancé speaks, but he wouldn’t hate your tone if he was the one you spoke to like that. Like he was the only thing in the world that really mattered to you. He wouldn’t hate sweetheart and baby coming from your mouth if he was on the other end of the line. He wouldn’t hate the sight of you in love if he was the one you were in love with.
Right. He loves you.
The thought makes his head stop spinning for half a second. Being in love with you made sense in a way nothing else did after Raccoon City. If nothing else, he’s excelled at moving on. When his daddy started hitting him, he learned how to cake mama’s concealer down his neck before school. When your mama left in the middle of the night, he got up early the next morning to make you breakfast. When his grief started to resurface, he drank himself to sleep. But whiskey doesn’t smooth things over when it comes to you. Whether he’s one shot down or half a bottle, it’s violently apparent that you’re getting married, and it’s violently apparent that you’re not marrying him. Of course he’s in love with you. For the first time in his life, he’s bad at coping.
Then half a second passes, and he remembers why it’s not at all good or natural to be in love with you. It’s the sort of realization that makes his heart drop, sear a hole through his gut, and keep falling. He’s in love with his fucking daughter. His hand shoots out, clammy and uncoordinated, like it’s trying to get away from the rest of him. It barely makes it to the counter. Fuck, he wanted to rot. If he killed himself now, he’d be past rigor mortis by the wedding. Past anything good or presentable or composed. Just like he needed to be.
The room spins and his stomach churns and for a moment, Leon’s not sure if his lungs are working right or not. He didn’t blame them for giving up on him. All he’d done with 48 years of air was drink and fantasize about his own daughter. Tough luck, being part of him. None of the breathing exercises his work-mandated shrink forced on him work right when he thinks about you. Deep breaths get caught and jam somewhere in the middle of his throat when your wedding crosses his mind. The numbers get jumbled up when he tries to count down from five or ten or twenty. His chest feels like it’s about to pop open — one of his organs must be giving out. Probably his liver. Feels like his heart.
Then he feels your hand on his forearm and his heart finally stills. He’d have spells like that, sometimes — the sort that made him freeze up in the middle of whatever he was doing when something sounded a little too much like Raccoon city or bootcamp or Spain. Never over something like this. You had a way of seeing through him that he’s never hated more than now. The look on your face makes his stomach churn — brows etched in concern he didn’t deserve, eyes widened in sympathy for something you didn’t understand. Makes him fucking sick.
“Everything okay?” you ask, hand benignly draped over his forearm. Leon nods slowly, gaze settled on the way your fingers splayed across his sleeve.
“I’m alright, baby. Just thinking,” he says. It’s not a total lie. The wedding’s drained you, too — he can see it in the way your shoulders droop and your eyes stay closed a moment too long whenever you blink. “I’ve been tired.”
You lean in a little closer before you reply, oblivious to the way his heart drops and wedges itself somewhere in his guts. “You do look really tired…” you sigh, settling back flat on your feet. “Make sure not to worry too much about all of this, okay? We’re right on schedule. Promise.”
Quite frankly, Leon couldn’t have given less of a fuck about your wedding preparations, but he still put on a show of being relieved. Maybe you were right — he’d not slept well since academy. Exhaustion had a way of catching up to him. He’d put off sleeping for a week straight after Raccoon. Caved in when the psychosis scared him worse than the nightmares. Maybe that’s what this was — first he thought that the zombies were still after him, and now he thinks that he wants to fuck his daughter. All delusion. Nothing a couple of pills couldn’t fix. He’d be fine.
You’re in his dream that night.
Leon’s no stranger to nightmares. Flashbacks, mostly, but his mind likes to wander on occasion. Comes back with some variation of Sherry dying or Ashley dying or Claire dying — him dying, if he’s lucky. This time, it came back with you, thighs splayed apart and ass settled neatly on his pillow. He’s never made a point to think about how you’d look half-naked and legs spread, but his mind’s filled in the gaps for him. You’re lovely as ever. Lovely enough to make him freeze up when you lean in and press your lips up against his — lovely enough to make him kiss you back. He’s never kissed a woman as easily as he kisses you, never felt as right or satisfied or happy as he does with you in his bed.
