Pairing: Submissive! Leon Kennedy x Dominant! Fem! Reader
Summary: You and Leon have settled into an alternative relationship with its own set of expectations and boundaries. But what happens when things change and certain feelings come to light? / A sorta sequel to Exhumed.
Content & Warnings: 18+ Pre/Post-Resident Evil 9, character study, angst, some fluff, hurt/comfort, psychological trauma, alcohol, feelings realization, romance, consensual kink, D/s, pet play, muzzles, boot worship, foot fetish, humiliation, choking, smut, masturbation, foot jobs, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving).
Author's Note: After completing Exhumed, I wanted to write more about these two, but still keep the mystery of the original story. So, I created this as one of the potential paths it could diverge into. Like a “what if?” What if the house and Reader were real?
Title from The Liminal by Chelsea Wolfe.
AO3 Link
Chapter 1: House
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
His ears pricked up as he heard your demand, sharp and urgent, gutting him like a knife. He couldn’t lay his eyes or a finger on you as instructed. He was not allowed to speak unless spoken to. You were there as his Charon, his guide, and he had to trust in that somehow, this not-quite stranger, not-quite friend.
Yet relief flooded him. How long had it been since he didn’t have to think for himself, for others, or for the whole goddamn world around him? How long would these precious minutes last until he would have to face them all again? A pocket of time severed from reality that you had created together, like make-believe. Such nights with you couldn’t come soon enough.
Groveling on his hands and knees, he made his way towards you as you tapped the sole of your stiletto heeled boot on the floor impatiently. Coming to rest inches away from the ornate armchair you lounged upon, he sat on his haunches, head bent to the ground in deference.
Even then, you gave it a good few minutes before addressing him. The sensation of pins and needles crept up through his feet into the backs of his calves. His wrists ached. You paid no mind as he heard you sipping on your drink. Bubbles fizzing like little firecrackers accompanied by the liquid sloshing against your teeth as it slid past your throat. The shrill clink of a glass upon marble. He imagined the nape of your neck, delicate as a swan, and wondered why each time it inspired a voracious appetite within him for violence.
Just as he was about to break, you threw him a bone. “Good boy.”
Finally.
You yanked the ring of his dog collar to your face, making sure that his eyes were lowered all the while. The buckle jingled as you undid the strap of his leather muzzle, stiff to the point that it had dug into his skin. Removing it let in a dizzying gush of fresh air that almost knocked him sideways. He gulped it down greedily, cheeks flushed and sweaty as you pushed him to the ground again, using him as a footstool. After he had recovered, you stuck the tip of your boot in front of him. But his hesitance made you frown.
“Do I really have to ask twice?” you admonished, smacking his jaw with the vamp, burrowing your heel into the dip of his shoulder—the one with a peculiar star-shaped scar.
He flinched, more so from the memory of it rather than the physical pain, reminding him of the part of him that had not died with the city where it all began. That time and time again, his claims that he was no longer the same person as before were bullshit. A fresh-faced rookie. The boy who wore his heart on his sleeve. Still picking up and mending the pieces almost 28 years later.
Gingerly, he took your boots in his hands, untying the laces that crisscrossed all the way over your knees one after the other. He kissed every eyelet as the joints in his fingers creaked. It took forever until your legs were stripped and exposed like an unwrapped gift. Immediately, he worked his tongue from the base of your feet, saliva coating the toes that he suckled on like a babe. Licking broad wet strokes to your ankles, he could make out the mild, crisp taste of lilies on his palate.
“Stop. Touch yourself for me.”
As if on autopilot, he reacted unwittingly, his limbs moving faster than his mind could think, that it was constantly playing second fiddle, scrambling to catch up. A soldier trained to obey, to follow whatever ludicrous orders that came from above. He was so good at it, so good at putting himself through the grinder, convincing himself it was for the greater good, even though he didn’t believe a word they were saying. He had done things he wasn’t proud of, but despite that, if he had to choose between opening fire on civilians and those who gave that command, he knew which he would pick.
“Look at me while you do it.”
He was surprised to find his hand pumping his shaft, already erect, as though a period of time had lapsed between now and then that he couldn’t account for. Sometimes, he felt like the moments he had spent with you in that house were a fever dream, dilapidated and crumbling, like the walls around him. But every time he touched you, you were real.
“Look at me, Leon.” Your voice resounded through the room, firm and unwavering, but in this instance, there was a subtle softness to the edge.
At last, he cast his gaze up, meeting yours directly. Both pairs of orbs searching, finding, feeling each other out on where they stood, like a dance. “Tell me,” you insisted.
“Green,” he rasped, his eyes doleful and pleading. The thought of it potentially being over so soon killed him. “It’s green, I swear.”
He saw you press your lips together into a tight smirk. You were entirely clothed, your nipples peeking through the fabric while he lay stark naked before you. What he would give to undress you, to catch a glimpse of what was underneath. It was reserved for rare occasions where you granted him access to enjoy you, to savor the fullness of your body, like a ripened flesh of fruit he could bite into. It was only recently, too, that he could discover these hidden parts of you like a new lover, piecing together the puzzle that he never tired of.
A memory of your heated coupling resurfaced. Where the red light had filtered in from the sky. Where he had sucked and groped your breasts as you rocked back and forth against his hips, deliriously grinding your pussy down on his cock. All sighs and sweat and cum. A loud moan erupted from his chest as he recalled this, his breathing erratic while he rutted his cock into his clenched fist, chasing his own high.
“Don’t you dare.”
Your snarl snapped him out of it and he slowed his movements, watery blue eyes boring into yours like a stand-off. He blushed in embarrassment at the involuntary whimper that reeked of desperation, betraying his need for release. Tutting, you extended your legs languidly, cupping his cock between your feet as you toyed with it. The pressure you applied was discomforting and satisfying at the same time. It was hard to separate the two, and once again, his body had a mind of its own, thrusting upwards to intensify the friction against your skin.
He yelped as a foot clamped over his balls. “Did I say you could do that?”
“Fuck!” Shaking his head, he faltered, “N-no, no. I mean, I’m sorry.”
He choked out the breath he had been holding as you released your grip testily. “I want you to beg for it, you understand?”
“Yes. Anything you ask.”
In the silence, you sized him up as he bit the inside of his cheek and swallowed thickly. “Please.” It started as just a single word. “Please.”
I want you. I need you. I’ll do anything. I’m nothing. I’m just a worthless piece of shit meant to be used by you. You’re everything to me. Use me. Please fuck me. Fuck my cock. Yeah, just like that. Oh god, fuck me. It feels so good. I can’t— Fuck, don’t stop. I wanna cum. Please let me cum. Please, please, please!
He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. His speech was an incoherent mess of words that he’d never in a million years utter until he had met you. Was it as degrading as it sounded?
It didn’t take long for him to find his release as you rubbed him raw with the soles of your feet. He cried out as hot flashes of cum spurted across his stomach and you descended upon his mouth, filling it with the drink you had imbibed just before his climax. The alcohol burned the back of his throat as he coughed and sputtered. Yet he grasped your body to his, devouring you whole, sucking on the muscle of your tongue as you writhed around the floor, the spit you exchanged dribbling down your chins like rivulets of blood.
Author's Note: June 7 @unwholesomeocweek - Cannibalism. AO3 Link
Featuring a cameo by @rattenprince’s Sasha ;) Divider credit goes to him too!
After pursuing a Puttanesca top dog, Wynter and Lucien finally break down the barriers between them.
Content Warnings: Cannibalism, violence, gore, murder, homophobic language, uncle/niece incest, implied sexual content, references to Night Road, Aila mention, Chiara mention.
“Carlo Puttanesca…” It was measured and deliberate, like a beast of prey toying with its food.
He blinked open his eyes, frowning at the dim overhead lamp, his vision blurring in and out. The sound of his name was ringing in his ears. It smelled clinical and sterile in here, like the surfaces had been vigorously scrubbed with chlorine and acid. How long had he been out? What the fuck is this place? Why was it— Shit, was he upside down?
It was impossible to move, everything hurt, and his face felt bloated and numb. A shooting pain ran up his legs as he tried to wriggle free and all that slipped out of his mouth was a heavy, injured moan. He craned his neck upward and saw the silver gleam of metal hooks protruding out of his Achilles tendons, attached to the rails above.
Fuck!
It was as if a sharp spike of adrenaline had cut through the brain fog and he was wide awake and alert now.
“I’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time.”
A myriad of profiles raced through Carlo’s mind as he tried to place the accent—Southern, with a subtle yet distinct drawl, like a blend of cultural influences—and narrow down its identity. Louisianan?
Then, he saw the lone figure of a man approach him purposefully, his gaze like a cold fire, calculating and measuring his worth.
“You had it coming, but you knew that already, didn’t you?” the man taunted, his lips twisting into a nasty sneer.
Carlo squinted, trying to make out his features from the angle he was hanging at. Something about him was so familiar, but it wasn’t until his eyes swept over the rest of his body, coming upon the stump of what used to be his right arm, that he remembered.
“No, no, it can’t be!” he croaked. “We burned you to the fucking ground!”
“Naw, your men did, while you stood by and watched,” the figure hissed.
“You weren’t supposed to return, Lucey boy! You were nothing! We couldn’t find nothing!” Carlo blabbered on frantically.
“Well, Merry fuckin’ Christmas. Guess it’s your lucky night, huh?” A hideous laugh echoed across the four walls of the empty space as Lucien closed the distance, tapping Carlo’s cheek with the palm of his hand condescendingly.
At this, Carlo hurled a wad of red-coated spittle at him, jeering, “Oh, you gotta lotta learn, kiddo. The Family has a hand in everything. If you believe there ain’t some bigger fish up there involved in this, you must be kiddin’ yourself. And what makes you so sure they won’t come looking for you after you’re done with me? You think they’ll let this slide?”
Lucien eyed him dispassionately, biding his time as he circled the dangling Kindred like a shark. “’Course they will.” He smirked. “’Cause you’re just low-life scum. A fuckin’ Puttanesca.”
A frenzied rage boiled within Carlo as he seethed in fury. Before he could lash out, a woman emerged from the elongated shadows, their tendrils swirling like smoke in the air. Like greased lightning, she was over by him, driving a machete into his shoulder, the muzzle of her Nighthawk Custom cocked against the base of his skull. She carried herself with a feline grace, her expression hard as steel.
A ghastly howl pealed into the room. No matter how many times he had been stabbed in more places than he could count in the past, no matter how tough he had made his body to be with the power of the Blood, that shit always hurt like a bitch.
It was enough to stun him briefly as Lucien continued without missing a beat, “My niece is a little shy, but try her patience and you might just get the show you were looking for.”
Niece? What the fuck was this, a family reunion? How had he not noticed her in the first place, hiding within the darkness? It was a mistake to assume that Lucien had been alone. And now, he would pay its price.
As if Lucien had read his mind, he nodded. “You see, my lovely Wynter here managed to dig up quite the dirt on you, Carlo, with a favor from a Cousin, ’course.” The edges of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Sasha Giovanni. Name ring a bell? Oh, and don’t you worry, he wanted to send his greetings.”
“Sasha? Why, that little brat! I swear—” He was interrupted by another scream that tore from his chest as Wynter swiveled the blade in deeper.
The crimson bloom on his shirt thickened as more blood seeped through. Sweet Jesus! What a fucking waste of Blush, Carlo cursed internally. Then again, he had no idea that the night would have resulted in such a turn of events.
Satisfied, Lucien fished out a file of what appeared to be incriminating documents from the interior of a briefcase by his side. He flipped through the pages with mock interest. “There’s more of these, but I saved the best for the occasion. Hmm, so it turns out you’ve been selling off our secrets to outsiders,” he tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly. “But what makes it a real newsworthy piece is that you’re not even one of us…”
For the first time, Carlo’s eyes darted toward Lucien’s in complete and utter fear. If he could piss in his pants right now, he would.
“Thought so, Caitiff,” Lucien spat, his gaze consumed with a fiery hatred.
With a sinking realization, Carlo had to admit that he underestimated Sasha, that cunt, writing him off as yet another Giovanni failure who wasn’t man enough to take over his father’s business. I mean, what with their Valentino—another Puttanesca, sure, but a homo at that—siring him? It was just a pity Embrace, for Christ’s sake!
Dropping the file back into the bag, Lucien undid the top buttons of his shirt as he gestured toward Wynter, “Bring him down. Let’s bleed this pig dry.”
She smirked, a hint of wistfulness laced her voice. “Just like old times.”
“Just like old times,” he repeated the words back to her and matched her smile, as though sharing in a fond memory.
Then, the hooks were released and Carlo came tumbling down, landing on the floor of what he now identified as an abattoir with a loud thud. At warp speed, Wynter bound his arms and legs together in chains, preventing his escape. The flash of her fangs peeked out as she licked her lips, leering at him with a plain hunger that was yet unsated.
With the idea of Final Death beginning to turn into reality, Carlo resorted to a mixture of bargains and threats. “Hey, hey, look! This is all just a big misunderstanding. You want your arm back, I’ll give it to ya, easy peasy! And everything I have. Money, intel, whatever’s your poison, eh?”
In desperation, he continued shouting, “You don’t know who you’re messin’ with Lucey boy! I’m gonna hurt you so bad you’ll wish you never existed!”
But it fell on deaf ears as Lucien unsheathed his trusty Morakniv from a utility pouch along his belt and squatted down beside the Kindred. One glance at its razor sharpness was enough to silence his ramblings as they puttered to a stop.
Carlo trembled as the knife drew closer to his face. There was a shift in Lucien’s mood. It was pensive, introspective, almost as if he were in the eye of the storm. He spoke coolly, peering at his reflection in the mirror of the blade.
“You think you know death? You think you know pain? I’ve walked for acres across the bodies of foul corpses. Felt their bones crush under my feet. I was lacerated and flayed, then stitched back together like a ragdoll only for it to repeat over and over again. My ribs pulled back and exposed, like an inverted cage to house the vultures that pecked at my chest. A fistful of razor blades I was forced to swallow sliced through my gut. All for an eternal cycle, while the burning flames of hell singed my skin and flesh. So, don’t talk to me about pain as if you have lived it, you pathetic excuse of an unlife.”
As he went on, he felt an unearthly energy flow through his veins and the searing sting that accompanied it as his eyes and mouth were set ablaze in a shade of livid blue. The fire that leaped from Lucien’s orifices made Carlo’s skin crawl, having never witnessed anything like it before. Even Wynter took a step back, tightening her fingers around the grip of her handgun, swallowing the lump in her throat out of habit.
Cowering in front of Lucien, Carlo stuttered uncontrollably, “W-what the hell are you?”
