"if i'm not inside her — it doesn't count" — the only thought existing in caleb's head when your embrace goes a little further.
"if i'm clothed — it doesn't count" — you keep convincing yourself, lying on your side, your back pressed to caleb's chest, rubbing against him. his fingers, trembling with arousal, dig into your hips with an obvious desire to pull you even closer.
he hates and thanks that tiny barrier between you in the form of pajamas. even though your underwear is soaked through, and your breaths have blended into one, echoing your quickening heartbeats that have entered a symbiosis — it still doesn't count.
because if it does count — caleb won't survive the realization of what he has become. what he has always been.
when you deliberately arch your lower back, caleb whimpers muffled into your neck, nuzzles like a blind puppy. he presses his hips into yours a little harder, and you feel him — throbbing, hot, desperately hard.
"we aren't…" he starts hoarsely, but you rub against him slightly differently, and the words crumble in his throat into a quiet moan. "we're not…"
caleb squeezes his eyes shut until colorful spots bloom under his eyelids. he's scared. so scared that he's ready to burst into tears from how much he wants you, how wrongly, filthily, utterly shamelessly he loves you.
"we're not crossing the line," you believe this spell should protect you both from the truth. "don't stop… i can't without you…"
your hand rests on his hip and gently nudges — forward, toward you, more. he obeys, helplessly rocking his hips to the rhythm of your movements, pressing his face into the back of your head, kissing your vertebrae with dry lips. your bodies move together under the blanket, trying to merge into one whole, to grow into each other and disappear in the shared warmth.
you know you're just as ruined as caleb believes himself to be. you know he thinks he has tainted you. but the truth is you're both soaked in the same shame, the same hunger — and if caleb is a monster, so are you.
the fabric will disappear one day, you'll both accept each other fully and stop hiding. and then it will count.
sylus's neck and shoulders had been hurting. he never admitted it, rarely complained, and preferred to laugh it off every time you asked him about it.
your worry over him reached its peak when, during a kiss, you stood on tiptoe holding his hands, and he leaned down and hissed. the kiss happened, but it ended with your brows knitting together.
"that's enough," your voice came out far firmer than you'd planned.
sylus froze, one brow arching in his usual mocking manner. his lips twitched into a smirk that couldn't quite hide the tension lurking in his eyes.
"sit down," you pointed at the edge of the couch. "this isn't working."
"oh? are we staging a rebellion?"
"care, sylus. for your shoulders."
he hesitated. his fingers unconsciously reached for the back of his neck — a gesture he immediately tried to disguise as adjusting his collar.
"it's just a bit of stiffness, kitten. your paranoia is making a dragon out of a fly," the attempt to brush it off sounded lazy, almost convincing. almost.
you stepped closer, giving him no escape route.
"my paranoia wants to make sure the two-meter lord of the criminal underworld doesn't develop a chronic spasm from bending over me like a weeping willow. sit. or i'll call luke and kieran and tell them their boss needs physical therapy. can you imagine their faces?"
the threat involving the twins worked flawlessly — sylus rolled his eyes with the air of a martyr being forced to attend a charity tea party, and lowered himself onto the edge of the couch. he sat straight, a taut string ready to snap at any touch, and at your command took off his shirt.
"i don't bite," you moved behind his back, knees pressing into the black upholstery on either side of the man.
"pity," came the reply with a slight rasp. "i wouldn't have minded."
you snorted and carefully placed your palms on his shoulders. the first movement was timid — you simply squeezed your fingers, testing the density of the knotted muscles. he didn't flinch.
"harder," he suddenly asked. you increased the pressure, ran the edge of your palm along his spine, and sylus made a sound.
"oh my god," you whispered, unable to hold back a smile, "you're purring."
"don't stop."
you had no intention of stopping. your fingers knew their work — untangled knot after knot, stroked, pressed, released. sylus breathed slower and slower, tension draining away. his head tilted forward of its own accord, chin touching his chest, and silver strands of hair spilled down, baring his defenseless neck to you.
your fingertips gently traveled from the base of his skull downward to his shoulders, tracing each vertebra. your thumbs returned to two symmetrical points at the nape of his neck and pressed, slowly, in a spiral motion, screwing peace deep into his massive body.
sylus let out a long, vibrating exhale that turned into a groan. you spread your palms wider, capturing the trapezius muscles, kneading them from his neck to the very edges of his shoulders, picturing how with every movement you drew out the exhaustion and deep-seated tension.
"you know what's ironic?" sylus murmured. "i can buy any clinic with the best masseurs, but i only truly relax when a brave kitten decides i need care."
you smiled, about to answer with something tender and teasing, but didn't get the chance. his hand, resting relaxed on his knee, shot up, hot fingers wrapping around your wrist. the world gently swayed before your eyes, and the next moment you were sitting sideways on his lap, snugly settled in the circle of his arms. sylus softly kissed your forehead.
"thank you, sweety," he breathed into your hair. "once again you've pinned me with your bare hands."
"you can always just ask," you ran your palm over his warm chest, settling more comfortably in his embrace and resting your head on his strong shoulder. "i will never hurt you."
vampire leon х vampire wife
warnings: SMUT, au, murder, blood, blood play
word count: 2.8k
english is not my first language
summary: choose happiness in immortality
Choose a black suit and a matching tie. And don't forget to iron a crisp white shirt, paying meticulous attention to the collar.
Leon fastens his watch on his wrist, adjusts his sleeves, and smooths out the folds of his jacket. He has plenty of time.
He tucks a handkerchief into his breast pocket and puts on his most comfortable pair of shoes. Before heading out, Kennedy always downs a cocktail of donor plasma, fortified with iron and herbs, in one gulp to dull his hunger for the first three hours of the hunt. The taste is disgusting, reminiscent of medicine, but if he steps outside absolutely empty, he might lose control and turn the sidewalk into a bloodbath.
Choose the hunt for humans and beasts. Choose to sink your teeth into wrists and necks, to tear skin, to immobilize your prey, and reach the delicate arteries.
Leon runs his tongue over his fangs, elongated with anticipation, the moment he catches the scent of someone else's fear in the air, stirring his cold, stagnant veins. Kennedy crushes the bones of murderers, thieves, and deceitful politicians, delighting in taking their souls, stripping them of their right to exist and pollute the world along with their blood.
Leon Scott Kennedy, in life and in death, will always be a gentleman of strict principles. He doesn't work for the Department just for show. He couldn't care less about pensions and accolades. The government has long suspected that their elite agent is more than just a lucky and talented operative, but they turn a blind eye as long as he delivers results. The corpses of bad guys with distinctive bite marks are written off as victims of wild dogs or deranged vagrants.
Tonight is a special occasion: Leon has the purest blood for dinner, untainted by drugs, cheap whiskey, or disease. An aristocratic whelp who decided that laws are only for the black-boned, and that he is allowed to traffic children under the shield of diplomatic immunity. The senator's mansion is packed with guards, its security system rivals the budget of a small town, and the politician himself is convinced he is untouchable.
There are no untouchables. There are only those who have yet to meet a hungry Kennedy.
Leon takes out the guards one by one, without biting, refusing to spoil his appetite on terrified security personnel who'd dreamed their whole lives only of a steady paycheck.
The main target was found hunched in an armchair in his redwood-paneled study. Leon walks in without knocking, glances around quickly, and raises a skeptical eyebrow at the large painting on the central wall.
"Good evening, Senator. Can't sleep?"
The politician presses himself into the chair, begins to tremble minutely, while Leon lazily approaches and places a hand on the back of an empty chair, pulling it out to sit down opposite him.
"Kennedy? How the fuck did you... Guards!"
"Asleep," Leon replies calmly, adjusting his tie knot. "I'd suggest replacing your head of security."
"You wouldn't dare touch me, you pup!" the senator hisses, jumping up and trying to find the panic button under the desk. "I have diplomatic immunity, connections at the very top, I'm..."
"...you smell delicious," Kennedy interrupts, drawing the air through his nose. "No filth in your blood. You're so afraid of being poisoned by your rivals that you stick to a clean diet and spring water. Good job. Saved the best cut for me."
The politician grabs a heavy bronze statuette from the desk, swings it, but Leon catches his wrist before he can even blink. A crunch. The senator opens his mouth in a silent scream, his arm falling limp, the statuette rolling across the carpet.
A sharp movement — his neck breaks with a dry snap, the victim goes limp, head thrown back, eyes glazing over as they stare at the painted ceiling.
A quick death for such an animal might seem merciful, but someone important simply dislikes it when the food becomes too bitter, so Kennedy strives to do everything quickly and flawlessly before the blood boils with adrenaline and cortisol.
Leon circles the senator's chair, removes his jacket and tosses it onto the paper-strewn desk, rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, baring his strong forearms with bluish veins beneath pale skin. He fumbles with the watch clasp, taking it off and setting the accessory aside with his jacket. The work ahead is messy, and he doesn't want an errant drop to stain the white fabric or the durable steel.
The meal hangs limp in the chair, the broken vertebra no longer supporting the head. Leon stares for a couple of seconds at the carotid artery pulsing under the skin — a perfect presentation, but drinking from there would leave marks that even the most corrupt coroner couldn't blame on feral dogs. Blinking back the hungry darkness, Kennedy pulls a knife from his belt. He finds the point under the jaw where the jugular vein comes closest to the surface. A short motion — and dark blood pours into the waiting neck of a flask. Leon steadies the victim's head, ensuring the stream doesn't splatter. The first flask fills quickly, the second slightly slower as the pressure weakens.
