“Please,” his rough voice had long since devolved from confident growls to weak pants. He gasped for air between pathetic moans, fingers twitching around your wrists as he held you down. “You feel s-so good, fuck, I just need this, please-“
He released one of your wrists, hand sliding down your body until he could loop an arm under your hips. Jerking your body up, he slammed into you, hips grinding against yours until you cried out. Zeno groaned into your neck, his own spit warm and wet as he bit down. “F-fuck, please honey, keep making noise f’me, just a little longer, you’re such a good- fuck!”
It had been just a little longer for the last hour, at least. Your body was levels past overstimulated, creeping somewhere near pain but still lost in how hot and wet his broad chest was against yours. Pinned perfectly still against the mattress with no hope of escape, you barely had room to wiggle your hips to meet his thrusts in return.
“You’re like a dream, hole’s so wet — tell me you want more, tell me how good my cock feels.”
“Zeno,” you barely had the energy to moan, let alone form coherent words. “H-hurts, s’too much- you’re so big.”
He choked out a dark laugh, hips twitching as he continued to grind his aching cock into you. “Oh, honey, I want you to feel it. You’ve been so good for me, you can take more, I know you can take more, my sweet little pet.”
He bit down on your neck, sharp canine latching on to the delicate skin beneath your jaw. You yelped and tensed under him, squeezing his cock almost painfully. He let out a filthy moan into your wet skin, releasing his bite to nuzzle into the bright red mark. “Now say it, pet. Say no one else could make you feel this good, fuck- only me, tell me you love me-“
Your eyes snapped open at his desperate words, your lips curving into a sleepy smile. His stamina was running you into an early death, but he was reaching his end, drunk on his own lust as his thrusts quickly lost any sense of rhythm. His pants were laced with near-silent whines in your ear.
“Jus’ you, Zen,” Your whimpered words slurred into each other, barely more than a moan as his sloppy movements made your eyes roll back in your head. “L-love it, love you, can’t take any more- it’s- fuck, Zen please-“
Zeno pistoned his hips a few more times before he finished with a low growl, roughly grinding into you to milk the feeling. His hips twitched weakly as he collapsed his weight on you. You both struggled to catch your breath, exhaustion making even that task difficult. He groaned softly as he carefully lifted himself again, softening cock sliding out of you with a filthy squelch. You felt your combined wetness soaking the bed beneath your hips as he pressed a sloppy kiss to your jaw.
The bed shifted as he stood and left the room. You didn’t attempt to move, nearly asleep drenched in sweat when he returned with a warm cloth. Zeno wordlessly cleaned you up, hands surprisingly gentle after the way he just used your body like a toy. You let him handle you, only opening your eyes once the bed dipped directly in front of you.
It took massive effort to pry your eyes open, but you reached up to rub the sleep away when you saw his expression. His cheeks were flush with embarrassment, eyes looking anywhere except your own.
“I apologize.” Zeno reached out to brush his knuckles across your reddened cheeks. “That was unusually harsh of me.”
You hummed and leaned into his touch, shuffling forward to press your face to his thigh. “S’okay, I liked it. Just… maybe not again for a while.”
His eyes widened and he huffed, the corner of his mouth lifting in a disbelieving smile. “Regardless, I feel… fortunate, to have you here.”
“How romantic,” you hummed, exhaustion quickly catching up again. His low voice spoke again as his broad palm stroked your hair, but you were already asleep.
Synopsis: When Zeno arrives furious over Victor’s lack of results, he becomes unexpectedly captivated by your innocence and begins to question why someone so gentle is caught in the middle of something so dark.
—Pairing: Zeno / Fem! Reader
—Warnings: None. Yet
—Author's Note: This is Pre! Re9 storyline. Before grace. Before Spencer’s truth is told.
The building had once been a bank.
You could still see it in the bones of the place — the wide marble floors worn smooth with age, the tall windows that let in pale afternoon light, the heavy iron vault door that now stayed permanently shut at the end of the lower hallway. Victor had bought the entire structure months ago. Most of the surrounding businesses had long since left the block, leaving the street quiet except for the occasional passing car or the low hum of trucks arriving at odd hours.
You tried not to think too hard about what they brought.
Your desk sat in the front lobby where the old teller counters had once been. Victor had replaced them with a polished wooden reception desk and a narrow hallway that led deeper into the building. Behind you hung a tall filing cabinet full of paperwork — shipments, expense reports, supply lists, and the steady trickle of invoices that seemed to multiply by the week.
Your job was simple.
Answer the phone.
Sort the mail.
Schedule Victor’s meetings.
Keep track of deliveries.
And, most importantly, never go downstairs.
Victor had told you that the first day.
He had smiled when he said it too, like it was nothing more than a casual workplace rule.
“Laboratory safety regulations,” he’d explained while setting the folder of employment forms in front of you. His voice eerily soft, eerily quiet. “Chemicals, experimental equipment. Nothing you’d find interesting anyway.”
You had nodded immediately.
You were good at nodding. Good at accepting things the way they were given to you.
It wasn’t like you had many options.
You hadn’t grown up with much.
Your parents had died when you were still young — a car accident on a wet highway you barely remembered. After that it had been a rotation of relatives, spare bedrooms, and eventually a small apartment you could barely afford once you were old enough to be on your own.
You learned quickly that being quiet, polite, and helpful made life easier.
People liked you that way.
So when the job listing appeared — administrative assistant needed, competitive pay, quiet office environment — you applied the same day.
Victor hired you almost immediately.
He was strange, maybe. A little absentminded. Always scribbling notes or muttering about breakthroughs and variables under his breath.
But he wasn’t cruel.
He paid you on time.
He let you take tea breaks whenever you liked.
Sometimes you even caught him staring— fingers twitching at his sides with an expression that remained content. That had to mean something, right?
Compared to some of the jobs you’d had before, it felt almost… comfortable.
Even if the building itself felt a little too quiet sometimes.
You were sorting paperwork when the door opened that afternoon.
The sound echoed through the empty lobby.
Not the light push of a normal visitor.
Something heavier.
Deliberate.
You looked up.
The man standing in the doorway did not look like anyone who should be walking into an office building.
Tall and broad shoulders. He had a dark coat hanging stiffly from his frame like it had been thrown on rather than worn properly. His face was sharp, stern in a way that made the air around him feel tense before he’d even said a word. He had an earring— only one that caught the over head lights and shined silver with a pristine, pretty decision. And his eyes. Although covered by dark frames, you imagined they scanned the room in one slow, measuring sweep with the way his neck craned.
You straightened instinctively in your chair.
“H-Hello,” you said softly.
Your voice always came out a little quieter than you expected.
“Can I help you… sir?”
For a moment he didn’t answer.
He was staring at you.
Not rudely. Not in the usual way men sometimes did.
Just… staring.
Like you were something entirely unexpected.
Something that didn’t belong.
Zeno had come to the building ready to tear Victor apart.
Months of funding.
Months of promises.
And nothing to show for it.
No breakthrough.
No power.
No progress worth the money he’d been pouring into the man’s research.
He’d spent the entire drive over rehearsing the conversation in his head — the threats, the ultimatum, the way Victor’s smug confidence would finally crack when he realized the patience funding his work had run out.
Zeno had expected armed guards.
Scientists.
Assistants.
Maybe security.
What he had not expected… was you.
A small girl sitting behind a reception desk with a stack of paperwork and a pen tucked behind your ear.
Your eyes were wide.
Curious.
A little nervous as they looked up at him.
You didn’t look like someone who belonged anywhere near the kind of work Victor was conducting in the basement of this building.
Zeno’s jaw tightened.
“…Where is Victor?” he asked bluntly. Already he could feel his fingers tightening, veins popping against his skin in untamed anger.
His voice came out rougher than he intended. Low. Gravelly from disuse and irritation.
You blinked once at the sound of it but quickly reached for the small notebook beside your desk.
“Oh! Um, Dr. Victor is downstairs in the lab,” you explained gently. “He’s been working all morning.”
You flipped through the pages like you’d done it a hundred times. The scent of old books and lead wafted heavily in the air.
“If you’d like, I can call down and let him know you’re here.”
Zeno was still staring.
Up close it was even more obvious.
You didn’t belong here.
Not in a building full of illegal experiments and men chasing power that could change the world.
Your cardigan sleeves were pushed halfway up your arms from writing.
A little smudge of ink stained the side of your finger.
You looked… so fucking normal.
So soft.
Zeno felt something unfamiliar twist faintly in his chest.
“…What do you do here?” he asked. Quite bluntly— you thought.
The question seemed to surprise you. I mean, it wasn’t every day a man looking so.. collected, question your intentions at a workplace. Your workplace.
“Oh,” you said quietly, glancing down at your desk. “I’m just the secretary.”
Just.
The word sat strangely in the air.
Zeno’s gaze flicked toward the hallway leading deeper into the building.
Then back to you.
Victor had a habit of hiding things in plain sight.
But this?
Putting someone like you at the front desk of a place like this?
It was reckless.
Or cruel.
He wasn’t sure which yet.
“…You work here every day?” he asked. It was then the man almost felt awkward. Zeno wasn’t new to talking up pretty women— fuck, he was almost a pro at it. But this, this was just confusing. A pretty girl like you deserved better.
You nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Zeno almost groaned with the way such pleasantries spilled from your soft lips. One hand came up to the desk, grabbing it with a profound force that a crack almost echoed out.
Almost.
Your voice was soft. And so fucking polite.
You were trusting in a way that made something sharp flicker behind Zeno’s eyes.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
For the first time since arriving, the anger that had been coiled tightly in his chest loosened slightly.
Not gone.
Just… redirected.
“…Call him,” Zeno managed to growl out. Already pulling his hand away from the desk— away from your proximity like it has burned him.
You smiled a little at his answer.
A small, warm thing that seemed completely out of place in the cold marble lobby.
“Of course.”
You picked up the phone.
And while you dialed, Zeno found himself watching you in a way he hadn’t expected to.
Studying the way your voice softened even further when you spoke into the receiver.
The way your fingers tapped lightly against the desk as you waited.
Still trying to understand one very simple thing.
What the hell was someone like you doing in a place like this?
And why, for the first time since stepping through the doors, did the thought of Victor dragging you into whatever horrors he was creating downstairs make Zeno’s patience feel very… thin.
Summary: At long last, Zeno has finally acquired Wesker's widow. Unfortunately for him, nothing could have prepared him for how sweet you are when concussed.
Content: Reader has a concussion, fluff/angst wombo combo but mostly angst, mistaken identity, pretty sure this counts as dubious consent? Spolier for RE9 if you haven't already played it.
w/c: 4.3k
Ao3 Link
In the grandeur of his home office, Zeno leans patiently on the window by his desk nursing a cigarette between his fingertips with a smirk on his face. Further back in the room, you lay unconscious on the leather couch; your head bandaged and your breaths shallow.
Your kidnapping had proved to be easier than expected when an early opportunity presented itself. His hired goons were efficient and eager for payment, which Zeno handsomely rewarded. He didn’t even mind that you’d accidentally taken a hit to the head during extraction. You held precious information he’d been dying to get a hold of for years. Physical wounds would heal after all. He had access to any doctor in the world and enough money to get any one of them to make a house call. All he had to do now was wait for you to wake up.
He can wait.
Zeno is a patient man when he wants to be.
The Connections had been forthright with information regarding the infamous Albert Wesker in the years he’d worked through their ranks; his intelligence, his cunning, his ruthlessness, but not so much with matters regarding more exclusive, personal details. Zeno is not the type to live without knowing exclusive details.
Zeno is the type of man to act when he wants something. And for years, he’s wanted every bit of information on the man he begrudgingly shares a face with. For years he’d been looking for you.
And now he has you on his couch.
And you’re beginning to stir into consciousness.
Zeno’s lip curls, and he pushes himself off of the window, snuffing out his cigarette in the crystal bowl on his desk as he leisurely saunters closer to you.
“Mrs. Wesker, do you know where you are?” Zeno drawls.
He kneels next to the couch, his gaze never leaving your face as your eyes finally flutter open. Zeno smirks. “Or who I am?”
Your eyes finally come into focus on Zeno for a long moment, then you smile. “Honey, you’re back.” You coo sluggishly, your voice dripping in a sweetness that Zeno doesn’t expect. He stares at you, momentarily dumbfounded, only coming to his senses when he feels the heat of your palm moving to caress his cheek.
He uses his superhuman reflexes to catch your wrist before your hand makes contact, grip firm but not bone-crushing,
“Honey?” He parrots back, his voice low. “Who do you think I am?
“I know who you are, Albert.” You say sweetly, blinking slowly. With your wrist still in Zeno’s grip, you tilt your hand forward and run a finger gently over the T-Virus mark that mars Zeno’s face, causing him to stiffen. “You’ve been taking more viruses. You promised you’d tell me if you were going to take another one.” You utter slowly in a soft reprimand.
Zeno feels one of his eyes twitch and his jaw clench so tightly his teeth ache. You’re talking nonsense. You think he’s Wesker.
“You are delusional, woman.” Zeno grits out, jaw set in a barely contained rage. He’s been compared to a ghost his whole existence and your concussed brain mistaking him for your dead husband is doing nothing to curb his short temper.
You only smile back in a daze, completely unaware of Zeno’s anger. “I have eyes, darling. You didn’t have that before you left the manor. It’s okay. I still think you’re handsome.”
The way you smile is pissing Zeno off. This isn’t the way he thought this would go in the slightest. He’d expected shock. He’d prepared for anger. He expected fear and wariness. He was prepared to brush off empty threats. He was prepared for any number of insults to be hurled at him like in past interrogations with far more dangerous targets. Not flirting. Not loving touches meant for a man long dead.
“Woman-” Zeno spits, forcing himself to take a deep breath so he doesn’t blow his top on a deluded captive of all things. “You are confused. I’m not Albert. You need treatment.”
His words don’t breach the haze of affection on your face. “Your eyes are different.” You drawl brainlessly, looking at Zeno’s golden eyes through his sunglasses.
Zeno’s scowl disappears, a realization hitting him.
He could still get some of what he wants with you sweet and pliable like this. More ammunition to have at his disposal when you finally come to your senses.
“Different?” Zeno drawls, leaning closer to you to examine every micro-expression that crosses your face. A snakeskin gloved hand removes his sunglasses, meticulously picked among hundreds to highlight his bone structure, to reveal his otherworldly eyes to you more clearly while his other hand still grips your wrist with a less punishing grip. The glasses are discarded on a nearby table. “How so?”
“They were red like rubies when you left.” You continue, still gazing up at Zeno with a soft smile on your face. “Now they’re golden like amber, sunlight, turmeric…” You trail off, sighing up at him wistfully. “... still beautiful.”
Zeno stiffens. Your words are so genuine and unguarded that it’s stirring up warm feelings he’s unwilling to acknowledge. He’s used to attention, both negative and performatively positive. He’s used to empty praise from higher ups. He’s used to admiration from people always expecting something in return. He’s used to hollow flirting from people only interesting enough to spend a night with.
But your freely given affection gives him pause, cracking his cold expression into something more vulnerable, before quickly being covered in ice once again. “You’re delirious.” He utters, but the sharpness in his tone is weaker than before.
“-ly in love with you.” You coo, finishing a sentence that you’ve obviously said countless times with your real husband. Your dead husband, Zeno reminds himself. The husband that he looks so eerily like. Zeno clenches and unclenches his jaw. This softness he feels towards you is a byproduct of trace memories embedded in his borrowed DNA. Nothing more. Yet, he can’t bring himself to pull away from your gentle touch on his cheek.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Zeno mutters, unable to look away from the loving expression on your face.
You blink. “You got a haircut.” You continue, seemingly having tunnel vision on “your husband’s” different physicalities.
The edge of Zeno’s mouth twitches, fighting off amusement. Such a selectively observant thing you are when concussed. “I did.” Zeno lies, indulging your false reality for the time being.
“It’s shorter on the sides. Lighter too. Very modern. ” You compliment, that dazed smile still on your face. Your free hand fumbles into Zeno’s hair before he can protest, and the feeling of your fingertips brushing against his scalp has his breath hitching.
A better man would swat your hand away.
A better man would call for the doctor to sedate you until this fever dream of yours passes and Zeno can interrogate you properly, but he can’t bring himself to shatter your illusion just yet.
Zeno is a strong, powerful man in the eyes of others, but with you in this moment he feels utterly weak to your sweetness. Even the strongest steel can bend with enough patience, time, and force. And the sheer force of your affection on his guarded, lonely heart wasn’t something he was prepared to fend off.
Perhaps a small indulgence is in order. To keep you talking so freely, of course.
Zeno finds himself leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed from your gentle fingers sifting through his hair.
“There we go.” You whisper, flattening your hand against his face idly rubbing your thumb on his cheekbone. “You’re always so tense when you come back after a long trip.”
Your voice, the way you're speaking, and the warmth underlying your affections are helplessly addicting. Zeno doesn’t remember the last time he felt cherished like this and he can feel his shoulders sag and jaw relax under your careful touches.
“The suit’s new too. What’s the occasion?” You ask softly, your fingertips softly tracing the T-Virus marks snaking down his jaw.
The suit. Right. It is different from anything Wesker ever wore.
”It’s-” Zeno leans back slightly and clears his throat, adjusting his tie. A nervous tick he’d picked up and never managed to kick. A clear signal to others he’s rich, powerful and worthy of respect? Zeno’s carefully calculated attempt to be the most stylish man in the room to distract from his stolen genetics?
“-business. Nothing you need to trouble yourself over.” He says easily, slipping back into a more familiar (and comfortable) role as the suave, charming businessman. It’s not too different from a charming husband, he rationalizes in his mind.
“It’s really nice. White, three-piece. You’re not worried about stains?” You ask slowly with concern in your voice.
It’s astonishing how much you’re noticing about him while still missing the obvious. Zeno doesn’t bother to curb his smirk this time.
“It’s a special fabric. Stain resistant. Nothing to worry over, darling.” He replies. The pet name slips out before he can stop himself and he momentarily curses himself for it, but it’s quickly forgotten when you smile so warmly up at him. His answer seems to satisfy your worry and your hands start to wander once again. Zeno lets out a pleased hum as he leans into your touch.