A wolfish, maniacal grin crept along Lucien’s face. His immaculate set of teeth, unnaturally phosphorescent and glowing, whetted itself into fangs.
“After this, you’ll understand the true meaning of pain.”
Without further ado, Wynter shoved Carlo’s body roughly to lay flat on his back, pressing the sole of her boot against his neck. Wielding his knife, Lucien made a neat incision from the base of Carlo’s sternum to his pelvis in one stroke, carefully avoiding puncturing his innards. It was done so swiftly that Carlo didn’t feel a thing until a couple of seconds later where he let out an ear-splitting shriek.
Despite having only a single arm, Lucien worked fast, cutting deeply around the rectum before separating the rest of his skin away from wet tissue and flesh. Sprays of warm, virile blood splattered across his face and clothes, but he made no effort to wipe it off. The handle of his knife became slippery like fish.
For the entire duration, Carlo’s shrill cries and wails filled the air as he pleaded for them to “Stop! Please, please! I beg of you! Oh god, no! Please, no!”
Yet there wasn’t a flicker of mercy in either perpetrator’s glare. Instead, Wynter stamped down on his neck with even more pressure, causing him to gurgle in return. Bending over, she dipped two fingers into the open slit near his breastbone, coating them with his sanguine fluids before licking it up with her tongue.
It was only then that Lucien paused, pointing the knife in her direction as he admonished, “Uh-uh, what did I tell you about playing with your food?”
Feigning annoyance, she huffed and rolled her eyes in response. But still, she obeyed him, straightening herself up as she watched him carry on.
“Gotta keep the organs intact is all,” Lucien muttered. “I’ll finish this up soon and let you drink every last drop, babydoll, you know I would.”
The flaps of Carlo’s skin shedded off like a jacket. His voice had grown hoarse and there was no will left in him to fight. From his pouch, Lucien alternated between his knife and saw, cutting open the bone of the Kindred’s chest cavity before slicing away his diaphragm from the ribs.
Carlo was entering into torpor, evident from the fact that his corpse was withering, and the once fresh blood had started to darken and coagulate. Wynter released her hold on the man as Lucien reached into his chest, feeling around for the esophagus and windpipe. There, he severed them and nodded to Wynter. In perfect sync, they turned Carlo onto his side and pulled the entirety of his insides out. Like blackened, toxic sludge, it spilled across the floor.
Unable to resist any longer, Wynter descended upon what remained of the carcass and lapped at the curdled vitae oozing from its ravaged vessels. Lucien rummaged through the mushy pile, picking out each shriveled part as he scarfed them down whole. His jagged teeth ferociously tearing through sinewy tissues and muscles that had hardened in the process, the taste of it defiled and rancid.
He was debasing himself, feasting off the life force of Carlo through his vitae-rich flesh, like a monstrosity he should have surpassed at his level. What would his kind think of him if they witnessed him in such a state? A mindless zombie. A good-for-nothing dog. A chih-mei. And perhaps worse, a cannibal who ate shen akin to their own. Even so, he persisted, stuffing the organs into his mouth, forcing himself to chew and swallow them like a bitter pill, to remind himself of all the suffering it took to get him here.
Viscous juices drizzled from his chin, staining his shirt in the color of bile. The stomach, the liver, the kidney, the lungs—he had consumed them all, and in turn, the very essence that formed Carlo. At the end of it, he would scalp the bastard, collecting his head like a trophy hunter to mount in a room he kept for such curiosities. In the meantime, he just had the heart left. That rotten, throbbing thing. Lucien scrambled toward it on his good hand and knees like a rabid animal, but stopped short when he saw Wynter, having had her fill, standing before him.
By now, Carlo was no more than a lump of desiccated meat. First, field dressed like a deer, then mutilated beyond recognition. The flames that burned wildly in Lucien’s visage had dissipated, as if the brutality and savagery that ensued had worn him out, and all that lingered was the tender presence of his niece. It calmed him.
Gathering the heart in her hands, Wynter sank down to the ground and offered it to him. Hesitantly, he leaned forward, allowing her to feed him as he soaked his face in the tainted blood of the man responsible for his fate. She scooped up the pieces when they fell, gently pushing them past his lips, letting him nip and suck the flesh off her delicate fingers. The slick muscle of his tongue darted between them, swirling around the grooves of her skin. His head bobbed up and down, greedily taking in more and more, wanting to polish her hand clean. He felt so flushed and alive, if she’d been none the wiser, she might have mistaken him as human.
Wynter observed as her uncle lost control. The walls that he had put up, broken down, only to replace again, were finally crumbling. Ever since they were reunited in their second life, as he had so promised, they had been uncertain where they stood with each other. Reluctant as she was to admit, it secretly delighted her to see him like this—groveling and eating out of her hand, quite literally, and deep down, she knew she wanted more than she could have. She wanted the walls to collapse further until they were nothing but ruins in a wasteland.
Curiously, she tilted her head, probing him, “It isn’t enough, is it?”
Lucien paused, unlatching his mouth from her, leaving a pearly string of saliva in its wake. He adjusted himself rigidly, drawing back onto his haunches. She didn’t blame him for his discomfort, even though she could smell his fecund want, his need from a mile away.
Throughout their lives, their desire had been sullied with shame. Something that should be hidden away, buried into the dirt, and never spoken of again. But they had never been natural to begin with. This body she possessed, this skin bag that was hers and yet not. The mask he wore, the layers upon layers that covered him until it was difficult to find the man he had been underneath. She, Embraced into The Family. He, a cursed outcast returning from the dead. Two sides of the same coin, and still so far apart.
“I can give you more,” she reiterated.
The whole time, his eyes never left hers as he held her long gaze. At a languid pace, Wynter’s fingers trailed from button to button of her blouse, letting it fall past her shoulders before shrugging the rest of it off. With nothing else to hide, she kneeled half naked before him, her deathly pallor striking under the light.
Lucien inhaled sharply, his breath catching at his throat, yet he made no move to retreat or look away. She brought herself closer, until her upper body was a hair’s breadth away from his face, and he could only drink in the sight of her, mesmerized by her devotion.
“Baby—” His voice cracked beneath the strain, as a sea of conflicting emotions pooled in his stone blue eyes.
“Shh… eat,” she coaxed, cupping his head toward her chest. “Devour me.”
The last frays of his restraint snapped and he clamped his jaw around the soft mound of her breast, gorging on a chunk of it voraciously. Wynter’s fangs pierced her lip as she attempted to suppress a strangled cry. Hot, fat tears welled up, blurring her vision as a steady stream of blood trickled onto her uncle’s cheek.
He lapped at it before tonguing the gaping pockets of her flesh, nibbling around for scraps. Her squeals only served to arouse him as his eyes grew bloodshot and feral. In an effort to prevent her from thrashing about, he grabbed her wrists in his hand and held them down behind her back. Then, he perforated her with more bites, the marks angry and swollen.
“Tell me—” she gasped, quivering violently. “Tell me how I taste.”
“Like the fruit of Eden,” he growled.
His canines raked the side of her belly, earning him another whimper as he dug up flakes of plump tissue and skin. He savored her fullness and the spurts of sweet blood that soothed the ache in his core. “Like the heart of a rabbit trapped in a cage.”
“My lil’ rabbit,” he murmured, as his stump traced the outline of her tattoo on her ribs. He lifted his gaze, smearing rust-stained kisses all along her clavicle.
Eventually, he released his grip on her. Licking the shell of her ear, he grazed it with his teeth and whispered, “Like everything I could ever want, but not have.”
Wynter let out a breathy moan, contemplating the difference between his maiming and that of her sire’s. Where Chiara brought her a blunt, sadistic pain, Lucien delivered something more intricate, like a teacher inducting her into its many facets. It was unbearable, maybe even worse than Chiara’s Kiss, yet at the same time the most exquisite. Intimate to the point of being invasive, in the way he truly knew her. He had crawled under her skin, nesting within her flesh and bones, and deeper still. By devouring her, he had reminded them how much she was a part of him as he was of her.
She felt his caresses against her cheek, heard his troubled speech as he came to his senses. “Did I go too far, doll?” His sentiment would get the better of him, he thought, calling to mind the disapproval in his mentor’s expression.
In her weakened state, she shook her head, barely able to speak, her lips twitching into a haunting smile. In exhaustion, her eyelids drooped and she slumped onto his shoulder in a half embrace. Stroking her back, he cooed gentle praises as though he were lulling her to sleep, just like he had done so many years ago.
For a while, they sat like this in a cradle, until he uttered those two simple words, “Take me.”
Take all of me.
The hazel of her irises glimmered and she wondered for a fleeting moment if his kind could lose their soul, if they even practiced what the Kindred reviled as diablerie. Aila, the elder she had consumed, remained quiet and unmoved within her. She was on her own now.
Wynter weighed her heart out on a set of scales and knew that there was only one answer. Plunging her fangs into the meat of Lucien’s neck, she granted him the agony and torment of the Hecata Kiss in equal measure. He groaned and snarled as she drank from his pulsating wound, the blinding white pain so pure in its form he could finally see with staggering clarity.
Pairing: Submissive! Leon Kennedy x Dominant! Fem! Reader
Summary: You and Leon have settled into an alternative relationship with its own set of expectations and boundaries. But what happens when things change and certain feelings come to light? / A sorta sequel to Exhumed.
Content & Warnings: 18+ Pre/Post-Resident Evil 9, character study, angst, some fluff, hurt/comfort, psychological trauma, alcohol, feelings realization, romance, consensual kink, D/s, pet play, muzzles, boot worship, foot fetish, humiliation, choking, smut, masturbation, foot jobs, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving).
Author's Note: Somehow the final chapter turned out more romantic than I intended. Guess old habits die hard! Thank you's are at the end.
AO3 Link
Chapter 3: Human
There was nothing left to do but wait. Waiting the hours, days, and weeks for his call. If he would ever call at all. Maybe this was the end. You didn’t owe anything to each other, no promises, not even an explanation. The arrangement had been set up in such a way to make for an easy and clean break.
Waiting patiently by the window, watching the light fade from the sky. Waiting as you leaned against the counter, exhausted from the day. Waiting while the seasons changed, where the late summer heat which made the air unbearably oppressive like in a greenhouse dissipated, giving way to rain and wet earth, mist evaporating from the corpses of leaves at dawn. Maybe you would really die in this house.
You nearly dropped your phone when the text came one early morning, as if nothing had changed and the scene where he had left you had not occurred at all.
‘Same time, same place?’
Your thumb hovered over the touchpad, leaving him on read. After all this time of waiting and dreaming of what could be, when the moment finally came, for some reason you couldn’t take the plunge.
A few minutes later, your phone rang.
“Hey, it’s me.”
He heard your quiet breathing on the other end of the line, pondered your silence, and checked the time on his watch.
“Shit, sorry, did I wake you?”
There was still no response, just a faint rustling in the background and what he perceived as the whistling of the wind. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as a growing sense of panic stirred within his gut.
“Where are you? Talk to me, please,” he begged.
“I’m at the house.” Interspersed with static, your voice sounded small and frail.
He jammed his boot on the brakes, causing the car’s tires to screech to a halt. “I’m coming over right now. I’ll be there at half past.”
Making a three-point turn, he hit the accelerator, taking off in the direction routed on his map.
When he got there, he found you sitting by the front door, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes. You winced, shielding them from the sun’s rays with the back of your hand. A lopsided grin spread across his face.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
You shook your head, smiling weakly in return. “Then, don’t.”
“I’m tired of waiting,” you clarified.
He cocked his head, wondering if you were trying to tell him something more. Yet all he wanted to do was to pleasure you, to make you forget that this ever happened, to bury himself in you and never let go.
“I’m tired of waiting too,” he murmured as he knelt before you, cradling your cheek as he pressed his lips onto yours, gently pushing you to the floor.
Sprawling out on its surface, you let him shed your clothes off one by one as he sought your approval every step of the way.
Please. As he traced the outline of your ribs, thumbing the stiff peaks of your breasts. Squeezing their supple flesh, the imprint of his hands marked your skin.
Please. As his warm mouth enveloped your cunt, twirling his tongue around your swollen bud, the coarseness of his stubble rubbing your skin red. Your fingers tangled in his hair, cursing his name as he brought you over the edge.
Please. As his fingers interlocked with yours above your head and you felt the familiar sting of his manhood between your folds, moving sensuously slow and deep. You arched your spine and moaned.
Eventually, you flipped him onto his back, riding him just as lasciviously, muffling his groans with your palm over his mouth. The other hand caressed his neck, still troubled by flashbacks of the putrid blotches you saw along it that night. It invaded your mind’s eye, even though the gangrene that had been eating away at him was long gone. He held your hands in his, kissing them tenderly, mouthing to trust him as he placed them around his neck.
“I want it to be yours.” I want it to go back to something we enjoyed. I want the horror to be replaced with something else. I want us to reclaim it.
The weight of your palms were on his clavicles, fingers fanning out across the length of his neck as you mimicked a chokehold. A low growl reverberated from his chest as he mumbled for more under his breath, quickening the pace as he thrust his cock up harder into you. At this, you applied pressure to the sides of his neck and his head tilted back, jaw dropping into an open mouthed groan. He came in you then, and when you let go, it was your name that fell over and over from his lips.
For the rest of the day, he took you repeatedly in varying positions, as if his body housed a kind of unbridled energy that he couldn’t restrain, as if he were putting it into words. When you lay beside each other, naked, panting, and spent, he cuddled you in his arms like he always did on the nights he stayed with you. You stroked his back affectionately, watching as sleep clouded his vision and his breathing relaxed and shallowed.
He had so much to tell you, but he felt himself slipping into a boundless dream—one of those he feared he would never wake up from. One where words were just gibberish. He couldn’t make them out, nor the commotion in the background. It was as if his head was submerged underwater, trapped under its immense pressure, his ribs crushed and lungs squeezed. Every ragged breath felt like clawing his way out of sinking mud. Seconds away from asphyxiation while his crimson-stained lips emitted a foul odor that only the dead would recognize.
The barrel of a gun pointed between his eyes. This was it. This was the end. He couldn’t even find the urge to scream in protest. Of how his whole life with all its turmoil and suffering had been propelling him towards this precise moment. Of how whatever he had attempted to build outside of that was for nothing.
Now, he would be put down like a dog without ceremony. His body desecrated beyond belief. Would it still be him after all of this? Would his soul be able to find it within the ruins? Right in the center of Raccoon City, no less. Oh, the irony. Was this the closure he needed?
He had walked through the ravaged depths of hell, where dying in the glory of battle was an honor. Yet why did this feel so underwhelming, so… inadequate? He had dreamed a million versions of his death, each more horrid than the last. And as he stared down the sleek, cool metal cylinder before the shot fired, he knew this was the worst.