You break the kiss with a pop, lips swollen and breaths laden with arousal. There’s a moment of silence, a moment where you shift your bra down your shoulders, a moment where he suddenly remembers why he bothered with your mama at all. You had the prettiest tits he’d ever seen. Any tits attached to you would’ve sufficed, but yours mold into his palm when he cups them, nipples puffed up just right between his fingers. Your skin’s soft enough to make his thoughts go muggy. For once, he doesn’t mind fucking up his head a little more. He feels your fingers trail along his thigh, settling on his clothed cock — gently wrapping around it through the fabric of his boxers.
“Jesus, angel—“ he mutters, forehead resting against yours. Your thumb grazes his tip through the fabric softly enough to make his hips buck up. Fuck, even your fingers are pretty. He loves you too much to look you in the eyes right then. It’d stop his heart right there, he’s convinced. Knock the breath out of his lungs and kill him in your hands. There’s something poetic about that — something his brain’s too muddled to process.
You look up, then, lips parting like you’re about to say something. Before you can, Leon wakes up, heart pounding and harder than he’s ever been in his goddamn life.
He sits up, eyes bleary as they flit over to his clock’s display — 4:52 A.M. It’s five in the fucking morning and he’s dreaming about having sex with his daughter. It takes a minute to resonate in his skull, takes another for his brain to process much of anything — but the second it does, his veins constrict and his muscles go rigid. Fuck, he’s losing it. Really losing it. Doesn’t help that he’s still hard. That’s what’s getting to him, more than the dream itself; it’d taken three Viagra to conceive you. Two to get it to chub up when Ada came around — and Ada had always done right by his dick. It was supposed to be broken now, like it was for every other woman in his life, but it wasn’t. Not for you. Not for his flesh and blood.
Leon swears it’s the heat getting to him, fucking with his head, melting down his brain. He’s never dreamt of you like that before, never even thought about sleeping with you — honest. Leon’s always had it out for those incest freaks on the news, always narrowed his eyes a little when one of their mugshots came through. You just happen to be the most perfect girl in the entire world.
It’d be easier if he was more like his own daddy. All of this would. His daddy wouldn’t have cared enough about his kid to begin with to start dreaming about them. His daddy wouldn’t have been told that there was a wedding at all — and nobody would miss him during the ceremony, because nobody particularly liked Leon’s daddy. Leon most of all — from your first breath, he’d vowed to do right by you, vowed to be everything his father wasn’t and keep away from everything his father was. Keeping away from the bottle never did much good, but he loved you more than he ever planned on loving anybody. He loves you in a way that makes his stomach churn and his veins tight. Love let you get too cozy between his ribs. Now you wanted out. He didn’t expect you to want out. He’d let the bone grow over your back, let himself get dependent on you. This wedding was going to crack his ribcage wide open, splay his heart out on the altar, kill him at your feet.
You drag him out around noon to meet your fiancé in-person. Leon behaves. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on you and he doesn’t mention the call. For your sake, not his — your fiancé doesn’t have a cell of shame. He’s about what Leon expected; that makes things unfortunate. Not a drop of shame in his blood and not an ounce of charisma in his bones. He drives a sputtering car with a beaten-in hood and never stays quiet for more than thirty seconds. Leon knows that he’s being unfair — that he’s lost count of the number of cars he’s crashed and doesn’t mind chatter when it’s from anyone else, but quite frankly, it wouldn’t have mattered if your fiancé was a lawyer or a doctor or a billionaire. He was your fiancé, and that made him rancid by default.
It’s not that he blames you. Leon and your mama were divorced well before they were ever married, but he understands you well enough. People get married when they get horny. Probably something to do with blood rushing away from your head. He never paid much mind to his psychologist. If Ada asked him to marry her tomorrow, he’d do it for a shot at fucking her raw and seeing her thrice a year. Or twice a year. Or just once. He’s not picky. Point is, he gets it, even if you’re a little young and your fiancé is a little ugly.
Even if he’s starting to regret you for the first time in his life.
Regardless, his denial’s cooled into resolve, and he loves you too much to involve you with something like this. When alcohol fails as a distraction, sex doesn’t. Most of the time. For a while. Sex tends to be Leon’s last resort. When it doesn’t go well — and it usually doesn’t — he has something new to haunt him before he drifts off, something divorced from gore and romance and you.
“Hello?”