He lets himself sink further into your touch when the hands on his cheek and head trace over his skin to rub the exposed sides of his neck and his clothed shoulders. He lets out a displeased grunt when you suddenly stop.
“Your ear’s pierced.” You sluggishly say with surprise, staring at the dagger dangling from his left ear.
That statement grounds him in an instant, his eyes snapping back open. A new suit is easy to explain away as wanting to try something new or needing one for an event. A piercing is a more challenging choice. For Zeno, he was seventeen and sick of everything being decided for him. He wanted to do something permanent for himself even if it was as small as a piece of metal in his ear. He’d stubbornly kept repiercing the same spot over the years whenever he’d accidentally left the jewelry out for too long and the hole closed up thanks to the menagerie of viruses running through his veins. He never minded the pain of it. It was a constant reminder of his own autonomy.
But Wesker had no such rebellion as far as he knew. Too out of character for even your hazy mind to rationalize. So Zeno opts for a simple approach.
“Yes.” Zeno finally answers, flexing and unflexing his fingers like he’s itching to reach out and touch you but stubbornly holding himself back. “It’s new.”
You stare, and for a frightening moment Zeno believes you may have come to your senses. He lets out a relieved sigh when your confusion morphs back into quiet affection, gently resuming your gentle touches on Zeno’s neck. “Well, now I know who to give those single earrings too. I feel bad for losing so many. You spent good money on those for me.”
“Don’t worry. I can always buy you more pairs.” Zeno utters, a sudden lump forming in his throat when you give him another hazy smile. He’s surprised at how easy it is for him to slip into the role of doting husband.
“Always so sweet to me.” You coo, the love in your eyes so earnest that it makes Zeno’s chest feel tight and his body to sink into your touch again.
It’s not for you. Stop indulging her whims. You’re better than this.
“Are you working in the next hour?” You ask sweetly, still caressing Zeno’s cheek.
The answer is always yes; Zeno has meetings to plan, notes to review, projects to check in on, angry calls to make. But with you like this, touching him, saying sweet things, he can’t bring himself to pull away from it just yet.
“No.” He utters reluctantly. “I have an hour free.”
“Care for a cuddle?”
Zeno is silent. He knows he shouldn’t give in more than he already has, but he finds himself torn between his common sense and his growing desire to keep entertaining your little fantasy. He’s painfully aware this whole situation is a byproduct of your concussed brain and that it’s not him you actually want, but with the way you’re looking at him, with that sweet, hopeful anticipation in your features, he finds it impossible for the word “no” to leave his lips.
“Alright.” He finally says lowly, a hesitance in his voice that betrays how suddenly nervous he is when he swallows. “A cuddle.”
Zeno finally sits on the leather couch, guiding you to sit across his lap. He leans back until he’s supported by the cushion, pulling you carefully with him. He’s acutely aware of every point of contact between you two; your plush thighs across his lap, his gloved hand on your hip, your hair tickling his chin from the height difference between you two. He unconsciously finds himself tilting his head to breathe in the scent of your hair. He can’t even think straight enough to decipher words to describe it; only indescribably good. Relaxing. Addicting.
This is ridiculous. He’s acting ridiculous. The sensible part of his brain is screaming that he’s a fool for indulging your delusions, but the affection-starved part that he had long convinced himself didn’t exist easily drowns out any remaining common sense.
You lazily snake a hand over his shoulders and tuck your head into Zeno’s neck, your other palm slipping itself onto his dress shirt below his waistcoat as you hum, content and comfortable. “I miss this when you’re gone.” You sigh into his neck.
Your words only make the unfamiliar ache that’s settled in his chest more pronounced. He struggles to identify the emotion, his analytical brain running through every possibility before it lands on longing. He doesn’t even think to feel ashamed. Your hands feel chilled against his furnace of a body from the viruses living in his blood. Your careful touch and sweet words have made him feel more alive than anything he’s injected into his veins, but Zeno would rather die than admit that to himself.
He only breathes you in deeper and holds onto you tighter, his nose burying itself in your hair.
You notice his tightened grip. Of course you do with Zeno’s hands dimpling your skin through your clothes. You only chuckle. “It’s alright, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
Zeno can feel how fast his heart has started beating. He’s certain you can feel it too under your hypnotizing touch.
His body betrays him and does the stupidest thing possible before he can stop it.
He feels his lips pressing a kiss into the crown of your head.
“... I know.” He breathes.
You giggle and lift your head to look up at Zeno, that hazy affection still painfully prevalent on your face, now made even more irresistible by the flush on your cheeks. “You missed.”
“Did I?” Zeno utters in a low, dangerously hungry tone. You only nod and try to tilt your head up to Zeno’s lips, but the angle you’re sitting at makes it impossible for you to close the distance on your own.
Zeno stares, staring intently at your lips.
He’s not that much of a glutton for punishment.
“You’ve got a head injury.” Zeno grits out, his restraint being held on by a thread of decency and the last shreds of his self-control. “I’m not taking advantage of you in this condition.”
You hazily chuckle, nuzzling back into his neck. “Always such a gentleman when I’m hurt.” Your hand is still rubbing Zeno’s chest. Your thumb catches just below a shirt button, guiding your thumb to brush against a pectoral muscle. The skin on skin contact makes Zeno shiver involuntarily and his breath hitch and a heat to kindle in his gut.
He is not going to get a hard-on from you touching his chest. God damn it, he won’t.
“Don’t get used to it.” He grits out, clearing his throat and trying to act as composed as possible and not like he’s moments away from kissing that grin right off of your beautiful face.
You only giggle and take a deep breath to relax into Zeno, but you pause. You breathe in again. “You smell different.” Your voice sounds almost hurt when you say that.
Fuck.
Zeno has no idea what expensive soaps or cologne Wesker used to douse himself in, or why you sounded so vulnerable when you pointed out his unique smell. His fingers flex from where they’re grasping your hip and shoulder, scrambling to come up with a reasonable response that won’t make you want to get out of his lap.
“Different how?” His voice comes out softer than intended, not wanting to upset you
“Did you change your cologne?” You ask slowly, blinking up at him with those mesmerizing eyes of yours.
An awkwardly long pause stretches between you two. “Maybe.”
“You didn’t like what I got you?” You ask softly with a frown.
“I…” Zeno utters, having no clue how to respond. He tries in vain to bring any kind of memory to surface from Wesker’s life from his borrowed blood that will help keep this fantasy alive, but any kind of trace memory he’s inherited is vague and more of a feeling or general emotion at the best of times. He has nothing. He’ll have to improvise.
What do you want to hear? No, you might see right through that and make this situation worse.
Tell you the truth? Out of the question.
“... I wanted something different.” Zeno finally finishes, carefully watching your reaction.
“I wish you would have told me. I never want to get you things you don’t like. Did it aggravate your nose too much?” You ask with painfully genuine concern in your voice.
Your expression is nothing but sincere and it makes Zeno’s chest ache even more. Is this what loving someone is like? Fretting over a stupid present that shouldn’t even matter? To care about their happiness with small gestures and sweet words?
Zeno forces out a bitter chuckle, trying to remain the illusion of composedness even as he swallows down a painful lump in his throat. “It was a bit strong. Too strong.” He rasps.
You frown and for a moment Zeno has a heartstopping fear that you’ll pull away, which is quickly overwhelmed by a much stronger feeling of possessiveness when he feels you nuzzle into him again and plant a chaste kiss on his neck. “I’m sorry. Do you not like cedar anymore?”
How can you expect him to respond after that? Zeno, embarrassingly, can’t even muster enough composure to form words, so he simply shakes his head.
“What do you like nowadays?” You ask, subtly resuming your gentle rubbing on Zeno’s chest.
Breathe you fool. Answer her.
“Pine.” Zeno finally grits out. He clears his throat again to compose himself. “I like pine.” He says, softer.
Another sweet smile from you. “I’ll remember that for next time. Promise.”
There’s a simultaneous warmth that Zeno feels around his heart, and a twist in his gut at the unwavering certainty in your voice that there will be a next time.
He can't let you say any more things like that. It will only hurt him more when you stop saying them after you come to your senses at some point. He logically knows this won’t last forever, but that doesn’t stop the soft, raw part of him to yearn hopelessly for more.
“Don’t. I might not deserve it.” Zeno breathes softly, frozen in place and not trusting himself to move or even look at you as he stares at the bookshelf stuffed to the brim with leather bound books.
You raise your head again, still sporting that disarming smile. “Doesn’t matter. I’m giving it anyway.” You say just as soft, gazing up at Zeno like he’s the center of your universe.
And that’s what finally makes him break.
He suddenly lunges forward with all of his earlier restraint a forgotten memory, his lips molding with yours in a borderline desperate eagerness and his hand on your back raising to cup the junction of your head and neck so he doesn’t accidentally aggravate your head injury further. He pulls you tightly to his chest so there’s no remaining space between the two of you; his hand digs into the flesh of your hip, your hand has once again finds itself cupping Zeno’s cheek, and Zeno’s chest feels as if it’s about to burst from the sheer amount of longing to have you in his arms until the end of time.
But you’re both still human for the most part and need oxygen, so at some point he pulls away to let you breathe. You’re flushed and panting and so beautiful with your eyes half-lidded.
