I'm sorry for disappearing for a while!! life's been crazy busy for me but i promise big things are coming 🙂↕️ look out both here and over on my ao3 🌟
yes yes yes!! sorry i wanted to get to this one sooner but w*rk is evil and it was my birthday this weekend also :3
i had so much fun with the kink headcanons for merle and daryl that i think i'll do a similar format here!!
RICK: Service top. Likes to be the one in control, but in a way that provides soft guidance to you. He wants to assert his control and authority over you in a way that takes the weight of decisions off your shoulders. A lot of gentle shushing, encouraging words, "I'll do all the thinking, baby" type shi. Off the back of that - Rick's huge into dirty talk. Loves telling you exactly how gorgeous you are, what a good job you're doing, how wet you feel for him. Similarly, he likes when you're vocal also, encouraging you not to hold back any of your pretty moans and little gasps.
SHANE: Y'all already know how i write Shane and my idea of what he's into... BUT outside of that - The man is completely shameless. Heavy into both voyeurism and exhibitionism. Shane has no issue with slipping his hand between your thighs, up your shirt whenever he feels like it. Driving you in the car, taking you out to dinner, he'll grab and feel up what's his whenever he wants. He disregards any stares he might get doing so, even getting a thrill as he locks eyes with a stranger while holding you possessively close. For him, its all about showing off just how much he owns you. He knows how much you enjoy his thick, coarse fingers so seizes any opportunity to graze your nipples, your clit or sink them knuckle deep into your eager mouth or tight, wanting hole.
What kinks do you think Merle and Daryl would have? Loving your nasty headcannons!
thank u for all the love on em!! glad y'all freaks r enjoying my depraved thoughts
consulted my local dixon lover for help on these 1s
DARYL: That man couldn't name a single fetish but he knows if he receives even the tiniest amount of praise his face gets all red, his ears get hot and his dick gets hard. He loves being called a good boy, told what a good job hes doing. Extremely vocal, enthusiastic consent and encouragement needed from his partner, he just desperately wants you to enjoy yourself.
Given his inability to last more than 30 seconds, I'd also say hes probably into overstimulation. You could just keep riding him til he got hard again and he'd thank you earnestly, tears in his eyes.
I do think if the man's had a little too much moonshine he gets awful handsy. The booze filling him with an uncharacteristic confidence to get real vocal about what you do to him. His voice low in your ear, mumbling about all the things he's wanted to do with you, hands wandering to graze your waist, the skin of your inner thigh. Dirty talk & teasing x1000!!
MERLE: I personally think he'd be really into clothed sex. Bending you over and pulling your panties to the side, hand stuffed up your shirt. It all feeds into the fantasy that he can fuck you whenever he wants. He just wants a perfect little free use doll that'll lie there and take whatever he gives her.
Merle's also big into spanking, slapping etc. Really anything that asserts the control and dominance he has of both the situation and of you. Its not really the sadism factor that does it - but it ain't a downside neither - the fact that it marks up a pretty little thing is a bonus. It's more about the fear you radiate when he towers over you, the instant submissive bend of your head as he brings his coarse hand down against your skin.
More Daryl and Merle nasty headcannons please!!!!!!!!! 🤤🤤🤤
you asked and i can't help but answer!!
DARYL: He's incredibly shy and inexperienced when it comes to sex. Pretty much any form of touch, attention or affection gets him blushing and painfully erect, which he desperately tries to keep hidden from you. The more you touch, caress and coax him the quicker it drives him to cumming in his pants. The shame, guilt and heady lust he radiates is too obvious for you to miss, spurring you on to pull his dick out with soft words of encouragement. Soon enough, he's rock hard and panting again as you continue to tease him with light touches, bringing him crashing over the brink of lust over and over until he's a mindless, sweaty, begging mess from overstimulation and endless orgasms.
MERLE: He's a selfish lover. Doesn't give a fuck if the girl he's sticking his dick into gets off, you might as well be a walking hole to him. All he see's is something tight, warm and wet to fuck. Merle wouldn't be caught dead eating a woman out, the best he'll do is half heartedly circle your clit with his rough, calloused palm - but thats just to feel you tighten up and clench around him as he pounds into you harshly, chasing nothing but his own end.
the dixon brothers...two sides of the same messed up coin :D
Ahhhhh your unhinged Shane fic has awakened things in me. I need MORE. I need to see what he'll do to her now that he's broken her down a little more 🥵 I can't wait to see where the story goes next!!
ahh thank u sm!! im honestly so surprised people are enjoying this story as much as i enjoy writing it, id originally planned for it to be just a depraved little one shot but its looking far from over 😗 who knows what torturous, humiliating ways shane will break our reader next?
I love the way you write Shane! I’ve also been super into the walking dead lately :3 I was wondering if you write for any other characters? Specifically the Dixon brothers 💖 they’re my current obsession and I’m starved for any crumbs xoxo
thank u sm!! i dont really go here as im a shane girly but i do have some headcanons about the dixon brothers i can dump here🙂↕️
i definitely see Daryl as more tanned and Merle more burnt pink, feel like it's both bc Merle doesn't care and is just out cooking in the sun while Daryl spends hours hunting in dappled forest sunlight so gets a lower but longer exposure....in a way it's also a visual representation of their mindsets - Merles a redneck hick through and through, thinks he's stronger than the sun, Daryl is tan bc he's changed by his environment but he doesn't face it head on, he's not like his brother.....
my second, NASTIER headcanon is:
Merle sweats. whether it's out at the bar drinking himself stupid, alcohol drawing beads of moisture to his skins surface. on the long stretches of dirty georgian roads while he bikes, sun cooking the back of his neck to blisters, dust sticking to the drops of sweat running down his chest, his arms.
but especially when hes sticking his dick in you. hips slamming into you, driving his cock deeper with each stroke, the mans pouring with sweat. collecting on his forehead, rolling over his charred, leathered features and dripping down on to you beneath him. as he gropes at your body, his coarse hands are slipping slightly due to the oily film of grease clinging to his skin. his arms, his chest, his pits, all omitting an odour that details the days events, the dust and stale sweat of the morning, of last fucking week. the stench and the sweat are arguably most concentrated at his ballsack. which vulgarly slaps against ur clit, slick mixing with sweat as he selfishly chases his own pleasure
Haii!! So I'm a degenerate and a Jon Bernthal fan, I read your Shane fanfics and they're totally my thing, so I I'd like to know if you could write something similar but for Grady Travis the character of Fury,I don't know if you know him, but it would be lovely if you had time to do it
That's thanks, bye❤️
ooo that's a cool idea!! thank u sm for reading and enjoying my Shane stuff <33
i actually watched Fury pretty recently and can think of a few ideas of what he and reader would get up to... watch this space anon 🙂↕️
You start seeing shane everywhere In the store, on the street,At the supermarket, at your own front door Like a wolf trying to find the right moment to take away the little life its prey still has.(☉｡☉)!→
omg yes!! the idea that his infatuation with you is growing stronger and stronger and it feels like hes everywhere you go and theres no escape (• ε •) love it
beware the tags: noncon, hair pulling, face slapping, come eating, handcuffs, sadism, degradation, blowjobs, choking, dead dove: do not eat, no beta we die like dale
Set pre-apocalypse, Shane's a sheriff's deputy doing the rounds when he catches you just over the speed limit. He can't help but dispense his own form of retribution.