And suddenly his composure’s melted down into something irredeemable. Leon hadn’t expected to hear anyone actually pick up the phone. Really, he hadn’t expected the number to still be in service at all. Ada never kept a number longer than she needed it. Something about being tracked. He clears his throat away from the speaker, bringing it back to his face when his voice was steady: “Hey.”
“Leon?” the voice shifts into a different sort of confusion. “How did you get this number?”
Leon sighs and thinks about hanging up for a moment. Only for a moment — the damage was done. “You gave it to me.”
“I did? When?”
“Four years ago. When we met at that motel.”
“Right,” she says, voice distant through the speaker. “I told you to call if you were ever in town. Are you in town?”
“Uh,” Leon pauses to clear his throat again. Something about Ada makes it abnormally dry. “No.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
To convince you to drop everything and have sex with me so I can forget about fucking my daughter. “Felt nostalgic. Missed talking to you.”
“Because you usually call me when you just want to talk,” she says a little too stiffly to pass off as a joke.
“No, no, really, I do,” he lies, “Haven’t heard from you in a long time, Ada.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
“The phone works both ways.”
“Usually. You didn’t bother giving me your number,” Ada’s microphone crackled slightly, “I couldn’t have called you if I wanted to.”
Leon sighs again, more emphatically this time — Ada’s right, and he knows that she’s right, but something’s blocking him from conceding. “Since when is it wrong to call up a pretty girl for some fun, anyway?”
“Please, never say that to me again.”
“Answer the question.”
“I never said it was wrong,” she starts, and Leon waits for her voice to waiver — for her tone to cave into something angry or desperate or disgusted. It doesn’t. “I’m just not personally interested in being used.”
“So it’s alright for you to use me, but this— this isn’t good enough for you?” Leon snaps, chest constricting. He doesn’t mean it, honestly — he doesn’t even really want to have sex with Ada, but her indifference hurts in a way he didn’t expect it to.
“That was twenty-seven years ago, Leon. I’m retired,” she huffs, “Aren’t you?”
Leon blinks. Retirement hadn’t crossed his mind nearly as much as it should’ve at forty-eight. It seemed unlikely. Why would they let him go now? Why would he want to leave now? What was left for him? “No, I’m not. You’re retired?”
“I am. Why else would I keep the same phone for four years?”
“Fair,” he laughs at a joke she wasn’t trying to make, “How come you retired?”
Ada pauses for a moment before she answers him. “I got sick of being Ada Wong.”
“How? You’re still Ada.”
“No, Leon, I’m not,” she sighs — it’s not as rewarding as he imagined. “I’m living as someone else, now. That name is dead to me. I’ve wanted it to be dead for a long time.”
“Oh,” he starts, fully intending to follow with something insightful — nothing comes to mind. “What’s your new name?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she says, tone inhibited. “I’ve moved on. You should, too.”
The line goes dead after that. His bedroom’s oxygen supply starts to clump up, then — he lets it sit heavy at the bottom of his lungs, lets it weigh him down. Moving on must be easy when you don’t have children, he‘s decided. If Ada laid eyes on your fiancé, she’d understand Leon — hell, she’d take it all back. Hold his gun steady while he took the shot. Help him bury the bones. She’d understand if she had a daughter.
There’s a day until the wedding. Leon’s hardly slept for three.
“Do you think I look okay?” you ask after you set the phone down, fidgeting with the edge of one of your new strip lashes. You’d never bothered with strip lashes before. Said they made your eyes water. Leon hates how they look on you, hates how they cover up those pretty lashes you got from your mama, hates how you only started wearing them after your fiancé said they brought out your eyes — but for your sake, he lies through his teeth.
“You look great, sweetheart,” Leon calls back, tone hollow. He means it. You do look great. There’s not a head in the world you couldn’t turn, not a pair of eyes in the city you couldn’t catch. That’s why he doesn’t bother looking — unfortunately, you catch onto the way his eyes don’t shift from the wall.
“You didn’t even look.”
He shrugs. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
You pause, setting down the lash. The air gets a little stiffer. “Dad… that’s just for the person marrying me.”
Fuck, you’re right. You’re right and Freud is grinning in his coffin. Stupid bastard. He laughs, not making eye contact when you turn your head. “And the wedding’s not till tomorrow. Tough crowd.”