Zeno takes a shuddering breath against your lips, fingers tangling into the hair at your nape while he gazes at you like a man starved. His whole being aches with a mixture of hunger and guilt because you looked at him like he meant everything to you and it’s not meant for him. Not really. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to keep that addictive look on your face.
It’s not on your face now, though.
Your eyes are half-lidded and confused, he realizes.
“Honey, did something happen?” You pant with genuine concern, your hand still cupping his cheek. Your thumb rubs that damned T-Virus mark on his face like before, but instead of freezing up, Zeno leans into it, his eyes closing.
He can’t keep doing this.
Entertaining this delusion further is just setting up more emotional fallout down the line.
Damn that soft, worried expression on your face. That breathtaking, wide-eyed expression. That single-minded worry and devotion. It grips his heart so tightly that it unravels any rational thought he has left. Damn him for being too embarrassingly weak to reject your affections. Damn Albert Wesker for making his wife so head-over-heels in love with him that Zeno will never stand a chance at having it from you himself.
“No, nothing happened.” Zeno grits out, barely a whisper. The lie sits bitter on his tongue, unlike his easy excuses from before.
“You kiss different.” You say with concern.
“Different.” Zeno echoes, with fresh anxiety ripping through him. Of course he kisses differently. He kissed you like you were going to slip through his fingers any moment. Like this would be the first and only time he could get his mouth on yours.
“Bad different?” Zeno rasps, suddenly second guessing every kiss he’s had in his life
“No! No, not at all.” You reassure, your expression painfully tender. Zeno can tell you mean it, and it immediately cuts through the haze of his spiraling thoughts. His desperate grip on you loosens as he searches your face for a lie, or worse, pity. All he finds is softness. That unwavering affection and devotion that sparked this whole mess in the first place that makes him ache with a longing and greed for more.
“Then what kind?” Zeno utters reluctantly, like he’s nervous about the answer.
“It’s just… it’s less certain. Like you’re kissing me for the last time or something. Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but is everything okay?” You ask, concerned and still achingly sweet as you keep caressing Zeno’s cheek.
Zeno’s grip goes slack, then tightens again. He can’t deny that he never wants to let you go, even though this whole arrangement is something fleeting and doomed. Zeno only grunts and leans his forehead against yours, savoring the proximity and rubbing your skin through your clothes for a moment before he utters, “No.”
A long pause.
“I don’t know if I can give it back.” His words are barely audible.
“Give what back?” You whisper lovingly.
There are a hundred answers to that question that wouldn’t begin to cover what you deserve. The unwavering devotion? A loving look that could disarm a vengeful god? Tender care that makes you feel like a queen? You’re so soft and Zeno is anything but soft. Would you still look at him with such adoration if you knew he was only a broken copy of the man you fell in love with?
“... nothing. It’s nothing.” Zeno says, finally answering after a prolonged silence.
“Honey?” You whisper with worry and affection, lifting your other hand to cradle his face, and Zeno immediately melts into your touch despite his busy mind. He feels that same unfamiliar twist of guilt in his gut from earlier, stronger this time. He’s not the one you’re supposed to fuss over or care about.
But he’ll be damned if he gives it up now. He turns his face slightly to leave a light kiss on your palm. Your skin is comparatively cool against his lips and it only makes him want to sink into your affections further.
You smile at the kiss. “You don’t have to tell me now, but just know I’ll be right here if you want to talk. I’ll just listen.”
Zeno remains silent for a long time, simply allowing himself to indulge in your softness.Your emotional safety. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “Why?”
“Because I love you. You’re stuck with me for a long ass time.” You say, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and with such earnest affection.
Zeno lets out a hoarse laugh. “That’s a dangerous promise to make, sweetheart.”
“Maybe I love danger.” You respond, once again, with an answer you’ve told your real husband countless times.
Silence.
Instead of trying to distance himself from the sweet response, Zeno’s face melts into a handsome smirk. “Even if the danger is me?”
“Especially if the danger is you.” You coo, giving his lips a light peck. Zeno’s lips chase yours again before you even have the chance to pull away.
Damn the future. He has you now.
And Zeno is not one to let go of things that he considers his.
a/n: I don't know what it is, but this man has me in a chokehold. Thanks for reading!
Synopsis: Debt-stricken and broke, you accept the attention of Mr. Kennedy, who seems almost too happy to have you. But after one careless confession, the man who adored you begins to reshape your world in ways you never imagined.
based on this short piece.
Multiple-Chapter Work II AO3 Il 𝐼.
This story contains sugar dating / transactional relationships, power imbalance, manipulative or possessive dynamics, psychosis, female body horror, violence, and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised. Minors please do not interact.
Chapter TWs: sugar dating / transactional relationship dynamics, financial dependency, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, coercion, possessiveness, pressure to disclose feelings, boundary testing in physical intimacy, intense emotional highs and lows, psychological pressure, discussions of violence and death, dark philosophical musings, references to historical and human cruelty, discussions of psychopathy, stress and anxiety, isolation, and obsessive attention.
𝐼.
"I am serious, dearie!”
“Nana, they're just eyes” you slid the eyeliner across your waterline with a slow, careful movement, pausing every time you blinked. Your phone rested atop the jewelry box, speaker on as one of the very evenings when your grandmother slipped into a philosophical mood: for the past twenty minutes, she'd been ‘analyzing’ the picture you sent her of Mr.Kennedy, of which she didn't sound much comfortable looking at.
“Dearie, I know what I'm talking about. I've seen this before and he indeed has something wicked behind his eyes!” Her voice came out confidently aware, in a tone of an oracle who dwelled deep in the forest, or a Sufi who reached the ultimate union with some sort of celestial power. you did adore her— she's the one who got you here today after years of care and stubborn love, but these fortune telling moods made you as frustrated as equally they made you amused. You moved to the other eye, educating her like you'd correct a child who skipped to hundred after learning how to count to ten “Nana, his eyes are like that because he inherited them from his parents, It's normal. we all take after someone in the family, especially in eyes” you paused, blinking the itch out of your eye before adding “And Mr.Kennedy is such a kind and generous man, He'd been taking me out and treating me well. If he had any bad intentions, he would've shown them a while ago, but it's been three months and he's still as gentle as before.”
You swore you felt the fanning of her sigh from under on your face “That's just how men are dearie. you're too naïve. I'd fatten up a cattle with grass and wheat before slaughtering it, that doesn't mean I had good motives for it!” a spoon clanked from her end, the wooden one perhaps, she's making her trademark stew. She continued, a remembrance of no good lacing the words “There was a man just like him in our village. He used to strangle women of the night and children. I can't tell you how scared we were dearie! your great grandfather didn't let me go to school because of him”
Your heart dropped. Despite being already aware of this detail about her, you couldn't help the surge of pity for Nana foremost, and wrath towards her father secondarily. She would have been a great author, teacher or therapist if it hadn't been for someone's paranoia. You stared at your reflection in the small vanity, mentally bargaining on which color you'd wear for an eyeshadow before asking her “And what happened then? Did the man get caught?”
“Only after years darling angel, Imagine! No one doubted the brothers who were next door. They were good people— the eldest was a blacksmith and the youngest a handsome man who prayed with us on Sundays and laughed with everyone. He used to call me mia stella and ruffle my hair whenever he saw me. No one doubted a thing— he was a sweet soul! I still don't know why he would hurt people in such a vile way”
A shudder travelled from the bottom of your coccyx up to the back of your neck. This was a human experience not spoken about much: being a few meters away from someone who’d you run to the ends of the earth from if you'd known what horrors they'd committed. Nana had a hand that choked women and children at night atop her head at day, what guaranteed her not being his next victim…?
You glanced at the palette in your hand.
The skin is the largest organ of the body. The definition from the first year textbook rang back like a siren from a distance. It protects the body from environmental hazards, helps regulate body temperature, and contains sensory receptors. Historically, flaying had been a punishing practice across many civilizations—the Assyrians nailed skins to city walls, Marsyas paid the price of his hubris by having his skin peeled, and in east Asia, it was slow; methodically done over hours by slicing portions of the flesh in a deliberate manner¹. Humans had always known how fragile the body was; You only had to remove one layer and the unfortunate will die from dehydration, infection and shock before bleeding. But has it ever crossed the ancient mind the thought that human skin didn't just conceal muscle and nerve? what had to be flayed so the evil thoughts can appear, so ugly and exposed for everyone to be truly horrified of?
Nana’s neighbor probably has many others of him reincarnated, could be far worse than he was. you applied a color on your eyelid, brush tender on the fragile fold of skin “Was he executed?”
An exhale with an octave that whispered ache. Nana’s voice was raw as butchered lamb “He was hanged in the city’s square… They put a dark bag on his head and tied his hands to his back with a fishing rope. He looked at me before they put that bag on his head and good lord…” just as her conte wavered, so did your hand on the brush. you heard the little trouble in her breath, like a dark secret she'd been whipped to tell “His eyes sweetie pie… they were so vacant— like a frozen lake or a dawn’s sky, all that charm and humor flew off the window and I couldn't sleep for a week…” Classic psychopathy ‘symptom’. Victims’ families always said the same thing about killers—the ‘empty eyes’. Nana’s description matched them perfectly: expressionless eyes that didn't match the body language or tone, a static stare, a sort of chasm and a flash of rage underneath appearing once in a blue moon. It's too subjective, you thought. Memory can be honed by trauma and thoughts; eyes serve as nothing more than a device for vision rather than mental contactors. you blended the eyeshadow with a feathery movement “Eyes can’t really tell you that much” you said lightly. “They’re just… optics. Pupils dilate, muscles freeze. People might read meaning into it, but most of the time it’s just the body reacting.”