The heart demanded more effort. Having cut open the shirt and felt for the intercostal space, the knife slips in between the third and fourth ribs, the line of incision from the armpit to the middle of the sternum, then across. Leon bends the tissues aside, revealing the ribcage. The ribs crunch under the pressure of his hands, spreading apart to expose the thoracic cavity. The predator does everything carefully so that the fragments don't damage the main course of the evening.
Cold fingers close around the heart — still warm, the last drops of blood trickle down his palm. A light twist of the wrist — the aorta detaches, the pulmonary arteries, and then the heavy, wet lump lands in a prepared plastic container with a screw-on lid.
The figure no longer breathes. Pale, glued to the chair by his own spine, with a carved-out empty chest and ribs jutting in all directions.
The man unhurriedly wipes his fingers with a handkerchief, the cloth lovingly soaking up the remaining blood from his ring. The watch returns to the wrist, the jacket settles on his shoulders, the food container and the flask of drink pressed against his broad chest.
"Have a pleasant stay," Leon casts one last bored glance at the senator before leaving, not bothering to clean up. "Say hello to those downstairs."
Choose to become a family man, to love and be faithful to one single woman. And don't forget to spoil her, sharing a crystal glass of thick blood.
Leon approaches Mrs. Kennedy from behind. She is seated on a soft chair at her vanity, carefully gliding her lipstick over her thin lips by touch. He places a hand on the back of the chair, hooks his index and middle fingers beneath her black silk shawl, and draws it down. She hears him — he knows she does — because she doesn't so much as flinch when the first of a million future kisses lands on her cold, pale shoulder.
She turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth, where his fangs have already retracted, hidden away, because at home Leon is not a hunter.
A hundred heavy, burgundy roses with matte petals, bound by a dark green ribbon, come to rest atop a lace doily on the table, eclipsing the perfume bottles and luxury cosmetics. Water glistens on the curves of the buds; one stem bends ever so slightly under its weight.
Mrs. K traces a manicured finger over the nearest bloom — the petals are cool, dense, and smell of undying love. She lifts her gaze to the empty space in the mirror above the bouquet, to the place where her and her husband's reflection ought to be.
Choose a life lived by night, a life without silver and mirrors. Do not look at the sun, even through thick curtains — curiosity is never worth the pain it takes for eyes to heal afterward.
Before melancholy dares to draw her gaze and her dead heart into its snare, Leon extends his hand, palm up, inviting her to rise. Blinking away the haze, she finally smiles.
"A beautiful bouquet."
"For my beautiful wife."
She lays her fingers in his palm. Leon squeezes them gently and draws her upward — she rises gracefully, the silk of the shawl sliding over her shoulders and coming to rest in the crook of her elbow.
On the table, the roses drop the first bead of water from a petal onto the lace.
"Is it this many because we've been together a hundred years?" Her lips trail tenderly along his jaw, leaving a sticky trace on his stubble. His free hand curls around her waist, slides down to the small of her back, pulling her precious figure closer to his chest.
"A hundred and five, to be precise," Leon smiles a blissful half-smile, pressing a kiss to his wife's temple while breathing in the scent of her hair. "You've lost count again. You really ought to start keeping a diary, darling, if mathematics refuses to cooperate."
She scoffs. Leon's smile widens as the love of his immortal life retaliates by lightly nibbling the skin of his jaw.
"I have one. On every page, it says my husband is an ancient bore."
"I'm flattered."
The couple savors half of the meal in one of the many dining rooms scattered throughout their family nest. Mrs. Kennedy divides the heart into pieces, habitually placing the largest cut onto her husband's porcelain plate. Compliments mingled with affection slip from both their lips, and the plated keeper of another's passions becomes less and less appealing as the cardiac supper progresses, eclipsed by the figure seated opposite.
The first drop of rain strikes the cornice. The moon breaks through the leaden clouds, spilling milky pools across the floor. The weather forecast in the morning report had promised a night storm of passion and intimacy, the kind destined to leave crimson smears on a set of pristine white bedding.
"The occasion hinted that we should break out the crystal."
Leon passes his wife a glass filled with blood. He lazily holds a second one in his own fingers, taking a testing sip.
A second drop shatters against the windowsill, a third strikes the glass — and the downpour crashes against the mansion in an unbroken wall. Crystal clinks against dark marble as the glasses empty and remain standing on the table.
Leon catches his wife by the waist, his fingers gliding over the silk of her shawl, and he leads her through an enfilade of rooms, past the drawing room with its extinguished candelabras, past the library where the rain drums against the stained glass, washing the stars from the sky. In the bedroom, only the nightlight burns — an amber circle on the bedside table. In its meager glow, Mrs. K's skin seems carved from ivory.
He sits her down on the edge of the massive bed and lowers himself beside her. The linen beneath her crackles with starched folds. His fingers find the ties of her dress and pull — the fabric slips from her shoulders, revealing more moles, her collarbones, the hollow between them, the thin line of veins beneath her skin.
She exhales, her eyes fluttering shut.
She wants to straddle him, wrap her legs around his waist, coat his fingers in her moisture, or coyly shift up to his face and rub against his nose and tongue. To feel his stubble tickling the insides of her thighs, his fingers squeezing her round buttocks, drawing her sweet core closer.
Yet, lying on her back, feeling the caress of her vertebrae against the sheets and the intent gaze of blue eyes above her, Mrs. Kennedy finds that very much to her taste as well.
"Come to me."
She hooks the belt of his trousers and pulls him toward her, making him press between her legs.
The bedding bunches, her hair spills in a cascade over the pillow. Leon looms above her, resting on his forearms, studying her face — the moonlight sharpens her features, lifts her cheekbones, darkens her lips. A vein pulses at her temple, and he leans in, pressing his mouth to it, feeling her borrowed immortality beat beneath his tongue.
"Honey, I'm so thirsty," Mrs. K reaches for his neck, leaves a trail of cold kisses on his skin, her arms winding around his broad shoulders, her neat nails tracing between his shoulder blades, pulling him closer.
Leon bares his throat to her, growls, and presses his forehead into the pillow beside her shoulder the moment her fangs sink into the arch of his aorta. Her moan silences the pain, blesses him with lightness, and urges him to seize her milk-white thighs, sheathed in nylon stockings. Every swallow of his blood she takes echoes as a pleasant heat in his groin.
The liquid ruby could have continued to boil and churn, trapped within the confines of his veins, but instead it trickles in scarlet rivulets down her chin, pools in the hollow above her collarbone, and spreads into the valley between her breasts. Her fingers squeeze his shoulders harder, her nails dig in, leaving pale crescents in his marble flesh.
Mrs. K tears herself away from his neck, licks the scarlet from her lower lip, her eyes burning like amber flame in the half-dark. Leon feels a thin trickle roll down his trapezius muscle and disappear into the collar of his once-pristine white shirt. It no longer matters.
He licks a trail up from her solar plexus to her throat and feels the muscles quiver beneath his tongue.
"You're so generous tonight," she whispers, running the tip of her tongue over a fang. "Didn't even hiss."
Mrs. K arches her back; her hips find his waist on their own, squeeze, and pull him closer. Leon smirks into the curve of her neck, brushes his nose along her jawline, slides his palms down her ribs, hooks his hands under her buttocks, and in one fluid motion flips her over — she lands in his lap, face to face, her legs on either side of his hips.
Leon finds the ties at the small of her back and tugs; the fabric slides further down, baring her back, her shoulder blades, the vertebrae he aches to count with his lips. He pulls the dress to her waist, exposing her breasts, the dark beige nipples already pebbled from the cold of his hands. His palm covers one, his fingers squeeze — the soft flesh obediently spills between them. His wife exhales and squirms right on his cock, which grows heavier with every movement and strains against the fabric of his trousers.
Leon tips his head back, exhaling sharply through his teeth. Her thighs squeeze tighter, the rough nylon mesh of her stockings chafing against the seams of his trousers. Mrs. K places her palms on his chest, pressing her fingers into the folds of his shirt.
"You're wearing far too much," she whispers, straightening his collar to bare the collarbones marked by the traces of her own lips.
Lightning fractures the sky outside the window while they tear the remnants of clothing from each other, while the undergarments fly to the floor, while their shadows intertwine on the wall in a single greedy motion. His palm glides lower; his fingers enter her — slowly, one, then two. Inside, she is hot, slick; the muscles clench and draw him in. She arches her back, her moan growing louder, breaking into a sob. Leon feels her blood pounding in her temples, in the tips of his fingers with which he is preparing her for the act of love.
The base of his palm presses softly against her clit, offering additional stimulation that makes her vision go dark. Her pupil swallows the iris, pushing the color into a thin amber ring. His fingers move inside her with measured strokes: a deep thrust, pressure against the front wall with two phalanges, a wave back. Mrs. Kennedy catches this rhythm with her hips, impaling herself deeper, squeezing tighter around him with each motion. Her arms wrap around her husband's broad shoulders, and she moans softly near his right temple, her mouth slightly open, her eyes glazed and half-closed. The wet sounds mingle with the thunderclaps; the sheet beneath them has long since twisted into a rope.
"More," the demand sinks into a whisper, born of how little she is being given right now and how much is promised later.
In the circle of light from the nightlight, he watches her wrap her hand around her husband's cock, trace from the base to the tip with her thumb, gather the beading moisture, and bring it to her lips. Leon follows the movement of each phalanx, the way her tongue touches the pad of her finger, the way her lashes flutter at his taste.
"Sweet," she mouths, and that decides everything.
Mrs. K wraps her arms around his neck and rises on her knees. Leon grips her under her buttocks, helping her find the right angle; the head presses against her hot, slick core, and she sinks down — slowly, wringing a moan from her own throat that is drowned out by a roll of thunder. Her inner muscles clamp down on his not-yet-fully-hard length, squeezing tight from the base to the tip. Leon exhales through his teeth, his head falling back against the headboard; his Adam's apple jerks beneath the pale skin crisscrossed with the marks of her fangs. His palms settle on her waist, his thumbs pressing into her prominent hipbones as she begins to move on top of him.