“No, it was just a bad joke,” you grin at him through the mirror. Shit makes his stomach churn. You think he’ll be around when you come back from the bachelorette party tonight, waiting to walk you down the aisle tomorrow. And he’s not going to tell you any different. You’d stay home if he did. Hell, you’d call off the whole wedding and reschedule it after the psych ward discharged him, just so he could give you away. He shouldn’t have raised you as well as he did.
Leon’s not killing himself just because you’re getting married. He’s killing himself because he wants to fuck you, for one, but it’s also a matter of convenience. He’d rather die than sleep in an empty apartment and have dinner alone. He’d rather die than watch another man knock you up and pass him the bundle. He’d rather die than keep on like this — the exact sort of man he’s long despised. Without you depending on him, he’s really got no reason to keep himself safe during missions. Bioterrorism has a way of jading you. Watching people die has a way of making the soul turn in on itself. If he kills himself now, no poor custodian will have to peel his entrails off the floor, and no poor coroner will have to piece him back into something presentable for his funeral — everyone wins, except for you.
In the time Leon’s been feeling sorry for himself, you’ve picked up another call from your fiancé. It’s different, this time around — you look tense. Tired. Your brows knit together and your eyes shut and you look like you’d rather be talking to anyone else.
“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m leaving in, like, five minutes,” you sigh, propping the phone up on your shoulder. “And stop calling me angel, please. I don’t like angel.”
The call unceremoniously ends after that. You sigh again, leaving your cellphone to balance itself out on your shoulder. Leon catches it when it starts to slip off.
“What’s wrong with angel?” he asks, returning the phone to your outstretched hand. “I call you angel.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you slide it into the front pocket of your purse. “Just reminds me of you. It’s like if I called him dad, or something.”
It’s odd. Leon never planned on telling you that he had feelings for you — whatever those feelings were — but suddenly, he’s on the phone with Ada again, realizing that things really aren’t going to work out. He’s back in eleventh grade, asking a girl out and watching her grimace. Tough times. Things would be worse off if you did want to fuck him; he knows that. But there’s something about your tone that feels like rejection, something that makes the filter in his brain disintegrate before he can collect himself.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
You pause, shoulders going stiff as you look up at him; he keeps going, for some fucking reason. “I mean, this wedding… it just doesn’t seem like you, baby.”
“What doesn’t seem like me?” you ask, tone verging on defensive. Not defensive yet, but rapidly approaching. “I’ve helped with everything.”
“How?” he asks, tone a little too blunt for your liking — he softens it up when your brows raise. “You’re wearing your mother-in-law’s dress and having the ceremony at his parents’ venue. Feels like you didn’t get a say.”
“I did get a say,” you purse your lips a little, “I said it was a good idea to save the money.”
“I’ve got money, baby—“ He really doesn’t; he hardly remembers how much weddings are supposed to cost, but he’s been talking out his ass for the past thirty seconds and hasn’t figured out how to stop. “I don’t want you to settle. Doesn’t this feel rushed to you?”
“I’m not settling,” you say, pausing to readjust the strip lash jamming into your cornea, “I don’t want money, dad. Just be there tomorrow and I’ll be happy.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so you leave. It takes all of twenty minutes for Leon to get the handgun his in mouth — nineteen to draft a suicide note. He considered being honest, at first. Natural instinct. Nothing’s supposed to matter when you’re not alive to see it — his pride had died long ago. Unfortunately, its ghost picked the right moment to come back, stilled his hand before he could confess to hating half his friends and wanting to fuck his daughter. He blamed the government instead — went on for three pages before he realized that you’d be the one facing the music for it. That left him with nothing to say, so he shredded the paper and picked up the gun.
It’s funny. He’s been contemplating suicide since he was ten, and for the first time, he’s getting cold feet about it. The barrel rests heavily on his bottom lip — for some reason, his pulse is racing. He’s not consciously frightened — consciously, he’s thinking about you, bedroom-eyed and kneeling before another man. Consciously, he’s watching you hike up your wedding skirt and wrap your thighs around somebody else. It’s enough to curl his finger around the trigger; something stops him from pressing it. His finger’s twitching against it like an upturned spider, held hostage by whatever sense of self-preservation he’d retained.