“Sweetheart, don't be too smartassed. If you get a bad feeling about something you should believe in it— especially when it comes to men. What if this old man kidnaps or cuts you to pieces and eats you? and isn't he too old for you— look at you sunshine! about to be a brilliant doctor! Why marry a man who's as old as your grandfather's clock?!”
The laugh forced itself through the clefts of your teeth “Nana he isn't that old” reaching for the perfume, you reassured your panicked grandmother “And I taste sour and my skin is thick, he'll get nothing outta me.”
The perfume bottle —a square rosy-colored glass bottle of Miss Dior— had a scent of spending nights atop the night sky. you sent your wishlist to Mr.Kennedy last week and you understood how good it felt to be pampered. You applied some on the adjacent of your neck and shoulder, a little on the cheek and a kiss on the hands. The sweet scent swam through the air, lingering as a feminine ghost. “And I'm not marrying him!”
“Then why are you with him?” asked she, a tad of confusion and a hint of innocence. Nana's world was still in the previous century.
“I'm with him for the money” you said.
“Oh?” bless her heart, the concept of mere dating or benefits is so alien to her, her next words caught you off-guard “I never thought of you playing around little angel, I raised you better than that!”
You looked at the caller screen, expecting to see nana's disappointment or anger, an icon of her smile appearing instead. licking your lips (carefully on the lipstick), you answered leisurely, giving her time to seep in the words “Relax nana, I'm not hurting him and he agreed to this himself. You see, it's called sugar dating: a man pays a woman to keep him company and it's totally normal nowadays. Not everyone looks for marriage.”
“Nonsense. Back in the day a man had to knock on the door to get a bride. This generation is sold out like soil!” she huffed.
“I know it's strange but I promise you it won't hurt me. I'll keep seeing him till I graduate and have everything paid for, after that I'll stop talking to him.”
“Why don't you just get a job?” The suggestion cloaked a ‘very self-seeking and selfish of you to be with someone for their money’.
You emptied your lungs of air in one, long breath. “I can't, I have the hospital rotations and too many classes for that.”
The line went silent. one that stretched uncomfortably— If sweet sweet Nana judged you, was it that bad? as you opened your mouth to attempt mellowing things, she spoke again in all of a sudden, the usual affection gone and replaced by an ominous shade you've never heard before “You're free to do whatever you want, love. But I have to be honest with you,”
A bottle of ink shattered in your ribs. You gazed at yourself in the mirror: dolled up and arrayed with layers of makeup and perfume, hair perfectly done and combed. A feeling of stupidity foamed under your skin, laughing at you from a corner within your mind.
“I expected better of you. I raised a strong little girl to the woman she is now. I'm still proud of you, yet I'll keep telling you to rethink your decisions my beloved. I can't lose you because of a man— I don't want to carry another coffin.”
You had no answer. not like there was much to be said anyway.
“Darling I have to hang up, your grandpa is here— please stay safe and call me whenever you feel scared. love ya sugar fairy!”
Call ended, 00:41:34 total time. She just dropped a bomb and went out.
There is nothing to be afraid of. It's just one date each weekend. He is a gentleman. Repetition helps soothe a troubled psyche. He bought me my fur coat, my makeup, my dresses and shoes. He kisses me goodnight after each date. He holds my hands. He takes me for rides in his car. He texts every three days to see how I'm doing. He is handsome. He cares about me. Other girls would kill to be in my place. I should be grateful. He pays my tuition debts and clears my student loans. He pays my rent. As cold water reaching the blazing sand on a summer day, the sense of safety emerged again, easing your mind and untangling your shoulders after the phantom of your grandmother’s words haunted the small room. Silly me. I almost believed an old woman. You grabbed your purse from the closet and fetched your heels from under the bed, the corners of your lips rising oddly, a pink tingle bubbling through your veins. Just as you were clasping the lace to your ankle, the phone's screen flickered awake— a text from Mr.Kennedy: I'm here.
Putting on your coat and hanging the purse on your forearm, you open the door only to be greeted by a shriek and its twin of deep nature; the girl who studied pharmacy is having a fight with her boyfriend for a time you stopped tracking long ago. The two were so similar like two halves of a split fruit yet so at variance as of heaven and earth. Sometimes they laughed so jovially and other times they roared like beasts. The trash can had a fresh posey of red roses thrown— she must've thrown his gift again.
Let both claw and bite till they figure it out.
The Porsche Cayenne Turbo smelled of sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of leather and something unmistakably him. As you slid in, the door closed with a muffled thump, white noises of the city sealed out; a warm, quiet peace swimming in this vacuum of luxury. Mr.Kennedy tapped his cheek with his index finger, prompting you to do your part in the unspoken ritual. With a dove’s grace, you leaned over to his side, lips puckered, and adorned his right cheek with a kiss, His stubble scratching the tip of your nose, lips and chin. The scent of cologne pierced your frontal lobe with a needle, showcasing his presence with force on your brain.
“I missed you” you let the whisper pour like silk against the apple of his cheek.
“Did you?” without rotating his face, the blues of his irises were on your form; lenses capturing you speck by speck. The question was colorless, you had to jump on your toes to please.
“Very much” you smiled sweetly “I've been thinking about you a lot, Mr.Kennedy.”
“Leon.” he corrected, a little firm.
“Sure, Leon.” You rested a leg on the other, spreading arms on your lap “I couldn't focus in class today. We examined a human heart in the morgue, and I couldn’t help wondering… is that what mine looks like every time I see you? Beating itself senseless against my ribs?”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. you watched his lips form into a thin line, then move open when he replied “I might just keep a defibrillator in the car. don't want my little doctor dead because of me, do I?”
You giggled “I'd die the happiest woman alive. I'd never complain to the reaper if it was you who sent me to him”
His skull faced you fully now, mein washed into a softer expression. you figured he was upset about something, but didn't dig nor felt the need to— he was a private man and you respected that. All he needed was a putty in his hands and you played the role. Another wave of bills is soon to come and you had not to mess this up.
He blinked slowly, wrinkles clear as day under the car’s inner lamp “Don’t say things like that” he murmured, all heart. “I don’t want you dead, darling.”
You shifted your weight on the seat to the left, directly facing him “Then you'll have to keep me safe. I’m all skin and bones, I break easily, Leon.”
“Am I not keeping you safe already, dear?” there was an abrupt shift— he played along with your coyness seconds ago, now he sounded like a man told he was hated in the cruelest way possible, or is it just your imagination?
It wasn't, in fact. you heard him sigh through his nose as he continued, eyes on the road “I gave you everything you wanted; these little clothes you begged for, you still have your apartment, and you go to school without worrying about debt. I always tell you how you look so beautiful— which is what I believe, you do look like an angel”
Your smile vanished. The shoes of Salome were too tight to wear for long. He turned his head lazily, absorbing a portion of your features before turning his attention back to the road “But I need a guarantee that this won't end badly. I need to know where this is going.”
You swallowed “What do you mean?”
“You know well what I mean. You're a smart girl, your eyes don't leave anything unnoticed.”
“You're thinking too much” you chuckled the reply, hoping to clear some fog. never have been a thought in your head of him being so… committed. What would make a man such as Mr.Kennedy ask closure from someone—let alone a woman nearly half his age? He doesn't look like a settling bird, and surely he is pushing fifty to have a slow burn romance.
“I don't think so” his fingers slugged along the steering wheel “I'm not a boy. I know what I see and what I should have. I'm not interested in things that come and go.”
“Well…” you adjusted your dress strap “... Nothing in life is guaranteed.”
“True,” he agreed, too calmly. “But people still choose what they're willing to risk” his eyes flew back to you, an odd gleam of something beyond his years glinting “What are you willing to risk for me?”
The inquiry landed like an arrow so close to your foot. What was there to be sacrificed? your education? your agency? your relationships with others? none. it's ridiculously comedic to let someone block all your doors to leave and burn all your bridges for their sole sake. As you drafted some response in your head (you had to think of a very plausible one, he doesn't like half-assed explanations.) he asked again, rising frustration growing like weeds “You're getting quiet. Is that really too hard to answer? Do you even care enough or put in as much effort as I do?”
“You're weird tonight.” you stated “You usually don't ask things like these. Did someone upset you Leon?”
“Answer the question, darling.” The contours of his jaw and cheek sharpened, a vein emerging in an image of a tree root across the side of his neck and temple. He did want an immediate answer.
“Well, the fact that I'm with you now and still go out with you is self explanatory. I don't trust anyone like this.” you paused, leaving room for him to add on or interrupt. When he remained silent, you took the green light to keep on “I enjoy being with you and I'm glad I met you, you make everything easier”
“I did make things easier for you. your school, your apartment and your expenses.”