His fangs itch; the hunger for her churns deep in his chest, but he endures, digging his nails into her buttocks again, helping her find a rhythm that pleases her. The ends of her hair caress his knees whenever she tosses her head back. Her breasts bounce with each thrust of his hips into her, her nipples hard and aroused, begging for his mouth. Leon leans forward, catches one with his lips, sucks it in, bites just enough to make her cry out and clench around him even tighter.
"Sweet."
Moonlight stripes her back, illuminating her shoulder blades jutting like wings beneath porcelain skin. He runs his palms up her sides — from her waist to her chest, circles her nipples with his thumbs, squeezes, while she moans his name into the curve of his neck.
A wet slap, another — the rhythm gains density.
A greedy bite, another — blood floods his mouth and trickles down their collarbones, chests, and torsos.
Leon pulls back, his cheek and chin smeared with deep scarlet, and reaches for her lips to weave their tongues and the tastes of one another into a single whole.
"I can feel you," she whispers brokenly between kisses, her palms smearing the ruby trails across his powerful body. "I adore seeing your gaze… when you are this hungry."
"Veins aren't enough… I want to take you entirely."
Leon tilts her onto her back in one fluid motion. The pillow catches her head, her long hair spreading over the pillowcase like black silk. His hips wedge between hers, spreading her trembling knees wider. The head of his cock slides up and down her slick, swollen folds, gathering wetness, teasing her clit with fleeting touches, making her sob from sensitivity and impatience. The nylon of her stockings rustles against his sides as Mrs. K wraps her legs around her husband's waist and pulls him closer.
He sinks in to the very hilt. A ragged moan escapes her lips, which Leon catches with his mouth, swallows, and returns along with his own growl. His hips immediately set a deep, heavy pace; inside her, it is soft and exquisite, her muscles pulsing, squeezing, drawing every drop of self-control out of him.
"Look at me," he rasps, tenderly stroking her head with a hand trembling from an excess of emotion, while his other takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. A bloody mark of a kiss remains on the rose gold of her wedding band.
Mrs. K opens her eyes. In his wife's gaze, Leon sees an entire eternity, one he has dedicated to kissing those sweet lips, holding that beloved hand, and moving inside her body. Everything that came before her seems a paltry draft.
Her nails rake down his back, leaving burgundy stripes along his shoulder blades to his ribs. The blood wells up slowly, in thick beads, and Leon groans as the pain rips the pleasure open from within. He drives deeper, harder, catching the rhythm of her hips as they meet every thrust.
There is no clean patch left on the white sheets: just crimson smears, splashes, and the imprints of palms and thighs.
"Come on, gorgeous, once more… bite me again."
She traces a disordered path of smeared kisses from his jaw to his shoulder before sinking her fangs directly into the muscle. Pain ignites like a white flame, instantly dissolved into ecstasy.
The blood of one's maker always tastes sweeter when you drink it for pleasure.
The spouses move in a single harmony, heart to heart through their ribs, and every drop that leaves a body returns with a kiss, making their heads spin more than wine. They drink from each other in unison — swallow for swallow, thrust for thrust — drawing closer to release.
Mrs. K tears him and herself to pieces, and then Leon gently catches the fragments, reassembling them back into the immortal.
She cannot take her hands off him; her palms wander over his broad back, shoulders, and forearms, gathering the tremors and wiping away the streaks of blood. Leon covers her face with kisses: her chin, the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth again, which now responds with a weak movement of her lips. There is not even a breath of distance between them — everything has become shared, just like their blood, just like the slowly fading pulse where their bodies are still joined. Moonlight glides over their entwined figures, turning them into a marble sculptural grouping in which it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Happy anniversary, darling."
Satisfaction spreads like a warm weight through the chest, where a heart long stilled no longer beats, yet still loves.
The rain has washed the last stars from the sky, but in the Kennedys' bedroom, the weather is always the same — a sanguine calm after the storm.
He never leaves you alone after intimacy if he senses you need support. Sylus always makes sure to give you a kiss on your sweaty forehead, breathing compliments and praise right into your skin. He strokes your back, using his fingertips to gather the lingering tremors in your body and savours your satisfied expression.
After a shared orgasm (you usually get at least two per session), your man doesn't let you take a single step on your own, preferring to lift you into his arms and carry you towards the bathroom to wash the remnants of bodily fluids from your bodies and, somewhere along the way, coax a third peak out of you.
b — body part
Your neck and shoulders.
It's a dragon instinct: to mark, to feel the pulse beneath his lips, to breathe in your scent. Sylus loves it when you tilt your head back, offering the line of your throat to your beloved, and he can drag his teeth along it, knowing you trust him. Afterwards, he takes pleasure in studying his own marks on your skin and rubbing his cheek against them, trying in doing so to take all the pain—even the slightest—upon himself.
c — cum
Where does he like to finish? Wherever he wants.
In truth, it depends on his mood, but more often than not, he prefers to finish deep inside you, whispering into your hair: "You have no idea, kitten, how much I missed this feeling."
Sylus's volume of semen is quite plentiful, and the moment he withdraws, the thick white trickle running down your thighs instantly hypnotises him. Your man watches without averting his gaze as his seed glistens on your swollen folds, seeps down your perineum onto the sheet, forming a small pool.
He gathers the escaping droplets with his still-aroused tip and smears them from your clit down to your entrance, using slow circular motions, then carefully slides his cock back inside before pulling out again, stretching the translucent-white strands.
d — dirty talk
Sylus, to be honest, isn't a fan of that sort of thing. He might chat with you during the act, but it's unlikely to be commentary about how tight your pussy is or how well you're taking him.
Your man considers it absolute sacrilege and disrespect to address his partner using degrading clichés like "slut" or "little bitch." Yes, he's a criminal overlord, and everyone fears him, but Sylus is always gentle and respectful towards you, so his dirty talk is more a mixture of compliments and possessively charged remarks that spill from his lips unconsciously, yet always at the right moment. Even your name, uttered reverently on an exhale, can sound more indecent than any curse word.
e — experience
Behind his broad shoulders lies a long life across past incarnations, and his experience isn't defined by the number of partners — in each of those lives, he loved only you. Sylus remembers what you liked centuries ago, and thanks to that memory, he knows exactly where to brush his lips to make you arch and where to linger to make you forget your own name. Your man is a generous and patient lover, ready to encourage and explore all the facets of pleasure only with you.
f — favourite position
Cowgirl.
Sylus adores it when you sit on top and move on your own. He may lie there with his hands tucked behind his head, following with half-lidded eyes the bounce of your breasts and the way your mouth falls open on a particularly deep thrust. He deliberately holds his hands back so as not to interfere with the pace you've chosen.
His favourite part is the moment when you grow tired or start to lose the rhythm: that's when he takes over, flipping you onto your back, stroking your trembling thighs and calves with warm palms, and changing the angle of penetration.
g — goofy
In bed, he rarely laughs, but if you say something dirty or get too openly flustered, a smirk flickers across his face. Sylus doesn't turn intimacy into a comedy, but he might allow himself a little light teasing. He only becomes completely serious in moments when he senses you're trying to hide your genuine reaction — his voice grows softer, and his touches gentler, until he figures out what's going on.
h — hair
He supports smoothness for his own comfort.
He's absolutely neutral about the hair on your body: for Sylus, naturalness is part of the attraction. If you worry about it, he might dryly remark: "You think something like that has ever stopped me?" — and will prove it through action.
i — intimacy
Sylus knows how and loves to court you beautifully. He considers your heel as his own crown, and you — his queen. And like any self-respecting sovereign, he prefers to lavish his precious one with luxury and love.
Sylus's love is contained in heavy velvet, in the gleam of jewellery, and in the absolute power he lays at your feet. Your dragon bestows gifts and proves things through actions, rather than scattering promises left and right.
Instead of grand declarations, he will adjust the slipped strap of your dress, hold the door with his palm so you don't bump your shoulder on the frame, and pour wine into your glass first without even asking. Sylus believes that romance is when you never have to ask for the little things. He notices on his own whether you're cold or tired and makes sure you feel good.
j — jerk off
He engages in self-pleasure infrequently; he prefers to wait to be with you. Thoughts of you nearby always arouse the man more strongly than the prerogative of his own hand.
During times apart, you love surprising Sylus with your photographs or with a call before sleep, during which you talk in a seductively insinuating way about how much you've missed him. Your man is obviously not made of iron, so after a couple of minutes of this exchange, you hear how heavily and unevenly he breathes into the receiver, begging you to keep talking to him.
k — kink
Bondage is a classic. He likes seeing how much you trust him, enough to let him restrict your freedom. However, Sylus also loves it when you do the same to him, watching how bashfully yet resolutely you tighten a knot around his wrists.
Beyond restraint, what can drive him to ecstasy is the way you dig your nails into his back, tracing red lines along the tensed muscles around his shoulder blades. The scratches stay with him deliberately for a long time, because Sylus can't bring himself to heal and thereby erase the marks.
l — location
Sylus values unhurriedness. He likes to stretch the pleasure out for hours, to study each of your reactions, to change rhythm and return to a kiss that was interrupted a minute ago. That's why his enormous bed in the mansion remains the main place on his list of favourite surfaces for making love. There's enough space there for any position, and the black silk sheets cool your heated skin just enough to shake off the heat and start all over again.