He tries to think of what his father would say, what mama would say, what you would say — anything to beat down his sudden will to live. Anything to make him hate himself just a little more than he usually does. Nothing works. His index stays in limbo. His eyes drift to the single photo he’s bothered to keep at his bedside — it’s a picture of you, smiling beside a zoo exhibit. Your mama’s in the frame too, but he’d folded her over years ago. Obscured her face as payback for ruining his life. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Truly, you’re the only thing in the goddamn universe that matters to him. He sets the gun down, slowly, and reaches for the frame instead.
It’s you. It’s always been you. He thought of you when he was wounded, when he was drinking, when he needed a reason to keep breathing — drenched in viscera and surrounded by the undead, he thought of you. Now, he thinks of you again, dressed in white while he’s stuck teething on a handgun. He couldn’t let you end up with this man. If he has any reason to live, it’s that — keeping you away from him.
It’s an atrocious wedding.
Leon’s biased. Admittedly so. But he’s almost entirely sure that Hunnigan would agree, and Hunnigan is the most objective person in his contacts. He’d not made a point to invite her, or anyone for that matter — thankfully. Your fiancé had picked an ugly little venue sat atop an ugly little hill, paint peeling and air conditioner rattling beneath the July sun. If he wasn’t so embarrassed for you, he’d be embarrassed of you.
He’d managed to sneak in without having to make eye contact with any of your fiancé’s family. Somehow. They’d stationed greeters at the main entrance — the only doors in the building Leon was completely sure wouldn’t trigger some sort of fire alarm. He’d tagged along behind a group of strangers and split off into another room, listening in when nobody lingered around.
He feels along one of the walls for a light switch, grimacing when his hand comes back dusty. It’s an ugly venue — maybe the ugliest venue in the entire world. Everyone he’s bumped into is ugly and sentimental over it; they’re ugly and sentimental over your fiancé, too, but listening in on that only pisses him off. He knows better, fortunately — knows you better than you know yourself, and if nothing else, he knows that you don’t belong here. He cleans the dust off his hand in the sink, silently reassuring himself. Everything would work out fine. He’d rather have you home and angry than here and happy.
It doesn’t take him long to find you. The building is oddly hollow — not unlike the one he’d tracked back to Ashley in Spain. This wasn’t different, really. He was saving you too, even if you’d not come to terms with it yet. Even if you resented him a little. He clicks the lock out of place, letting the door creak open.
“Dad?”
You’re situated in front of the mirror, brows raised and eyes wide. His lungs give when the sun shifts a little, when it finally lets him see you clearly. His mind stops ringing. The parts of his brain that’ve been bruised and battered and otherwise broken click back into place when you come into view. He hardly processes that your face is contorted in shock — you’ve got these gorgeous doe lashes. Renders the rest of your face irrelevant. The veil falls benignly around your shoulders, frames your cheeks prettily enough to take his breath away. It doesn’t bother him. You’re the sort of beautiful he wouldn’t mind dying beside.
“Oh, sweetheart…” he draws out the words nice and slow to make you forget that he’s not supposed to be there, “You look beautiful.”
You soften a little, straightening up — he tries not to stare at the way your dress frames your tits. Gentlemanly stuff. “Thank you,” you clear your throat, “Did you get lost or something?”
“Uh, yeah,” Leon says, silently praying you won’t notice where he chipped the paint while picking the lock. He’s not the best with that sort of thing; usually, there’s someone with him to take care of the dirty work. “Weird place.”
“I guess it is a little weird,” you glance back at the mirror for a moment. “At least it was you. Could’ve sworn I locked the door, but this building is, like… two centuries old.”
It’s torture, listening to you settle. Reminds him a little too much of the way he used to talk to your mama. Uncanny valley. Sickening, even. He cuts you off before you can go on, for the sake of his stomach: “You really wanna get married here?”
You drop the pleasantries and give him the same look you gave him yesterday when he tried to talk you out of getting married in the bathroom. Some variant of it, anyway. There’s a little less understanding between your eyes this time around. “Dad,” you huff; it echoes down the hall. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m asking you a question,” Leon holds his hands up in a way that’s made Claire give him the cold shoulder one too many times. “Why do you want to get married here? It’s not you.”