Chapter 1 - Sobriety Test
You’re cruising down a long stretch of back road on your way home from work. The shift had dragged late and fatigue had long since staked a claim deep in your bones. It was taking everything you had to keep on the right damn side of the highway. You stretch with a low groan, letting your joints crack as they release the day's tension, your foot pressing heavier on the gas. You just wanted to get home. Already, you could picture the bath you'd sink yourself into, the leftovers in the fridge waiting for you, your bed with your plush pillows and thick blankets…
A flash of lights and the sound of a siren picking up behind you snaps you out of your reverie. Stifling a yawn, you blearily force your eyes to glance at your rearview mirror and confirm the sinking feeling in your chest. A sheriff cruiser lazily tailing you. You glance down at your dashboard and grimace upon seeing the speedometer, coaxing your leaden foot off the pedal incrementally.
You feel your jaw clench as the officer leans his arm out the driver side window and motions for you to pull over. Gripping the steering wheel, you begin to bring your car to a stop, pulling into the gravelly soft shoulder where the road meets the sun-baked soil spanning endlessly. In the dark, it's impossible to tell how far it stretches. The slam of the officer’s door behind you jumpstarts your heart, all sense of lethargy burnt away by adrenaline. You’re still a good few miles out from home.
“Son of a bitch.” You mumble. Don’t these small town cops have anything better to do than wait around in dark corners with their hands down their pants, until some unlucky folk like you stumble into their path?
You straighten up and stare straight ahead as the officer comes sidling up, his boots crunching into the ground beneath him. Your fists are still white knuckling around your steering wheel, foot twitching towards the gas, the urge to floor it and leave him eating dust overwhelming.
A sharp tap on the window with the back of his knuckles has you killing the engine - and along with it, that fleeting thought of escape. As you roll the window down, the officer bends and slings his arms through the opening, resting them on the door of your car, eclipsing your view of the dark roads behind. Without the roar of the engine, you’re painfully aware of how isolated you are, in the middle of some winding rural road miles out from buildings in either direction.
“Evenin’ Ma’am. Name’s Deputy Shane Walsh. Y’know how fast y’were goin’ jus now?” The officer drawls out, raking his eyes over your face and down your body. As he speaks, you’re hit with the suffocating scent of old coffee, pinewood, smoke and sweat. In Atlanta, a tapestry of smells comes with the territory, but there’s something cloying and claustrophobic about the scent of this man that gets caught in your throat and threatens to choke you.
“Look Officer…Walsh. I’ve had a really long day, I’m exhausted and just trying to get home and off the road fast…” You shrink back just a little as your argument starts to die in your throat, enough for him to grin and lean that bit closer, gaining even more ground.
“Y’think that's the first time I’ve heard an excuse like that? If I let e’ryone who’d had a ‘really long day’ off, the roads’d be full of people like you thinkin’ they can do whatever the hell they want.” The sheriff says, cruelty burning in the blacks of his eyes.
“Do you think you could cut me a little slack? No one’s around to get hurt, just give me a warning and let me go, alright?” Your voice rings out louder than you expect, amplified by the flare of exasperation searing at your clenched chest. A power trip is the last thing you want to give to some sheriff with nothing better to do, especially when he’s what stands between you and the sleep you so desperately need.
Shane’s jaw tightens and he leans back from the car slowly, arms still loosely slung over the door. Swinging his head towards either direction of the road, he runs his hand through his thick, dark hair and draws in a calculated breath.
“Now, yer’ right about one thing, no one is around… but as much as I’d love t’ let ya go free I just cannot take that risk m’afraid. I’m gon’ have to ask you to step outta yer vehicle Ma’am.” Tapping the side of your door twice and then opening it with mock chivalry, he steps back only far enough to let you slide out of the car reluctantly. As soon as you’re clear of the other side, he slams it shut and shoves you up against the warmth of the door's exterior. Even at night the weather is painfully humid. A shock bolts through you as a frigid band of metal is clamped around either one of your wrists and locked together behind your back, the sound of the handcuffs tightening hollows out your stomach in absolute fear.
“Hey! What are you doing?! Please, this really isn't necessary, I’ll pay the ticket, okay? I can give you a check right now!” You start squirming in his grasp, trying to yank your hands through the cuffs. They’re too tight for you to have any success. Instead, you try to leverage your body by pushing off the car to shove him away, resulting in him grabbing your chained wrists in one hand and slamming the back of your neck back against the car with the other. Satisfied that you're immobilised, he loosens his grip on your wrists and brings his hand up to his Walkie. A crackle of static rips through the air as he radios into the station.
“Perp apprehended. Actively resisted and has refused t’ comply. I’ll attempt t’ de-escalate the situation, otherwise I’ll bring ‘er on down to the station asap. Could be a while though, if she continues to be uncooperative.” He brings his head down and towards you as he says the last sentence, pressing his lips into the side of your neck as if to embed the words into your skin in clear warning.
“Don’t take me to the station! I’m cooperating, I’ll cooperate.” Your voice wobbles as you attempt to placate him. Forcing your shaking body to relax into the side of the car, you try to display that you have no intention to run. Shane’s broad hand curls tighter around the base of your neck, all but holding you up as he feels your limbs slacken in submission.
“Keep that up sweetheart and I won’ have ta.” He grinned. “First off though…I’ma have to test ya for sobriety. ‘S the rules. Need to make sure ya can walk in a straight line from ‘ere to there.” He steps back from you, gesturing to a strip of road about 50 yards. You blanch, frozen in place.
“Aint’cha gonna take the cuffs off me?” You plead, hesitantly. Your stomach sinks as you watch him shake his head with amusement and gives you a light shove in the direction he pointed. Not wanting to give him an excuse to drag you to that godforsaken police station, you set your jaw and comply. You hadn’t touched a drop of booze all night, this should be fine. Turning to face away from him, you begin trudging in a slow, but straight line towards his cruiser, painfully aware of how the position of your arms behind you is forcing your chest to jut out and your back to arch. Your steps falter as you hear a low, appreciative whistle coming from the cop behind you, followed by slow, heavy footsteps as he keeps pace.
The world suddenly tilts on its axis as you feel his bulky, dirt-crusted work boots kick your legs out from under you. Unable to put your hands out to catch yourself, you land face-down on the ground hard, cheek grazed from the mix of gravel and stone making up the road. Shane rolls you over onto your back with his boot, smirking down at you as you groan, dazed.
“Looks like ya just failed yer sobriety test darlin’. Not mighty responsible t’ be behind the wheel in the state yer in, fallin’ all over the place like that. Looks like you’ll ‘ave to kill some time with me ‘ere til you can prove yer capable. Damned shame.” He shakes his head in feigned disapproval, leaning down to brush your dishevelled hair out of your eyes. You stare up at his hardened, stern face, fighting back tears as the reality of your circumstances comes crashing down around you.
“We both know that I’m completely sober - please - you don’t have to do this! Just uncuff me and let me go, I won’t mention a thing to anyone I swear!” You squirm, kicking your legs out and clipping him on the shin. His eyes darken upon impact, and the hand that was stroking your hair tightens into a fist, dragging you up by it until you’re teetering shakily on your knees, your restrained arms keeping you awkwardly off balance. Using the grip in your hair to wrench your head up to face him, he leans down and slaps you across the face, hard. You cry out, grazed cheek stinging, furiously blinking back the tears blurring your vision.