Did it matter that he had saved her? Grace—the one caught in the middle of a crossfire, trying to survive? Did every act of his have to be heroic? Knowing what he knew now, it would have all been for naught. All because he, like everyone else, had assumed and been mistaken. If hindsight is 20/20, then what about intention? What about motivation? Would he be redeemed, simply because he had hoped to make a difference, even if he hadn’t? And in this version of events, his death would be on her. Along with the resulting guilt, regret, and shame. These feelings which he kept close to his puttering heart. Close as an old friend.
Welcome in.
Take a seat.
I’ve been wait—
The deafening crack of the bullet resounded in his ears as he jolted upright. For a brief moment, like a soul shocked out of its corporeal state, he saw himself from above, resting his back against the headboard, trembling with uneven breaths.
His cry had woken you and you gently called out his name a couple of times to channel his attention. Leon… Leon… Leon, as you had taught yourself to, instead of what might have been considered intuitive to instantly comfort with touch. When he finally turned towards you, the dim light from the moon illuminated the pale sheen of his eyes, which looked more obscure gray now than blue, and the cold sweat drenching his skin.
Only then did you reach out and his hands took yours, placing your palm against his chest. His heart was pounding to the point where you thought it might burst. Usually, this would be when he’d defuse the situation with a quip, but he came back with nothing. He felt your lips brush against the creases of his forehead and clung to you rigidly.
“Don’t go.”
“I won’t,” you promised. Shifting yourself within his grip, you grabbed one of the twisted sheets, using it as a substitute cloth to wipe the sweat off his skin. “I’m not going to leave your side.”
That struck a chord with him as his face scrunched up into an unrecognizable expression. For a split second, you caught sight of the tremor in his bottom lip as he let out a sharp exhale. Despite that, he found himself soothed by your touch.
“I could’ve died,” he confessed. “Really, it was this close.”
You continued mopping his body, listening to what he had to say.
“It was different this time—personal,” he spelled out. “I guess it’s always been personal, but there’s just something about going back to where it all began, isn’t there? What I wanted— no, I needed to face it. I thought I was ready to die there, you know? In that fuckin’ hellhole. But each time, I couldn’t bring myself to... Even as I sat next to someone, so that she wouldn’t be alone in it, I wasn’t prepared. God, it was the most difficult thing I had done. The whole time I thought, Fuck’s sake, why? Is it worth it? I'm a fucking coward for saying this, aren’t I? That I’m not ready to die. I want to live. And my life hasn’t even started yet.”
There was a drawn out silence and he could feel the long look you gave him in the dark. “You’re not a coward, Leon,” you surmised. “What you did for that someone… Isn’t that just human? And isn’t living, as well, what it means to be human?”
He hummed in response, letting your sentence sink in. Isn’t it just what it means to be human? Sometimes, he thought of you like a hero. But aren't all of these just acts of humanity? Everything he had done. What you were doing now. That it was okay to deserve to live. To have a shot at what he truly wanted. And with this, he relented.
“I’ll stay right here with you until you sleep,” you whispered, guiding him back under the covers, the back of your knuckles grazing his face, his cheek, his chin.
He sighed contentedly in your embrace, his heart full, knowing that there wasn’t a chance he would stand to lose you after this.
The best part of the day was waking up next to you. Basking in the pure glow of the morning light, he watched the rise and fall of your chest as you lay soundly asleep without a care in the world. A fleeting moment of vulnerability you seldom displayed. He wanted to preserve it in a time capsule, craving more of these experiences with you.
Later on, as you tugged on your clothes, reminiscing over whatever that had transpired between you two, you heard him clear his throat. Leaving your buttons undone, your head darted in his direction.
He had a whole speech planned out on how he’d move things forward with you, but in the end it was thrown out the window when he stared back into those plain, unassuming eyes of yours.
“I want more than this arrangement,” he blurted out.
“Why?”
You didn’t shut him out; you left a slight gap in the door for him to push through.
“Things change…” He shrugged and chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Besides, don’t you think you deserve more than just a shitty goodbye?”
Your bright laughter filled the room.
He got down on one knee. “Please.”
Then, the other. “Please.”
Finally, he crouched down and kissed the top of your feet devotedly. “Please.”
When he peered up, he saw you beaming at him with a smile that reached your eyes. “Things have changed for me too.”
Something in his chest swelled and he felt giddy as he stood back up, nudging his forehead against yours. “Well, how ’bout we get out of here?”
You brought your lips to his and he tasted the sweetness in your kiss. “Take me with you, Leon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You were never stuck here, tied to the house. When you let him in, you knew the risks you might take, but in spite of it all, you chose him anyway. A thousand times over.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Endnotes
Thank you to everyone who stuck around and gave my fic a chance. It was lovely to read your comments and share in the joy!
Special thanks goes out to:
@alibellerosetta, you have always been there for me through thick and thin. I owe a lot of my confidence to publish what I've written because of you. Along with all the times you helped me look things over just to see if they sounded right. You are like my soul sister in writing!
@vampemoqueen, for the early feedback and allowing me to talk my ideas through with you. I felt a lot less alone in this because of your support.
Author's Note: Thank you @alibellerosetta and @medeaft for your feedback on my first draft, it has been immensely helpful!
Song credit goes to Nothin’ but the Devil by Lightnin’ Slim.
Wynter and Lucien have always shared a close bond. When it’s threatened, they react in ways with destructive consequences.
Content Warnings: Uncle/niece incest, nothing explicit but emotionally it’s Giovanni levels of fucked up, blood and violence, generational trauma, misogyny, physical abuse, mild smut, self-destructive behavior, pre-Embrace, references to Kuei-jin.
1. Night Drive
Nights like these. If only they could last forever. Nights where the sultry summer heat released its grip, just a little, and Wynter could finally breathe. Nights where Lucien would take her for a spin in the car that was his pride and joy, sometimes without her parents knowing. Nights where he drove with the hood down and she could filter the balmy breeze from the bayou between her fingers.
Such nights like these were coming to an end. She could sense it in the pregnant silence between them, while Earl King crooned on the local radio. The way Lucien ran a hand through his tired blonde locks and the silver streaks that clung stubbornly to the sides of his face. The wistful smile he gave her when he stole a glance and found her immaculate hazel eyes gazing back at him in adoration. A sheen of sweat had formed on his upper lip, the beads trickling into the grooves of his laugh lines. She wanted to lick the salt off it, see how it tasted of him, of her, of family.
Veering away from the main road, Lucien turned into a secluded lot surrounded by bushes and shrubbery. There, he parked, letting the engine run as he raised the hood back up for privacy, and wound down the driver’s window before retrieving a fat cigar from his case. Out of habit, he ran the length of it under his nose, indulging in the leathery and woody aroma of well-aged tobacco. Satisfied, he moistened the cap between his lips before snipping it off with his guillotine cutters.
There was a bluntness to the force he had used. His joints creaked. It was tense, too tense, like he was breaking through bone, snapping a neck clean. Wynter knew better than to question her uncle whenever he got like this. Without a word, she unbuckled her seatbelt, resting her head down on his lap like she usually did. His breath hitched, but he masked it with a low chuckle that reverberated from his chest. Combing his fingers through the waves of her hair, he remarked, “You’ve always been such a good girl, you know that?”
Her eyes followed the steady flame of the two matches he had struck together, toasting the foot of the cigar until a dark rim formed. It took a few tries before he got it just right, bringing it to his mouth to take the first puff. Despite his efforts, he furrowed his brows, slowly rotating the cigar to ensure an even burn. Wynter liked how Lucien handled his cigars like works of art. It reminded her of the manner in which he cared for his guns, obsessing over them, the need for perfection overshadowing everything else. Yet, she wondered if he was dragging it out on purpose. His reticence to broach the subject which had been bothering him the whole ride was obvious.
Dense clouds of smoke curled and seeped through the window as the pleasant smell of warm earth filled the car. Wynter closed her eyes and allowed it to wash over her. The smoke, like incense from a censer at Mass. The soulful tunes that wafted from the speakers. The hum of the engine of her uncle’s cobalt blue 1973 Mercury Cougar Convertible. The scent of spice in his pomade and cologne. The rise and fall of his belly against her cheek. All of this etched in her memory forever. A part of her she would never give up, even if she were held at gunpoint, naked, gagged, and bound.
“This’ll be our last ride for a while, doll,” Lucien drawled, before letting it out into a sigh.
When he found his niece unmoving and her eyes still shut, he continued, “Ever since you were a baby, you’ve wanted my attention, haven’t you? And I have so much more to give. But this ain’t right—”
Wynter snorted. Right? Was that what he truly felt? Or was this her father talking? Because she didn’t believe a word he was saying. What was right about them anyway? Their family, their whole goddamn family—the Della Passaglias.
His voice turned gruff, almost abrasive. “You’re a grown woman now. A real fine young lady. Sweet thing like you should be hanging out with boys your age. If I have to wean you off, I will.”
At this, her eyes flew open and she sat back up stiffly, avoiding his gaze. She leaned forward, gesturing at the radio. “Ooh, I like this one.”
A new song had come on, immediately recognizable by the opening guitar riff and accompanying harmonica. Wynter swayed her body, singing along to its lyrics.
Well you know yourself little girl
You ain’t treatin’ your daddy right
You leave home in the evenin’
And you ride the streets all night
That ain’t…
“Babydoll, did you hear what I just said?” Lucien pressed, but she pretended not to notice, cranking the volume dial up at the chorus.
Nothin’ but the devil
Make you treat me like you do
I'm gon’ break out just like the measles
Girl I'm gonna be all over you
“Unbelievable.” He shook his head, huffing out another plume of smoke. “For the love of God, what do I do with you?” he muttered, before turning the dial back down and smacking Wynter’s hand when she tried to fiddle with it.
“Hey! What the—”
“Uh-uh, no cussin’.” He wagged his finger in front of her pursed lips. “Not unless you want me to wash that pretty mouth of yours out with soap, princess.”
“But it’s Lightnin’ Slim!” she whined, flashing him the doe-eyed look she had been polishing over these heady, halcyon days.
“Wynter.” His tone grew stern. He only ever used her name when he meant it. “Listen to me.”
She piped down. There was a bitter iciness to her as she regarded his piercing blues. “So, that’s it? You’re gonna abandon me like that? Just like everyone else.” Her mouth had twisted into an ugly snarl.
“No, sweetheart.” He softened and the water welling up in his eyes made them glassy. Cupping her cheek, he swore on his life, “Some things… will have to stop, but I will never leave you.”
“Besides, we still have rooms with trophies to fill,” he added. A wry smile emerged across his face.
So, they would continue hunting at least. Where she would move in for the kill and he would stuff dead animals alongside her. Everything would remain as is… Or would it?
She nuzzled the palm of his hand until with some hesitation, he finally let go. A moment later, he nudged the smoldering cigar in her direction. “Wanna taste?”
She cocked her head, glancing at him quizzically, as if it were a trick question.
“Go on.” He motioned encouragingly.
Pinching the cigar between her thumb and index finger, she sealed her lips around the wrapper and sucked in a breath, mimicking how her uncle drew his in.
“Attagirl,” he murmured. “Don’t inhale. Let it sit in your mouth and savor it.”
The words rolled off his tongue as Wynter relished the smoothness of the smoke, imagining it turn red like the insides of prey she had shot and bled dry. His blood. Her blood. One and the same. She longed for it—the cup of their Blood, like the Blood of the new and everlasting covenant.
Lucien watched her wet her lips, the strange hunger beneath those hooded eyes and understood. It was nearing again.
He took the cigar back from her and tapped the ash out of the window. “We’ll go on a hunt this weekend. Wild hog. Maybe coyote. Let’s see.”
She observed him as he puffed on the stub, coated with sugar pink gloss around its head. He let his eyelids fall briefly, running a tongue along the stickiness that stained his lips. Like an indirect kiss.
“Mmm… strawberry.”
There was a long pause before he cleared his throat, as if he were regaining control over who he was and what he ought to be.
“Anyway, before this old man forgets, I got you a little something.” Adjusting himself in his seat, he grunted as he dug into his trouser pocket, fishing out a newly minted Zippo and handing it to Wynter.
Luxurious and weighty, it had a classic silver finish and family crest engraved on its body. She ran her fingertip along the skull and crown, the pasture that lay in the middle, framed by an ornate mantling. Behind, the following message was written in cursive: ‘In life, in death, and beyond. Yours, L.’
Releasing the breath she had been holding, all of the emotions she never thought she could have flooded her senses, and her smile came out weird. “For eternity,” she whispered, reflecting the promise in return.
Lucien nodded, shifting his gaze from her into the distance. “You know that our name goes way back. Della Passaglia,” he emphasized with a flourish, his Southern twang replaced with an Italian accent.
“It means ‘of the passage’ or ‘crossing’. We’re travelers, you and I. It’s in our blood. The desire to want more. More than what the Old World could give us. Your mother’s something different, though our families have always been intertwined. And that’s still only half of the story. Somewhere along the line, we were cut off. God knows why.”
His eyes flickered toward Wynter, like the devil had set them on fire. “But I’m workin’ to fix this, to bridge the gap. One day, you’ll understand, doll. That you were born into greatness, without exception. When they offer it to you, you make sure you grab it with both hands. Capisci?”
She didn’t know who ‘they’ were or what all of this meant. “Will you be there with me?” she asked.
It was the only thing she cared about.
“I will.”
Those two words were enough to make her concede.
“Allora certo.”
From outside, they heard the sound of another motor purring, slowing down as it approached. A lone cop car trailing the dirt road like a night prowler. It made the hair on the back of Wynter’s neck stand as she straightened up.
Lucien frowned, squinting at the headlights as he scoffed, “Fuckin’ power tripper. Must be wet behind the ears.” He placed a hand on Wynter’s knee, rubbing it to reassure her.
An officer exited the vehicle, beer gut hanging out as he hiked up his pants and leisurely strolled over. “Evenin’, sir.” He nodded at Lucien, then caught sight of Wynter and leered. “Lil’ miss.”
She didn’t react to his greeting, just crossed her arms as she stared back at him coldly, silently, waiting to strike. In contrast, like a light switch, Lucien turned on his charm, breaking out into a golden smile.
“Evenin’, Officer…” He checked out the name tag on the man’s uniform and grinned. “Calhoun.” Giving him a two-finger salute, he proffered, “How can I help you?”
The cop took stock of the car and whistled, seemingly impressed. “Nice ride you got there.” Leaning against the door frame, he winked at Wynter. “So, what’re you two lovebirds doing out here tonight?”
