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leonsdolly · 9 months ago

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SUCH A SPECTACULAR AND INDULGENT READ <3 if i could tattoo a fic all over my body, it would be this

my soul to keep ♡ vampire!leon kennedy x virgin!reader

nsfw (18+) - minors. dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops

word count: 6.4k

tags/warnings: romantic vampire leon, virgin/innocent f!reader, leon turns reader into a vampire, some religious allegory, bloodplay (obviously), gravedigging, some gory descriptions but not a whole lot, one instance of overeating (reader's learning, leave her alone </3), manipulation kinda, praise, fingering, p in v, creampie

description: leon creeps into your village at night for a quick drink, only to find himself infatuated with an angel like you. it's a good thing he possesses the means to preserve you for himself.

a/n: yes this is the vampire leon fic i started like a year ago don't look at me <33 i'm just proud of myself for getting it finished before halloween this year AAAAAAAA

divider by @saradika-graphics !!!!

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;

-venus ♡

The last time Leon remembered feeling this alive, well… he was still living, and that was a long time ago. When lonely and undead as long as Leon has been, it can be difficult to show restraint upon first contact with anything that evokes such emotion.

But he did, for a while. You were just too cute, he thought as he stood over your slumbering body that first night. It wasn’t something he liked to make a habit of, but a light hunting season for him meant starvation through the winter, and he didn’t have much choice but to go wandering into the nearby little village for a quick bite to eat.

Until he found you.

You looked like a cherub sleeping there in your plush little bed, buried beneath a quilt he could only assume you made yourself. Precious, fragile. You looked especially fragile.

And humans are so fragile, he thought. You smelled so sweet, it made his teeth ache just standing there staring at you without acting upon his festering need to sate his appetite, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to scare you, or worse, lose control of himself and kill you.

He wandered silently around your little cottage in hopes of learning more about you. It was tidy but lived in, well-kept in a way that made him think you were probably a good homemaker. Your old leather boots sat by the door, dirtied by years of garden work and general wear. There was a little handmade ceramic candle holder on your bedside table, the candle in it burned nearly down to the base, and he wondered if maybe you’d held onto it because the piece was sentimental to you. Carefully arranged bouquets of flowers were strung together and hung up above the cracked window, likely to dry them out and preserve them.

And suddenly he realized that maybe he would like to preserve a flower for himself.

He couldn’t allow himself to feed from anyone in your village that night. If word spread around about a vicious animal attack or some other form of brutality, it would only hinder his ability to ultimately get to you, and he couldn’t risk that. Weak and delirious and ravenously hungry as he was, Leon forced himself to bid you adieu and stalk off into the night, back to his crumbling old castle in the middle of the woods… but not before leaving you a gift.

His gift. The gift.

Your lips parted in a dreamy sigh as you slept, rolling over onto your back. He admired your face for a moment before he couldn’t take it anymore— if he didn’t leave now, you were going to become dinner, and he couldn’t have that. Hastily, he bit down on the meat of his palm and squeezed, watching as his old crimson blood bubbled up to the surface, and then he held it up over you.

Drip. Right between your rosy, plush lips. Even in your slumber your face scrunched up at the foreign taste, your heavy arm coming up to swipe at yourself like you were just trying to get your hair out of your eyes.

And just like that, he was gone, having taken his leave through the very same open window that gave him the idea.

He wasn’t a monster, of course. He kept an eye on you as you experienced the very same pain he felt decades ago.

The next day, you woke up later than usual feeling quite lousy. Your whole body was sore and weighty and, reasonably enough, you chalked it up to poor form while tending your garden the day before. It was an easy mistake to make from time to time, after all. But as the day dragged on, you only felt worse, so you retired to bed right after supper that evening.

The day after that, you woke up in the early afternoon feeling awful. Your head was screaming with a migraine and your heart was beating slow and hard in your chest. You were sweating and shaking and could barely even open your eyes because the light hurt so bad. A friend stopped in to check on you after noticing how late of a start to the day you were getting, and almost as soon as she stepped in the door, she was rushing back out to the apothecary, begging the village healer to come check on you.