“Try sumthin that stupid again, I dare ya. It’ll be a lot worse than a little slap next time, you hear me? Gettin’ real tired of yer bitchin’ and whinin’ girl. I’ll ‘let you go’ if or when I fuckin’ please. For now though, you best open up that pretty mouth of yours.” He growls out, all pretense of’ law-abiding sheriff’ long gone. You clamp your mouth shut and try to violently twist your head out of his grip to no avail. The sound of his trousers being unzipped makes you whimper as he begins to palm himself through his boxers before unsheathing his cock. His hold on your hair only tightens and he brings his other hand up to cover your nose, cutting off your breathing. Eventually, your lungs start to burn with the need for air and you open your mouth to gasp involuntarily. Walsh uses the opportunity to stuff his cock into your warm mouth, his calloused fingers stroking your cheek appraisingly. The graze on your cheek throbs angrily as he smears the small droplets of blood across your skin.
“There y’go…shh….just needed sumthin to shut you up, huh?” Shane leers, using both hands to gather up your hair and push his shaft further down your throat, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed against the mound of thick, tight curls climbing its way up his stomach. Completely muffled, you focus on trying to still your panicked mind, desperately trying to yank your hands free of the cuffs, chafing your wrists raw in the process. Your jaw tightens in concentration as the temptation to bite down flies through your mind.
Another slap. To the same cheek, but harder this time. It leaves your ears ringing and knocks the thought out of you. You feel the warmth of Shane caressing your face once more, rough fingers leaving a trail of fire, cheek now burning with his large handprint.
“Hey, don’t go gettin’ no ideas now.” He growls, using your hair to slide you up his shaft again so only the very tip of him is still in your mouth. Your scalp is burning as he holds eye contact with you, and you feel your own saliva seep down your chin onto your knelt legs below.
“I’m still seein’ that stubborn fight in yer eyes, sweetheart.” He scolds, sliding his dick to the back of your throat again. You retch in response, glaring up at him with hatred permeating your very pores. There’s no choice but to force your throat to relax around him, and you draw in shallow breaths filled with the heady scent of his sweat.
“Gon’ make me do this the hard way the whole time huh? Ain’t nothin’ for it I s’pose.” He starts up a steady rhythm as he fucks into your throat. Shane runs his hand through his hair as he tilts his head back, cussing under his breath as he wantonly uses your mouth. The road around you both is quiet, only broken by the increasingly wet sound of Shane chasing his own climax. A dull ache is starting to fester in your knees and jaw and the lights from the still-running police cruiser are illuminating the officer’s features above you. Officer Walsh is all sharp angles and taut muscle, a build that could easily overpower a man twice your height. Even if you weren’t handcuffed, there isn’t a single thing you could do against him. A sense of complete powerlessness washes through the very fibre of your being and your shoulders sag, swallowing down every harsh thrust he mercilessly gifts you.
Seemingly sensing your shift in attitude, his thrusts grow more erratic and he lets out another hedonistic groan. With one last thrust, he forces himself in to the hilt, waves of white-hot fluid spilling down the back of your throat as you choke and splutter helplessly. You’ve never felt so vile and ruined. As he pulls out and steps back to catch his breath, you double over, gasping for air. Disgust bubbles up inside you and you spit the remnants of his come out at his feet, landing it squarely on his dusty, county-issued boots.
Shane tuts above you, slowly stepping closer once again. “Well now, that’s jus’ wasteful honey.” His voice drips with a sinister condescension that sends splinters of ice through your veins. Wrapping his rough hand around your throat, he forces your head down to the ground and slowly - so slowly - wipes his cold, viscous spend off the tough leather of his boot and onto your tearstained face. You flinch into the cold ground as he crouches down next to you, hand tightening around your throat in a show of ownership.
“Aint’cha grateful for what I’ve just given ya? I could’ve hauled yer ass to jail by now.” He grins, swiping his broad thumb over the fluid coating your face and slowly pushing it between your lips. Salt and sweat and dirt overwhelm your senses as your tongue curls instinctively around him. Mechanically, you swallow, eyes dropped low to the ground. Almost as if - if you don’t move, he’ll get bored of you and walk off. Almost.
“I wanna hear a proper thank you. Next thing I wanna hear from that whore mouth of yours is sum looong overdue gratitude.” To reinforce the command, he squeezes his hand firmly around your throat, cutting off enough air to make your vision dance before you.
“Nod that pretty lil’ head if ya understand, slut.”
Frantically, you nod your head, gazing pleadingly up at his cold, hard eyes. Fear, desperation and eagerness bleed into your features and Shane greedily drinks it all in. It’s exactly where he wants you. Satisfied that you’ve comprehended the task he's laid out, he releases his hand from your throat, letting it trail up your body to palm hungrily at the swell of your ass. You let out a choked gasp, relief and air flooding into your lungs at the same time.
“T-thank you.” You rasp out, voice hoarse from abuse. You’re rewarded with a cocky, triumphant smile that breaks out across the officer's face. Everything about his expression screams that this nightmare is nowhere close to over.
Find chapter 1 here, and chapter two here. Cross posted on AO3 also, if ud like to give me kudos over there •̀.̫•́✧
Summary: Set pre-apocalypse, Shane's a sheriff's deputy doing the rounds when he catches you just over the speed limit. He can't help but dispense his own form of retribution.
Disturbance of the Peace: A generic legal term for a criminal offense that encompasses conduct violating public order, disturbing the public, or inciting violence, often recognized under both common law and various state statutes. It is broadly defined as a malicious and willful intrusion upon the peace and quiet of a community or neighborhood, typically involving unreasonable noise, fighting, or offensive words likely to provoke violence.
The events of that harrowing night had carved deep scars into you.
It showed in the worn lines of your face, the sunken slump of your shoulders, the glazed look in your eye. After that night, when you’d driven yourself home in a mechanical stupor, you sat in the shower and scrubbed and sobbed until your skin was red and raw and there were no tears left to wring out. You wanted to flay off your own skin, turn your body inside out and bleach it to burn away the feeling of his hands, his mouth, his tongue all over you.
But at least you were alive, if drinking counted as living.
Sitting tense at your small town divebar now, you’re still chasing that urge to cleanse yourself, each shot after shot of cheap whiskey you knock back purging a line of fire down your throat. You’d spent the last few hours here, enduring this ethanol baptism, desperate to lose the memories that taunt you in a wash of liquor. You hadn’t truly spoken to anyone in days, limiting your interactions to a handful of grunts and murmurs, aware of the stares latching onto your neck; skin marred with a wash of yellowing bruises. It had become routine, this habit of staring at the bottom of a bottle, and the bartender had since learned to keep his questions to himself.
The heat of the Georgian night air is thick as ever, the open windows doing nothing in the way of relief but rather encouraging the buzz of skeeters to swarm unsuspecting patrons. And there are plenty of patrons. Another drink is wordlessly set in front of you, condensation running in rivulets down the glass.
You drag the glass up to your lips right as a group of rowdy guys bustle past you, one stumbling directly into you and spilling your drink all over yourself and the bar.
“What the hell?!” You slur, repressed drunken anger pouring out of you as you swing wildly around to face them. Your feet stumble, knocking you off balance and you fall into another nearby table, smashing glasses in your path of chaos.