“I never asked you to do all that” you reminded him, cool as ice.
“No” he glowered, blue forgotten in an intense lour within his vision “Yet you accepted it.”
“That doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.”
Another sigh left his lips. “I just want to know that I'm not wasting my time.”
“You're not” you smiled, reaching for his shoulder “I promise you.”
The gears in his head were grinding. This had to be his too-good-to-be-true; someone staying? Not until now, you touched the tip of the iceberg called him. He didn't speak much of himself ever since you met him and you didn't pressure him into talking. Knowing about Mr.Kennedy won't change anything nonetheless.
“What do you tell others about me?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“How do you describe me to your friends and family? Do they know we're together?” Together he said, not ‘dating’ or merely ‘seeing each other’.
“Well… Nana is kinda scared of you” you watched the road move backwards from the passenger’s seat window.
He snorted; it lacked the texture of humor though. “Am I that frightening?” he asked quietly. “I thought I did a pretty good job looking civilized.”
“Nana thinks that fever is a whip from god and shattering teacups makes Satan lick your toes, she's literally scared of everything.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“There's no one here I'm talking to except you.” he rolled his eyes.
You held back a laugh, gesturing between the two of you in a circular motion “You're the only one I trust enough to be with them like this”
“What makes you trust me?”
“My, you're in a mood tonight! Should I check your blood pressure?” you joked; half truth buried, hoping he'd stop taking everything seriously.
He didn't seem pleased, however.
You swallowed your smile, handing him what he wanted to hear “Because you’re different from other men” spilling like honey, you murmured . “You’re calm. Responsible. You take care of things. When I'm with you… I forget all of my problems.”
It all rested after these words were uttered, sinking beneath a foggy water down to a limbo with no bottom. He had gone hushed without any warning, all of his interrogation and doubt swept under a rug. You wanted him to stop talking, yes, but not in such a way— Was he convinced? Did that answer his question? Was that enough for him? you couldn't decipher nor catch a thread of light behind the mist. His comportment halted at once; wrinkles, muscles and pale flesh moving no longer. Only his eyes lit up of a blue you couldn't understand.
He didn't speak for the rest of the ride.
In a very ordinary moment of history that’ll have an epithet for the rest of time, a small and innocent play seeded a principle. Freud watched his grandson throw a toy across the room and announce ‘Fort!’², then retrieve it back, saying ‘Da’³ ever so simply. The boy continued the loop of game, sparking an idea within his grandfather’s analytical mind: the desire of life and death galloping as one in a field of the human psyche. Leon’s tongue licked at your bottom lip, swiping it in one smooth move before nipping at it, as if a coax before beating. a sting elicited on the tender flesh, rushing through your nose to a lobe where it bloomed then faded.
He broke the kiss, blues holding your gaze, illusory “What do you see?”
You cupped his cheek in a hand “a man.”
“What type?”
“One who knows too much” you adjusted your weight on the couch, pulling his shoulders down to ease his forehead on yours “He chooses not to tell me what he knows, and he watches me all the time.” your hands slid from the domes of his shoulders down to his sides; sensing the shape of muscle with his shirt being a barrier— he was hot to the touch, flame eating quietly inside.
Fort. Da. comes and goes, departs and returns, appears and disappears, like shadows on cloudy days. His exhales brushed your face with heat; breath smelling of something sharp and chemical, perhaps mouthwash or medications. not like you were bothered anyway; it was your daily oxygen in med school. He pressed kisses to your jawline, mumbling against the bone “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
Not even bothering to guess, you hummed, omitting the ‘What do you see in me?’ for the favor of keeping the tingle of his lips and stubble.
“I see a little cunning liar” His arms tightened around your back, supporting your neck and nape; rotating you so lightly to reach the lane to your temple “You watch me the same way I watch you” he said, voice low. “Only difference is…” his tongue lapped on your earlobe, scalding blow of his lungs right in your ear “I don't pretend I’m innocent.”
The sideburns of his face were thin, light wisps below his ears climbing to the start of his scalp. There was gray in the blond sowing within pili, metamorphosing the color in a process: there is not much left till he ages fully— In ten or twenty years, he'll grow more agitated, spine curving outwards like a crescent, the lines on his face will sink into deeper fissures, blood pressure might drop or heighten, and his sense of dim brass might dry out. You threaded a hand through his hair; thick still locks sluiced your fingers, one of the loyal stayers to his youth.
“Find another puppy to kick, Leon.” Your drone had an intent of teasing. It landed like a stone on glass.
He left the side of your face to look directly at you, eyes a little wide. “If anything, I am the one getting kicked.” whispered he. “Funny isn't it?” thumb caressing your left cheekbone, he rasped with a fragment of sorrow “Being fully grown yet still soul stupid to not care about getting hurt again, like walking into a minefield knowing that you'll die”
A coast of him you never imagined you'll drift to.
“The funny part is,” his thumb still grazed your cheek, a midnight ocean swirling around his irises “you don’t even hate the person who plants the mines. You just keep hoping the next step will be the safe one.”
A pause soaked with gray.
“If I had a wish,” he caught a little of your hair among two digits “I'd wish I had never been so… full of hope”
For Freud, the desire to live (Eros) and the yearn to die (Thanatos) spiraled together like Yin and Yang. Humans ran from what could have them killed— survival instinct. au contraire, lurked far in the need to draw back into the void— L'appel du vide. contradictions make a man; Leon undoubtedly a museum of. It was a wonder how his features were made of steel except for now; it melted, raw beneath all the mystery and rigidity.
Your palm travelled from his scalp to his cheek, holding the hollow side in a cold grip. “If you stopped hoping,” you crooned, thumb smoothing the lines near his mouth “you wouldn’t be you anymore.”
A lull.
“And then I’d have to find someone else to bother.” you smiled softly, splitting through his eyes to his brain with a gaze hoping it'd put his mind at serenity. His stare had moved not, almost like he found the taste of your comfort odd. In a clue, you pushed his head down to the crook of your neck, placing him to nest there and may he forget whatever munches his thoughts. Peace filled his apartment, the air a faint hue of his heat and musk. He inhaled and exhaled against your skin, rhythm of a bird under its mother's wing. you stroked his hair with no rush of time, the ceiling an empty canvas for whatever you imagined. Ten minutes or so, you tapped his shoulders, signaling him that comfort time was over.
“Why do you want to leave? It's still early” his eyebrows knit together.
“I have an exam tomorrow” you reached for your discarded heels “I studied nothing”
His huff reached your ears, he was still on the couch, nervous system probably shocked from the sudden cut of oxytocin.
“Why don't you stay and study here?”
Your hands froze on the ankle lace “You can't be serious?”
“Don't you trust me?” He stood up, eyeing you with a tang of insistence “You have anatomy tomorrow, you forgot your notes from last week in my room. Either way you have no reason to go, and your place is an hour drive so wasting time isn't very smart.”
You chewed your lip, considering the suggestion. In an hour you could finish two chapters, the syllabus was six chapters. A quick math and not so much rocket science made you realize he's right: three hours of studying then he'll drive you home. You stayed nights with Leon before so what could go wrong?
As you calculated the scenario, He announced, stepping towards the open-plan kitchen “I’ll make us tea. Your notes are on the nightstand in my room.”
You unclasped your shoes “You do know that you'll drive me home later?”
“Why are you dying to leave? I'm not gonna gut you” You heard the clanking of mugs on the countertop, stove clicking on before he mused “and of course I'll drive you back you silly girl.”
“Being gutted before finishing med school wasn't on my bingo list.” you fetched the notes, heading back to the living room. The kettle whistled, a pause followed before the mugs clinked together.
“Chamomile okay?” he called from the kitchen. “It’ll help you relax.”
“Well aren’t you a carebear.” you said almost to yourself, placing the stack of papers and the fat textbook on the coffee table. As he placed the mug next to your hand, he sat across from you, sipping his— little sugar just like he preferred. The ripples of steam tickled your nose, the syrupy scent of herbs and sugar inviting, yet your stomach cocooned itself suddenly “You know what…”
He immediately raised his head from his mug.
You pushed the red cup slightly towards him “I don't think I’ll have it… thank you f—” you looked at his eyes, he was genuinely hurt. Leon zipped his lips in a thin line, staring at the liquid, no drop of it gone. The silence sliced through your ribs, him finally talking made the ache worse.
“I didn't want to have tea either.” his index tapped the pale porcelain “I made it for you. I figured we can have a little time together with no distractions, just us, doing something mundane.” He rose from his seat, extending a hand to your cup “Guess I'll throw it in—”
“Never mind, I think I'll have it now!” you grinned, A brief relief flowing in your chest, guilt still gnawing on a rib inside you. He was being kind, why spit on his face? It’s chamomile, not cyanide. Stop acting like a stray cat someone tried to feed. You took a sip in front of him; it actually tasted good! Nothing to worry about, and not like you're Cleopatra for someone to bother poisoning you⁴.
It was until you finished half of it when Leon sat down. His expression was calm as he continued drinking his tea, watching you as you rummaged through the papers and mapping notes. The atmosphere was ordinary, the white noise of the fridge and the distant thrum of life outside his apartment's balcony filled the lacuna, familiar things to be stored in five years as nostalgia. You didn't mind him being close— it's his house. You checked your watch: 7:23 pm. you still have time catching up to the chapters, approximately at midnight you'll be home to get some sleep, already well dined when he took you out to eat before bringing you here.