The village healer loaded you up with tricks and tinctures and anything she could think of to break your fever or at least ease your pain. Dried herbs and poppyseeds and fungus ground up in the mortar and pestle, the paste slathered under your nose, on the bottoms of your feet, steeped into tea that was too hot for you to drink. None of it worked. At a loss for advice to give, the village healer urged you to drink plenty of water and rest, and to quarantine yourself. Couldn’t risk passing whatever you had to the rest of the community.

You woke up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night and didn’t even have time to throw your quilt aside as you doubled over the side of your bed and vomited. This continued for a few moments until you could barely breathe, tears dripping from your eyes as your face reddened with strain and you inwardly resented yourself, knowing you would have to drag your sick body out of bed to clean up the mess you’d just made. You struck a match and lit the candle at your bedside and hesitantly peered down to survey the damage, only to be met with the image of your beautiful wooden floors drenched in blood. Reaching up to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand yielded the same result.

As you stared at your own blood in horror, Leon stared at you in adoration from the other side of the window. For a moment your bleary eyes caught on the glass and he wondered if you saw him, but if you did, you didn’t react.

Even at a distance he could hear your heartbeat continuing to weaken. Soon enough you would be just like him, a beautiful preserved flower, and better yet, you couldn’t be harmed. You wouldn’t change, you wouldn’t grow, you wouldn’t die.

Although your village certainly thought you did. It was a dreary, overcast day when the village healer decided to stop in and check on you, only to find you completely lifeless and splattered with blood where you laid. She had to be the one to break it to your family that you had lost your battle with whatever illness plagued you. Leon watched from the shadows as your father lifted your limp, blood-soaked body from your bed and held you close, sobbing, hesitating to admit to himself that you were gone.

By the end of the afternoon, as the sun went down and the drizzling rain refused to let up, the entire village was standing over your grave, watching you get lowered into the soft, soggy ground.

Once everyone had paid their respects, Leon watched them all retreat to share a drink in your honor, hushed whispers revealing just how unsettled everyone was by your untimely demise. You were so young, they said, so bright and healthy and undeserving of your fate. They wondered what it meant for themselves, and only Leon knew it didn’t mean anything at all. Your illness wasn’t going to spread because he had what he wanted now, and that was you.

As soon as the final candle was blown out for the night, Leon took a shovel from your garden and began to dig, the metal piercing easily through the soaked earth until it revealed the handmade box you’d been laid to rest in. He popped the top off and looked at you, your arms still crossed delicately over your chest with a beaded rosary tucked beneath your palms, a pale flower in your hair. Your family didn’t need to know they’d be spending the rest of their lives praying over an empty coffin in the ground.

Leon scooped you up into his arms, cleaned up after himself and set off into the woods with you clutched to his chest like a princess.

It was a few days before you finally roused. Leon had barely taken his eyes off of you the entire time you slept, and admittedly, he was a bit grateful it had taken you so long, for your own sake. He watched over you and cared for you as the last of your body heat drained out and your fangs descended behind your lips. From what he remembered, that was the most painful part of the transformation, and you were lucky to have slept through the worst of it.

When your eyes finally shot open, he could barely contain his excitement. In one swift movement you sat up on the couch, bringing one hand up to clutch at your pounding head, the other massaging your sore jaw as your worried eyes darted around the room to drink in your surroundings. Then and only then did your gaze finally land on Leon.

The fright and confusion on your face were evident. He knew you would have a lot of questions, and he was prepared to answer them.

“There you are, darling,” he greeted you warmly, the first words he’d ever spoken to you. “How are you feeling?”

"W-Where am I?" You rasped, throat sore and shot from vomiting up blood the other day. Once your new condition fully set in, you would heal, but for now you were still a touch miserable. "Who are you?"

“I’m Leon,” he was gentle in introducing himself, taking your cold, shaking hand in his own so he could brush a polite kiss over your knuckles, “and this is your new home.”

You blinked slowly at him, brows furrowed as you mulled over what he meant, and you came up short. Tears welled up in your bloodshot eyes and you hesitated for a moment before asking him a question you were afraid to know the answer to; “Am I… Did I die?”

Leon wasn’t quite sure how to answer that at first. He imagined that question being posed much later in the conversation, so it sort of caught him off guard. He took a breath and then replied gently, “Something like that, yes.”

“Huh?”