“Watch it, woman!” One guy roars, doused thoroughly in the cheap lager he'd just been swigging, echoed by similar eruptions of vitriol from his buddies around him.
“Y'all settle down ‘for I gotta call the cops! Take it ou’side or pipe on down.” The bartender yells, shaking his head and mopping up the mess of spilt liquor and glass shards.
“Ain't no need for all’at bud, I may be off duty, but I'll knock a son of a bitch on his ass and haul ‘em into the station if need be.”
Ice shoots up your spine as that familiar, cocky voice rings out from a booth across the room. Suddenly it feels like those jagged pieces of glass you smashed have made their way into your stomach and are carving you up from the inside out. The whole bar is still now, curious eyes bouncing between you and the officer as they watch the scene unfold.
Shane lets out a low whistle as recognition lights up his face. “Y’aint makin’ a habit of causin’ trouble now, are ya doll?” He drawls, looking like a kid who’s Christmas had just come early. “Look at’cha, disturbin’ the peace. Really that desperate to get a record after last time?” He smirks, exuding smugness.
You swallow thickly, heart pounding. You hadn’t anticipated seeing him again so soon. Hell you hadn’t been sure you’d ever see his sick, perverted ass ever again. You knew he was local but hadn’t been too sure of his regular haunts. Guess this was one of them.
“No. We’re all good here. Officer.” Your voice comes out curt and small, each word halving in confidence and volume as the sentence is forced out of you. Your shoulders sag inwards, minimising yourself and your eyes fixate on a tangled knot of wood in a loose floorboard by your feet. Thankfully, after a smirk and lingering, appreciative sweep of his gaze over your body, the man seems satisfied and turns back to the group of guys he's with dismissively. The attention of the patrons fizzles out, people returning to their drinks with the familiar babble of idle chatter. Folks round here are used to things getting rowdy and as far as what just went down goes, the interaction was entirely civil. The barkeep brushes past you, glass tinkling against itself as he cleans up the damage. Little shards are sprinkled around like fresh dew drops, fracturing the low, warm lights of the joint.
You’re trembling, heart kicked up into a frantic beating. Saliva rushes into your mouth as your stomach twists with crippling nausea and you stand up, dragging the bar stool out from under you. You beeline for the small singular bathroom, footsteps leaden and stiff as you force your brain to work on autopilot. Pushing past throngs of people, you make your way to refuge. As soon as you get into the enclosed space, you push the door shut and fall to your knees in front of the toilet bowl, dry heaving over it as sickening anxiety roils through you. Your hair is sticking to your forehead, a light mist of sweat drenching your brow as you let the aftershocks of the initial paralysing fear pass through you. Silent gratitude washes over you as you manage to keep everything down, you don’t think you could handle vomiting on top of everything else. Focusing on breathing slowly in and out of your mouth, you lean back on your knees, pressing your hands firmly against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Tangible, real, steady. Hatred curls up in your stomach and takes root there. Shane Walsh doesn’t deserve to have this effect on you. You shouldn’t be reduced to cowering away on the floor, yet here you are. You let your head fall into your hands, concentrating on the cool tiles beneath you, the way your beer soaked shirt clings to your skin. At least this is helping to counter that oppressive southern heat.
Two sharp knocks against the wood of the bathroom door snap you out of your self soothing and you flinch.
“Someone’s in here, asshole!” You bark out, voice raspy from the strain of retching.
You hear the door handle turn and the door squeaks open. The owner should really take better care of those hinges. Your stomach drops. You hadn’t locked the door behind you.
“Now, that ain't no way to talk to law enforcement.” That voice. The same from earlier. The same that now haunts your dreams and every waking moment in between. You could pick that voice from a crowded room. The voice drips with condescension, and your stomach twists and coils in response.
You scramble up onto your feet, every hair on the back of your neck standing up straight. Wheeling around, you take in the sight before you. Shane Walsh. Looking decidedly less reputable out of his uniform, dressed in a washed out fitted shirt and dusty cargos. Same damn department-issued sheriff boots that you’d defaced before. The confined space in the bathroom feels like it shrinks to zero as he steps, heavy footed, into the bathroom. The click of the lock sounds behind him. Your field of vision narrows and your lungs feel like dead weight in your chest, breath trapped somewhere in your trachea. Not again. Trapped, alone, with him. Again.
His huge, hulking form is overwhelming, it's as if everything in the world orbits him, is pulled towards him. Including you. Nausea churns in your stomach, flaring as you lock eyes with him. But something else too, something lower. Your core clenches, a dull ache throbbing as your body relives the horrors you’d endured the last time.
“Get out.” You try to keep your voice steady and assertive but it wobbles. He appraises you silently, eyes dancing with a playful venom. Shane brings a neat glass of whiskey he’s holding up to his mouth and patiently takes a long swig, watching to see what you’ll do next. You feel like a cornered animal. Your muscles are coiled up and tensed to bolt, eyes frantically bouncing around the room for opportunities to escape. Shane in contrast, is lazily leaning against the door - your only way out - in a relaxed, self-assured manner.
“I mean it… stay the hell away from me, Walsh.” Your warning seems to fall on deaf ears as he pushes himself off the door, taking a deliberate step towards you.
“Aw, don’t be like that. You should be singin’ my praises after I let you off so easy.” He grins, closing the distance between you until he's less than a foot away and you’re having to strain your neck up to keep glaring at him. “Tell me sumthin’ though…you mention our little encounter to anyone these past few days?” The question is loaded, demanding. He’s probing for something.
“No.” You bite out, teeth clenched together. “Not a word.” You didn’t have a fucking death sentence. His eyes gleam at that, approval written across his features. So you could take orders, be obedient. Something to exploit. That confirmation spurs him on, smirking down at you expectantly.
“Atta girl.” He praises, voice low. “And ya won’t say a damn thing today either, unless you want the old guy behind the bar to press charges for property damage today.” A stab of panic pierces through you. The son of a bitch is dangling more blackmail over you, implying he’s going to rake you through that hell again. You roll onto the balls of your feet, poised for a fight. There’s no way you’re voluntarily relinquishing your will to him. You can’t take anymore coercion, anymore abuse. Everything slows down for a split second. Being a trained officer, skilled at disarming and restraining people for a living, Shane sees your eyes dart for the door behind him and grabs you the second your body lunges for it. Slamming you up against the door, he pins you between it and his body, face nestled in the crook of your neck to whisper in your ear.
“Where ya goin, sweetheart?” The smell of booze, cigarettes and sweat permeate off him. You leverage your hands against the door and shove into him, trying to knock him off kilter while fumbling with the locked door.
“Keep your disgusting hands off me!” You spit.
He just tuts, disappointed, as if your escape attempt bores him. Grabbing your wrists together in one hand behind your back, he takes another swig of his drink idly. You're trying to wriggle and squirm your way out of his iron grip, tugging your wrists to no avail. Tears start stinging in the corners of your eyes as that familiar sense of fear and helplessness begins to settle over you. The lock is so close. The only thing standing between you and escape.
“Awful feisty today. Maybe this’ll help some.” With that, he takes another long swig, not yet swallowing. Holding fast to your wrists with one hand, he sets the glass down on the nearby sink and uses the other to tilt your face up towards him, gripping your jaw tightly between his thumb and forefinger until your mouth caves open in pain. As soon as your lips part, he spits the whiskey directly into your mouth, keeping your face angled up until you swallow involuntarily. The alcohol burns down your throat and hits your stomach as you splutter in disgust. You’d already had a few rounds at the bar, and the fresh wave of ethanol reignites the uncoordinated wooziness the recent adrenaline had chased away.