“We’ve been over this; it’s convenient. His family owns the place. They let us do it for free. What part of that don’t you understand?”
You raise your voice; he follows suit. It’s an odd feeling — you’ve never yelled at each other like this before. He has to pull the tone from his throat. “Since when are weddings about convenience?”
“All I said was that it’s nice to save money— god, can you just tell me what you want?” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “Please, get to the point.”
The point. Leon hadn’t decided just how honest he wanted to be with you — really, he’d not decided anything before picking the lock. Just that he wanted you away from here, from this wedding, from these people. “I think you’re making a mistake,” he settles on, tone firm in a way he never is with you, “I want you to come home.”
You blink — once, twice, three times. Pointedly so. Like it’s taking everything in you not to tear your dress in two and wrap your hands around his neck. You smooth your skirt instead, hands rigid. “I’m not going home. Please leave.”
There it is again, that odd sense of rejection. You have a way of making him feel twenty. Back when he bothered with vulnerability. Back when he looked more like you and less like his daddy. He’d go back if he could, turn himself into something you’d actually consider marrying. Maybe you’d be more willing to fuck him if he’d done a worse job at raising you. “I wasn’t asking. You’re not getting married today. Lay down,” he locks the door behind him, hand resting over the bulge of his handgun.
You don’t notice immediately — instead, you stand up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “What? No, stop—“
“Lay down,” he repeats, sliding the handgun from his pocket. He’d brought it along as a last resort, assumed you’d be a little more consciously miserable. This is your fiancé’s fault, really — his fault for brainwashing you. Leon’s a good father for taking the time to save you, for being assertive. Even if the way you’re staring at him is breaking his heart. All trembling lips and constricted pupils. A bad father would walk away here; Leon locks the door and cocks the gun.
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” you insist, voice shaky as you take a step back. “I’m your daughter, you wouldn’t sh—“
You feel the gun before you see it move; the barrel knocks into your cheekbone hard enough to make your head spin. Makes your vision go white. Tears rise on reflex, at first — you raise a hand to your own cheek, tracing over the already-rising welt with trembling fingertips. Leon can see the exact moment that you give up, the exact moment it sinks in that your father just hit you for the first time in your life — your eyes dim a little and your tears fatten up. Shit makes his cock leak.
Leon’s never raped a girl. Cross his heart. He’s never even thought about it — not really. Nothing beyond fantasy. Fantasies he’d force himself to bury. But you’re here now. You’re here, teary-eyed and trembling, and his cock’s hard enough to make him dizzy. It doesn’t matter how you feel about him, now — it doesn’t matter what appearance he keeps up around you because you’re stuck with him. Why shouldn’t he marry you instead? Why shouldn’t he save you from everyone else? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to fuck his wife?
He wants to tell you that he’s sorry for this, that he’s sorry for what’s going to happen. The word gnaws at the back of his throat, eats a hole in his tongue, tries to force his teeth apart. He keeps his composure instead. “Lay down before I hit you again.”
You nod frantically, eyeing the gun with this raw sort of terror — the sort of terror Leon’s never had the pleasure of causing. It’s the same look he’d caught sight of back at the RPD, the same look he’d get when something got a little too close to tearing out his jugular or hacking into his abdomen. Looks good on you. Better than it ever did on him. You slowly ease yourself onto one of the benches, limbs rigid and chest heaving. Puffs out your tits nicely. Leon thinks you should panic more often.
He traces the muzzle up to your temple while he looks you over, nice and slow. Keeps you tense. You flinch when the metal presses into your skin a little too suddenly; his dick throbs hard enough to make his head fuzzy. Both heads. Someone really should step in and put him down, but they won’t — the door’s locked tight and your lips are sealed tighter.
There’s a certain realization that washes over your face when Leon finally tugs your collar below your tits, something cold. Like you’d known where this was going — because you had. You’d known that there was no reason for him to force you down if he wasn’t planning on raping you, but you’d held out anyway, held out till your breast found itself settled neatly into his palm. He can feel your heart beating underneath, rattling hard enough to crack your ribs open, but he ignores it in favor of watching your nipples pebble up in the cold air. Cute. Thank God he made you.