An abrupt, hearty laughter rumbled deep within Lucien as he shook uncontrollably, taking Calhoun by surprise. “Naw, you got it wrong, Officer.” He wrapped an arm around Wynter’s shoulder, pulling her to him almost possessively. “This sweet pea here’s my niece. We were just having a night drive, listenin’ to the blues.”
“That so?” Calhoun sucked his teeth, twisting his torso to spit on the ground. “Quiet, ain’t she?”
Wynter narrowed her eyes, a cavernous scowl settling upon her lips as fury rose within her like flames licking at feet. Lucien answered on her behalf. “She doesn’t like talking to strangers.”
“Right…” Calhoun glanced between them with an air of suspicion. “I’d like to see some ID, sir.”
“’Course.” Lucien smirked, removing himself from Wynter before handing over his detective’s badge to the man.
At this, Calhoun’s eyes bulged, fumbling around with the badge as if he couldn’t believe it were real. As if he had made a terrible mistake. “Well, shit— Detective Lieutenant della Passaglia. I-I didn’t realize…” He coughed out a nervous laugh. “You’re famous in this neck of the woods.”
“Apparently not famous enough,” Lucien retorted, raising an eyebrow at the officer trembling before him.
Calhoun quickly returned his badge, treating it like it was hot to the touch. “I-I’m mighty sorry for bothering you, Chief. It’s jus’... Well, you know how it is. Older men spiriting young’uns away. Jus’ wanted to check—”
“Officer Calhoun, let me make myself clear,” Lucien warned. “Did you really think I haven’t taught my niece the kinda men to stay away from?”
There was a sharpness to his tone, one that hadn’t bared its fangs until now, one with words laced with menace. Glaring at the cop, he jutted his chin in Wynter’s direction. “Now apologize,” he barked. “To her.”
“Apologize for wasting her precious time with her uncle,” he reiterated.
“M-mighty sorry, miss!” Calhoun squeaked, scrambling to take his hat off as he bowed in shame.
“That good enough for you, babydoll?” Lucien tilted his head, his voice gentle again as he addressed Wynter.
The wide, razor-toothed smile that stretched across her face said it all.
━━━━━━━━━━━
2. Mother
“Xuechun!”
She opened her eyes and blinked slowly, frowning at the rays of the afternoon sun streaming in through the attic window. Her back itched from the coarse rug she was lying on.
“Xuechun? Where are you?”
The floorboards creaked as she shifted onto her side. Her mother’s calling grew louder and more insistent, but all she could think about was the name, Xuechun, and how steeped in irony it was. 雪 for snow and 纯 for purity. Neither of which—separately or together—she felt an affinity toward.
“这个女孩！真是的！”
She sighed as she sat up, wondering why her mother kept insisting on the name. Wasn’t one already enough? Add to that a mishmash of cultures that felt like they had no place in a small, sleepy Southern town and you had a recipe for harassment and disaster.
“Xuechun? For the last time!”
The door burst open then and her mother stood at the doorway, one hand on her hip and the other gripping a long, jade cigarette holder. Her luscious black hair was set in perm rollers and an elegant silk robe embroidered with peonies and sword orchids draped over her body. Despite the flash of anger in her eyes and the nagging that would soon follow, she was a magnificent sight to behold.
Wynter could see why her father had chosen this tempestuous woman, even if she never understood the point of romantic love. Love. What did that mean? All she ever had was family. Was a cursed love even love? Yet, she wasn’t so naive as to think that was all her parents relied on. Marriage was about money and power, she was sure of it. How else could she explain the wealth behind the foundations this family was built on? The affairs her staunchly Catholic father was having in secret? This terrible house she lived in?
“... and your hair!” her mother cried. “天啊，那么乱！”
She grabbed her daughter by the arm, yanking her out of the room, down the stairs into her own, and shoved her in front of the mirror atop her dresser. Wynter cringed as her mother fussed over her flyaways, flipping the ends back and forth, measuring its length.
“You’re heading to college soon,” she muttered, roughly pulling Wynter’s tresses back into a chignon as she pinned it in place. “You should cut it like mine. It’ll make you look more mature.”
Turning sharply on her heel, she stalked over to her wardrobe, hauling it open as she tugged out a classy black number and flung it onto her bed. She took another drag of her cigarette, then extinguished it by a crystal ashtray before disrobing.
Wynter watched her mother’s reflection in the mirror, the slender nape of her neck, the smooth curve of her spine, and the peculiar tattoo that marked the left side of her back, just above her waist. A splatter of ink that dispersed in all directions, leaving a wispy trail that rippled like a centipede. It was the only blemish on her porcelain-like skin.
Her mother had said it had been given to her as a wedding gift by a relative, one that could not be refused, and that Wynter should expect her own in time to come. She remembered the tight slap she received across the face when she had responded that she would rather die than become someone else’s wife.
“别胡说了。It’s every little girl’s dream to get married.”
The words, rather than the pain, still burned at the back of her mind, and she wondered if Lucien could take her away now, to whoever would offer her greatness.
“Before dinner, you’d better change into a nicer dress, ba?” The voice rang out again, but this time in the present, in the very same room she was in.
“Why?” Wynter quizzed. She scrunched her brows together in confusion. “What’s so special about tonight?”
“Didn’t your uncle tell you?” her mother gloated, ruffling her hair as she removed the rollers. Hooking on a pair of diamond earrings, she caught her daughter’s astonished gaze in the mirror. “He’s finally bringing a woman over.”
Wynter’s mouth ran dry, nearly choking on her saliva as she tried to breathe. She clenched her fists so hard, her nails cut into the skin of her palms. When Lucien told her that some things had to stop, this wasn’t what she expected. Sure, he dated around and had always been popular with the ladies, but it was never like this. Never had he brought back anyone worthy enough to meet them. And the greatest insult of it all was that he had hid it from her.
Now she understood why her father got down on his knees and prayed every night. It wasn’t to talk to God. It was an act of despair.
Later in the day, as she drifted through the hallways of the house, her footsteps paused, and she waited in the stillness. Waited for a sign to appear. Dear God, if you are real, please— I would do anything. She hated herself even more then. For caving in, for being weak. Yet she felt something guide her, like an unseen force, or a gentle breath, and her feet moved on their own to a place where she rarely went, not if she could help it.
She found herself standing before an ominous altar, lacquer painted in black to red gradient, with gold symbols carved along its panels and eaves. Portraits in the form of old photographs and drawings lined its shelf, like rows upon rows of masks. People she couldn’t put a name to, barely felt a connection with, but every single one of them had the same placid, disquieting smile that unnerved even a monster like her.
A set of buns shaped like peaches were laid out on an ornamental dish, wedges of mandarins scattered by its side. She noted the steam rising from tea that accompanied the offerings and touched the cup. It was still warm. Someone must have just left it out.
Guardedly, Wynter removed three joss sticks from a wooden holder and lit them by the open flame of a candle. The scented fumes made her eyes water as she fanned them lightly in her hand. Raising them to her forehead, she heard the faint sound of her mother’s voice in her memory, signaling each bow she made up until the third. At the end, she asked if they were listening, and if they were, why wouldn’t they answer her prayer?
I can’t do this on my own, she whispered internally. Show me what to do.
As she placed the sticks in the incense burner, the glint of cold metal caught her eye. A blade the size of a pocket knife and adorned with a mother of pearl handle beckoned her. It had the loveliest hue of white that fluctuated as it shimmered in the light. To look into it was to see a blank slate of oneself. Suppressing the sense of trepidation welling up inside of her, she seized hold of the knife, and with a shaky grip, sliced into the palm of her hand. Droplets of her blood flowed into the burner and sizzled on impact.
It took almost all of her willpower to tear herself away from the scene and place the knife back where it was. Just as she was processing what she had done, someone called out to her, “You know, your father isn’t fond of ancestral worship.”
Wynter whipped her head around, concealing her hands behind her back as she found her mother standing a few meters away with a coy smile on her face.
“Mother.”
“Xuechun.” The coyness turned into a smirk, as if they were playing a cat-and-mouse game.
“I’m surprised to find you here. After all, you hardly ever come by to pay your respects,” she simpered. “What has gotten into you today, ne?”
She slinked over to her daughter, curling her fingers under her chin and tilting her head upward to meet her gaze. A tense silence hung in the air as her mother observed her, reveling in her discomfort. Yet Wynter remained nonchalant, and finding nothing, she released her.
At this, she took her leave, but not without her mother delivering another reminder.
“You may be a Della Passaglia in name, but don’t forget who you really are.”
The words resounded in her ears as she hurried out of the room.
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3. A Family That Dines Together
When nightfall came, Wynter saw to it that she was the last one to arrive at the dinner table, much to her father’s displeasure. Even more so was the outfit she had chosen. A baby blue satin blazer with its top buttons undone, her white frilly lace bra visibly peeking out from underneath. She had paired it with matching high-waisted cut-offs that showed off the length of her legs.
Her mother nearly choked on her drink, while her father clutched his fork so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“What the hell is that?” he seethed under his breath.
Attempting to defuse the situation, Lucien intervened, touching his date’s shoulder as he gestured to Wynter. “Now, this wonderful girl here is my niece, Wynter.”
The lady gave her a bright smile, verging on the line of being pandering. “Wynter! I must say, what a lovely name you have! It’s so nice to finally meet you. I've heard all about you from your uncle.”
“I’m Charlotte, by the way.” She extended her hand.
Wynter glared at the full-bosomed redhead, scrutinizing the overbite of her pearly whites, set against her bold ‘fuck me’ crimson lipstick. It was a shade too red and bled along the edges. She pitied her, this outsider who wanted so desperately to be in. To be accepted under her name. To be a part of her home.
Snubbing Charlotte’s hand, she scoffed, muttering a caustic, “That so?”
Lucien laughed it off, although it sounded as artificial as crinkling plastic. “Aww, she’s just shy. Well, why don’t we settle in? Have something to eat? Here, let me help you.” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Charlotte’s plate and started piling it up with crawfish étouffée over the rice.
As Wynter helped herself to a portion, Lucien noticed the bandage around her hand. “What happened, doll?” he asked with concern, his tone sinking an octave lower, callously betraying his feelings of protectiveness toward her.
When he reached out to inspect it, she snatched her hand away. “It’s nothing,” she mumbled.
But he wasn’t convinced. “You’d tell me if someone hurt—”
“Just an accident,” she quickly interjected. “From peeling an apple.”
Yet a wave of nauseousness hit her with the lie and she felt sick to her stomach. Something was very wrong. She had a vague idea it had to do with the prayer she offered at the altar, but she couldn’t fathom why.
“Uh-huh? Well, be more careful.”
Although her uncle let her off, judging by how he had uttered that parting sentence, she knew the conversation was far from over. Years of honing his interrogation skills meant that he could tell she was lying. But that would be a matter to worry about for another time. For now, she had to survive this farce of a gathering.
Throughout the meal, Wynter sulked in the corner, barely touching her food as she watched those around her make small talk like a cast of actors on set, engaging in pretend play of what society deemed appropriate as a family. Every once in a while, she witnessed Lucien stealing brief glimpses of her, the way his vivid blues trailed her body, only to casually look away when his eyes came into contact with hers. He’d knock back his tumbler of whiskey, neat, wincing as he felt the burn.
She heaved a sigh of relief when the dinner was over, until her father slyly suggested, “Well, time flies, doesn’t it? Tell you what, Miss Charlotte. Since it’s gettin’ late, why don’t you make yourself at home and stay for the night?”
“Oh naw, I couldn’t!” she blushed furiously, though the delighted grin she covered with her hand said otherwise. “I wouldn’t want to trouble y’all.”
Wynter rolled her eyes. Every fucking time. Why did things have to be performative? Why did folks feel the need to degrade themselves to such a level? Why did no one say what they meant?
“’Course it’s no trouble at all! Luce could show you to the guest room.” Her father turned to his younger brother, his eyebrow raised, probing for an answer. “I mean, you’re sleeping over too, ain’t you?”
Lucien couldn’t even meet his gaze, just shrugged his shoulders in deference. “Guess so.”
“Marvelous!” He hawked out a laugh, patting Lucien on the back. Circling his other arm around Charlotte’s waist, he gently maneuvered her over to him.
Once he had made sure that the two of them had left the dining room, he stormed toward Wynter. “As for you, young lady,” he spat with pure venom. “I never want to see you in this filth again, you hear me?”
Her mother stood by silently, as if she were a mere prop in this world that was all a stage. And so, Wynter faced him head-on, alone, devoiding herself of all emotion, trying to show that she wasn’t afraid.
Forcefully, he pinched her cheek between his fingers, squeezing so hard she knew that it would bruise. “Answer me, goddammit!”
“Frankie!” There was a fierceness and urgency to it. “Stop it! That’s enough.”
Lucien emerged from the shadows of the corridor, his jaw hardening as he challenged his brother. At this, her father released her, shaking his head as he marched over to Lucien, bringing his face close to his and jeered, “Next time, stay out of this, Luce. If you know what’s good for you.”
Then, he skulked off into the darkness of the house.
In the late hours, Wynter tossed and turned in bed, unable to find sleep. There was an oppressiveness that lingered heavily in the air. She opened the shutters to let the breeze in, but the uneasiness didn’t seem to let up. Just as she was about to put on her headphones to soothe herself with some music from the record player, she heard a strange, high-pitched yelp. At first, she thought of foxes, but realized the subtle differences in their calls compared to what had transpired.
Slipping into her négligée, she quietly tiptoed out of her room, feeling her way along the walls and the bannister of the staircase as her eyes adjusted to the dark. At the bottom floor, the soft glow of a table lamp emanated from the living room, where she finally discovered the source of the noise. With each step, the muted sounds of grunts and moans grew louder.
Squinting at the light, Wynter pushed the door open by just a crack, and gasped at the sight before her. Two naked bodies entwined, writhing on the couch. The familiar mop of dark blonde, dusted gray, that she could distinguish anywhere in a crowd, and the mess of auburn below it.
Lucien! she wanted to scream, but no words left her mouth. It was as if she were in a void, separated from his world by an unbreakable glass panel and no matter how hard she banged against it and shouted, he wouldn’t see her, he wouldn’t hear her.
Sweat dripped, pooling into the dip of his back, his muscles taut as he rutted into Charlotte like an animal in heat. Her legs wrapped tighter around his hips as she whined, digging her nails into his shoulders.
Was this it? Would he forget her now? Would she be left behind in this house to rot while he made a new life with another woman? All these thoughts raced through Wynter’s mind as she stood rooted to the ground, unable to look away.
As if by intuition, Lucien raised his head, locking eyes with her. For a good minute, they continued staring at each other, yet he made no move to stop what he was doing. Instead, he picked up the pace, thrusting himself deeper into Charlotte as he cupped his palm over her mouth, muffling her cries.