“‘Ought’a do you some good. Loosen you up a ‘lil. Now where were those…” He’s talking more to himself than to you, using his free hand to search his pockets absentmindedly, ignoring your weak attempts to yank yourself free. The familiar clinking of metal makes your ears prick up.
“Gotcha. Knew I had these kickin’ ‘round somewhere. Off-duty ain't really off-duty for us officers, ey?” His tone is light, conversational, as he dangles the object in front of your face so you can get a good look. The blood drains from your face in recognition and the corners of Shane's mouth turn up as he watches, drinking in your growing dread. Handcuffs. The same ones from before, when he'd kicked and abused and assaulted you. Left you broken and bruised, vacant and stained on the side of the road. The room spins and you can't decipher if it’s the booze soaking your system or the panic overwhelming your brain.
The man yanks you away from the door and you stagger with him, off balance. Mechanically shaking your head back and forth, you start to feel floaty and distant from your own body. This can’t be happening again. You were stupid to ever assume you’d be safe. You were vaguely aware of your body being bent over the bathroom sink, hands locking together in front of you, anchored by a pipe under the basin.
You blink. You’re bent over the sink, body hinging at your hips. Your hands are looped around the base, obscured by the view of the sink inches below your head. If you were to relax your neck, your face would fall perfectly into the bowl. Giving your hands a sharp tug, alarm bells start ringing as you realise how vulnerable and spread open you are.
Bargaining and reasoning don’t ever work with him. The cuffs are inescapable, you bitterly recall. A tear slides down your cheek as you’re forced to face the reality of the scene unfolding. Maybe this is it. Shane Walsh can torment and torture you at will, and there’s nothing you can do about it. No help to seek, no way to fight back, nowhere to hide. You crane your neck up to the mirror hung on the wall in front of you, and your eyes meet your own terrified reflection. You look like a wreck. Large, watery eyes, framed in dark, sunken circles. Worry painted on every one of your features, entwined with the cells beneath your skin. Tears streak down your sunken cheeks. Eyes glazed over with the haze of whiskey, lips plump and swollen from constant nervous biting.
You can't stomach your own appearance. Ashamed of the sight before you, you drag your eyes up. Shane’s standing behind you, gaze fixed on the curve of your ass, the arch of your back in this forced position. His eyes are slightly unfocused, an inebriated flush emanating from him. Dangerous, lacking control.
“I swear to God, I’ll scream. We ain’t in the middle of nowhere this time and I’ll-“ Your slurred bravado is interrupted by a loud crack as he brings the flat of his palm down to slap your ass, hard. His hand lingers there, squeezing the stinging flesh and you stifle a yelp of pain.
“Ain’t no one gon’ hear ya, darlin’. Folk are far too busy gettin’ trashed to give a shit about some whiny. Helpless. Pathetic. Girl.” He emphasizes each insult with another spank, hand swinging down to meet your ass mercilessly. To prove his point, he lets the sound of each hit echo loudly around the small bathroom. You grit your teeth, struggling to keep your sounds of discomfort hidden, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. A grin breaks out across his face as his eyes connect with yours through the mirror's surface, hatred and fear burning its way through you. The set of his shoulders and the self-satisfied light in his eyes betray the joy he is reaping from this power over you. Everything about him screams untouchable.
He leans over you, letting his crotch graze against your ass. The heated skin there stings as you feel his firm arousal press into you assertively. He grabs the glass of whiskey and pulls back, resting one hand on the small of your back absentmindedly. It’s as if you’re nothing. Shane takes another swig, before sliding his hand into the hair close to your scalp and pulling your head back, arching your back further into his straining crotch. He holds the cold glass to your lips, keeping his grip on your hair firm.
“Drink.” The command leaves no room for disobedience. The drink is a rich, dark amber. You grimace. Your lips part and you let liquid fire flow into your mouth. You gulp it down with little resistance. Anything to dull your senses, allow for any kind of shield from this sharp, sadistic man. If you cannot be granted physical escape, retreating into your own mind will have to do. The muscles tensing in your back and neck relax as the fire of the booze washes over you. With the shots at the bar and this on top, your vision’s starting to swim. Shane releases his grip on your hair, and you let your head slump onto the side of the sink.
“That’s better, sweetheart. You just rest your pretty head ‘n let me do all the thinkin’.”
He tugs your jeans and panties down past your thighs, the air hitting your burning cheeks and aching heat. You feel his thick fingers brush against your entrance, spreading you open mercilessly. A copious amount of slick has collected between your folds. A fear response, you tell yourself. A sound of wounded, helpless despair escapes you. He sinks a single finger into you, crooking it against your walls.
”Such a tight fuckin’ whore. Gettin’ all wet like this. All for me, ain’t it?” He croons. Your only response is to squirm furiously against your restraints.
”Y’always kickin’ up such a fuss, bitchin’ and moanin’ ‘bout ‘you’re so disgusting!’ this and ‘don’t fuckin’ touch me!’ that. But you want this same as me, don’cha slut? Huh?” He probes, slipping another finger in to join the first, scissoring them in and out of you, stretching your cunt open with each curl of his wrist. The ache of being stretched around his thick fingers is making your hole clench around him, each movement stoking a growing fire in your stomach. You let out a low wail, desperately trying to push back against the pulses of pleasure rolling through you. Every sense, every touch, every twinge is heightened by the warm veil of sensitivity the booze has spread over you.
“See, baby? Y’ain’t capable of thinkin’ for yourself, y'ain't even know what’cha want. Just lie there all quiet-like and lemme show ya.” The sound of his zip strikes fear through you. Like last time, you’re filled with a dizzying panic and helplessness. But this time, it’s worse. You know what comes next. Shane lets out a satisfied grunt as he frees himself from the constraints of his jeans, running his hands over the burning skin of your ass.
You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself against the imminent painful thrust. If you can just endure this, maybe it’ll all be over fast. He could get bored and leave you alone? Instead, you feel a warmth trickle over the lower half of your body. That’s not the sensation you’d expected. Warmth you’d understand, that goes with the territory of living in Atlanta. What’s catching you off guard is that it suddenly feels…wet. Like a shower or stream just opened up behind you. You open your eyes confused, alarmed. You whip your head around to identify the source and your face falls in utter disbelief.
”What the FUCK?” You exclaim. The son of a bitch is pissing on you. You start wrenching against the handcuffs with a new found ire, shuddering in repulsion.
“Look, darlin’, I’ve had quite a bit to drink ‘n this is a bathroom, after all.” He drawls out, clearly entertained. “Should be thankin’ me for givin’ ya some kinda worth. Without me, you’re nothin’ at all.” The man carelessly directs his stream in your general direction, washing over your lower back, your ass, your thighs. It bounces off your skin and trickles down your calves, pooling in foul puddles at your feet, a pale yellow hue against the white of the tiles. Your jeans are a total write off, completely soaked. At least they match your beer soaked shirt now. Flames of humiliation threaten to set you on fire. He’s ruined you, again.