Each chapter took longer than you thought.
You made a mistake of underestimating; your mantra was to ‘expect the unexpected’ and alas you fell in the very same trap you could see miles away. Six chapters. Six grotesque, swollen chapters packed with Latin names and branching diagrams that multiplied like bacteria under a microscope: Nerves that split into nerves that split into smaller nerves, arteries weaving through muscles you could barely pronounce, every page a forest of labels demanding to be memorized exactly as printed or not at all. Anatomy was not a subject you studied— it was something that chewed on your brain until it softened enough to swallow.
You flipped through the stack, the paper edges rasping against your thumb, taking occasional slurps from the tea. Three hours if you were lucky. Maybe four if sleep became optional. Even then, the information would sit in your skull like loose screws, rattling around whenever the professor pointed at a diagram and expected you to know whether it was the radial artery, the ulnar artery, or some traitorous little branch that existed solely to ruin your grade.
You exhaled through your nose, irritation prickling along your temples. Of all nights to play house over tea, it had to be the night before an anatomy exam. Time management skills of a sloth.
You checked the watch. 8:34 pm. way to go.
Your jaws couldn't hold back the yawn that came out, warmth pooling under your eyelids from the effort. You blinked away the little reflex tears, pinching the dot between your eyebrows. The words on paper danced, diagrams floating and mushing into blurry colors. a rhythm in the background that wouldn't stop hammered your skull.
“Do you hear that?” you asked Leon, too tired to explain the ‘that’.
“Hear what?”
You ushered around with your hand, clear as fog. “The… tapping sound?”
“It's only you and me.” His fingers were intertwined, hands balled and elbows placed on the table. You couldn't raise your head, forehead a weight of an anvil. You blinked more, slower and heavier, ‘just resting your eyes’, brain burning from an exhaustion you didn't know you saved from last week. your arms and legs slugged, shutting out and leaving you all by yourself.
You caught Leon’s concerned remark “You look tired… Let me take you to the couch”. you couldn't voice your consent or rejection; he held you against his chest and hooked you on his arm in a princess carry towards the furniture. A stream of relaxation spread from the back of your head when it touched the cushion, the anxiety beneath screaming although.
“I can't sleep now…” you attempted to get up “I... have study… tomorrow…” your back fell and so you did, eyelids closed like curtains. Not awake but not asleep either, you couldn't mistake the sensation of his fingertips along your throat. They spidered to your lips, fondling them, last reminiscents of your consciousness clutching at what he'd said.
“All that rushing… always somewhere else to be. Exams, lectures, your friends, that little world that keeps pulling you away.” His fingers drifted along your jaw, thoughtful, almost gentle. “You never notice how quickly the door closes behind you.”
From behind the closed lids, you saw his silhouette, not one single line or feature to tell his profile.
“But look at you now.” His voice lowered, nearly swallowed by the quiet of the room “No arguments. No clever answers. No running off because you suddenly remembered something more important.”
His thumb pressed lightly beneath your lip “Just you and me.”
A pause lingered.
“I wondered what you were like when you finally stopped fighting everything.” His other hand crowned your head, then sailed below to pull your eyelids closed.
“Goodnight, darling.”
¹: The description above simplifies several distinct historical punishments. In imperial China, the execution method often referenced in modern discussions is Lingchi (“death by a thousand cuts”), practiced during certain dynasties until the early 20th century. Unlike flaying, lingchi involved the deliberate removal of small portions of flesh over the course of an execution, intended to prolong suffering and publicly demonstrate state authority. Surviving records and photographs suggest the process typically lasted minutes to hours rather than days or months, and it differed from flaying in that the skin was not removed in a single piece.
²: German for “gone” or “away.”
³: German for “there” or “back.”
⁴: Cleopatra's death manner wasn't caused by external party. ancient sources —especially Plutarch— describe her death as a suicide, traditionally believed to be by the bite of an asp (Egyptian cobra) concealed in a basket of figs. Modern historians debate this account and suggest that poison applied with a pin or ointment may have been more plausible.
Warning: kidnap, houselessness, allusions to abuse/trauma, isolation, noncon/dubcon….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Leon S(exy) Kennedy
Note: I don’t usually write for video games but here we go.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
“You should get cleaned up. Properly.” You insist.
Leon groans as he tries to sit up, arm bent against his stomach as the deep purple bruise on his ribs catches your eye. You grab his uninjured arm and help him. He looks at you, his brow twitching; his lips too.
“Will you help?” He asks.
You tilt your head. “I can get you to the shower as long as you can stand.”
“No… you need to shower too.” He argues.
You stare at him and nod. “Leon, I’m not worried about me–”
“I am. You’re safe now. It’s okay to care about yourself. You don’t have to think about food or shelter or danger.” He says. “Just me. More importantly, you.”
He reaches for you and you catch his hand. His skin is rough and dry. You guide his arm over your shoulders as you nudge him. He turns with you to the edge of the bed. You plant his feet as he does the same.
“Ach!” He cradles his middle as he slumps against you. “Sorry. I… give me a moment.”
“Take your time.” You assure him.
He steadies himself. You put a foot forward, he does the same. You hold onto his wrist as his hand hangs over your shoulder, your other arm around his back. Little by little, you make your way to the bathroom.
You angle him around to sit on the closed toilet. He exhales and stretches his neck. His hair is messy and his cheek still slightly swollen. Still, you can’t help but note how handsome he is. Even for the thin lines around his eyes and the silver in his stubble.
You turn to open the shower booth and turn it on. It’s not like the one you used when you got there. The small closed room with the nozzle and drain. You twist the water on and back up.
You look around and grab a comb. You brush out Leon’s hair as he tugs against you, a tangle caught in the teeth. You sigh.
“Look at this muck,” you mutter.
“Blood.” He corrects you just as you find the cut in his scalp.
You tut. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Worse going on.” He says.
You put the comb down and run your fingers through his hair to find any stray knots. Nothing. You drag your hands away and he catches them.
“Together.” He says.
You look at him. If it gets him to wash up, you’ll do it.
“Get up.” You pull on him.
He rises, hunching slightly. You grab the top of his pants and keep your eyes up. You push them down and he shudders. You guide him to the shower.
“Let me get my stuff off.”
You hold onto him as he steps into the shower. You don’t let go until he has a hand on the wall, leaning on it heavily. You back up and turn your back to him.
He’s probably seen it all by now. Either through the cameras or the clear walls. Still, you can’t help but be shy.
You undress and sidle over to the show. You don’t look at him as you get in. You slide the door shut and turn to grab the soap and loofah. You lather it up and reach for him as he faces you. He catches your hand and pushes it toward you. He leads the loofah down your skin as he stands close.
You let him. The steam adds to the heat already flooding your veins. A soft growl escapes him as he spreads the foam across your chest. He sways and his other hand cups your breast. You wince.
His thumb circles your nipple until you shiver. He drops his hand away, catching himself on the wall and continues his delicate cleansing of your flesh. You let go of the loofah and let him go to work. He pays special attention to your stomach and thighs.
He sways and you catch him. You take the sponge and wash him in turn. You grow hesitant as you make your way down his torso. He grabs your hand and forces it along his pelvis. You drop the loofah and his swollen tip hits the heel of your hand. You gasp.
“You need to clean up.” You chide.
“I need you.” He snarls.
Your lip trembles. His grip on your tightens then he hisses and lets you go. You gasp as he grabs onto your hips and forces you back. You stumble into the tiled wall as he pins you there.
“Leon.”
He hushes you, eyes foggy, and he shakily gets to his knees. You squirm and watch him, his thumbs pressing into your hips, fingers curling tightly. He groans as his head bobbles. Before he can lean forward, you stop him, your hand on his forehead.
“Leon, you’re still weak–”
“I am. For you.” He breathes as he traces his touch down your pelvis and along your thighs. He forces his fingers between your legs, wiggling until they part.
“Leon…” you whimper.
He shifts closer and lifts your leg. He drapes it over his shoulder as you feel his breath scalding through the steam of the shower. He bows and nuzzles the hair along your cunt, purring into it, inhaling your scent.
He tilts his head back and his tongue glides out along your lips. You squeak and press on his head. He doesn’t let up. He might be hurt but he’s still strong. He drags his tongue between your folds and hums. His voice ripples through you.
Your fingers slip into his damp hair and your back arches without a thought. He rocks his head as he laps at you patiently, tasting you as your arousal flows. You whine and press yourself to the tile, the cool contrasting the heat of your bodies. He pets your thigh as he drinks you in and your eyes roll back in surrender.
[Ao3 Mirror]
Pairing: Zeno/Reader (GN, has a vagina), Past established Wesker/Reader
Rating: E
WC: 1.9k
Contents: Angst & Mourning, choking, glove kink, fingering, vaginal sex. Lore is whatever makes the PWP happen. Whatever it's called when you fuck someone and wish they were someone else :)
===
You hear him before you see him; the ragged breaths of a man running come just before the click of keys in a lock. The tumblers turn, light floods into the room and he staggers in. Without pause he sheds his outer layers, overcoat and blazer pooling on the floor in contrasting colors. It's funny- the white does look good on him.