In bed, Sylus feels master of both the situation and time. No one will enter without knocking or interrupt mid-sentence. He can allow himself to linger with his lips on your collarbone, to freeze for a moment, contemplating you with reverence, and then to pull you close again.
m — motivation
The sight of you holding his pistol can flip Sylus into "take you here and now" mode in a second.
The man also noticeably hardens when you don't avert your gaze, when you argue with him and show your character. Naturally, Sylus would never deliberately provoke you emotionally just to stroke his own ego and feed off your negativity. He's simply accepted as a given that he can sometimes irritate you.
n — no
He'll never hurt you if you haven't asked for it and the boundaries haven't been discussed. He won't allow himself to humiliate you or make you feel used; he abhors coercion — it's important to him that your "yes" is given freely. For Sylus, sex is always a dialogue in which he is sincerely engaged.
o — oral
He prefers giving rather than receiving. For the man, there is no more pleasant activity than being between your legs, feeling how you tremble on his tongue, how your thighs clasp his head, how your fingers clench his hair and pull him closer. If it were up to him, he would spend hours merely caressing your clit with the tip of his tongue.
On his side — he loves it when you take him into your mouth on your own, showing the initiative to give him pleasure, especially if you're looking up from below; he lazily places a palm on the back of your head, playing with your strands and gently guiding you.
p — pace
Sylus is a master of drawing out and delivering pleasure: he may start by moving inside you teasingly slowly, and then abruptly switch to a hard rhythm that makes things go dark before both of your eyes. The pace is always dictated by his mood, but most often he alternates these phases, pushing you to the peak and then receding, until you start clawing at his back.
q — quickie
After successful auctions, you always feel very excited and impatient. Sylus would prefer to take you home and draw out the pleasure, but when you settle onto his lap right in the back seat of the car and whisper "now," his will crumbles.
Sylus doesn't rush to unbuckle his belt, because he knows that if he enters you right then, he won't be able to stop, and the short ride home will turn into an uncontrollable storm. Instead, his palm slips under your dress, his long fingers confidently find the edge of your underwear, and he begins torturously slow circular motions right over the center through the fabric.
Orgasm washes over you in just a couple of minutes — ragged, convulsive, leaving a damp spot on his trousers and your panties. When your body finally relaxes on top of him, Sylus withdraws his fingers, licks them clean with a lazy smirk, and unflappably straightens your clothes.
It's only when the car pulls up to the mansion that you notice how white the knuckles of his fingers have turned, gripping the armrest with force.
r — risk
Sylus stops the motorbike on a deserted stretch of road, puts down the kickstand, and cuts the engine after you'd spent the whole ride teasing him and touching him through the fabric of his heavy trousers. He pulls off his gloves with his teeth, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your lips, and in one motion seats you facing him, helping you peel your sweatpants and underwear down to your ankles, only to then sling your legs over his shoulders.
You giggle, feel shy, try to pull away and cross your legs. Sylus is already between your thighs, dragging his tongue in a wide stripe along your slick cleft, savouring your choked whimper that breaks past your bitten lip. His mouth works greedily and precisely — he licks, sucks, presses the tip of his tongue to your clit, and you arch on the seat, your thighs instinctively clamping around his head. Your fingers latch into his hair, tugging, tangling in the strands, and you can't hold back the moans — they burst out loudly, shattering against the dry air of the road.
Somewhere at the edge of your consciousness flits the thought: what if a car drives by right now? Or another motorbike?
Your trust in your man outweighs the anxiety, because you know — no matter what, Sylus won't let the situation escalate too far; he has carefully assessed the surroundings and will never let any stranger see you exposed or out of control. Your state of vulnerability belongs only to him. Should a threat arise that you might be seen, he will instantly shield you with his body or cover your shoulders with his jacket, snarling over his shoulder at whoever was bold enough to interrupt.
s — stamina
Superhuman. Thanks to his regeneration and endurance, Sylus is capable of several rounds without breaking his own pace. He gifts you his love for hours, changing rhythms and positions. What limits him is not fatigue, but the desire to give you rest — rest that you rarely agree to, because you are just as greedy as Sylus himself.
t — toy
He views toys with curiosity but doesn't feel a need to use them, as he prefers to rely on his own skills. However, if you express a desire, Sylus will choose something wisely — for instance, a vibrator that can be controlled remotely. He loves watching your reactions to stimulation while holding the small remote above your head and chaotically pressing the buttons, changing the vibration modes.
u — underneath
Sylus has at least several pairs of boxers from every luxury brand that springs to your mind. He only wears underwear to events and to work; at home, he prefers to feel free. After all, he has nothing and no one to be embarrassed about.
v — volume
Usually quiet. A low growl, uneven breathing, rare husky exhales. But it also happens that even a man like Sylus loses control of himself. For example, if you clench tightly around him or whisper about your love for him, he might let out a deep, almost animalistic moan that sends shivers racing across your skin and makes your release arrive faster.
w — wild card
Sylus has a fetish for fragrance. He collects rare scents and can select perfumes for you, only to later savour the way they unfold on your skin throughout the day. What excites him especially is when you smell like him after sex — your scents mixing together, which makes him spend hours nuzzling, burying his nose in your neck, your hair, your stomach, and purring with satisfaction.
x — x-ray
Larger than average. For Sylus himself, the size of his equipment doesn't hold much significance, because the most important thing is how he uses it. But if we're talking details: a noticeable upward curve, which allows him to reach the most sensitive spots in any position.
y — yearning
Very high, but Sylus knows how to control it. Before he met you, he suppressed it with work, fighting, and danger. Now, however, his desire is directed exclusively at you and is almost always "switched on" in the background. He might not touch you for hours, days, or weeks, but his gaze is such that he's already undressed you mentally a dozen times. The moment you give the slightest hint — his restraint shatters in that very instant.
z — zzz
He doesn't fall asleep right away after sex. Sylus needs to make sure you are satisfied, washed, fed, tucked in, and feel safe. He can spend a long time stroking your back, sharing stories with you in the even, deep tone of his voice, and only once you fall asleep on his chest does he allow himself to relax.
Sylus sleeps lightly, always on alert, but if you are lying beside him, his sleep is deeper and calmer than usual. He prefers to sleep on his stomach, hugging you by the waist. His embrace instinctively tightens, drawing you closer whenever he senses you've pulled away.
First thing, on legs that are still shaky from pleasure, Caleb shuffles to the kitchen to get you something sweet. He might bring you a plate of sliced apple, carefully peeled, and set it on the nightstand. You command him to feed you by hand, and Caleb always obeys. He knows how much energy you gave, and for him, feeding you is as natural as kissing your temple. He'll wait patiently, cracking a couple of quiet jokes and smiling boyishly at your reactions, until you've eaten every last piece, licking the sweet-and-sour juice from his fingers, and won't even think about going to the shower until you've stopped trembling.
He never skips washing up, even if he can barely stand. But you, in his opinion, don't need to move after something like that. If you mumble something about "later" and try to curl up, Caleb either scoops you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom, or pulls out a pack of wet wipes from the nightstand and meticulously cleans every fold, every curve, kissing your knees and inner thighs while you lounge in bed, giggling at the ticklish sensation.
He'll quickly rinse off in the shower, leaving the door ajar to hear your voice. He returns with wet hair, collapses next to you, usually burying his nose in your chest, and only then allows himself to exhale.
b — body part
Your hair.
Caleb loves everything about you, but he has a special tenderness for your hair. He likes to smell it, stroke it, braid cute little braids, and wrap it around his own fist, pulling your head back. The pain contrasts with the pleasure as he greedily crushes his lips to yours, presses his chest against your back, and thrusts deep into your pliant body.
c — cum
Caleb has many ideas and thoughts about where he'd like to cum, but most of the time, his desire ends up spent in a latex condom while he's buried deep inside you.
That's probably why he reacts with such puppy-like joy every time there's an opportunity to paint your chest or the walls of your throat with whitish drops.
d — dirty secret
It's no secret that Caleb is obsessed with your lingerie.
However, his main secret is hidden on a USB drive with a complex password, tucked in a false bottom of the third drawer of his desk. A video, worn thin from repeated viewings, of you showering in his Skyhaven apartment is his most shameful indulgence. The way your hands slide over your body, soaping and caressing your steamed skin — Caleb considers it nothing short of a work of art.
You will never know how many thousands of times he's masturbated to it.
e — experience
This guy is the poster child for the words "virgin" and "chastity." Caleb spent his whole life waiting and saving himself for you alone, ignoring all signs of interest from other girls. Because he had no interest in anyone else, by the time you had your first time — not only did Caleb's nose bleed from the sheer overload of emotion, but he also lacked enough experience to satisfy you properly. He knew the theory superficially, had read manuals and watched porn, but it all shattered into pieces when it came time for practice.
Caleb would prefer to forget how, at the mere sight of you naked, he shamefully came in his pants without even touching himself while trying to figure out the controls and find your clitoris. But he definitely doesn't want to forget how he came again the first time you shattered into pieces from pleasure in his arms.
All the experience Caleb later gained, he earned through his relationship with you. And trust him, he wouldn't change a thing.
f — favourite position
On his side, spooning you from behind. In this position, Caleb can place his palm on your stomach to feel the depth of his own thrusts. He also likes to apply slight pressure around your navel and lower to intensify the sensations.
Caleb always makes sure not to overdo it, as the stomach is a delicate area, and he can't hide his enjoyment when you start whimpering and moaning from his actions, pushing your hips back to take him deeper.
g — goofy
The first few times, Caleb was comically thorough: furrowed brows, a focused gaze. He was afraid of making a mistake, hurting you, missing something important in your expression, and he'd ask before making any move.
He couldn't be anything but serious when he was finally holding the one he lived for in his arms.