The stream of piss grows less steady, petering out. You’re left dripping wet and shivering. The smell of booze and ammonia burns up your nostrils and threatens to turn your stomach inside out. The part of your brain clinging onto your dignity splinters into a million shards and you slump weakly, letting your head fall into the bowl of the sink. Shane’s uniquely skilled in dismantling your pride and reducing you into a small, shaking thing beneath him.
Glassy eyes well with tears, spilling over freely. You feel yourself retreating further into your mind again, fresh, sharp humiliation sending you far, far away. How are you ever supposed to comprehend something like this? There’s nothing to make sense of, nothing grounding to take hold of. Shane lines his hips up with yours and as he pushes his shiny, wet head into your sodden hole, you’re pulled agonisingly back into your own body. This is driven further as he tangles his fist into the thick of your hair and yanks your head up, pressing it into the mirror in front of you.
”Look at yourself while I’m fuckin’ you.” He murmurs, voice low and thick with a concentrated desire. Shane drags his shaft against your walls, slowly pulling out until just the head remains encased by your entrance, before shoving himself back in up to the very hilt. He groans. You feel yourself clench around him involuntarily at his words. Every time he opens his mouth your body reacts, as if it’s waiting on his every word. You screw your eyes shut in denial, a silent rebellion. Your cunt is twitching and spasming, spurring Shane to deliver another punishing thrust.
“Look at what I’m doin’ to you, whore.” He repeats, tightening his grip on your hair. Another snap of his hips for emphasis.
You whimper, complying. Your eyes lock onto your own face smushed against the glass and you want to scream in frustration. Your face is crumpled up in pain, your hair a mess, skin pulled tight with the hold he has on you. Soaked in his piss, ass bruised and marred by his hand, you look ruined.
“See how you do whatever I tell you? How I’m moldin’ you to do what I want, be whatever I want. You’re only here to make me feel good - can you understand that, you pathetic slut? Or is that too hard for your drunk lil’ mind to comprehend?” His tone is so soft, so soothing. Each word drips with condescension, but you feel something break inside you and you crave each word of patronising approval.
You feel your head nod, imperceptibly. But Shane doesn’t miss it. His face splits in half, lips curling up to form a sadistic grin. He rewards your compliance with harder thrusts, quickening his pace. The feel of his thick cock is searing pain into you with every move of his hips, the sound of your skin connecting with his skitters across the bathroom tiles. Everything about this is wrong. It's disgusting and you’re afraid and nauseous and shaking and bruised. And yet, your hips rock back to meet his, driving him deeper into you. At least he wants you. At least he’s interested enough to pay attention to you, enough to put all this care into shaping you correctly.
Your eyes leave your own, glancing behind you to seek him out. It’s the same orbital pull as before, dragging you in. It’s not slow and enticing, it’s as if you’re being consumed by an infinite black hole, each and every atom being burnt out of you. Shane's eyes have been on you this whole time, lust affixing his gaze to your curves, the dying fight in your eyes. The control relinquished by you with every thrust is something he drinks in indulgently.
One broad hand snakes over your body, coming up to palm hungrily at your breast before sliding lower. His fingers reach down to brush over your clit and your breathing hitches. He circles the bundle of nerves with his rough hands, and you feel that knot in your stomach grow tighter.
”C’mon baby, come for me. Let’s feel that tight pussy clench around me.” Shane's breath is coming hard now, brow furrowed as he draws closer to his own end. The angle of his cock hits you in a spot that has you crying out, legs shaking as he continues to rub your clit, sending you spasming into a wall of ecstacy. Every inch of pleasure is wrung out of you as your body is pushed to the limit, Shane's thrusts growing increasingly erratic. He lets out a choked moan, the warmth of his seed flooding your hole and coating your walls.
As you start to try and catch your breath, clarity and shame abruptly return. The self-loathing you feel now won’t ever be silenced under a blanket of alcohol. A heavy quiet hangs between you, thick with the events that just unfolded. You’d relinquished to him, something you’d been so determined you wouldn’t do, under any circumstance. Betrayal coats the back of your tongue, which you try to swallow bitterly.
Shane withdraws from you carelessly, his thick spend seeping out of you and running down your legs in rivulets. Let it join the other fluids he’s dumped onto you, you guess. Checking himself in the mirror, he runs a hand through his hair before adjusting his clothes. Ritualistic. The sound of the cuffs unlocking next lulls your brain into familiarity and you straighten up, rubbing at the angry welts forming. As you start to stand at your full height, your legs wobble. Before you can crumple to the ground, Shane grabs you, directing you to land on the closed toilet lid instead. Your heart fractures at the shred of kindness. You slump back against the seat, defeated, resigned.
He sniffs dismissively, picking up his whiskey and chasing the dregs at the bottom of the glass.
”’Til next time, ey sweetheart?” He chuckles. “Try not to get in too much trouble ‘til then.”
With that he unlocks the bathroom door and stalks out of it. The last sight you see of him he again looks powerful, put together, unaffected. The door slams shut behind him and you’re left staring vacantly at the space he just occupied.
You Must Keep Your Soul Like A Secret In Your Throat - Leon S. Kennedy/Reader
summary: You’re a rookie agent fighting your way through an abandoned laboratory, tasked with the mission of investigating recent reports of unethical experiments related to a volatile strain of virus. The primary cause for conducting this research include the promising results related to prolonged life spans and the disruption of the aging process. Side effects of these tests have allegedly included insatiable blood lust, elongated canines and an unexplainable control over another's will. The abandoned facility you’re exploring turns out not to be so abandoned.
Vampire leon fic inspired by that mod I saw on twitter - based around the time of re9 (which I haven't played yet!!) but not following canon in any way dont think too hard about it <3 purely AU <3 | tags: vampire au, blood drinking, dubcon, thigh riding, oral, plot what plot, survivors guilt
cross posted on ao3 - wc: 3571
The beam of your flashlight cleaved through the dark recesses of the facility as the sound of your tentative steps rebounded against the walls. The previously pristine and sterile floors were now festering under carpets of dirt, mould and dried blood. You tried not to let your gaze linger on the piles of clotted, tangled viscera strewn about every dark corner. The metallic tang of rust and blood had long since soaked into your skin. You’d been at this for hours. Determined not to leave empty handed with no update to report, you pushed further into the labs, methodically easing doors open, doing routine sweeps of the rooms, each one a mirror of the last macabre scene, surgical tools and gauze left in piles around the room.
Picking your way slowly through the labyrinth, you swung your head to the left, a door catching your eye. As you walked up to it, you placed your hands on the handle and tugged, the doors swollen hinges shrieking in protest. Louder than you’d like. With the door open enough for you to slip through, you took in the sight of the new room. Floor to ceiling shelves lined the walls, full of various jars and vials of different coloured fluids. A couple of operating tables took up most of the space in the middle of the room, with a few filing cabinets placed in the gaps. Your attention was immediately pulled in the direction of the filing cabinets and you wrenched the top draw of the one closest to you open. Thumbing through the yellowing files, you began scanning through the names outloud as you went. Tugging out a more recent file, you flipped through until a page stuck out to you. Flashes of various sentences caught your eye as you skimmed the page.
All efforts are being focused on the development of……
……….it is a potentially advanced bio-weapon developed by……..
It combines genetic material……………………………….. giving it unique and unprecedented properties.