Throughout, Wynter found herself subjected to the intensity of his gaze, how it stripped back her flesh and penetrated her to the bone, and the desire beneath it that remained unspoken.
I wish it were you.
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4. Hitching Rides with Older Men
The next day, the song of the dawn chorus woke her up with the morning light. Wynter rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, feeling listless and a little worse for wear. Every action felt like a constant struggle and it took ages for her to simply throw on a blouse and a pair of slacks. Mulling over the events of the past night, she wondered if it were a dream, but the sting on her cheek reminded her differently.
Sluggishly, she made her way down the stairs, exhaling a long, drawn-out breath as she shuffled into the kitchen. The housekeeper, Mrs. Monroe, was cooking up a generous breakfast spread of boudin, bacon and eggs, cheese grits, and beignets. Upon seeing Wynter, she shooed her out affectionately, handing her a pitcher of orange juice to serve at the breakfast table.
There, she spotted her father engrossed in his newspaper, while her mother sipped from her cup of café au lait. At the side, Lucien and Charlotte spoke to each other in hushed tones, like newfound lovers. She felt the low timbre of his laughter vibrate within her chest.
It was then that he noticed her and with a rueful smile, he teased, “Mornin’, sleepyhead!”
Ever striving to make a good impression, Charlotte followed up with a cheerful, “Well, you look fresh and awake!”
Though that only served to add more fuel to the fire. Before Wynter could rein it in, the words tumbled out with a sneer, “And you look better with your clothes on.”
A deathly silence filled the room, so much so that she could hear the sound of her heart beating and blood rushing through her ears. Her mother shot her a cautionary glance. Charlotte’s face was scarlet red, flushed to the point where it looked like she might break down and cry.
And it pleased her.
“What’s the meaning of this, girl?” her father bellowed. “Apologize to Miss Charlotte, now!”
In return, Wynter gave her apology in the sole language she could understand. The exhilaration when she clawed the woman’s face was unlike anything she had felt before. The sound of falling, of glass shattering, of echoing screams. The tearing of skin and blood crusting under her nail bed. She brought them to her lips for a taste, and the metallic sweetness of it twisted her mouth into a cruel smirk. All of this she cherished, wishing she could relive the experience over and over again.
After the incident, her parents sought to confine her to the house, but she would not obey. From now on, nothing deterred her. On weekends, she still went to church and on hunting trips with Lucien, but something fundamental had shifted.
Outside of their time together, she gave her uncle the cold shoulder, avoiding him as though the bond they shared never happened, as though it never existed in the first place. She left him in a state of limbo and he often contemplated if this was his purgatory? Was this what he deserved? Had he created a monster like himself after all?
She started sneaking out, meeting strangers in cars and hitching rides with older men. Men that he had warned her about. Men that he had taught her to stay away from.
Dolling herself up, exactly in the manner that her father detested, she approached them like an angel of death with a coquettish smile. Learning the ropes of seduction, of hunting another kind of prey, one that would be her greatest trophy of all.
Lucien sat in his car, watching as these men took the bait that Wynter laid out. Every fucking time. The way she giggled at their dumb jokes, tolerated their furtive caresses, egging them on as she stroked their inner thigh. Unhooking the straps of her bra, she went down on them, sucking them off like a lollipop, musing how it would be like to bite and rip the fleshy, gorged meat apart. She let them bend and fold her into impossible positions, these dirty, greasy men, but she always ended the encounter in the exact same way.
On top, she’d ride them, pressing their shoulders back against the stained seats. Her eyes would flicker to the rearview mirror, recognizing the distinct cobalt blue convertible parked in a spot nearby. She’d look out the window, catching his haunted gaze as she ground down harder and faster, staring back at him brazenly and unashamed.
Pairing: Altar Boy! Leon Kennedy x Catholic School Girl! Reader
Summary: Growing up in a conservative, Catholic community, you and Leon were kept apart as kids for your own good. However, a fateful encounter at church many years later causes you to question those boundaries.
Content & Warnings: 18+ Smut, porn with plot, unprotected p in v, oral (m & f receiving), rimming (f receiving), semi-public sex (church), Catholicism, religious imagery & symbolism, temptation, guilt, shaming, name-calling, growing up, smoking, swearing, romance, fluff, secret relationship.
Author's Note: Leon and Reader are in senior high and 18 when smut happens. No guarantee that you won’t burn in hell after reading this 🔥😂
Special thanks to AliBelleRosetta for being my sounding board + shadesoflsk & Cameron for your helpful feedback.
Title from Heavenly Creatures by Wolf Alice.
AO3 Link
Snake. Devil. Satan’s spawn.
Those were the names you had grown accustomed to as a child. You didn’t know why you were called them, instead of the one your parents had given you. You were too little to understand. All you knew was that you were made to feel different. Maybe you were really an anomaly from the rest after all.
Instead of being quiet and shy, you were loud and boisterous. It was natural for you, seeing as you were going through your tomboy phase, which was the exact reason your parents had stuck to when they received complaints about your behavior. They laughed it off, while others reined their daughters in, forcing them into perfect Sunday dresses, braided hair adorned with pastel ribbons and clean, black Mary Jane shoes. Good enough to fit into a pretty gift box with wrapping paper. But you would tear it all down, before anyone could lay a finger on you.
Growing up in a place where other children were told to shun you was difficult at first. But then, you learnt to play by yourself and relish in the power of make believe. You climbed trees, rolled in the mud and ran through the forest fending off imaginary monsters. Sometimes, when you bumped into other groups of boys who threw stones and made fun of you, you fought back, further earning the title of crazy witch! Who needed these idiots anyway? You were your own best company.
One day, you sat in your disheveled, cream cotton dress, swinging your legs from a tree in your front lawn as usual. It overlooked the suburban neighborhood street, giving you a bird’s eye view of your surroundings. You noticed a family of three strolling along the sidewalk, though the couple gave you a disapproving look as they walked past, and whispered to their little, adolescent boy. They thought they were being so discreet, but you could hear every single word they were saying.
“Don’t pay attention to her. She’s bad news.”
Regardless of this remark, the boy gave in to his curiosity and as he peered up, you held his wide-eyed gaze. His irises were azure in color, glowing as it caught the early dusk light from different angles, shifting across a stunning spectrum of bluish, iridescent hues. You were captivated by them, and as you continued staring, his cheeks turned rosy red, though it seemed like he could not break away from you either. That moment was abruptly cut short, as his father smacked the back of his head, chiding his son for disobeying him.
“Come along now, Leon.” The older man wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, turning him away from your direction.
Leon. So, that was his name. As you watched them turn the corner at the end of the street and head off, you wondered if and when you’d see him again.
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Leon had heard the stories passed around about you. His parents had often commented about your family as being one of those ‘weird, hippy types’. Frankly, this didn’t scare him, but rather, it fascinated him. They made you appear like something he had read in a book about myths and legends, and he wanted to see if it was real.
The next time he went out to play in the field, he walked by your place again on purpose, even though it would have been the longer route. As he had predicted, you were up in the tree again, lounging across its branches with your eyes closed, like a slithery snake basking in the sun. Your dress was stained with grass and dirt, and your feet were soiled and filthy. Twigs poked out haphazardly from your knotted, messy hair.
You looked like a creature of sorts, alright, he thought.
He inched towards the base of the tree trunk gingerly, trying not to stir the sleeping beast. But as he got closer, he accidentally stepped into a pile of dead leaves, which crunched underfoot.
You roused from your slumber then, rubbing your eyes as you stretched your arms out with a lazy yawn. He flinched when you looked downwards at him, as if you might strike out, but you just smiled and said, “Hi.”
He was confused then. From the descriptions of you, he had expected you to breathe fire and gnash your teeth at him fiercely, but you were just a normal girl. He gave you a puzzled look, nodding as he greeted you with a stutter, “Hi… I-I’m, uh, Leon.”
“I know.” You grinned.
“You do?” He looked astounded, as if you’d conducted some dark ritual to find out.
You picked up on this and teased him, wiggling your fingers as you mouthed, “Magic…”
He laughed, relaxing his stiff shoulders and asking you for your name. He’d only known you until now as that girl, or one of those nicknames people gave you out of spite.
You introduced yourself and offered him a half-eaten apple you had munched on before napping on the tree. He hesitated at first, regarding it as if it were a forbidden fruit, but eventually he reached out for it. Gratefully, he bit in, savoring the flavorful burst of its juicy flesh.
“Do you go to church?” He asked suddenly, out of the blue.
Shielding your eyes from the afternoon sun with your hand, you squinted at him. “Yeah, why?”
“Oh.” He paused, considering his next words, though he blurted out with unfiltered honesty, “Well, my dad said that demons can’t enter hallowed ground.”
“I’m not a demon,” you huffed indignantly.
“No, you aren’t,” he agreed, waving his hands in the air apologetically, trying to salvage the situation. “I think you’re nice, actually.” His face was warm and pink again.
“I think you’re nice too.”
And it continued on like this. Some days, he’d pop over to visit and speak with you from below the tree, when he was sure no one was watching. Until a day came where he wasn’t as careful, and was spotted by a concerned neighbor, who ratted him out to his parents.
You were sad that he wasn’t allowed to see you again, but you’d grown used to being alone for most of your childhood, so you tried to put it behind you and move on, unaware that he’d often look out for you at each week’s Sunday Mass.
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A number of years passed, and you filled out into your own body. You were in your senior year of an all-girls Catholic high school, and had recently turned 18. Reaching womanhood also meant that you became acutely aware of the changes in the way society treated you now, as compared to the opposite sex. Heads turned as you stalked around with one of the more unruly cliques in your school. Instead of being name-called after otherworldly creatures, you were reduced to bitch, slut, or whore.
People hated what they couldn’t understand or control. You’d been giving the nuns a hard time by asking controversial questions about the biblical text you were meant to study and recite blindly. Detention was nothing new to you and your friends, whom you’d been caught smoking cigarettes together with on school grounds. You were a rebel at heart, and the rest of the law-abiding community wanted to crush that and make you conform.
Leon, on the other hand, had been going to the all-boys school next door, which shared a brother school relationship with yours. He was in the same year and age as you, though being a man meant he had the privilege of getting away with certain things you couldn’t. Even there, your name wasn’t safe from being circulated around the rumor mill. You were the subject of boys’ locker room talk. They associated you with the ‘bad girl’ crowd, highlighting your love for reading banned books and boasting about supposed sexual escapades with you.
“She’ll do favors,” they said, making vulgar gestures by moving their fist back and forth in front of their mouth, while poking their tongue against their cheek.
Leon slammed his locker door shut and stormed off. It made him uncomfortable that they gossiped about you that way, but he was even more ashamed of the fact that he made no effort to stand up for you. He hardly knew you, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that what they were doing was finding a scapegoat to blame. That, unfortunately, time and time again, happened to be you.
Most of the students there were sexually active anyway, but no one had complained about them. As long as one kept things on the down-low and upheld a certain moralistic façade, they were considered as ‘innocent’, ‘pure’, or ‘normal’ even. For one, he was pretty sure that his father was having an affair with the church choir mistress, but that seemed to go overlooked.
Everyone’s such hypocrites, he pondered, frowning in distaste. Including himself. Although he liked to think that he was brave and courageous, in actuality, he was afraid of rocking the boat. Fitting in was more important, just as his parents had taught him from a young age. It was the side of him that he hated the most, but could not get rid of.
Gathering his belongings, he left school and hurried off. He’d been requested last-minute to serve at Mass that evening, as one of the other altar boys had fallen ill. At church, he exchanged his school uniform for the standard black cassock and white surplice, before starting with the Introductory Rites.
You, on the other hand, had been singled out along with a bunch of other troublesome girls to attend Evening Mass with the Mother Superior that day. It was just your luck that you had to devote an hour of your time to a set of outdated rituals and prayers, with the aim of reflecting upon your sins. The most frustrating part of this exercise was that all of you were placed in the front row pews, so there was no chance of daydreaming or dozing off in front of the priest. You’d never been much of a believer, but sometimes you did speculate if God was watching your every move from above.
As you stood up for the entrance procession, which signaled the start of Mass, a familiar mop of dirty blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes passed by. You’d recognize that anywhere, but it was a wonder how you hadn’t realized that he was serving as an altar boy all this while. Maybe your Mass timings hadn’t aligned? Or maybe you just never paid much attention in church. You’d only seen him here and there when he attended Mass with his family as part of the congregation, but you ignored him back then, because you didn’t want to remember the feeling of losing the closest thing you had to a friend in your pre-teen days.
When Leon turned around to face the congregation for the greeting, he gulped as he saw you, standing almost directly in front of him as both of you made the Sign of the Cross. Speak of the devil, he muttered internally, before chastising himself for unintentionally insulting you and shook that thought away.
You gave him a coy smile as he scampered off to where he was meant to be stationed. For the first time in a while, you took the chance to admire his chiseled features and how much he had grown. He had always been attractive, but he was no longer the little boy you used to know, and instead now a fine, young man, in an even finer religious attire. Puberty did him good, you mused.
All at once, a mischievous plan flashed across your mind as you plotted how to win his attention. It would be an entertaining way to pass the time in this mundane institution. Viewing the school uniform as yet another means for the authorities to curb people’s freedom and creative expression, you had a habit of violating the dress code by making minor adjustments to it. Whether it was shortening the hem of your skirt or wearing below the ankle socks, you went for it. And today was no exception.
You waited until it was time to be seated before attempting to catch his gaze. Within a few minutes, he sneaked a peek your way and you stifled a laugh. Bingo. As you continued looking straight at him, you stretched your legs out cautiously, so as not to alert the Mother Superior, who sat beside you, to your antics. His eyes widened and flickered, as you showed off their length, rotating your ankles in small circles languidly. The other altar boys started to take note and whispered in hushed tones amongst themselves. But you only had eyes for Leon, scrutinizing him like a hawk, as you bared your teeth with a sly grin plastered across your face.
It was only a matter of time before the Mother Superior rapped you on the legs with a thin, wooden cane she carried around for doling out such punishments. The other girls in your row giggled as you returned your legs to a respectable position, disregarding the smarting pain that had accompanied the blow.
It was worth it, you reasoned, spotting Leon’s lopsided smile, as he turned away to hide his blush.
This soon carried on like an unspoken game between you and Leon. You’d attend Mass whenever he was serving as an altar boy, and he’d look out for you, exchanging glances like a secret code shared between the two of you. A sense of thrill arose within him each time, as to what you’d try next. If only he knew what you were capable of.