But he folds over the twin bed, twisting his gloved fingers into the blankets and bares his teeth like an animal. Sweat covers his neck, makes the hair on the back of his head dark and limp. From this angle, you can see the rage in his eyes- and the sight makes your breath catch.
Whatever has happened to him, he still has good instincts. He's ripped a pistol from its holster and has it leveled between your eyes in less than a second- which is fast, but not as fast as it should be.
“Impressive getting into one of our safe houses, you-“
“You really do look just like him.”
Even behind the sunglasses you can see his eyes change from the cool persona to real, living hatred. His lip curls up into a snarl and that, too, is so much like him.
“It seems you've wasted your time coming here.” He bites out and you can see him weighing on lowering the pistol. “I have none of my predecessor's secrets and I've no interest in his businesses.”
You step forward, out of the shadows. “Yes, I can see that.”
In the light, the recognition is immediate. To think the new global powers still teach their dogs about what should be no more than a footnote on Albert Wesker's biography is alarming. Or, perhaps, simply the fact that the man before you is not Wesker is exactly why he knows you. Zeno shifts his stance, properly bracing the gun now. It's smart- whatever has happened to him, he no longer has the physical advantage over you. Though, you're pretty sure his gun wouldn't stop you either; you haven't really ever experimented on the limits.
“I'm not here to hurt you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I…” The explanation dies on your tongue. There is no reason that is not disgustingly pathetic- even this weak facsimile of him would deride you for it. Your hesitance makes him tip his head, already reading you- and in the shift, you catch just a glimpse of blue. “You're cured.”
His face hardens again. The plan forms as you say it. “Your masters- will you have use to them without the viruses? Will they go through the effort to reinfect you?”
Zeno only keeps the sight on his pistol centered between your eyes. The options before him are so few. “Are you concerned for this face or are you here to make a deal?”
The bitterness almost makes you flinch. “Nothing is ever binary.”
With an exhale, Zeno finally lowers the gun. “I've no use for your sentiment. What are you offering and what do you want?”
“My blood. And for you to take those glasses off, first.”
He does so with as much flourish as you expect, tossing them aside onto a dresser. When he looks back, the ache in your chest burns. Blue eyes- you haven't seen those eyes in decades- since before—
“Raw blood is a weak offer. Filtration, isolation, and synthesis are considerable legwork.”
“I have Ouroboros.”
Glistening white teeth peak from his lips- and the smile grows further until he laughs. Laughs and turns away from you, holstering the pistol and slumping onto the bed. “You may leave now.”
You march closer. “It's stable in me. Think about it! I was infected twenty years ago and I'm still here to have a lucid conversation with you.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes in a display so petulant it's absurd to see it on Wesker's face. “Ouroboros was beyond aggressive- our research indicates even he began to mutate. My physiology is nearly identical and I've no interest in losing my mind.”
“I…” You falter, looking away for a moment. “I think he used a different strain on me. A… tamer one.” The weight of it makes you chew your cheek.
Even with your gaze averted you can see the shift in Zeno's posture. The defeat drips off him and the cold core of ambition you know so well forms before your eyes. “You're sure?”
It's so close- his voice. It's right, but the accent is all wrong. But it's close enough that it makes some part of you need to stand upright again, to meet his icy gaze. “I'm no virologist, but I had access to his work. He notated my dose differently than his. He wanted me to survive it.” When Zeno doesn't respond, you continue. “At worst, it's just formed antibodies and congratulations you have a resistance to Ouroboros. At best… it's more power than you had before.”
He stands- and you hadn't realized just how close you'd gotten to him in your attempt to change his mind. “Fine. I accept your terms.”
It's your turn to scoff, “We haven't discussed my terms at all, actually."
“No?” He questions, his voice lilting in that infuriating tone, like he always knows everything- “I have a likely guess.”
His lips are on yours before you can speak. Soft- softer than his. You open your mouth to protest- to- to pretend this wasn't exactly what you wanted when you tracked him down, but his tongue slips into your mouth and you only shudder. He tastes so wrong- the wrong cigarettes, the wrong age, the wrong curl of his tongue behind your teeth, but it's the closest you've seen in twenty years.
All consideration of the differences between them fades as a gloved hand closes around your throat. Just tight enough to make your pulse thud against the leather and you're melting against him. Which makes you almost whine when he pulls his mouth from yours.
You pant, open-mouthed and already half-wrecked as Zeno judges you with those cool eyes. “Was he kind to you?”
“No.”
“Mm. Pity.” And he's on you again, nipping at you with sharp incisors- his other hand dragging you towards the bed. He pushes you down onto the narrow space. You peel off your shirt and start to unbuckle your pants before Zeno is on you again, swatting your hands away. With one hand on the center of your chest, he presses you down- and with the other he makes a show of biting the fingertip of one glove and pulling it off with his teeth.
You can barely murmur a soft “fuck,” then his hand is slipping into your pants. His fingers slip right through your folds, humiliatingly soaked from one kiss. It's been so long. With so little attention you're already keyed up, fingers trembling as you grab at him- one hand scrabbling at his fine black shirt, the other burying itself in his short hair. The touch spurs him on and he sinks a finger into you with little preamble.
They're his fingers. The size, the shape of them- technique, oh, technique you can wash away. Twenty years- he, oh, in so long he could've tried something new and-
Zeno crowds over you, the hand on your chest moves up to your hair, curling and pulling, keeping you grounded from your fantasy. So close now, you can feel his breath on your skin again, hot and humid as the bitterness seeps into his voice again. “Usually, this face only earns me enemies, not often-”
You surge upwards, catch his mouth and force him to be quiet. Approval rumbles from his chest, makes your lips hum. The kiss only breaks when you gasp, shaking again as he pushes a second finger inside.
“Can't- can't wait,” You manage, tugging at his shirt collar. “Please, need it.”
Zeno obliges, leaning back onto his knees to unbuckle his belt. The sight is so familiar- the image so deeply conditioned that you feel another wave of arousal making you ever slicker. He hardly lets you get sight of his cock, immediately taking it into his gloved hand and repositioning himself. You oblige- any position he wants- anything so long as-
He pushes into you with little preamble. In some remote way, it hurts. Been too long, even as soaked as you were- but the faint pain is nothing in the face of this fullness, of the weight on you. His catching breath and his hands on your hips. You fight back tears, focus on the heat in your belly. He grips you, hard- fingers and glove alike biting down into your flesh as he stays very, very still.
You catch his eye and see what almost looks like panic. The severity of being human again catching up to him, the endless stamina he's accustomed to gone, left with the limits of an aging man.
You grab his exposed hand, “Please, I'm close, I just—”
He drives his hips in again before you can even finish the thought. Over and over, delving in deep and hard punctuating thrusts that make your eyes roll back. His rhythm is perfect, all rough thrusts and power and all you can manage is to hold onto him and moan- a droning oh that makes his lips curl into a smirk. Even that- the expression, the single strand of hair that's come unbound, curled over his forehead, breaking the illusion of perfect control- and his eyes. Those blue, cerulean eyes like before- before it all-
The name builds on your tongue- and Zeno feels it too. He buries two gloved fingers in your mouth before you can even get past the W. He curls over you now, pounds into you with a fervor that should be painful, but all you can feel is Wesker's cock in you again and the taste of his oiled leather gloves and with a cry you cum, digging your nails into his hand and his scalp.
The tightness of your orgasm makes him bite down on you, his tempo staggering until- “Fuck- fuck!” He yells, and you swear for just a moment the accent is perfect.
You laze for a while afterwards, basking in the afterglow. With your eyes closed, you can almost pretend. He's squished up next to you on the tiny mattress (which may be the most unbelievable part- Wesker's safe houses were always verging on decadent, not this unmemorable and pedestrian) and the heat of him is agonizing. You shuffle closer- and, no, the most unbelievable part is the arm that slings over you, pulls you into being fully pressed to him. But you can't complain. It's nice being held.
He pants against you, still catching his breath and it's… strange. Wesker was so untouchable- and Zeno likely was as well before whatever has happened tonight. Likely will be again.
A few minutes after his breathing levels, you slip away first. The meager bathroom has washcloths and you cleanse yourself in silence. In the mirror you prod at the bite mark he's left on you- and feel warmth that it looks the same as you remember.
You bring him a washcloth as well, which he wordlessly accepts. As he wipes his fingers, you lean against the doorway and watch. “How's it feel? Being human, I mean.”
He doesn't pause, doesn't look away from the meticulous cleaning of his nails. “Weak.”
“Well, can't have that, can we?” You smile, then roll your arm out to present your vein.
===
Anyway! Seeing what is essentially re-humanified sixty year old Wesker awakened something feral in me.
And so, the woman dies. The woman dies so the man can be sad about it. The woman dies so the man can suffer. She dies to give him a destiny. Dies so he can fall to the dark side. Dies so he can lament her death. As he stands there, brimming with grief, brimming with life, the woman lies there in silence. The woman dies for him.
- The Woman Dies by Aoko Matsuda
Artistic Nerd with Delusions of Grandure. @selinakyle373 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
dailybridgerton
izzy806
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