Preliminary testing conducted as early as 1958 yielded promising but limited data, with recent progress in trials determining the following results in a variety of patients:
The page continued into lines of inscrutable censored text,and you tucked the file away to bring back to your superiors. Let them decipher the rest.
A feeling of unease settled in the pit of your stomach. You’d been under the impression that this virus was relatively new, but here were documents spanning decades into the past. Just how deep did this thing go? Whatever sick experiments had been conducted within this facility had clearly been long since abandoned, the air thick with a staleness that can only come from years of disuse. Whatever had happened here had gotten out of control, if the human entrails splattered on the walls were anything to go by.
Shaking your head, you picked your way carefully over to the rows of shelves that stretched up to the ceiling. Examining the vials of various shapes and colours, you started to take mental notes of the contents and index them. You bounced your flashlight from bottle to bottle, casting blobs of colour that danced on the walls behind. Preoccupied with peering at the collection of wet specimens and organ samples, you failed to keep your actions quiet, letting bottles clink and papers shuffle against each other. The air grew heavy with an unnatural silence and the back of your scalp prickled with the feeling of being watched. You stiffened at the feeling and turned, slowly. A man towered in front of the door you’d used to enter the room, still and silent. It was too hard to make out any defining features, the shadows cast over his face seemed to hang off of him like a shroud. What parts of him weren’t marred in shadow were instead caked under layers of dirt and grime, a mixture of what looked like rust and red-tinged coffee grounds seemed to be blooming from the fabric of his clothes. Whatever hell you’d been through in navigating this place, this man had seen tenfold.
“Oh!” Your voice broke out weakly into the silence between you. “I-I’m sorry, I didn't realise anyone else would be here. Are you also researching…?” You trailed off, the likelihood that this stranger shared your mission was a beyond stupid assumption.
You took a step back, deeper into the room and he mimicked the movement with a step forward of his own, matching you pace for pace. He slowly stalked closer, footsteps fluid and lithe, unnaturally silent.
You glanced away, eyes seeking any potential exit routes and the moment you broke eye contact the wind rushed out of your lungs. Your flashlight fell to the ground and you felt something as rigid as iron slam into your body. Collecting your senses, you found yourself caged against the wall of the lab, the strange, broad man staring down at you intensely. Your breathing was fast and his even more so, at this proximity you were better able to make out his appearance. Dirty, stained blond hair hung down into his sharp eyes and stuck to his face, his nose and mouth echoing the hardness of his gaze. Time had made its mark on Leon, light wrinkles framing many of his prominent features and patches of grey spreading intermittently through his stubbled jaw. The man's broad shoulders eclipsed your view of the room around you, blocking out the light of your discarded flashlight. Your heart leapt into your throat as you felt him grab your chin and yank your head to the side, leaning in to take a deep, indulgent inhale against the skin of your neck. Acting on pure instinct, one hand went for the gun at your hip as the other shoved hard against the man's chest, adrenaline driving the force behind your movement. But he was faster, pinning your arms together in one hand, he snatched your gun from its holster and it released a horrible groan as Leon bent the metal of the barrel in on itself before dropping it to the floor. You were incredulous, shaking your head back and forth in disbelief. How could someone possess such strength? Why hadn’t you taken more precautions? Your team had warned you to stay on guard, that you didn’t know what you might discover down here. You hadn’t listened, skeptical and overly confident the mission would be a breeze.
The stranger had you pinned under his cold gaze, eyes fixated on the frantic pulsing of blood in your neck. He looked like a starved animal. Fear gnawed its way through you and your limbs trembled, you wanted to speak, to reason, to beg but your throat had seized up in panic. A cry escaped you as you felt a stinging sensation at the crook in your skin where your neck met your shoulder. He’d broken the skin there with a clawed nail, pulling his hand up to his face to lick the drops of blood off his finger. You were crying in earnest now, tears welling up and blurring your vision before spilling hotly over your cheeks. The cut on your neck stung like you'd been burned and you squirmed in his grip, writhing in pain and desperation.
The drop of blood the man had tasted seemed to change him, he became more focused and still, a low growl emanating from his chest.
His eyes burned with anguish and regret, warring between predatory starvation and razor sharp guilt. The growl he was letting out shaped itself into words. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long. I can’t- It’ll get better- be over quick-” Leon sobbed out desperately, voice guttural and raspy from disuse.
You tilted your head up at him, wide eyes seeking his face, fast enough to see a flash of brilliant white teeth, canines elongated into sharp points, before feeling them sink into the flesh of your throat. The scream that ripped out of you died down into a low gurgle as your ichor flowed into his waiting mouth. At first, the sensation was pure fire, a baptism of the worst fiery pain you’d ever experienced. As his lips latched around the leaking wound and he ran the flat of his tongue over the puncture holes; the pain shifted, dropping low in your stomach. The flames of agony that had been washing over you only moments before were slowly dampening down into soothing warm embers.
Your screams of protest got caught somewhere deep in your chest and bubbled out of you as pathetic whimpers. This man, your assailant, your attacker, drank deeply with one hand fisted firmly into your hair. Pulling gulp after gulp of fresh, warm vitality out of you and into his own pallid form. Each swallow against your throat caused the warmth in the base of your stomach to pulse, and your body began to slacken, no longer fighting against him. You felt a rumble of encouragement emit from the stranger above you and at the same time you felt him slot a firm thigh between your own legs. The contact sent a wave of euphoric pleasure through your whole body, seeming to linger especially at the bitemark he was continuing to assault. Your hips moved on their own, grinding down into his thigh in an attempt to wring out whatever friction you could. Each roll of your hips sent you further into a heady, thoughtless reverie and drove fear further and further out of your mind. What had you been so afraid of just moments ago? You’d never felt so good.
Leon released his iron grip on your wrists, satisfied you were no longer in a state of resisting. Your hands reached up to grip onto him instinctively, the tight fabric of his shirt wrinkling under your grasp. He slid one hand around your waist, pressing you flush against his own body. The curl of his tongue against your sensitive skin spurred your movements against him, each grind of your hips reaping hums of approval. Your core clenched. You were feverishly hot, in a state of euphoria you’d never experienced, and achingly unfulfilled. All your mind could focus on was how good the man at your neck felt, you wanted him to take everything, drain your body dry if only to make the pleasure last one second longer. It wasn’t enough. You needed him closer, every inch of him touching you. The friction against your core was barely scratching the surface, if you didn’t get more you genuinely feared you might die.
Resolutely determined, you tore at his shirt frantically, ripping the buttons open to reveal his chest. Your eyes met a defined wall of pure strength. Ropes of muscle corded around a steel frame, he was completely unaffected by your actions, an immovable force. Your hands trailed south, clawing at his belt. You were unable to ignore the way his pants had tightened, his shaft straining against the fabric. Despite how worked up you both were, how brazenly eager you were to have him, he had made no move to touch you himself, merely providing relief through the means of his thigh, as if he’d anticipated the response.
A wave of anguish rolled through you and you wailed.
“Please- it hurts… I need…….more.” The lack of gratification was going to drive you to insanity. You felt the stranger’s sharp fangs withdraw from your neck and you cried out at the loss. He pulled his head back enough to stare down at you, eyes bright and intense, skin flushed with a healthy, exuberant glow. You could’ve sworn his skin had been paler not moments ago, his eyes more sunken and black. His brow was creased with worry as he seemed to fight an internal dispute, only interrupted by another wail of pain that coursed through you.