At some point, you grew bolder. During the Holy Communion, where Leon had been helping the priest to hold the patina under the chins of those who received the Sacred host, you made sure once again to make eye contact with him the whole way through. Your mouth was slightly agape, as you extended your tongue, clasping your hands together in a pious prayer position. When the priest placed the host in your mouth, you swallowed it suggestively, licking your upper lip for a finishing touch. Leon nearly stumbled over backwards as his face turned bright red like a tomato. The last thing he heard was your silvery laughter, and you returned to your seat as if nothing had happened. You had ensnared him now.
When Mass ended, you slipped him a note, asking him to meet you at the confessional when everyone else had been ushered out. You knelt in the penitent compartment, waiting for him to arrive, confident that he would show up. A few minutes later, you heard someone enter the booth where the priest usually sat.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began. Through the latticed screen, you could just about make out Leon’s face as he chuckled.
“What are you playing at?”
“You tell me,” you challenged, testing the waters. “I haven’t received any complaints.”
“Well, I have a question,” he mentioned quietly. “Do you still remember when we hung out back then? At the tree.”
There was pang in your heart, as you recalled your childhood memories. “Of course, you were the only one who bothered to speak to me.”
You pursed your lips before taking the plunge. “I really appreciated that.”
There was a momentary pause, as he took your words in. “I wish they didn’t separate us.”
“It isn’t too late to start over.” It was humiliating how eager you sounded. No matter how much you tried to repress it, you yearned to rekindle that connection you had with him once.
“Listen, I like you,” he admitted, sighing heavily. “But, I can’t go public with this. My parents-”
“Who says it has to be public?” You retorted defensively.
His heartfelt confession emboldened you, yet a part of you felt dejected that this was the best option he could offer. However, you didn’t want to concede without giving it a shot.
He made a noise which sounded like he was in disbelief. “You mean-”
“Shall I come over and show you?” You interrupted, already getting up before he could answer.
“Y-yeah,” he stammered. “I-I’d like that, I guess.”
Exiting your compartment, you stepped out and swiftly went over to where he was, closing the door behind you. It was crammed and stuffy in this tiny box with two people, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Giving him a once-over, it struck you that he was still in his altar boy attire and perhaps what you were about to do was wrong on so many levels, but you brushed those thoughts aside.
“Um-”
Before he could speak any further, you ran your hands up along his chest and planted your lips onto his, soft and pillowy in texture. He let out a low moan, easing into your embrace as he kissed back, holding onto the back of your head for better leverage. His tongue grazed across your lips and you parted them in response, allowing it to slip inside as you tasted each other. Grabbing the collar of his cassock, you pressed your bodies together heatedly. You sucked on his tongue, eliciting another moan from his throat, as you shuffled him around, pushing his back against the wooden wall with a loud thud. Both of you had lost yourselves in a whirlwind of kisses, oblivious to the outside world and the ruckus you were making.
However, it was hard to ignore the hymn that was being sung when the next Mass started. Leon froze, before pulling away hastily. His mouth was red and swollen, and a pearly string of saliva connected it with yours.
“Shit, we lost track of time,” he panted.
If you didn’t want to be seen, you’d need to remain where you were until the Mass ended. In other words, both of you were trapped here for at least another hour.
Not being one to let such matters ruin the vibe, you responded, “That’s not a problem for me.” Trailing a lone finger down Leon’s body seductively, you let it come to rest above the growing bulge in his cassock.
“Are you serious?” He breathed, as you cupped your hand around it, palming him through his clothes.
“You got a better idea?” You murmured in his ear, squeezing his erection a little as you continued rubbing against it.
“Don’t get me wrong, it feels amazing.” His voice was strained as he spoke. “But, it’s just…”
“Catholic guilt?” You teased.
“Yeah, probably.” He nodded sheepishly.
“Well, maybe if we get you out of this thing.” You gestured to his attire. “You might relax into it more.”
“Makes sense,” he agreed, tugging the surplice over his head and discarding it to the ground. “Though it never really goes away, does it?”
You shrugged, shaking your head. “I still get it, but it’s less of an issue now.” It made you follow up with a question of your own. “Does that mean I’m a bad person?”
His eyes crinkled as he grinned. “You're doing it again.”
“Hm?”
“Guilt,” he indicated. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway.” You tried to deflect the topic, knowing the rumors that people spread about you. Leon had probably heard it all. “At least there’s still hope for you.”
“Thanks?”
“Don’t thank me yet.” You winked, removing the sash from his cassock as he unbuttoned the rest of it, revealing a plain white shirt and a pair of shorts underneath.
He snickered as you clucked your tongue at the sight. “What did you expect me to do? Go Commando?”
“Would’ve been hot,” you pointed out.
Leon had always been perceptive. From your interactions, he began to suspect that sometimes you relied on lighthearted banter as a way to mask your nervousness and other underlying emotions.
Nestling his fingers under your chin, he turned you towards him. “You sure about this?”
“Mm hm.” It was sweet of him to check in. Most guys never offered you the same courtesy. “Been thinking about it since Communion,” you added brazenly.
He snorted as you gave him a quick peck on the lips. Working your way down, you kissed his clothed body, pulling the waistband of his underwear and shorts to his ankles. Kneeling before him, you reached for his cock, smearing beads of his precum carelessly along his velvety skin, while you pumped his hot shaft slowly.
He inhaled sharply, snapping his eyes shut, as he tilted his head back in pleasure. In the background, you could hear the priest’s sermon droning on.
With a smug smile, you warned, “Do me a favor and try to keep it down, will you?”
Before he had a chance to react, you filled your mouth with his cock, sliding all the way down its hardened length.
“Jesus,” he groaned.
Instantly, you released it with a pop and tutted in mock disappointment, “Taking the Lord’s name in vain?”
“We’re so going to hell for this,” he laughed faintly, tangling his hands in your hair.
“Ah-” He gasped again, as you held onto the base of his cock, lifting it to flatten your tongue on its underside. Slathering it with saliva, you took his balls into your wet mouth, one at a time, sucking on them delectably. “Fuck!”
“Don’t you ever shut up?” You joked.
“Not if you keep doing what you’re doing, angel.”
Angel. That was a new one. You’d never been called that before, but you liked the sound of it.
Wrapping your lips around his cock, you started a steady rhythm, bobbing your head up and down his shaft. Each time you came up, you flicked your tongue at the tip, licking it as you stared up at him. His eyes flew open, gazing at you with lust and arousal while you sucked him off more vigorously.
Sliding his cock in deeper, you allowed it to hit the back of your throat, causing you to make a guttural noise. Clenching his fist, he bit down hard on his knuckles to stop himself from crying out. If this was hell, he’d stay right here with you. He couldn’t think straight anymore, as he bucked his hips forward in response.
Grabbing his ass, your fingernails left crescent shaped indents on his skin, as you let him fuck your mouth to chase his high. Tears lined your eyelashes and sweat poured down your brow. It had gotten incredibly hot and humid in this enclosed space. But his muted moans only served to turn you on even more. You wondered how perverse and trashy you looked in this position, though Leon could only mumble the opposite in his feverish state.
Soon, he tensed and quivered while hissing through gritted teeth, “God, I’m gonna cum.”
Lady Luck appeared to be on your side, as the congregation were in the middle of singing another hymn, which inadvertently muffled whatever sounds were coming from the confessional. He struggled to hold in his groans as you felt a thick, salty load of his cum wash up against your throat. You choked a bit before swallowing it whole.
Collapsing backwards, you leaned against the cool surface of the seat behind you, wiping the edges of your mouth. Tucking his spent dick back under his clothes, he sank down beside you, kissing you gently and tasting himself on your lips.
“You ok?” He brushed his thumb along your cheek.
You nodded silently and smiled, contemplating if there would be a future to what you had with him now.
“I ruined you,” he jested, showering you with kisses along your jawline.
“As if.” You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew it was the truth.
And, just like he had read your mind, he uttered the magic words, “So, when will I see you again?”
━━━━━━━━━━━
Since the encounter at the confessional, you continued your clandestine meetings with Leon, just like back in the old days, except both of you were now wiser in covering your tracks. In public, you pretended not to know each other, yet shared furtive, longing glances when you were in the same vicinity. Sometimes, he would make an excuse to brush past you, his touch ghosting across the curve of your spine, your shoulders, the back of your hand to the tip of your pinkie finger. Away from prying eyes, you hooked up passionately, damning each other further to hell. How many levels were there again? You’d lost count.
You enjoyed the moments spent with him. The aftercare and cuddling. The long talks into the night. You understood each other somehow, it wasn’t like this with other people. So, if the Day of Judgment arrived, why would God not sympathize with you both?
Despite that, neither of you had put a label on where you stood with each other. How did this secret relationship work? If you were found out, would he ditch you like before? Would you be thrown under the bus, so that he could be purified again? It wasn’t long until insecurity reared its ugly head, gnawing at you from within.
Leon sensed something was off as you lay in his arms, naked while he spooned you in the back seat of his car, parked along a desolate dirt path near the forest. You had that pensive look on your face, like you were in a world of your own, one where he couldn’t enter.
Pulling you close to him, he kissed the top of your shoulder, coaxing you out of your reverie. “Wanna talk about it?”
You hummed noncommittally. After a long pause, you asked, “Are you embarrassed by me?”
He was caught off-guard by the question and his breathing stilled. “No,” he argued. “Why would you think that?”
“I’m just tired of hiding,” you sighed. “It’s like I’m making you do something bad.”
There was a brief ache in his chest, as guilt swelled up like a wave. Coward, an inner voice spat.
Carding his fingers through your hair, he pressed his lips against the temple of your head. “You make me feel like the best version of myself.”
“Hm.” You pinched your lips together, wanting to believe him, but you weren’t convinced.
He observed this, but decided not to press the issue any further, knowing that you needed action, not words.
She’ll be your downfall. A surly voice piped up within him, like fire and brimstone. He shook it off, ignoring the moral tug-of-war that had occurred once he made that statement, as he vowed to prove himself to you in the coming days.
━━━━━━━━━━━
The next time you’d agreed to meet was in church, after the very last Mass of the day. He was serving as an altar boy again, and you were intrigued as to whether he had planned to reenact the entire confessional scene or switch it up with something new, like making you go through the Stations of the Cross while fucking you. You giggled at the idea, only to be shushed by a fellow parishioner, whom you had disturbed in meditative prayer.
When Mass ended and everyone except yourself had left the nave, you waited patiently for him in the pews. After a while, you felt a tap on your shoulder and turned around to face Leon, who had changed into his casual clothes. As you got to your feet, he cupped the sides of your face in his hands, closing the distance, and bringing your lips to meet his in a fervent kiss. You were slightly taken aback by his initiation, since he was usually the shyer one out of the two of you.
Claiming your hand in his, he led you to the front, where the altar stood before the austere crucifix that hung from the wall. He smirked, noticing the look of shock and incredulity on your face, as it gradually began to dawn on you what he had in mind. However, he was anxious too, you could tell from the way his hand was trembling. He was sealing his fate, and you were both going down together. Nothing could bring you back after this ultimate act of blasphemy.
At the foot of the altar, he caressed his lips against yours. “I guess God is our witness now.”
Leaning in, you found yourselves consumed in a lip lock, which deepened with each passing second as you helped each other out of your clothes, kicking them off unceremoniously to the side. He spun you around, bending you forward against the smooth, marble top of the altar. The cold surface caused your nipples to harden and goosebumps to form on your skin. You shivered as he spread your legs wider apart and knelt down, holding your thighs as he licked a firm stripe along your silken folds.
As he continued to lap at the sensitive flesh, he brought a hand towards your clit, stroking it softly with his middle finger. You jerked from the sensation, whimpering as he alternated between thrusting his tongue into your heat and suckling it with his lips. There was a slight pressure as you felt one of his fingers sliding into your pussy, already soaked with arousal. At the same time, his tongue trailed up towards your rim, teasing it with long, flat licks.
“Oh my god!” You gasped, gripping the edge of the altar, as an electrifying tingle coursed through your veins.
There was a playful smack on your ass. “Forgotten the Third Commandment already?” Leon scolded.
“Huh?”
“Taking the Lord’s name in vain,” he mimicked your tone from when you had teased him at the confessional.
“Ugh,” you whined. “I’m sure this is the least of our concerns.”
You felt his hot breath against your asshole before he dipped his tongue in lightly. Simultaneously, he pumped your pussy, pushing in another finger and stretching you out, before his tongue went back to circling around your rim, inciting a string of moans from your mouth.
“Feeling good?”
“Mm, yes,” you replied hoarsely. “But when are you going to fuck me?”
He coughed out a laugh at your bluntness, before imparting a piece of unsolicited advice. “Patience is a virtue.”
You groaned at his quip. “Really, Leon? Are you-”
He interrupted rudely, pressing his hand on your back as he entered you, burying his cock deep into your cunt. You nearly screamed in ecstasy as he pounded his hips against your ass repeatedly, already setting a brutal pace from the beginning. Maybe you should’ve been careful of what you wished for.
“What was that again?” He taunted.
You growled, clenching your jaw as you felt his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin echoed across the space. Your mind fogged up in an insatiable haze as you pushed back rhythmically against his thrusting, allowing him to penetrate you further, and taking pleasure in how his head brushed against your cervix with each stroke.
“So close,” you rasped, your core tightening as if it was about to burst.
At this, he pulled away briefly, flipping you over as he lifted you onto the altar top. He had a bruising grip around your thighs, which you wrapped around his waist instinctively, interlocking your ankles behind his back to draw him closer. Bewitched, he took a moment to drink in the divine sight of your flushed, moist body, supple and wanting in his arms, before kissing you sloppily on the mouth. Pressing his forehead against yours, he asserted, “You don’t know what you do to me, angel.”
With that, he rutted into you relentlessly, your breasts bouncing as you clung to the back of his neck, crying out in rapture. When you finally snapped, a glimmer from the gold cross necklace he wore daily flashed before your eyes. You looped your index finger around it, tugging at it as you peered up at the bleeding face of Christ looking down at you ominously from the crucifix. The last remains of the day’s light filtered through the stained glass behind him, casting a kaleidoscope of mottled colors across your bodies, the altar and the stone floor, like a disease.
You realized you had tempted Leon beyond salvation. But in spite of it, he had followed you willingly. This was the proof he had wanted to show you. You were the angel he would desecrate everything for. He’d cut your wings off so you’d be his and stay.
His cock throbbed with desire as he rode you through your orgasm. As he neared the edge, he pulled out, finishing himself off. Nuzzling his face into your neck, he murmured a mixture of curses and professions against your skin, while spurting hot white cum over the mound of your pussy. Holding onto the marbled structure for support, he bent over you, placing tender kisses on your eyes and your lips.