Years later, the seriousness in bed hasn't completely disappeared; he still asks a million questions about how you're feeling, but at least Caleb isn't so shy anymore and is relaxed enough to laugh with you about getting tangled in the sheets.
h — hair
Caleb first grabbed a razor as soon as puberty left its mark on his body. Maybe you shouldn't have teased your big brother about the hint of a mustache, because for all the years following, Caleb removed hair everywhere until his skin was smooth and shiny. He didn't know what he was preparing for, but he was always ready.
The razor appeared in his hand less and less only after your relationship turned romantic, and you started staring with gleaming eyes at the trail of dark hair that ran from his navel downwards.
He's calm about the hair on your body. He's comfortable if you're comfortable, and he won't ask you to remove hair unless you want to.
i — intimacy
Romance, in your man's understanding, stands on two pillars — surprises and attention. You won't know until the very end what exactly he has planned, because Caleb knows how to keep secrets better than anyone you know. You never can guess which day he'll take you on a date to the park, and which day he'll whisk you away on his private plane, showering you with gifts from head to toe.
It might seem annoying — all these sudden dates and surprises without warning — but Caleb is cunning and attentive, so he plans everything to coincide with your schedule, so you never have to cancel your own grand plans.
j — jerk off
Before you became a couple, self-gratification for Caleb was a process full of shame and despair. He only did it at night, when the whole house was quiet and you were fast asleep in the next room. Burying his face in the pillow, he wouldn't imagine some abstract female form from adult magazines, but you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and your whisper that he heard during the day. Caleb would grip his cock in his fist, imagining your thighs or breasts instead of his own hand, and would cum too fast, with a muffled sob into the pillowcase. He would lie there for hours with his eyes open, hating himself for losing control again.
After you became a couple, masturbation almost disappeared from Caleb's life. Why would he need it, when you're right there? When he can pull you by the waist at any time of day, bury his face in your stomach and whisper, "want you, pips," — and you'll say yes.
In the rare times you're apart, he might return to the habit, but now without the shame. And he doesn't rush, because now he has the right to want you openly and intensely.
k — kink
When you straddle his mechanical arm. It's not exactly a kink, nor can Caleb actually feel your heat and wetness on the phalanges of his non-living fingers, but the very sight of how you react to the touch and how fervently you grind against him — that's enough to shut off the guy's mind until you cum. What he liked most was your face and that realization mixed with mounting arousal when you understood that his hand had several built-in vibration modes.
l — location
Caleb isn't picky; any surface in his or your apartment suits him just fine. Foreplay usually starts with him pressing you against a wall, lifting you up, and kissing you until your lungs burn and your head spins. The fate of the main event depends on where it's closer and more convenient for him to carry you.
m — motivation
Your scent — especially when you've just stepped out of the shower or, conversely, smell of sweat after a workout. Your voice, when you say his name, drawing out the vowels sweetly. But the main trigger is your initiative. When you press against him yourself or reach for his belt buckle, all his fuses blow and his brakes fail.
n — no
Caleb would agree to all your kinks and fetishes. The guy is a bit more of a pervert than you, that's true, but sometimes the chip in his head can buzz too loudly and command him to hurt you. Caleb simply doesn't want to take the risk, so there are a couple of items on his "No. Never." list, written in permanent purple marker.
He will never intentionally hurt you for his own pleasure. If he sees that you're genuinely in pain, he will stop immediately, even if he was on the edge himself. He will never agree to sex if you're drunk or not in your right mind — for him, conscious consent is more important than his own desire. And Caleb will never use his hand to simulate choking, even if it's part of a roleplay you asked for.
o — oral
Caleb is shy about asking, but if you go down on your knees before him, tying your hair back first — it takes all his composure not to cum in your mouth within the first seconds of the act.
For his part, he loves to dedicate the lion's share of foreplay to burying his face between your legs. Or having you sit on his face while he holds your buttocks tightly, not allowing you to move away from his tongue even a millimeter. He enjoys bringing you to the peak at least twice, so you cum on his tongue first, and then on his cock.
p — pace
Changeable, like Caleb himself. If you haven't seen each other for a while, the pace gradually becomes rough, deep, almost frantic, but always controlled. Caleb never loses his head enough to hurt you. If he wants to draw out the pleasure, or it's a morning when you're in no rush, your love moves slowly, languidly, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in, watching your body arch towards him, your eyes roll back, your mouth fall open, and feeling how tightly your little fingers cling to him. He loves changing the rhythm unexpectedly to steal your breath and hear a moan break into a cry of pleasure.
q + r = quickie + risk
You'll sneak into his office, tease him a little, twist him around your finger, and Caleb will impatiently sit you on his desk, simultaneously using his Evol to seal the door shut. He'll kiss you greedily until you're both breathless, hitching your skirt all the way up to your waist for full access to your already damp underwear.
You'll reach for his uniform trousers, make a joke about his tense shoulders, and flick the buckle of his belt, hearing his approving groan.
Caleb's fingers will slip under the lace, pulling the gusset aside, his other hand on your lower back, not letting you pull away. You'll ask him to be rough, to enter without tenderness, but Caleb won't listen; he'll penetrate you carefully and slowly, biting your lip in a kiss to muffle the moan you both share. The desk will creak pathetically, papers will fly to the floor, and the potential, familiar risk of being caught will only inflame your hearts further.
s — stamina
Caleb has the endurance honed by years of military training, flights, and G-forces. He can move inside you for a long time, evenly and deeply. Change the angle and position, speed up on command, endure even when sweat is pouring into his eyes. His breathing doesn't falter, his muscles don't tremble, and he can bring you to climax time and time again, without allowing himself to fall apart from pleasure prematurely.
His control only cracks when you suddenly arch your back and let out a wet, broken whimper right into his ear. Or when you whisper something that resonates with his wounded love — for example, a simple "Caleb, I'm yours," — he instantly feels his lower abdomen tighten into a knot, his balls grow heavy, all thoughts fly from his head, and the guy, with a dirty, torn moan, loses to himself. His fingers dig into your thighs, delivering a few last, convulsive, deep thrusts, and he buries his face in your neck, cumming so hard his vision goes black for a second.
Every time this happens, Caleb slides down your body with a guilty look, showering your skin with kisses and finishes you with his mouth and fingers, looking up at you with his puppy-dog eyes, mumbling, "I'm not done yet."
t — toy
His attitude is complicated. Caleb is jealous of toys — he feels like if you get pleasure from a vibrator, then there's something lacking in him. But he's smart enough not to forbid it, and curious enough that one day he might suggest trying it himself.
He likes using a vibrator during a blowjob — when you're trying to focus on him, and he's teasing your clitoris with the vibrations. Or putting a ring on himself to prolong the act.
u — unfair
Caleb wants to tease, but he's conflicted because when he tries to tease you, he ends up the one getting burned. He might sit you on his lap while you're both playing video games, supposedly so you can see the screen better. His free hand casually strokes your thigh, squeezes slightly, then his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, drawing lazy circles on your warm skin. He leans to your ear and smugly comments on your loss, while tracing his fingertips along your belly, teasingly close to the waistband of your pants.
But if you so much as squirm — accidentally press closer, exhale louder, or roll your hips in response to his touch — he blushes intensely, loses his train of thought, and might even drop the gamepad. His fingers freeze, his breathing becomes ragged, and his gaze darts between the screen and your lips. Caleb tries to say something like "don't get distracted," but his voice cracks mid-word, and it becomes obvious: he's trapped himself. His teasing usually ends with him burying his nose in the back of your head, groaning softly at his own helplessness, and surrendering — setting the controller aside and asking in a completely different tone, "Oookay, pip-squeak, let's take a break."
v — volume
Caleb will never admit that he's louder than you. Moreover, he will vehemently deny that he whimpers, cries, moans, and breathes heavily throughout the entire process, giving himself to you completely and savoring every second.
w — wild card
One time, in the hottest moment, when you couldn't utter a word and were just clenching the sheets in your fists, Caleb suddenly pulled you close, his right hand sliding to the back of your head, his cool fingers gripping your hair at the roots, and the next second he used his Evol. The world jolted, space warped with warm orange light, the bed disappeared from beneath you, and you both hung in the air, inches above the mattress. Time stretched, turning every movement into a viscous, endless wave.
In this unnatural weightlessness, each touch felt different: thrusts were deeper, friction was sharper, and you clung to Caleb tighter than usual, yearning to merge with him completely. He entered you at a new angle, and you sobbed, feeling your internal muscles convulse from the terrifyingly intense sensation. Caleb breathed heavily into your mouth, sweating from the lust mixed with love and the effort of controlling gravity. His left hand squeezed your soft breast, his right held your head, making it easier to exchange wet kisses with each thrust. You dug your nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks, and through the ringing in your ears, you heard him rasp, "Look at me." But the world was already swimming — first the sharpness blurred, then the colors, and then you blacked out for a second from the overload of everything: his scent, the depth, the wet heat between your thighs, and that maddening sensation of flight that could only be experienced in Caleb's arms.
You came to on the rumpled sheets, drenched, knees trembling, with a slight dizziness. Caleb sat beside you, pale as a ghost, pressing your palm to his chest — his heart was pounding like a hunted animal's. Noticing you were conscious, he pressed his dry lips to your temple and exhaled, "Sorry. I couldn't help it."
But you knew he didn't regret it. And neither did you.
x — x-ray
When he's aroused, his cock gets noticeably heavier, the head turns a dark pink, almost burgundy at the corona, and a prominent vein runs along the underside of the shaft, traceable with a finger from the base to the frenulum.