“You don’t have to do this,“ your voice is hushed, eyes nervously flitting between him and the gun. “Please, dad, don’t—“
He clamps his hand over your mouth before you can keep talking, before the guilt sears a hole in his gut. He can’t look you in the eye right now, not like this, not with a gun pressed up against your head. You’d forgive him eventually. You forgave him when he drank between AA meetings and missed your graduations. You’d come back around — you always do, so he pushes your skirt up past your hips and opens your legs like an envelope.
“You’re awfully dressed up,” he slips his index under the elastic of your panties, this little lacy number unlike anything he’s caught sight of in your laundry. Marriage was already corrupting you. That didn’t bother him as much as it should have. His finger pries the fabric away from your pussy; you squeeze your eyes shut. Nothing better to do with a gun against your head. Leon tugs the panties down your thighs, one after the other. Same way he used to get you dressed for school.
“There we go...”
You’re prettiest like this, Leon thinks — eyes watery and tits out. Pretty enough to make his heart stop and start back up again at the base of his dick. Pretty enough to make dad rape you two doors down from the ceremony. God’s fault, not his. It’s God's fault for giving him such a lovely daughter. Leon can’t help that your mascara suits you better when it runs and your dress suits you better when it’s bunched up around your waist. Time slurs together when you look like this; his cock finds its way into his hand, flushed and leaking into his palm. You kick on instinct, legs jolting in abject disgust; Leon cocks the gun. “Stop squirming. You’re gonna make it hurt.” He doesn’t particularly care if you hurt or cry or bleed, really, but the venue echoes an awful lot and he has no intention of going to court.
You flinch when he presses the head against your hole. Makes his cock flinch, too, twitching up against his palm in offense. The way you’re crying almost makes him settle for something kinder, ‘till he remembers how often your mama made him settle. He’d spent enough nights locked in missionary to curve his spine inward — and that bitch still left him. You were leaving him, too. Going off to pump out babies for that sleaze outside the door and die like Emily Webb. That’s enough to make him grab your thighs by the fat and loop your legs over his shoulders. No point in being conservative about raping you. Not when you’d hate him anyway. Gentle rapists are the ones that get reported, according to his gut. He’d know. His own scared him silent. Your thighs clamp together like you’re trying to suffocate his dick. It works out for him — when he nudges them apart, he gets a better view of your pretty cunt.
Fuck, he knows why you didn’t want him to see her — you’re begging him to leave while she’s begging for her daddy to give her a baby. Your slick beads around the tip, clit puffy like she’s been crying. Compliments your eyes. He doesn’t blame you; he’d get off to rape too if he had a fiancé as incompetent as yours. He watches you tense up as he eases into your cunt, calves going rigid over his shoulders. Feels like someone’s pulling your muscles taut over your bones, like fabric over a canopy. It works out in his favor; you’re tighter this way. Fits his dick like a lock.
“You’re a lucky girl, y’know,” he grunts, gritting his teeth when someone passes by the door — they move on before he considers pulling out. Your face falls into this odd cross between shellshock and astonishment. He’d laugh, but that feels cruel. You look like you’ve seen an angel. One of those biblically accurate ones you showed him once. Yeah, that’s his dick — Biblically accurate angel. “I mean it. You’re lucky.”
“How?” you croak out when he slides his hand away from your face. It doesn’t sync with the way your mouth moves. “You’re—“
You wince when he bottoms out — he likes to imagine that it’s because he’s the biggest you’ve taken. You’re wet enough for it to trail down his cock when he pulls back. “This could be a lot worse for you, sweetheart. A whole lot worse.”
That’s obvious, really, but pity tends to prompt forgiveness. In women, anyway. Unless you’re Ada or Hunnigan or Claire or your mama or his mama. “When it happened to me, I bled— fuckin’ everywhere. Really. Gagged so hard my eyes burned. You’re not gagging, are you?”
You shake your head reluctantly. You could start — easily. This whole ordeal makes you want to scream until your lungs constrict. The gun keeps you polite. He pumps his cock into you a little more forcefully, furrows his brow when your pussy clenches around him. You’d like to be anywhere else, but she’s perfectly happy right here — getting fucked by the cock that made her.