It seemed as if he had turned his back on God and worshiped you now. But instead of a guilty conscience, you felt nothing but love. Silently, both of you cleaned up and got dressed. He delicately reattached the butterfly clip that had come loose in your hair, while you wiped away the lipstick that had smudged onto his face. There would be no signs of what had transpired, except he had another surprise lined up for you.
Upon exiting the church doors, Leon took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, as you walked out onto the street together. You were his - he’d show you off to the whole damn world without shame.
Pairing: Submissive! Leon Kennedy x Dominant! Fem! Reader
Summary: You and Leon have settled into an alternative relationship with its own set of expectations and boundaries. But what happens when things change and certain feelings come to light? / A sorta sequel to Exhumed.
Content & Warnings: 18+ Pre/Post-Resident Evil 9, character study, angst, some fluff, hurt/comfort, psychological trauma, alcohol, feelings realization, romance, consensual kink, D/s, pet play, muzzles, boot worship, foot fetish, humiliation, choking, smut, masturbation, foot jobs, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving).
AO3 Link
Chapter 2: Pyre
Maybe it was how you were able to compartmentalize, to separate what he had with you from the other aspects of your life. He liked that you didn’t feel the need to question, to demand everything that he could not explain. There was so much that he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. Words that were trapped in his throat, words he was sure would die with him, until you drew them out with every strike, every caress, every tacit kiss. Verbalized as the labored grunts and bated sighs that fell from his mouth, wanting more, more, more—he could fill an entire ocean and even then it would never be enough.
It suited him fine at first; it was the perfect arrangement. You and him, like a dirty little secret he kept under lock and key. A safe space where he could forget to remember, or was it the other way round? He hardly knew anything about you outside of the twilight hours you spent together once every few weeks, maybe longer if he was unlucky.
You, like him, were a private person. In fact, privacy was one of the conditions you had mapped out like a chart from the beginning. One that he had readily accepted, but which now invoked second thoughts.
No prying into each other’s lives. Separate them from kink.
Any personal info should be given of one’s free will. Though the less we know, the better.
Sex should never be treated as an expectation with kink.
You requested that with such self-assurance, such confidence, he was blown away.
“I’m not joking, Leon,” you had warned, popping the cherry from a cocktail into your mouth, teasing the stem apart with your teeth. It aroused a certain hunger in him as he licked his lips.
Even at his age, he could be fickle with anything apart from his job, so much so he assumed he was emotionally stunted. It wouldn’t surprise him, considering his history, which was why he understood your aloofness, your decision to keep things detached. All too acquainted with the struggles of knowing too much, caring too much, the inter- mixing and mingling of feelings that could only belong in one place or another. Without a clear divide, who would you be then? What role should you take on? He would do well to learn from this example.
However, there would always be pieces of oneself that slip past the barrier, no matter how hard you try. Like the time he mentioned he was a government man in passing and the uncontrollable shudder it elicited through your body, catching you off-guard. Yet you said nothing, pretended you hadn’t heard him. You thought he hadn’t noticed, but he did. The mystery gnawed at him, but he held up his end of the bargain and refrained from looking through your records. Only connecting the dots almost a year later, when you had slept together for the first time and his hand inadvertently brushed the knot of an old wound, glaring angrily above your soft belly. He said nothing, just licked into your mouth with a gentleness you hadn’t expected, deepening it with each kiss, until you forgot the reason behind your tension in the first place.
And then there was the look you had given him when he started turning up with a ring on his fourth finger. Out of respect, you never raised the subject, but he could tell that you were distracted. He found himself sharing things with you he couldn’t articulate with anyone else. Was it because of the nature of your relationship? Did the distance in fact make you closer? There was less shame, less fear, less judgment if you didn’t fit into a bond dictated by social norms.
“It’s a family heirloom. I haven’t touched it since the day my folks died. Didn’t think I had a right to a shot at what they had. Didn’t want to remember it. But I guess… things change. Maybe I deserve a life too.”
He had huffed out a nervous and caustic laugh, but the hint of a smile upon your lips eased him and finding it infectious, he couldn’t help breaking into one in return.
With your arrangement being one of the constants in his life, he began to wonder. What lies beyond this? What could it look like? Dare he dream of the unattainable? Did he have your permission? Could he give himself the permission to?
He tested his luck and tried to push for more. After all, things change… right? One night, he brought a suit over, explaining he had a function to attend the next day after your usual rendezvous. Curiously, you watched as he fumbled abysmally with his tie, making excuses about not wearing it often, disliking the feel of having something around his neck. You rolled your eyes. He never complained about the restraints you put him in, so what was he getting at? Tired of observing his endless struggle, you sauntered over to him and with a smug look on your face, snatched the offending object out of his hands before deftly fixing it in place.
It didn’t take much to impress him and soon his mind began to drift. Was there another person in your life? Did you fasten their tie for them regularly? He wanted to shut these thoughts out, but they swam about with wild abandon. As your fingers trailed the lapels of his jacket, his grazed the apple of your cheek, drinking in your scent as he leaned in with a kiss. He could get used to this, he mused.
“You know, I could bring a plus one…” he whispered into the shell of your ear, his voice low and gravelly, charged with desire.
But you waved him off. It was out of the question. “I don’t have a dress prepared anyway,” you added, as if that would deter him.
“Well, how ’bout I drop you off somewhere? My Porsche’s just outside…”
“Leon.”
“What?” he scoffed. “So, I’m guessing that’s a no?”
He sensed your reticence, the way you bit your lip as you shifted away from him. “See you next time, Leon. You know where to find me. I’ll be here, as always.”
After that, he dropped it for a while. And then, life took a turn for the worse.
It was a period where the stars didn’t seem to align for the two of you. Scheduling conflicts, working overtime, every other thing getting in the way—or so you thought. Until he showed up on the next occasion in a wretched state, like an insomniac plagued by stuff viler than nightmares. His windbreaker was zipped up tight and he donned a set of leather gloves, in spite of their impracticality for the warmer temperatures.
What was he thinking, coming over smelling like death? What was he hoping to achieve? Hoping against hope that you would just ignore the obvious? The layers he had peeled back in his submission to you was one thing, unravelling this other side to him was another. He didn’t want you to see him dying; he never wanted that. But something innate compelled him to you and he found himself outside the house, knocking on its door.
You weren’t a fool. From the moment he stepped through the threshold, you realized something was wrong.
“Are you sure about this, Leon?”
He shied away from your gaze, knowing he would break if he saw the look of concern on your face. “Yeah, I’m sure. A hundred percent.”
What he failed to account for was your ability to push too. “Great, ’cause I’m not.”
His brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and disappointment. “Wha—? What do you mean?”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Your voice rose a pitch higher. “What are you hiding?” He’d never heard you like this before. You’d never interrogated him this way.
Instinctively, he went on the defensive. “Hey, no prying, remember?”
“Seriously?” Witnessing the perplexity in his eyes, you sighed in exasperation and strode over, backing him up against the sink counter. He didn’t know how you, like a delicate flower he could crush in his hand, had such power over him.
“I’ve never asked about anything, Leon. Not the scars, not the night terrors, not the absences… Nothing. And frankly, I don’t need to know. I don’t need a hundred percent of the answers. You know that. But this—” You paused, scrambling at first to find the right words, only to give up and let them come out the way they wanted to. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care about you.”
His heart sank. There he was, at the crossroads making a deal with the devil. How would things change between you now? What would happen if he couldn’t keep to his promises? Was whatever the both of you had already in ruins?
A hacking cough pummelled its way through his chest before he had the chance to respond. Twisting his torso to the sink, he cupped a gloved palm over his mouth. He caught your gasp as you unzipped the top half of his jacket to loosen it for him to breathe. Your fingers touched the darkened patch along his neck, bruising like you’ve never seen before, as his own trembled, covered in droplets of blood.
“Did I…” Did I hurt you? Did I do this? But the words died in your throat. “Leon, I—”
He straightened his back, hardening his jaw, knowing he had to get a hold on himself or he’ll never make it out of here. Water gushed from the tap, cleaning away any evidence of him that remained.
“Listen, there’s some things I need to take care of. I might be away for a while.” A silent rage simmered under that deadpan expression of his.
He glanced over towards you and wished he hadn’t. You were staring hard at him, haunted by uncertainty and worry.
“It’s not your fault.” He meant to reassure you, but he sounded like a ghost of a man talking. “Don’t ever blame yourself, you got that?”
“What?” It was more of a plea than a question.
“I— Doesn’t matter. I’ll see you when I do.” Because I don’t know if I’ll ever come back. I don’t know if I could survive it. And if I do, will I be the same again?
It was the best sort of goodbye he could manage as he stormed out the door, disappearing into the pitch-black night.
Written for Prompts of Darkness, hosted by myself and @vampemoqueen!
Prompt - Acceptance. AO3 Link
Forced as Dhampyrs to work together, Hailin and Nobuo have never seen eye to eye. An altercation with a gang lord makes them reflect on old prejudices.
Content Warnings: Blood and violence, injury, cannibalism, racist language, hurt/comfort, references to Mage.
Author’s Note: I’m finally writing for Wynter’s mom! It’s fun exploring her younger days before she became the austere figure her daughter knew. For context: Hailin, Nobuo, Soon-hee, and Wai Mun are a group of Dhampyrs who are under elusive orders from their respective Courts to work together.
They had planned for it, meticulously, leaving little to no room for error. That had to count for something under Nobuo’s lead. He wasn’t one to throw caution to the wind, nor did he suffer fools gladly. Priding himself on precision and perfectionism, he controlled the motley crew of dhampyrs, himself included, with an iron hand, and she hated that.
When Hailin thought of Fujiwara Nobuo, she pictured a bone white room, sharp clean lines, and glass so clear that a single ray of light could pierce through it undistorted. It was as if he had cut out the soul from his shell to stay impeccable and pristine, constantly placing himself on a pedestal above them. She hated him all the more for it, and swore that one day she would cause his ruin. It would be her greatest joy to see the back of him, she believed.
For now, she had to keep her head down and obey, like she always did with her family, the mandarins at Court, and every single being in the impossible order of hierarchies she reported to. Hailin let out a despondent sigh, earning her an irritated scowl from Nobuo, and a raised eyebrow in concern from Soon-hee. Wai Mun was already ahead of them, scouting out the place.
A group of dhampyrs walk into the lion’s den—Bao’s den, to be exact—now what could go wrong? Anyone, and that was everyone, who knew Bao spoke of his name in fear and revered whispers in the seedy underbelly of Hong Kong. These nights, he ran a tight ship, the gang he led were ferocious and brutal, unflinching in the face of death. What made them loyal to a fault? Many wondered, but never found the answer.
Just as they approached, a volley of bullets ripped through the air, and in a flurry of movement, each of them narrowly dodged to avoid them. Taking cover, they returned fire at their assailants.
“How the fuck did they expect us? There wasn’t supposed to be anyone along this passage!” Wai Mun yelled in between shots.
“Wasn’t the surveillance cut?” Soon-hee added.
Nobuo remained stoic, but his lip curled in disdain as he replied, “Someone must have tipped them off.”
From the other end, they heard the thundering of footsteps, men shouting and clamoring as they brandished machetes wildly above their heads. They were being surrounded and ambushed. All routes of entrances and exits that they had so laboriously mapped out were rendered useless in a couple of seconds. It was almost as if the gang had predicted their every move.
Who would have sold them out? Hailin struggled to visualize a name or a face of one of their adversaries. There were plenty, but none of them could have figured it out. They had been careful, hadn’t they?
A thug rushed toward her, but she countered him easily, her combat prowess honed from her years of training since young. Grabbing his machete, she sliced the blade into another man's chest, watching him crumple to the floor as blood sprayed across her blouse.
“Cannon fodder,” she remarked without batting an eyelid, and Nobuo nodded curtly in response. These gangsters had been sent over to harass them and detract the group from their real goal.
Wised up, Wai Mun gestured at a small clearing in the path ahead. “Nab the bastard, Fujiwara. I’ll flush these guys out.”
“I’ll stay and cover you,” Soon-hee declared.
“Hailin, with me!” Nobou barked, as he anticipated a break in the gunfire before dashing across at full pelt.
Finding herself once again stuck with her nemesis, she suppressed a grumble of displeasure as her legs carried her in time with his, following closely behind. The two of them made their way past the horde miraculously unscathed, fighting off any stragglers as they ventured deeper into the nest.
Yet for Hailin, there was something exhilarating about such nights, living life in the fast lane, not knowing if she would get to see another day. It was a feeling of freedom in the loud, bustling city of neon lights, jam-packed traffic, and cramped buildings, away from the stuffy Courts she had served at. She wished it could last forever.
Soon, they encountered what they were looking for. Long shadows danced around the walls as Bao gathered his belongings, while a bunch of his fiercest men stood watch, fingers poised around their cleavers and at the trigger. A severe glance from Nobuo cautioned her. He shook his head to emphasize his warning.
Right on cue, she heard that little voice in her head, the one that returned to her in these moments where she walked a tightrope, egging her on.
Forget him. Do it. You’re so close. Don’t you want to see Bao squirming at your feet like the worm he is? Come on. Do it!
Hailin’s penchant for taking high risks often drew the ire of not only Nobuo, but also her father, who had acknowledged her talent, but disapproved of her recklessness. She wondered where her defiance came from. Was it the luck that her kind possessed? The rush and thrill of gambling with it, as if it would never run out?
And so, she attuned herself to the vibrant scarlet energy in her body, bending it to her will as she focused on a cigarette that one of Bao’s cronies was puffing. The room became enshrouded in a thick cloud of smoke as the men scrambled around, baffled, and coughing violently. Seizing the opportunity, she leaped toward Bao, landing with a roundhouse kick to his neck.
Suddenly, she found herself back at her starting position, crouching next to Nobuo, going through the exact same motions as she had done a minute ago. It was as if her mind couldn’t catch up to the physical pull of her body, except this time, Bao was prepared and evaded her strike, causing her to lose her balance, and fall in a heap to the ground.
What the fuck!
Before Hailin could react, a pair of pallid arms, ice cold to the touch, snaked around her waist. She felt her breath punch out of her lungs as she was yanked flush against a chest, then blow after blow of heavy shotgun shells reverberated through her ribs, but there wasn’t any pain. Turning her head, she came face to face with Nobuo, his skin toughened and corpse-like, having called upon the dead, dark art to shield her.
The surprise in his eyes was evident, as if he couldn’t believe that he had just jumped in, sacrificing himself for her. Time seemed to slow down as she peered at him in astonishment, similarly unable to comprehend what he had done. He could have left her to die, and she wouldn’t even have blamed him for it. It was an easy way to get rid of her, after all, and hadn’t that been what he always wanted?