“Shh, don’t worry,” he whispered, kneeling on the floor beside the couch so he could get on your level, his cold, pale fingers tracing gently over your lifeless skin. “You’re safe, your family is safe, your village is safe. I’m just here to take care of you, my beloved, to guide you in this tricky space between life and death. Do you trust me?”

Strangely enough, you did-- or, rather, you felt compelled to.

But that didn’t make the implications of your condition any easier on you. You were such a frightened little lamb, your cheeks hollowing and your eyes glowing like rubies and your skin tone taking on more and more of a pallid quality by the day as you refused to feed. He knew you would have some difficulty with this at first— after all, you were just far too sweet to kill anything— but he also knew you would only become weaker and more agitated if you continued to starve, and perhaps more grim, you would remain stuck in this odd limbo between death and vampirism.

He tried everything he could think of. You wouldn’t drink animal blood, from the body or in a glass, and you certainly refused human blood in either form too. Every time he broached the topic of sating your hunger you would cower away from him and shake your head, eyes screwed shut as you continued to deny the reality of your situation. Starvation brought forth only misery, that much Leon knew, misery and longing and weakness and worse, everything he didn’t want for you.

For two weeks you pushed back on the topic, insisting that if you couldn’t truly die, you would rather starve than take the life of another. As much as it pained him to see you this way, Leon appreciated that you could be so stubborn about your morals. He just wished it wouldn’t come at the cost of your own well-being.

He left you at the castle one night to go hunting himself. It wasn’t often he’d stumble into humans in these woods, especially during the winter, but he hoped he would get lucky for himself anyway. Leon burned a few hours stalking through the trees and all he had to show for it when he returned home was a few small animals that wouldn't last him more than two light meals, but it was better than nothing, he thought.

Then he stepped through the creaking castle doors and his nose perked up to the familiar rich scent of human blood-- thick and heady in the air, cloyingly sweet and indulgent. Intoxicated by it for the moment, it didn’t really dawn on him immediately what that meant… until he followed the scent from the foyer to the living room and found you.

You were on your knees in front of the fireplace, hunched over the writhing body of the village healer, her eyes wide and glassy as she choked out gurgled sounds of agony and clawed weakly at you to let her go. You didn’t even seem to notice Leon as he entered the room, a concerned grimace on his face, though it was accompanied by a tangible sense of relief that you were finally feeding.

“Sweetheart,” he said lowly, causing you to blink with confusion and look up at him through your lashes, the poor village healer’s carotid still clenched tightly between your teeth. “Easy now, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Your brows furrowed and you bit down a little bit harder, siphoning out a few final greedy gulps from the woman before dropping her from your grasp, your eyes still trained on Leon as her weak body flopped limply to the floor. His eyes softened with empathy as he looked you over, gore dribbling down your chin and the front of your white dress, your stomach puffy like an engorged tick. Now that you weren’t feeding anymore it would seem you made the same realization he had, the fog of desire clearing in your brain to make room for the shame and discomfort. With a soft whimper, you reached for him with both arms outstretched, but otherwise didn’t move.

Leon gave you a nod of understanding before scooping you up into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he carried you out of the parlor. “My poor baby,” he sighed softly, “It gets easier, I promise. I’m so proud of you.”

He ran a hot bath for you and left you to soak for a while as he got to work cleaning up the mess you’d made. The village healer was barely clinging to what remained of her life, and while he was extremely tempted to nurse her back to health and keep her around to continue feeding on, he knew it would hurt you. He could already tell you hated yourself for victimizing her in the first place, the very same woman who’d tried so hard to save your life just weeks ago and who was responsible for ensuring the health of the entire village, which included your friends and family.

So he mopped up the blood, bottled what he could and wrapped her wounds to the best of his ability before compelling her to forget, dumping her just at the edge of the trees outside the village so someone would find her in the morning.

When he returned again, tired and dirtied from hauling an unconscious woman through the woods on your behalf, you were still relaxing in the tub. The water was tinted pink from all the blood and you still looked a bit swollen in the middle, but the color was returning to your skin and the expression on your face was one of such complete exhaustion that he wasn’t sure if you were actually conscious at first, until your gaze fluttered up to meet his.