“Shhh, shhh.” He murmured, voice marred with desire. “I… I can make it go away, I can make it all better. Would you like that?” His voice splintered on the last word, guilt cracking through the wanton haze. You nodded immediately, arching your back and exposing your throat to him encouragingly. His tongue found your neck again, licking a path down the blood that had flowed over your body. Again, as soon as his mouth made contact with the open wound you were struck with a wave of pleasure so strong it was almost painful to contain. You moaned openly this time, tangling your hands into his tousled blond hair as he dropped slowly to his knees in front of you. Leon tugged your trousers down and you helped to kick them off, leaving your aching core exposed to the air.
Immediately, his mouth found contact with the soft of your inner thigh, kissing and licking at the delicate skin there hungrily. He gripped his hands around you and lifted you, spreading your legs and guiding them over his shoulders so that he was supporting your weight entirely. A firm, curious tongue nudged itself against your folds and licked a stripe up the centre of your core, sending volts of electricity spasming up your spine. The stranger settled into a rhythmic pattern, ardently changing between pushing into your entrance and circling your sensitive clit. Each roll and flick of his tongue tightened the ball of tension growing in your abdomen and pulled more and more desperate sounds from your panting mouth. As you began to feel the waves of pleasure start to peak, the man glanced up at you through his eyelashes and plunged two deft fingers into your entrance. Captivated by your lust-filled expression, pupils blown out with desire, he curled his fingers into you right as the wave crested and you felt yourself spill over the edge. A sharp sting alerted you to the fact he’d bitten you again, this time on your inner thigh. Every nerve in your body felt like it was glowing, a fresh dose of ecstasy bathing your veins.
Riding each pulse of pleasure as it was wrung from your body, you began to return to your senses. To your dismay, the orgasm had done nothing to treat the uncontrollable desire that raged within you, if anything it had left you feeling worse. More wanting, more desperate. You needed more.
“Who…are you?” You choked out weakly. Maybe that wasn’t the right question. “Or, w-what are you…” You trailed off. You’d seen enough to piece out that this man, this intruder was something more than human. A creature? A sick experiment? The subject of the trials you’d been researching? Regardless, he’d played many roles in the short time you’d been in his company. Your aggressor and your attacker, yes. Even now, he was ignoring you, mindlessly and indulgently draining blood from your thigh. But it felt so good. So right. Perhaps this was meant to happen, perhaps he was your salvation. Providing you absolution and purging you of all wrong.
Slowly, your grasp on his hair started to loosen as you felt the room start to spin. Your eyes blinked weakly, vision unfocusing as the energy was sapped out of you.
“Please…” You tried to slur. You’d lost a lot of blood. Still, all you could think of was him taking more, filling you. You slumped forward and he stood, catching you in a blur of motion.
“Shit, I’m. I’m so sorry. I tried to stop- it’s been so long since someone was here…” A flurry of words rushed out of him, weighted down with remorse and loathing. “It’ll be over soon, like I said before…” You
could barely hear him, your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Your blood had drenched his chin, dripping down onto his shirt, mixing with what you’d assumed had been dirt and mud before.
“No!” You cried, scared he was going to abandon you here, leave you with this agonising, insatiable need.
“Shhh.” He comforted, brow creasing with concern. A feral, primal look tinged his features. He laid you gently on one of the cold metal operating tables. The ice of the metal bit into your skin through your thin clothes, a welcome balm to the heat searing through you. While it seemed his animalistic desire for blood had been presently sated, the fervid look of wanton starvation betrayed a deeper need still to be met. It seemed he’d been affected the same as you. Your legs locked instinctively around his hips, seeking any points of contact you could reach.
“You’re alright honey, I’ve got you.” He murmured, hands sliding down your legs to further spread them. He slotted himself between your thighs, breath shaking with the effort to slow his actions. Tremors rolled through his body at the effort of fighting his nature, trying to pace it out, to not hurt you. He was losing a battle you didn't want him to win.
Another whine of agony and frustration broke out from your lips, spurring the stranger on to unsheath himself. A nudge of his head against your slick folds sent another jolt of electricity through you and you arched your back into it, the dizziness from the blood loss only heightening the sensation. Your whole body tingled, each nerve ending alive and humming as he slowly, achingly slowly, pushed entirely into you. The drag of his shaft against your walls was a salve to the all-consuming fire ripping through you and you cried out in relief.
A similar sound escaped the man's throat, mirroring the bliss that had washed over your own body. He tightened his grip on your thighs, using the leverage to pull your body towards him to meet each thrust as he increased his pace. You felt full, complete, whole. This was all you’d ever needed. You reached up to grip onto his shoulders, raking your nails down his back as his hips angled to hit the spot that made you cry out loudest. Coaxing out every ounce of pleasure you could give him, he bent over you to start licking up the column of your neck again. His tongue danced over the blood smeared on your skin, delicately tracing the patterns of your veins. His hair fell messily in front of his face and tickled your neck, and you gasped as the familiar wave of pleasure began to crest again.
“That's it, one more for me.” You could hear the grin in his voice as he guided you over the edge once more. Your legs shook as your orgasm crashed through your body, leaving you slackjawed and panting. The fire that had begun at your throat and coursed through your whole body was slowly starting to cool, the waves of pleasure had purged the insatiable lust inside you. He wasn't far behind, thrusts erratically breaking in rhythm as he chased his own end. With a low growl, he wrapped his arms possessively around your waist, caging you against him as he coated your inner walls with his own spend.
Still breathing hard, he slowly eased out of you, standing back up and fixing his clothes. You hadn’t even thought to move, splayed out on the table, smeared in your own blood with your hole leaking a mix of both of your fluids. His eyes traced over you and as the haze of lust left his eyes his face splintered in pain. Leon turned away from you, taking a step into the oppressive shadows that surrounded the table you were on.
“You need to get out of here.” He rasped, all traces of desire superseded by a rising sadness. “Get out, don’t come back. Please, I don’t want to…” He trailed off, searching. “If I can save just one person…” In a blink he was back at your side, muscles coiled with tension as if he were holding his breath. Leon carefully looped his arms underneath you and guided you up on your feet. You staggered, the floor lurching beneath you. You felt so weak. So dizzy and confused. Your inner thigh stung as you took a wobbly step forward. Dazed, you looked to him for help.
“There's an exit just east of this hallway. You have to go now, please. Before I get too-” He was interrupted by an involuntary shudder and when his eyes reconnected with yours they looked distinctly less human. Hastily, he firmly grabbed your elbow and half guided, half dragged you to the door you'd first come through. Shoving you through, he lingered in the dark doorway as you clung to the wall for support.
"I’m sorry. Warn others. Go now.” It was all he could do to muster those last words, each one becoming more garbled and unintelligible than the last. With the last word croaked out, he slammed the door shut, the rusted hinges shrieking once again, sealing himself away behind the thick wall of wrought iron. Now that you were freed from the man's gaze, the familiar, rational sense of human fear came trickling back down your spine. Looking around wildly, you were suddenly far more aware of your own senses, and entirely eager to heed his warning. Slowly, you started to limp in the direction he’d pointed you, adrenaline warring against the fatigue and blood loss weighing down your limbs like lead.
A muffled growl of guttural anguish sounded deep in the dark rooms behind you, growing more and more faint as you stumbled blindly towards the exit.
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