His balls are sensitive and smooth — Caleb has long since taken meticulous care of himself, unable to stand the thought of you being uncomfortable. During long foreplay, they draw up noticeably, and when he's close to orgasm, they can pulse. Caleb has asymmetry, the left hangs slightly lower than the right, and for a long time he considered this minor flaw a defect, even feeling shy about undressing in front of you with the lights on, until you licked that very difference, whispering that it was cute and even more interesting.
Fun fact: In college, Caleb lived in a room with three roommates, and as guys do, they always had to figure out "who's bigger." The guys still haven't forgotten that evening when, after a shower, he walked unhurriedly past them with a towel over his shoulder. Caleb pretended he didn't care at the time, but the proud glint in his eyes gave him away completely after his victory by a huge margin.
y — yearning
It depends on how well things are going, because if you're arguing or he feels distance, his desire dulls, replaced by anxiety.
Truth be told, on better days, he wants you constantly — in the morning when you're just waking up, during the day when you're reading on the couch, at night when he returns from a mission. Every time you wander around the apartment in his clothes, batting your eyelashes innocently and poking him in the side, Caleb's throat tightens and his groin grows hot from how adorably sexy you are in his eyes.
He learned to hide it because he thinks he can't pounce on you twenty-four hours a day, but you're observant and always notice that look — heavy, greedy — which Caleb immediately averts, pretending to be busy with reports.
z — zzz
Insomnia and nightmares have plagued Caleb for most of his life. He sleeps restlessly, wakes up often, and takes a long time to fall asleep.
Most often, he waits until your breathing evens out and you relax to the sound of aircraft overhead. Then he quietly gets up to check the locks and sit in the kitchen, looking at the stars. Caleb will never tell you about this because he doesn't want you to worry.
Unfortunately, your presence by his side doesn't always work as a cure-all, but Caleb still loves you endlessly and prefers to spend his nights only with you.
i've reached a point where i really just can't fucking stand to listen to/read other people talk about RE9, dude. i really just. i can't stand it.
anywhere you look out in the fandom, it's the SAME SHIT.
• "the raccoon city section was ugly and poorly designed"
because you're a fucking dipshit who can't see/understand/appreciate the deliberate parallels being drawn between raccoon city and hiroshima/nagasaki. i'd be willing to bet that JP players feel VERY DIFFERENTLY about that section. also "poorly designed" nani the FUCK are you talking about, the east raccoon city section is designed exactly like a fucking dark souls map. you know, dark souls. the games with some of the highest-praised level design in the entire fucking industry.
• "leon shouldn't have been in the game/where's jill/where's ada/why does capcom hate claire"
PEOPLE ARE STILL FUCKING SAYING THIS EVEN AFTER PLAYING THE GAME HOW THE FUCK ARE THEY STILL SAYING THIS HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GET THROUGH THE ENTIRE GAME AND STILL COME AWAY WITH THE IMPRESSION THAT THE GAME WAS ABOUT THE CHARACTERS' RELATIONSHIP TO RACCOON CITY SOMEHOW
• "my favorite female character isn't in the game because capcom is sexist and won't let women age"
here's how you know that anyone who still says this post-release is a completely and utterly unserious human being: SHERRY AND ALYSSA ARE RIGHT FUCKING THERE BEING VERY CLEARLY OLDER LADIES. how the fuck can you, with a straight face, cry "sexism" at capcom, when you, yourself, are so disinterested in the female cast that you don't even bother looking at the FUCKING SCREEN when they're present?
• "there was too much fanservice"
same people who are bitching that there's no jill/ada/claire in the game btw. exact same motherfuckers. you don't actually fucking care about fanservice. you're just mad that you didn't get the fanservice that you wanted.
• "here's how/why ada is going to get her own separate ways DLC"
literally the "here's how bernie can still win" of 2026, and it's just as annoying now as it was 10 years ago. btw a resident evil game has LITERALLY NEVER included a major character in a DLC that wasn't in the base game. LITERALLY. NEVER. because if they're going to spend the time and money rendering up and animating a character model and paying a voice actor, they're going to put that in the main fucking product, you fucking dipshits.
• "i don't understand how they were cloning grace in 1990?/idgi what was special about grace?"
THEY. WEREN'T. spencer says she's not a clone. victor says she's not a clone. grace herself says there's nothing special about her. i don't understand how many fucking times this has to be explicitly stated by the characters before it clicks and fucking makes sense to people. i don't get what the disconnect is here.
• "it's shitty and bad and stupid that they tried to redeem spencer. game sucks for that reason."
THEY. DIDN'T. victor goes off on AN ENTIRE VILLAIN MONOLOGUE about how spencer's actions were designed specifically to disrupt the geopolitical military balance (since all of the world super powers' military might has become dependent on virus-based technology) and plunge the entire world into anarchy. it goes on for like two whole fucking minutes, how the fuck did you miss this??? and spencer's actor also couldn't have sold his dishonesty about his remorse any harder if he'd tried. the dude was SO COMICALLY OBVIOUSLY LYING that the performance bordered on fucking kabuki theater. grace believing spencer is meant to be seen as naive, which is why every single character in that scene is talking over her in it. like it's made so obviously, abundantly clear that spencer sold alyssa a crock of shit in order to ruse all of his enemies about grace, send them on a wild goose chase, and hope they all killed each other in the process.
like, jesus fucking christ. it's just these same few talking points repeated over and over and over and over and over and over and over again everywhere i look. there are VERY VALID CRITICISMS that people could be making of this game, but instead of having any sort of productive discussion at all, it's just THIS SHIT. EVERYWHERE.
meanwhile, RE9 has the highest user score on metacritic right now. not just in RE. like. of any video game ever released.
normies loved this game. the fandom is fucking retarded.
sorry i had to get this out lmao i've really bottled this up
AUTHOR'S NOTE since 2019, i've been nurturing and cherishing the idea for a fanfic that could, in one way or another, fully encompass the game's timeline, but from a different angle. i'm just a girl in the world, and this is the first chapter of a planned four or five, so the tags may change as i write. also english is not my native language, so you can correct me if something is written incorrectly <3
1998-2002
He saved her in '98 and wanted to ask her on a date. Just an ordinary civilian, cowering fearfully in a phone booth, probably waiting for one or more of the infected to bite through her skull.
That day, the rookie cop first noticed a box of ammunition that had magically appeared on a bench, and then his blue eyes focused on the horde of dead across the street.
She gave him her number and her name, and also a trembling kiss on the cheek—the only thing she had to offer as thanks for her rescue. Leon blushed and mumbled something back then, but he personally made sure the stranger he liked managed to get safely onto one of the evacuation buses.
And then came the nuclear blast, the forced recruitment into a secret anti-bio-terrorism unit, the cynicism, the hardening, and the immense toll of casualties. Nightmares, endless missions, and a gnawing sense of guilt eating him from the inside. Leon grew to fear the rain, because on the day he was traumatized, the potholes in the shattered asphalt were filled with puddles tinged with red.
A crumpled piece of paper with smudged numbers burned a hole in his pocket for the next four years. He wanted to ask her out, and he didn't want to drag her into his life. But after returning from South America, having taken down a drug lord and witnessed even more death, Leon gave up, broke down, succumbed to loneliness, and dialed the number he had memorized.
"This is Leon… the cop from Raccoon City. Are you safe? If you… if you still remember me and you're not scared—I'd like to meet."
Kennedy knew she was safe, but he asked for his own peace of mind. He knew she had moved to Washington D.C., that a psychology degree gathered dust proudly on a shelf in her bedroom, and that all her attempts at relationships had ended in failure. Kennedy wasn't responsible for that.
She didn't agree right away, asked a couple of probing questions, but after receiving three vague answers, she hung up only to text him the address of a bar in Georgetown. Leon nearly passed out from relief, or from the sheer terror that he actually had a date.
He managed to swing by home for a shower and a change of clothes, and also to ask Claire for advice via text message, being as vague as possible.
Kennedy spat his toothpaste into the sink, catching a glimpse of her reply with some parting words out of the corner of his eye.
Relax and buy flowers. Just be yourself.
"Easy for you to say," he snorted, wiping his razor blade on a towel.
Claire didn't know that for him, "relax" meant momentarily switching off the part of his brain that had saved his life dozens of times. "Just be yourself"—but who was he now, other than a collection of military reflexes and the burden of old memories? He looked at his reflection in the mirror and couldn't find that guy from Raccoon City, the one who had blushed at a kiss on the cheek.
At the flower stall, Leon freezes in a stupor, silently cursing Claire.
Flowers… what kind? At funerals, there were usually carnations.
He's silent for a long, bewildered moment until the vendor, a kind-eyed woman around fifty, takes pity on him and asks, "For your girlfriend? A first date?"
Leon just nods, feeling ridiculous.
"Well then, here," she says with a motherly smile, handing him a round pot of flowers. "Gloxinia. In the language of flowers, it means 'love at first sight.' They're low-maintenance; they'll bloom for a long time."
Kennedy nods again, pays, and leaves.
The bar was a twenty-minute walk away. The entire way, Leon repeats a mantra to himself: Don't scan the room for threats. Don't assess escape routes. Don't study faces. This promised to be the most difficult mission of his life.
He arrives first, takes a corner table, and sits with his back to the wall, facing the entrance. He places the potted purple velvet on the table and orders a glass of water, even though everything inside him is screaming for whiskey on the rocks. It had been a rough day—the morning's debriefing on "Operation Javier" for his superiors was the kind of thing you washed down with something strong.
On a Tuesday evening, the bar is fairly quiet, and each patron seems occupied. While waiting for his date, Kennedy's gaze snags on a man at the counter who downs a whole glass in one gulp and immediately orders another. The TV is playing a Spider-Man commercial, and at a table by the window, three guys are discussing the brand new Grand Theft Auto, arguing about whether this installment would be significant for the series.
Leon looks away when the door opens, letting in a burst of street noise.