Leon let out a deep, sweet sigh, sitting on the bench beside the porcelain clawfoot bath as he took your hand in his and whispered, “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry,” you said just as quietly, bottom lip quivering as you continued to drift back down from your blood-induced daze. “I d-didn’t want to h-hurt her…”

“Shh, shh, I know, darling,” his other hand came forward to pet gently through your wet hair. “She’s going to be alright, I made sure of that. But this can’t happen again, okay? I’ll help you get control of your urges, I promise, but you have to listen to me.”

You were nodding along as he spoke, clutching his hand and shivering in the hot bath. Even transformed you were still fragile. Leon wanted nothing more than to care for you like the fine china you were.

It was fun watching you learn how to walk, so to speak. You were like a baby deer, taking careful steps and looking back at him for reassurance after each one, like his guidance was all you could think to cling to. While your gingerly approach to things was incredibly endearing, he loved watching you grow to love your new abilities with an innocent sense of excitement that he hadn’t seen in a long time, not in himself or in anyone else, really.

You’d taken to exploring the rafters and the view of things from the ceiling, leaving the candles in your room unlit all night just so you could bask in how odd and cool it felt to see so well in the dark. It scared the moonlight out of him every time, when he would scour every inch of the castle in search of you just to find you perched criss-cross on the ceiling, lost in a lengthy novel in a pitch black room.

But he would never scold you, never tell you ‘no.’ In his mind that was a very important lesson for you to learn, one that would open you up to endless possibilities and happiness in an otherwise bleak state of consciousness.

So, when your small voice chimed in from the parlor ceiling one night and startled him more than he’d like to admit, and you asked him a deceptively simple question– “What now?”-- he knew exactly how he wanted to respond.

“Indulge,” he said just as simply, sitting calmly down on the chaise lounge to look up at you, hanging from the rafters by your knees. “Let me ask you this. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

You took pause, humming in thought for a moment. All your life you were never much of a forward thinker because you didn't really have to be. You lived your little old life moment by moment, taking extra special care to appreciate the here and now. You had good friends, a loving family, a beautiful community, food on your plate and a warm bed to return home to every night. That didn’t leave you wanting for much.

Finally, you spoke shyly, "I guess I always wanted to fall in love."

It was so quiet, if he was still human, he wouldn’t have heard you. But he wasn’t, and he did. The corner of his lip tugged up into an endeared and somewhat amused expression, baring the sharp edge of his right canine.

Leon adjusted his posture, sinking back into the couch to gaze up at you, trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking between your legs where your upside-down position left your skirt flipped up nearly to your waist. He cleared his throat softly and cooed, “You poor thing, you’ve never loved before?”

Your face burned and you avoided his eyes, stretching your arms out toward the floor just to give yourself something to do. “N-No,” you began, smoothing your skirt out over your thighs just to watch it ride up again. With a short huff of breath you pulled yourself back up into a normal sitting position on the rafters, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess I just never had the chance.”

“What, not enough fish in your little pond?” He teased, quirking an eyebrow at you.

You laughed, appreciating the way he eased the tension, but he wasn’t exactly wrong. “I mean, yeah, the dating pool made for a better puddle.”

“I figured as much.”

A comfortable silence blanketed over the parlor, broken only by the gentle crackling of the fireplace. You swung your feet idly back and forth, watching the warm flame as you asked aloud, “So… What does it feel like, then?”

“What does what feel like?” He responded, but he knew what you meant. He just wanted to hear you say it.

“Y’know…” You kicked your frilly socked feet, “Love?”

“Well, sweetheart, that’s quite a broad question,” Leon began, patting the space next to him in an attempt to beckon you down from the rafters, and to his delight, the gesture succeeded. You dropped gracefully to the ground and fixed your skirt before curling up beside him on the other side of the couch, your legs tucked up beneath you. You couldn’t possibly be more adorable if you tried.

As you situated yourself at his side, he continued, “There are many different kinds of love. You love your family, and you love your friends, but you don’t love your family in the same way you love your friends, and vice versa. Correct?"

He watched your expression for a moment to ensure you were following along, and surely enough, you were. Your posture was relaxed but you remained dutifully at attention, just like a good little doll should.

Leon felt a pang of pride when you nodded.

“It’s the same thing, just a different kind of love. I’m not sure I know how to describe it, really,” he said, tracing his fingertips along your knee casually. “But I could show you?”