“So good, baby… you’re doin’ so good. Gonna marry you,” he slurs, breaths ragged and mind foggy as he ruts into you. Leon fucks you like a doll because you’re still like one. He knows that you’re cooperating for your safety, that you’re being quiet because he’s got a handgun pressed against your head, but it’s nice to think that you’re keeping sweet because you like him. Your cunt likes him plenty. Makes him feel special. He dips his hand from your chest to your clit, thumbs the bud nice and slow — your face scrunches up like you’re about to cry again. You look like your mama when you make that face. Like you think you’re better than letting him get you off. His hand stills when the light beneath the door shifts, shadows extending across the floor.
“Shh, shh, quiet…” he hushes you, going rigid when there’s a knock at the door. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, are you ready? You’re walking down the aisle in, like… ten minutes,” a voice calls from outside. Leon’s never heard it before. Your expression flashes — he can see you think about it for a moment. You could call for help. You could scream. You could say something, anything to get you out of here, anything to get you away from this bastard and back where you should be — but his gun nudges itself a little more firmly against your temple before you can open your mouth. The hope drains from your face as quickly as it surged.
“Um, yeah… almost ready,” you call back, scarcely composed. It’s that look of quiet resignation in your eyes that makes him cum, this rapidly disintegrating dignity behind your pupils — in that instant, he knows why his daddy did it, why mama did it, why Krauser did it. He’s not unlucky or cursed or divinely punished — just nice to knock around. Nice to beat. Nice to rape. You inherited the gene, wore it even better than him. He’d never cum as hard as he just had, watching your face fall back into something defeated and hollow. Came too fast to pull out, pumped you full before he realized what was happening. It dribbles down his length as he pulls out of you, sticky down your thighs.
He smiles at you when you sit up, sappy and braindead — you burst into tears. Clockwork. Leon tenses up reflexively. It’s not that he expected you to be bedroom-eyed already. Really. He’s not crazy. He just hadn’t expected you to be that upset about it. Almost makes him feel bad, until he remembers who you would’ve ended up with otherwise.
You’re better off like this. As much as you hate it now, you’re better off. Like a vaccine. He knew you; you’d come to accept things. You always did.
“No, no, it wasn’t you… I’m not lying! It wasn’t! Please, don’t blame yourself—“
Your fiancé’s voice rattles from the car’s speaker, grating in the way it always is. Leon’s got one hand on the wheel and the other on his handgun, thumb gently settled against the safety. It’s better than before. You’ve got the freedom to cry or scream or writhe without cold metal pushing back against your temple. You don’t. Instead, you sit perfectly rigid.
You shift uncomfortably in the passenger’s side, arms angled over your chest. Leon really does wish he had something better on hand. Unfortunately, freeing your hands meant risking you snatching the phone off of the dashboard and dialing 911. So he made do with the duct tape in his trunk. He’d make it up to you sometime. Cook you dinner. Buy you lingerie online. Whatever husbands were supposed to do for their wives.
“No, I can’t tell you where I am— I’m serious, I can’t… I can’t tell you why, I’m sorry…”
He knows it’s cruel, forcing you to break things off with your fiancé over the phone. The way you’re tearing up really is making his chest hurt, something between heartburn and a heart attack. It hurts worse to think about what he did to you. He’d been able to work through it without killing himself thus far. Somehow.
“No— No, don’t hang up, I’ll—“
The call ends abruptly. You don’t look at Leon, or much of anything. Your eyes have this blank quality to them, behind the puffiness and runny mascara. One of your false lashes didn’t make it out of the venue. You’ve never looked more beautiful.
Leon doesn’t say anything — just reaches over and thumbs little circles into your wrists through the duct tape. It’s the same motion he used when you were little. Back when he could pick you up without popping his back. Used to put you to sleep. Now, it just makes you cry harder, shoulders falling forward and trembling something awful. He lets you — you’ll have plenty of time to cry for the rest of your life.
“I hate you,” you choke out, hysterical in a way he’d never seen on you. Your face crumples like a beer can when he doesn’t respond, so you say it again. And again. And again. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate—“
Right now, he doesn’t care if you hate him or not because your headstone is going to read Kennedy. He has twenty years to smooth things over with you. Hopefully. If his liver doesn’t give out before then. For once, part of him wants to live. In a way. He’ll get over it soon.
You flinch when he holds your wrist again, but otherwise, you keep still. This is how you’d die, he’s decided. Father and daughter, hand in hand, grave by grave.
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