She's wearing a dress, her lips are painted, her hair is slightly curled, and he feels a little ashamed that he showed up in a t-shirt, bomber jacket, and jeans.
She spots him and offers a friendly smile as she approaches, slipping off a knit cardigan along the way. Kennedy stands up too abruptly, nearly bumping his knee against the table. Everything is going wrong from the start, and he starts to get even more nervous, feeling his palms begin to sweat. She had made an effort, and he hadn't thought to wear a button-down shirt.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," her voice snaps him out of his daze.
"No, it's fine. I just got here myself."
"Why gloxinias?" she asks genuinely, sitting down across from him, eyeing the flowers with curiosity.
"Sounds like Glock," Leon lies as he sits back down, a forced joke to hide his desperation, immediately wincing internally. God, Kennedy, that's the worst cover story ever. She's a psychologist, she can see right through you.
"Gloxinia is a flower, though, not a weapon. Let's give it a chance," she giggles, unknowingly making Leon relax and smile back.
"Thanks for… coming," he says, carefully choosing his words. "After everything that happened… I wasn't sure."
"It's been four years," she says softly, touching a petal. "And you still remember my number."
Leon nods. He doesn't mention that the crumpled piece of paper has been with him on two continents.
"So, what have you been up to all these years?" she initiates the conversation, trying to break the awkward tension.
"Working for the government. Contract work."
"Is it dangerous?"
A long pause. He looks at his hands and gives a non-committal shrug. "Boring, sometimes. What about you?"
Leon deliberately steers the conversation away from himself, wanting to hear more from her. She tells him things he already knows, but he listens attentively, not interrupting, gripping his glass of water.
She moved to D.C. She got help getting settled. She finished her psychology degree but isn't working in the field. The government keeps tabs on her, as one of the survivors. She knows a lot and has seen a lot, but they leave her alone. Kennedy is responsible for that.
Finishing her monologue, she props her chin on her hand and smiles again, hoping for eye contact lasting longer than three seconds.
"Maybe we should risk one cocktail? Shared between us—less scary that way."
Leon hesitates. Whiskey on the rocks is a slippery slope. What if I get called in tomorrow? But her offer sounds like a lifeline for his frayed nerves.
"Okay…" he takes a deep breath. "But just one. I'm driving tonight."
A lie. His car is parked three blocks away with fake plates, and in case of a sudden morning briefing, he always has taxi service numbers saved. Kennedy heads to the bar.
One drink turns into two, then smoothly transitions into three, and the fourth was downed as the result of a playful argument.
The whiskey burns his throat, relaxes his muscles and shoulders, allows him to unclench his jaw just a fraction. Stories flow more easily, his gaze is less intense. Leon is genuinely having fun, not holding back his laughter when she draws a crooked cat on a napkin with a pen from her bag. That napkin ends up in his pocket, keeping company with the crumpled piece of paper.
He still doesn't talk about his actual work, but he starts talking around it: about the pointless meetings that drag on for hours, the taste of the coffee from the break room that's like radiator sludge, how much he hates filling out reports. These are safe shards of truth that she could piece together into a mosaic, if she wanted to. She listens, cheek resting on her hand, laughing at his dry remarks about a bureaucrat of a boss. Leon catches himself thinking that her laugh is the best sound he's heard in years. It sounds… carefree.
Another three hours pass this way, and when the bartender starts turning off the TVs and ringing up the last call, Kennedy puts a bill on the table and helps her put her cardigan back on. She giggles tipsily, swaying slightly, and clings to his strong forearms, vaguely feeling the fabric of his bomber jacket under her fingers.
"I'll walk you home," he states, grabbing the gloxinia pot with one hand and placing the other firmly on the small of her back, guiding her out.
Outside, the autumn air hits them, fresh and sharp. They walk, shoulders occasionally brushing, while she talks about constellations obscured by the city lights. Leon, tilting his head back, suddenly remembers the southern sky over the jungle, blanketed with stars all the way to the horizon.
She tells him something funny about her grumpy neighbor, and he counters with a story about his mentor who taught him to field-strip a pistol blindfolded but could never remember his own computer password. They laugh, stupidly and loudly, at each joke, their laughter shattering the quiet of the residential neighborhood.
In front of her building, the sidewalk unexpectedly gives way to a short, three-step staircase. Still gesturing as she talks, she misses the step and stumbles with a surprised yelp, cutting her story short.
Leon reacts before he even thinks—setting the flowers on the step, his hand gripping her elbow, the other going to her back, preventing a fall and a broken nose. They freeze, inches away from a real embrace. His blue eyes widen, and Kennedy holds his breath, afraid to move. Her breath, hitched from the surprise, is warm against his chin. When her gaze flickers down to his lips, he nearly curses everything.
"Are you here to save me again?" she whispers, her palms sliding over his biceps, which Leon has tensed in emergency mode.
"No. I'm off duty today."
She giggles again at his unexpected quick wit, while he takes the chance to study her face more closely, now that she's this near. He memorizes the slight bump on her nose bridge, the mole above her expressive eyebrow, the hint of freckles, the dimple that appears when she lifts the right corner of her lips in a smile.
It's unclear who leans in first, but a millisecond later their lips meet. Tentative and gentle at first, but then, emboldened by the lingering whiskey, Leon deepens the kiss, silently asking her to part her lips. The kiss lasts for a moment and an eternity, until an icy wind makes her shiver, and Kennedy pulls back.
An adorable blush blooms on her nose and cheeks, and her eyes shine even brighter, matching her kissed lips, now stripped of the lipstick he'd accidentally eaten. In that moment, to Leon, she is achingly beautiful.
"You could…" she starts, but he gently cuts her off.
"I can't. Early start tomorrow."
Another half-truth, one that would leave them with a warm melancholy, not a broken heart after a lovely evening. Leon knows that if he goes up now, he won't be able to leave. And leaving was necessary—for her sake.
He waits until she enters the building and waves to him from behind the glass door, hugging the gifted gloxinias with one free arm. He waits until the light clicks on in her apartment window. He stands for another five minutes in the shadows across the street, watching her silhouette move.
Leon S. Kennedy went on a date, got a kiss, and felt human again. But was that… it? He just left, after walking her home, refusing to come in for tea, yet still tasting her lips and the fear gnawing at his subconscious. Nevertheless, he felt unbearably warm.
the decision to unite your souls on valentine's day came naturally. the flawless ceremony, the luxurious banquet, and the sheer scale of the event will be remembered and talked about for a long time, not just in n109 zone, but far beyond its borders.
the guests hadn't even fully dispersed yet when sylus tightened his grip on your fingers, weaving easily between the tables as if the banquet hall belonged to him — which, technically, the building now did bear your shared surname.
ten minutes ago, you'd expressed a desire to leave the event, pleading tiredness, which was only half true. your husband had pecked you on the forehead, stepped away to give instructions to the staff, and then, just before heading for the exit — knelt down to help you change your shoes. your wedding cesare paciotti heels were devilishly beautiful, but not exactly suited for a motorcycle ride.
the panoramic windows of the penthouse opened up the night sky, strewn with bright stars, before you. his tie flew to one side, his jacket landed on the back of a chair. your wedding hairstyle had long been held together by sheer willpower and a couple of pins, and when his fingers tugged one free — teasingly slow — your hair tumbled down in soft waves over your shoulders. he immediately caught a strand and brought it to his lips.
"tired?"
sylus chuckles, but his eyes remain serious. he shakes his head.
"just say the word, kitten, and i'll spend the night and the rest of all my lives adoring you."
instead of answering, you pull him down by his shirt collar. sylus is pliant as ever: he sits on the edge of the sofa and watches with pleasure as you settle over him, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his thighs, and only now do you notice: he's already taken off his shoes. when he managed that remains a mystery.
his right eye glows red the moment your lips meet in a seemingly innocent kiss. his palms slide smoothly and tenderly up from your knees along your stockings, slowly squeezing the soft skin of your thighs sheathed in nylon, his index finger hooking the lace of your garter on your right leg. sylus absolutely loves it when you straddle him, if only because it means he doesn't have to hold his head in an awkward position, looking down at you.
and he loves the way you frown when you're concentrating. loves that you can fall asleep against his shoulder in the car and, even in your sleep, keep clutching the edge of his jacket. loves it when you sneeze three times, blinking in surprise each time. loves how you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear when you're lying, and how you bite your lip when you're not. loves that, in the middle of the evening, you stroked the tablecloth at the banquet and quietly said, "we need to buy one just like this, but in burgundy," — and he was already mentally drafting a request for the procurement department.
sylus looks at you for a few heartbeats. your husband genuinely and truly loves everything about you, every detail and little thing that you might sometimes fuss over, but sylus is always there to soothe any anxiety of yours, of which there has been much less since he came into your life.
you brace your palms against his chest. the shirt is in the way. you undo the buttons, one by one, while sylus showers your jaw, neck, and collarbones with kisses, nipping at the skin and immediately soothing it with his tongue. the last button is stubborn; he leans in and intercepts your fingers, kissing your knuckles and your wedding ring, never breaking eye contact.
"don't rush," he breathes against your wrist. with his free hand, he pulls up the hem of your dress, his thumb tracing the dimple on your knee. "we're not late for anything."
he releases your hand, runs his palms down your waist, pulls you closer by the hips — sharply, greedily, and you surge forward to meet his movement.
"you're the one rushing," you retort with a knowing smirk, earning a chuckle from sylus in reply.
the short hem of your dress rustles, gathering in folds, the gusset of your underwear, growing damper by the second, gliding against the dark fabric of his trousers. you can feel him through the layers of clothing — hot, impatient, and now completely yours.