A raucous blast interrupted her reverie, and they watched wide-eyed as Bao screamed and vanished into thin air, sucked into an invisible vortex. There was something uncanny and vulgar about it, like reality had been warped. Hailin heard tales of these strange, shamanistic folk, whose practices were more prevalent than others in the region. So, as it stood, Bao had actually been one of them? But where had he gone to?
By this point, Nobuo was doubled over, groaning in pain as he soaked up the damage. He didn’t have much more to spare. Through gritted teeth, he commanded, “Go! Take the stuff and get out of here! I’ll regroup with you later!”
“Fuji—”
“Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?” he hissed.
Hailin bit her tongue to prevent herself from lashing out. Shoving her to the side, Nobuo opened fire on the remaining gang members with his uzi. The distraction he had caused bought her time to swipe the items of interest from a nearby counter and book it out of the room. If they couldn’t get Bao this time, at the very least, they would have his curiosities to tamper and trade with.
Halfway through the maze of corridors and hallways, she stopped. A sense of unease built up within her, as no matter how much she had previously convinced herself that she would be happier if he were dead, she couldn’t bring herself to leave her teammate behind. Spinning on her heel, she headed back in the direction from where she came.
Drawing near to the location, it was unusually silent, but as her ears pricked up, Hailin could make out the low sound of growling and snarling. Guardedly, she peeked into the room and the sight in front of her made her gasp. Blood and viscera stained Nobuo’s mouth, shirt, and hands, as he feasted on one of the men that he had put down next to him. His jagged teeth chewed into flesh, and spindly claws gripped his knife as he carved it into the victim’s bowels.
He behaved like a rabid dog in his bloodlust, and her P’o lurched forward both in fear and excitement, recognizing one of its own. Hailin covered her mouth in shock. Never in a million years had she thought that someone like Nobuo, who carried himself with such nobility and esteem, would debase himself to such a nature. Alerted to her presence, he finally looked up and met her eyes in a mixture of fury, terror, and defeat.
Having suffered grievous wounds from his altercation with Bao and his men, and running low on the life force he needed to mend them, Nobuo found himself in a precarious position. He was incapacitated with the final bullet in his chamber emptied. Consuming other humans for their Chi was a quick and dirty solution he reserved for situations like these. It was something that filled him with shame, but as long as no one knew, he could tuck it away in a box and never speak of it.
Instead, his crimes had finally caught up to him. The deities were enraged, sending that girl he detested over to mock and brand him as a demon worshipper. Such as his luck would have it. Nobuo let out a bitter laugh as he leaned his head against a pillar.
Who was the ‘dirty savage’ now? he questioned ruefully, recalling the insult he had hurled at her, as well as the ones she spat back during their first meeting. All because they were born on the opposing sides of history.
However, Hailin stood rooted to the ground, staring at him, unblinking. He couldn’t read her thoughts and it made him furious.
“What are you waiting for? Now’s your chance,” Nobuo challenged. He would accept whatever fate was to befall him head-on, honorably and without a shadow of a doubt.
At this, she twisted her mouth and strode toward him. Stooping to his level, she draped his arm over her shoulders, lifting him to his feet and escorting him out. From a safe distance, Hailin set off a homemade explosive to get rid of the traces of evidence before escaping. Nobuo stumbled into her side, limping as she guided him through the passageways. Brows furrowed in a haze of confusion, he blabbered on in protest.
“Shut up!” she snapped, dragging him along more forcefully.
He relented, his constitution still frail and weakened from the fight. By the time Hailin reached Soon-hee and Wai Mun, Nobuo had slipped into unconsciousness. She felt for his pulse, and it was faint, but still present.
“What the hell happened?” Soon-hee exclaimed, assisting Hailin by propping Nobuo up on the other side. Her gaze darted from his grisly, ensanguined face to the gaping holes that riddled his body. Wai Mun was looking on similarly.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Hailin replied tersely, burying his secret with her. “Bao’s disappeared. Some sort of shaman, I think, but we have his trinkets.”
“Right.” Wai Mun nodded, hurrying them toward a getaway van before hopping into the driver’s seat. “We need to beat it. The police will be here any second.”
They shuffled in and tore off the road at breakneck speed, leaving the wails of sirens and their flashing lights behind.
Back at the safehouse, Nobuo drifted in and out of wakefulness over the next few days, gradually recovering as he felt his vitality return to him. Now and then, he heard the murmur of voices of whom he assumed were his associates, caught a blurry glimpse of someone by his side, and picked up the subtle scent of the sea and jasmine.
He dreamed of home and longed for it. The serenity he found in its harsh landscape, rural and unspoiled. The crashing of waves, the white blanket of snow, and the chill in the air that gripped his bones, offering him solace and clarity. Not like the noisy and pungent smells of a city he didn’t belong to, in which he felt so foreign and alone, despite its dense crowds. He had been sent to prove himself, needing to be strong, and never showing an ounce of weakness. Because he was perfect. He always was.
Eventually, when Nobuo roused, he saw the last person he expected in the room with him. For a while, Hailin noticed as he observed her in confoundment and curiosity, but paid him no mind, continuing to busy herself with dressing his wounds, which had mostly healed. She could sense his mistrust in the way he stilled and shrank away from her, as if this were a trap that she had laid out for him.
After a bout of silence, Nobuo sat himself upright. Clearing his throat, he suggested, “You want something in exchange. Is that it?”
He was smart, Hailin had to admit that at least. It wasn’t too far out from what she might have done, had it been under different circumstances. He knew how she played her games, toyed with her subjects like chess pieces, infiltrating them one by one, without them realizing that they had been deceived.
“Sometimes, you do what you have to do, Fujiwara. I’m sure we both know that very well…” she began. Rising from his bedside, she went over to the sink and let the faucet run. Cold water splashed onto her hands, washing them clean. She waited until she had turned the tap off before continuing.
“I’m not telling anyone and there’s no price attached.”
Nobuo uttered a scoff in disbelief as he shifted his gaze away, looking out the window. It was all tarmac, chipped paint, and concrete. Dull and gaudy collectively. “Why?” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Why are you helping me?”
An audible sigh fell from her lips. Her shoulders slumped and she let her head loll before pulling herself together and regarding him.
“I don’t know,” Hailin responded truthfully. “I should hate you for what your people did to mine, but who’s saying that? Do I really hate you or am I forced to because of somebody else’s hate? Does it make sense? I just… I don’t see why. When you saved me back there, what made you? What made you think of me as anything more than Chinese scum? Do you really believe in that? I called you a devil—”
“A Japanese devil,” Nobuo interjected, though the ghost of a wry smile appeared on his face.
Hailin huffed in exasperation. “Yes, that. I don’t even know what it means anymore. Do you? It’s just words I’m constantly repeating, and I don’t think I feel…” she broke off, holding her breath as she searched his eyes desperately for an answer. Weren’t they the same? Cut them both, and they would bleed.
Her face had gotten hot with embarrassment, a reaction she experienced every time she had an outburst like this. Like a reminder of her vulnerability that she had failed to rein in, to keep her emotions in check. On the one hand, she envied how calm and composed Nobuo seemed, yet on the other, he felt most human to her when she had witnessed him at his lowest.
“I don’t think I can hate you, Hailin,” he said softly. “And believe me, I’ve tried.”
She nodded, understanding the conflict that he had endured with a certain intimacy. Brushing aside the strands of hair from her face, Hailin gave a hint of a smile. Then, she bent her head, saying, “I’m sorry,” even though it came unnaturally to her.
In a similar fashion, Nobuo bowed slightly to acknowledge it, his deep brown eyes reflecting hers. “I apologize.”
There was a hesitance and stiltedness to it, but it was a start.
Pairing: Submissive! Leon Kennedy x Dominant! Fem! Reader
Summary: In a special arrangement you share, Leon processes his fears around the loss of agency, death and dying, and the choices he has made that led him here.
Content & Warnings: Character study, consensual kink, D/s, bondage, wax play, burns, face slapping, angst, suicidal thoughts, suggestive themes.
Author's Note: It’s been a hot minute folks, but I just had to exorcise this out of me ;p Thank you @alibellerosetta and @vampemoqueen for encouraging my initial draft to come to fruition.
Title from Exhumed by Zola Jesus.
AO3 Link
How he came into this arrangement with you, he could never quite recall. In the manner of a hazy dream, it had slipped his mind gradually upon waking. The more time passed, the more it bled through the cracks of forgetfulness into the void. Maybe he didn’t want to remember, it was too absurd. That, or the shame plagued him.
Shame. Such a simple, yet pervasive word. The same with guilt. They went hand in hand.
He had a vastness within him to fill so that they may never run out. There was always a place they could return to in the hollow crevice that was his body. But lately, he noticed a shift in where they took hold, their vice-like grip softening, melding, becoming a part of his own. A voice that grew smaller and smaller until it was no more than a murmur of his heart.
On his hands and knees he waited, the coarse blanket of sandy grit roughing up his skin, a myriad of pinprick dimples and ruddy red. There was a numbness growing in his joints, but he kept perfectly still. Even in the tangy, humid air, moisture seeping in from the overgrown forest that surrounded the shack. A tropical heat that made his sweat pour from the curve of his back, streaking across his hips before falling like raindrops onto the pallid wooden floor. He watched as more drops fell, from his dampened hair, the weathered lines of his forehead, his stained cheeks, forming a puddle before him. He thought he could see his reflection in its surface, distorted and torn.
From the corner of the room, he could hear your footsteps and a light scraping that resembled the tick of the clock in his mind as he counted down the hours. The hours of waiting for you. The days and weeks when you were apart. And now, still waiting, patient as an old dog in this lonesome house, where you swept up the bones of birds and twigs, a layer of dust coating the pots and pans that rested by a wood-burning stove. Who used this place in between your bouts of absence? Who even knew of it?
Were you aware that he could tell where you were by the long shadows cast across the walls? In the flickering candlelight, the brush of your dress, the mellow hum that fell from your lips. He could rip your pretty throat out anytime he wished, with or without the chains that kept him bolted to the floor. So what was stopping him?
What was stopping him from not doing as he was told? Serving the egos of men who compelled and abused him. For a morsel of freedom, for justice, for absolution. He almost laughed at how preposterous it sounded. Something-something dubious. He knew they were fucking with him, but he couldn’t stop. Pulped, milled, and worn down into familiarity. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. It occurred to him that he had always been free to choose. Death could come so easy…
“Leon!” It chided him like a sharp rap on the knuckles. He craned his neck, looking up to meet your stern gaze regarding him with a downturned smile. “You’re miles away.”
He frowned, wincing, creasing the wrinkles around his eyes as he shook his head in mock protest.
“Don’t lie to me,” you warned.
“I’m not.”
That seemed to satisfy you as you strode towards him with a sense of purpose and decisiveness, and he was glad he didn’t have to be the one in the driver’s seat tonight. Where others had asked him to lead a horde of men. Faceless men who would go into battle and die. He wanted to dig deep into the earth until dirt caked under his nails, find a spring where he could wash the blood off his hands. He was sorry and he wasn’t sorry. How could it have been all his fault? Eventually they wisened up, making him work alone because then the only one he could kill was himself.
God bless America, God bless—
The air hissed out of his lungs, gut winded, as you grabbed his face, digging your fingers into his stubbled jaw until it ached.
“Tell me to stop.”
He never thought someone could match his icy blues, but yours pierced him whole. Left him naked and bare on the floor, shivering in his own mess. Nothing slips past you. Not even the walls of charm he built to house his spite, not even the bad jokes he cracked as red herrings, not even the drunken blur of evenings from one job to the next and the next.
“No.”
With you, he could stand firm. He had a voice. It sighed in relief as you shoved his face into the ground, pressing your foot against his cheek, testing, then trampling harder and harder still, soiling his tears as he strained against his fetters.
Hand wrapped around a tilted candle, flame licking the wax clean as it dripped across his chest in an enduring scarlet bloom. You varied the height and time it took to fall, hearing his muffled keening against your heel, writhing helplessly along the floor as the wood creaked noisily.
He felt the fire singe the flaxen hairs of his skin, a fleeting, acrid smell of burning, and he licked his parched lips. Surrendering to his fear of the loss of control or the lack of it, knowing in himself that he could accept all that was to come. His body wasn’t his, it had never been, and he would be happy to relinquish it in exchange for a moment’s respite.
A little while later, just before it became too much with the flashbacks and horrors of an invisible war, where people walked, obvious and pliant, into a raging inferno, the weight against his head dissipated and he could breathe easy again. He released short, rapid huffs as you loomed above, bent over his frame on all fours, merely inches away from touching. Desire enveloped itself around him, fecund and swollen, his hands clenching into tightly balled fists. It was perverse, this desire, but he was done with shame. He welcomed it so, like a long-lost friend, into his home filled with cobwebs and flies.
Come in.
Sit.
I’ve been waiting for you.
You were peering at him like a hawk, cocking your head as your eyes narrowed, mouth twisting like a cruel mistress. He had to beg to keep going. “Please, please… I want—”
“You want.”
“I need—” he quivered, swallowing a shaky breath to compose himself. “I need this. I’ll do anything.” Don’t deny him, please.
You hushed him, trailing a nail down the length of his face, peeling back his flesh to see his teeth. Bleached, straight, perfect. Like a doll who wanted to be real. He jolted as a swift slap landed across his cheek, the anticipation fuelling the surprise.
“Again,” he gasped. And the strike that followed made his ears ring.
He bit his lip and laughed, which turned into a strangled cry as you dipped your tongue towards his abdomen, tasting the sour of his grime and sweat. You lapped up broad, thick strips along his torso, feeling the ridges of cooled wax and his muscles stiffen with contact. A low groan reverberated at his throat as he bucked his hips upwards in frustration, marking your belly with the wet, musky stench of manhood and wild game.
You pinned his shoulders down forcefully, glaring into the fervid devotion in his eyes. A blinding blue, a frostbitten landscape, a cold hell that burned.
“I’m not fucking you, Leon.”
“Uncuff me and we’ll see how long it takes for you to eat your words,” he spat, teeth gritting into a crooked smirk.
You pushed yourself off him haughtily, giving nothing away as you stood up, stepping to the side. The pitiful whine he emitted made it worthwhile.
“You know you are always free to leave.”
His brows furrowed, thinking something was amiss. And then it came to him, like another forgotten dream. With a soft click, the shackles that had bound him slipped off. He had never been stuck here, tied to the house, his corpse rotting with the maggots in a shallow grave. He knew how to get out, the choices he had made, and he was willing to stay.
Crawling to his feet, he went around cautiously, blowing the candles out one by one, until the entire place was shrouded in darkness. You waited as he found his way over to you, letting in the touch of his body through the dead of night.