“Show me?” Your head tilted with that innocent curiosity he loved so much about you, and his heart melted all over again. “Show me how?”

He said something lowly and it took you a second to register it because right after, he took your chin in his hand and drew you in for a kiss. Only after your lips collided did your brain recognize his words as, ‘Like this.’

With one hand cradling the back of your head and the other still tracing little shapes on your leg, Leon’s embrace felt all-consuming and overwhelmingly safe. Through it all, you really did trust him. Your fangs knocked together as he pulled you closer to deepen the kiss, making your head spin and your brows furrow in concentration. It felt incredible, unlike anything you’d ever experienced before, but the nerves kept you tense and you couldn’t help but fear you were doing a poor job.

So you let him lead. You resigned yourself to the feeling of his cold lips on your own and his tongue exploring your waiting mouth, his broad hands keeping you pressed against him and feeling slowly up the length of your thigh. His touch made you shiver and tingle in unfamiliar but exhilarating ways and when he eventually pulled away, you were left panting for breath and wanting for more.

He watched your face in an attempt to gauge how you were feeling, and it was evident you enjoyed it. Leon felt a rush knowing he had effectively just turned a new leaf in your training.

You had finally learned to walk. Now it was time for you to sprint.

Leon brushed your hair away from your shoulder, baring your neck to him. He’d waited so long for this moment, for the chance to sink his teeth into you. He wished he could have tasted you fresh, when you were still living, but he would settle for the alternative, and truthfully, it didn't even feel like settling. Especially not when your syrupy sweet blood hit his tongue and pulled a deep, guttural moan from the core of him, his pearlescent eyes rolling back in a display of momentarily mindless rapture. It was unexpectedly hot to see him react to you in such a way. No one had ever expressed such intense need for you, and you were so hung up on it that you barely noticed your thighs subtly shifting together.

But Leon was observant as ever, of course, the movement in no way making it past his keen attention-- you were too precious, too virginal for your own good. He wanted to ruin you, he wanted to tear you apart piece by piece and savor you like holy communion, to pump your undead heart with his own two hands until the end of time, his beautiful baby, his fragile little doll, his corpse bride, his darling and beloved consort.

You were both gasping for breath as he pulled away from your throat, remnants of your tart cherry blood smudged around his pallid lips. Blessed be the gift of undeath, Leon thought to himself, for it granted him the ability to feed from you without consequence-- and vice versa-- to strengthen your bond in the most intimate way imaginable time and time and time again. It still made you dizzy, of course, light and a bit tingly all over, but Leon didn't see that as a bad thing, and as it stood, you didn't seem to either.

He was just trying to come up with a smooth way to tempt you into tasting his own blood, but found himself pleasantly surprised by your initiative.

"Can I try?" You practically purred, your sweet voice all hushed and breathy as your dainty little hand crept up his shoulder, palm coming to rest at the leftmost side of his strong neck.

As you caressed the pad of your thumb over the icy expanse of his skin, you couldn't help but notice the faint, scarred over marks that were dotted about, barely-there dips and craters telling a story that suggested decades of indulgence like this, decades of past lovers, and your heart inexplicably clenched in your chest. Suddenly you were overtaken with the desire to leave your own mark there, much more prominent and recent than any of those faded old others.

Leon was quick to give you his consent, of course, and that was all it took for your mind to snap into a completely different mode of function. The highest points of your mouth were flooding with saliva and the lowest points were pooling with it, slicking your puffy lips as your tongue fell forward to drag a deep, wanton lick up the length of his cold carotid. Then, as anticipated, you helped yourself to a healthy bite of him.

And just like that, you had discovered a new infatuation, as he knew you would. You were bonding yourselves to one another in real time, creating a connection that not even true death could break.

You nearly went weak with how overwhelming it felt, like drinking down pure heaven, hardly even noticing you were moving for a moment as you crawled mindlessly into his lap to straddle him, grinding deep and slow. The pheromones in his sap made your head spin, bringing about the kind of spontaneous sensuality that you'd only ever felt after one too many glasses of mead, the kind that loosened your bones and tinged at your cheeks, the kind that called warmth to bloom at the pit of your stomach.

The flavor of him was coppery and rich, but balanced, a bit dull from undeath but otherwise magnificent. That it was faint only made you want for more.