"exactly," your husband whispers, "my dear wife should choose the pace she's comfortable with."
you hesitate for a second, then another, then shift slightly on his knees, just enough to make him exhale through his teeth and squeeze your thighs until the nylon of your stockings audibly strains.
"sweetheart," he murmurs. his voice is lower than usual, with a rasp. "you're driving me crazy."
"i'm just sitting on my husband's lap." you lean forward, kissing the corner of his mouth.
"just."
his pupils are dilated, the red light in his eye socket pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a flush visible on his cheekbones. sylus lifts his hips to meet you; a short, uneven movement, catching your soft gasp with his mouth.
"more," he asks, pressing you into him, and you move slowly, because you can't do otherwise, because otherwise it would end before it even began. he rubs his nose against your cheekbone, breathing rapidly, breaking off into kisses wherever he can — on your temple, the corner of your mouth, the hollow above your collarbone.
your fingers tangle in his hair. you move faster, kissing him messily, out of sync — you've been together for years, yet you still bump noses sometimes. sylus growls against your lips; his breath hitches as he repeats your name, taking the lead in the kiss. his palms are no longer tender but greedy, having crept under your hem, kneading your backside, pulling you closer, ever closer, as if he could disappear through the clothes and stay inside you forever.
you push against his chest, forcing him to lean back against the sofa. you rise up slightly, lower yourself slower, grinding your hips against his arousal and watching his face change as he tries to swallow a moan. watching him throw his head back, part his lips, and observe you through his lashes with a gaze darkened with pleasure.
you lean down slowly and press your lips to his adam's apple, run your tongue along his throat, feeling the pulse of veins beneath his tanned skin. sylus squeezes his eyes shut, inhales noisily, his fingers on your thighs clenching until his knuckles go white. the stockings give a pitiful protest, but neither of you pays any attention.
you run your palms down his chest, push the shirt off his shoulders, baring his collarbones. sylus leans forward, helping you peel the fabric away. the trail of your kisses leads down his neck, to the jugular notch. he smells of wood and sandalwood, the wedding fragrance he spent three hours choosing, and now this scent will be etched into your memory forever. you lick the salt from his skin, feel the pulse of a vein under your tongue.
"sylus."
he opens his eyes, pupils so dilated the iris is almost invisible. you hold eye contact with your husband and move slowly, languidly, tracing circles with your hips, feeling him tremble beneath you.
"you know," the man whispers, his voice breaking on an exhale, "i can last like this for a long time."
"i know."
"a very long time."
"i know."
he chuckles, and the next second his breathing becomes utterly ragged. you speed up, rubbing against him fast and sharply, feeling the tension build in your lower belly, everything inside you coiling tight, but you hold on, focused only on him and on how his composure is shattering.
"your stocking tore," he exhales against your neck. "i tore it. i'll buy new ones."
sylus clings to this thought, to the stocking, to the run in the nylon, to any detail he can grasp to keep from completely losing his mind. because if he let himself fall entirely into this — into the heat of your body, the scent, the way you move — he would shatter into atoms right here, beneath you.
"and your garter slipped," he whispers somewhere into your collarbone, "need to fix it."
the words break apart, lose meaning. he no longer knows why he's saying this — just lets sounds fall, trying to convince himself he's in control.
he runs a finger along the edge of the tear, touching your bare skin. you shiver, squeeze your thighs tighter, and sylus pulls you down, presses you so close it's hard to breathe. he buries his face in your shoulder, inhales the scent of your skin, and you feel his lips part, feel his teeth touch your shoulder — lightly at first, testing, then clamping down harder.
movements falter, lose rhythm. he rubs against you, against your damp core through the fabric, and you feel him pulsing beneath the heavy cloth of his trousers, feel his body shake with a fresh wave of arousal, feel his breath stutter.
his palms roam your back, tracing each vertebra, moving lower, kneading your buttocks, lifting you slightly only to lower you back down. you've stopped thinking about how you look, what sounds are escaping your lips, how hard you're gripping his shoulders. thoughts melt away, leaving only the warmth in your belly, the friction, the scent, and the heat of his body through the clothes.
sylus kisses your collarbones, moves lower. the fabric of your dress gets in the way; he frowns, pushes the neckline aside, kisses the edge of your bra, the lace, the skin beneath. you bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. your husband continues showering kisses on everything he can reach and hums something approving at the peak of another movement, and that sound sends a sweet cramp through your lower abdomen. you're almost there — almost, a little more, just a bit — but he suddenly seizes the initiative. sharply lifting his hips to meet yours. once, twice, a third time — hard, deep, making you cry out and dig your nails into his shoulders. he catches your lips, stifling your moan with a kiss, and keeps moving, now setting the pace himself, a pace that makes your vision blur.
his hand slips between you, his fingers finding your clit through the lace, pressing just enough to make you whimper and cling to him for dear life. he moves rhythmically — hips, fingers, breath — and finally, you fall.
the release washes over you in a hot, thick, long wave. you clench around nothing, whimper into sylus's neck, tremble, and he doesn't stop, prolonging, stretching out the pleasure until the last sparks fade beneath your eyelids.
sylus comes right in his trousers, jerking, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy. the pulses come in waves — one, two, three — thrusting into your hips with each spasm, seeking to prolong it, unwilling to let go of the pleasure.
slowly, he unclenches his jaw, drags his tongue sloppily over the bite mark — healing, apologizing, but not releasing you from his embrace. he keeps holding you close, breathing rapidly as he tries to reclaim his sanity. his fingers stroke your back, no longer greedy but soothing, in wide circles from your shoulder blades to your lower back.
you kiss his temple, sylus tilts his head back, offering himself to your kisses like a contented beast.
"look what you did to me."
you glance down, seeing the dark stain on his trousers, damp, obvious. and your own stockings, torn in several places where he gripped the hardest.
"beautiful," you smirk.
he snorts. settles you more comfortably, pulls you closer, arranging you on top of him. his fingers lazily comb through the hair at the nape of your neck. the chest beneath you rises and falls slowly, his heartbeat almost back to normal.
"you know," the man says. his voice holds a satisfied, sated laziness. "i planned to hold out at least until i got your dress off."
you snort, burying your nose in his neck.
"we have our whole wedding night ahead of us."
"the rest of all my lives, to be precise," he whispers into the top of your head. his fingers find your wedding ring, twisting it, stroking the smooth metal surface. "i wasn't joking."
a yoga mat creaks under Keyla's hands. her shoulders rhythmically move up and down with utmost precision as she does her push-ups. with her midriff covered by a thin sports bra, every muscle on her back flexes under her skin like a well-oiled gear — relaxing and tensing. her dark hair, which is tied in a negligent ponytail, is messy, and a few damp strands stick to her neck.
- forty-seven… forty-eight… - her voice is even, though slightly hoarse from effort.
you smile to yourself. she is too serious. it's time to change that.
you approach silently, like a cat. you kneel behind her and seamlessly, carefully perch yourself on her back right between her shoulder blades, like one would saddle up a calm horse. even though you are not heavy for her, the unexpectedness of the action makes her quiver and her elbows buckle.
Keyla doesn't stop, but the rhythm of her movements falters for a brief moment. a deep inhale, then an exhale.
she is trying not to pay attention. you wrap your hands around her neck and press your cheek against the warm, damp skin on her back.
she scoffs but doesn't push you off. quite the contrary — she does a push-up, but now with your weight. you feel her muscles flex beneath you and feel how she controls each movement. her strength is both admiring and arousing. you don't give up.
you get off her back, but don't walk away. instead, you roll right underneath her, ending up between her arms and the floor as she goes down. you are on your back, she is above you - her face is inches away, her eyes wide with shock. at the moment, they are full of annoyance and…. interest? a drop of sweat rolls down from her nose and falls onto your collarbone.
- hey, daredevil, - she hovers over you, her breath is slightly hitched, but there is a ghost of smirk at the corners of her lips. - you are interrupting me from beating my record.
- mm, maybe, - you whisper as your gaze drops lower. her locket on a thin chain swings above you. you has always liked to touch it. you lift your arm and catch the locket with your fingers. it's warm from her body heat.
you start teasing. you lightly pull the chain, making Keyla lean slightly closer. then you run your hand over the smooth metal surface and trace its contour as though exploring it for the first time. then you gently pull the locket to her mouth, lightly touching her lower lip with it.
- is it distracting you? - you ask the question with feigned seriousness with your finger still pressed to the locket near her lips. you see how her pupils dilate, almost swallowing the purple iris. her breaths get slightly deeper. the mischief is no longer in her eyes, all of her attention, which was on the push-ups, zeroes on you, on your finger near your lips, on your position beneath her.
- it distracts me immensely, - she whispers back, but there isn't even a hint of scolding in her voice. Keyla doesn't pull away; quite the opposite. she slowly bends one of her hands at the elbow, shifting the weight. her other hand catches your wrist and moves your hand away from the locket, pinning it to the floor near you head instead. - it is especially distracting when I am being teased.
Keyla comes to a standstill at the lowest point of a push-up, her body forming a perfect line ovee you, completely blocking your escape routes. you are trapped in the nicest way possible: her scent, which is a mix of her sweat smell and a scent of your shower gel, covers you fully. the warmth of her body, or rather her body heat rolls off her and onto you in waves.
- and what… what happens with those, who tease? - your voice sounds hoarse, almost foreign.
her lips slowly curve into a promising smile. she leans even closer so that her lips are almost touching your temple. her breath hits your reddened ear as she whispers and each word sends a shiver down your spine
- they are. thoroughly. punished.
translation from Russian into English cr. to @voices-beyond-words
vaporwave
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
jbbartram-illu
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
dededos
2087
annaxmalina
yousharknotpass