"Easy, easy," Leon grunted quietly in your ear, reaching a hand up to card through your hair at the back of your head. "Don't drink too fast, little princess... just breathe..."

But it would seem you weren't really listening to him, and that needed to change. Thankfully, Leon knew just the way to grasp your attention.

Letting one arm slip between your two bodies, he wedged his hand down, down, down, until it dipped beneath your skirt to close his palm over the sticky cotton of your panties. That you were already leaking through the fabric like a busted faucet was perfect. You were an absolutely perfect little untouched virgin, and thanks to him, your body would remain that way forever, ripe for his plucking.

Bringing down some pressure on your clit with the base of his palm, testing your reaction, he reveled in the way you whimpered on his throat and unlatched to finally suck in a breath, rutting to meet his attention without a second thought, so easily captivated by such slight stimulation. He couldn't wait to show you more, but he'd need to work you open first. He didn't want your first time to be painful, after all.

Leon took you at the waist and moved to put you on your back, hovering above your spread out form on the chaise lounge and pinning you there in the most delicate way possible. Every bit of that attention to detail paid off.

"My precious doll... my most delicate princess," he sighed reverently, stooping low to breathe you in at the neck again, laving his tongue over the bite he'd left just moments ago. "This is what true love feels like, and I wish to share it with you for eternity..."

He let you ponder that as he continued, working you carefully out of your clothes, finding it cute how you seemed to shift and arch along with him to help him get you naked, like you just couldn't wait. In your pretty doe eyes, your undead life had just begun.

It was a bit strange at first, feeling his finger sink into you, but it wasn't long before Leon was seeking out your soft spots and doing an excellent job of it, no less. He curled and pumped one finger carefully in you until he was sure you were comfortable, until he felt any remaining tension in your muscles melt away, and then he introduced a second. You were so wet and so absorbed by the feeling of it all that you almost didn't notice at first, but that delicious stretch was impossible to miss.

"O-Oh," you quivered, head falling back against the plush velvet beneath you as you bucked into his hand.

With an appreciative hum, Leon allowed himself to become a little less careful with his ministrations, watching your reactions with interest as he worked you open on his fingers, his infatuation with you growing more and more with every moan and whine, every flutter of your silky walls.

"There you go, little one," he cooed, "you like that, don't you?"

Your response was barely more than an airy nod, but it delighted him anyway. How could it not? You were just too sweet for words, too cute to handle. You could've done or said anything in that moment and he would have adored it all the same.

Nipping playfully at your throat, fingers still pumping dutifully in and out of your drippy cunt, his lips trailed up to your ear so he could ask in a sultry whisper, "Think you can take more?"

The next several seconds were a blur of impassioned movement, each of you weaving around one another to shed the elder vampire of his own ensemble, revealing his carved marble frame piece-by-piece. You were amazed by the strength in his shoulders, how smooth and soft his skin was from being kept away from the sun for so long, the dark blonde trail of hair that disappeared below his belt, only for its path to be revealed upon the long-awaited removal of his trousers.

Leon's cock was painfully hard, tip flushed red and weeping with milky beads of precum as he freed himself from his confines at last. He felt the intense need to give it a few strokes with how pent up he was at this point, but he didn't see a point in wasting any time pleasuring himself when you were right there, skirt hiked up to your waist while you laid there panting and leaking your arousal all over his nice furniture. With a pout that pretty, it would be a disservice not to fuck you until you cried.

He angled your hips with one hand and lined himself up with the other, pushing in slowly. Your expression screwed tight for a short moment as the swollen head of him caught at your hole, an opportune moment of distraction for him to sink in deeper, stretching you out until he hit the root, drawing a shocked cry from your throat that gave way to a pleasured whine just as quickly as it came.

So he began to move, wanting to draw out that gorgeous sound for as long as you would allow him to hear it. Your cunt was so fucking tight, pulsing and squeezing around his shaft like you were made for it, made for him, delivered to him by fate so that he might just get to fuck you like this forever and ever, and in that moment, he knew he made the right choice in sharing his gift with you. For the first time in recent memory, the future felt bright.

"L... L-Leon..." You babbled, hooking one leg over his hip for purchase just to find out it allowed him to prod that much deeper. You went boneless at the feeling, finding strength only in your ability to claw at his shoulders for dear life, the faint scent of his blood lingering in the air and making your head spin. "Feels... g-good... so good... don't stop..."

He wouldn't dream of it.

Fingertips printing into your thighs, he pulled your legs up to rest over his shoulders instead, driving you down into the soft couch in a firm mating press. You were nose to nose, needy lips catching and fangs clacking between filthy words and gasps for breath as you felt his presence envelope you fully. Leon was in you, on you, around you...

Leon was your home now. Leon was where you laid to rest.

For the first time in your undead life, you felt your body licking with heat, temperature rising steadily at the pit of you and threatening to hit a fever pitch. Every inch of him lit you up from the inside.

"Oh, my baby," he groaned, letting go of you with one hand just to swipe his silvery blonde hair away from his face so he could gaze at you like a work of art. "You're getting close, aren't you? Squeezing me so tight like that..."

"Yeah," you whined, even though you weren't fully sure what it even felt like to be close. You weren't dumb, you knew what orgasms were, you'd just never had one yourself, and as such, you had no basis for comparison.

Leon aimed to fix that, to make damn sure you familiarized yourself with the feeling over the course of your shared eternity.

His thrusts picked up with renewed vigor, the legs of the old chaise lounge scratching against the hardwood floors with every push forward, and he didn't even care. Everything else about life felt so worthless in comparison to you, the new center of his universe. The whole entire house could collapse and he would still be content, so long as he had you.

And every time he remembered that he did have you, that you were here with him right now, squirming and rutting on his cock so beautifully, that he was all you had... it just drove him that much crazier, made him that much more determined to make your first time one you would never forget. He couldn't be happier to spend the entire rest of his endless life topping the last performance.

You were losing your grip, struggling to keep your eyes open and eventually sinking your itching fangs into what you could reach of his throat just to push yourself a little higher, a little closer. The flavor alone made you purr against his skin, jaw clenching tighter, and the delicious sting of it was pushing him forward too. Now his biggest concern wasn't just making sure you came, but making sure that you came first.

So he withheld, even as his balls drew up tight and ached to release, focusing instead on getting you there.

"Don't be shy, princess, I've got you," Leon moaned into your ear, "let it happen... just let it happen..."

Tears pricked at your eyes, the overabundance of stimulation rendering you down into a tearful little puddle, but it wasn't until he spoke up to encourage you that you realized you really were holding back, stalling yourself at the precipice like it was wrong to let go.

But it wasn't wrong. It was divine. It was indulgent.

Sucking back a mouthful of his blood, you unlatched from Leon's neck just to press your forehead against his own, your jaw stuck open in stilted whines and gasps for breath as that molten heat in your belly finally boiled over, and you discovered exactly what it was you were close to.

Your spine drew up into an arch, toes curling over his shoulders as you came on his length with a cry, thighs trembling with strain. Leon had never been baptized before, but it felt like he was just now. He'd never felt so close to God as he allowed himself to finish deep inside your perfect pussy.

You collapsed together in the afterglow, the parlor going quiet again as you both caught your breath and your bearings, a heaping pile of mess on velvet.

"Leon," you whispered, kissing some of the excess blood away from his cold skin as you innocently and earnestly admitted, "I... I think I love you."

He cracked a fond smile at this, if only because he knew you would catch up in time. After all, you still had much to learn, and he didn't want to overwhelm you more than he already had for one evening.

"I love you too, little one."

#NEVER underestimate the power of a romantic vampire trope #fics ੈ♡˳

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leonsdolly · 9 months ago

Text

MAGDALENE

ft. james sunderland x fem!reader

tags. silent hill monsters mentioned so like um some gore, cheating, non-con/rape, brief mention of bondage + cigarette burns, unspecified age gap, nurse!reader, slight misogyny, ooc james .. forced orgasm

note. i can’t write anymore um… honestly have always found james 2 hard to write and he’s still too hard but whatever!! this is confusing and bad at best I hate it but like . spent like a week mulling over it so here. remake brought me back to james.. ignore any mistakes or typos or anything btw I know james never cheated on Mary but like let me write that 🙂‍↕️… rbs and feedback so appreciated 🙂‍↕️🤍🏩

They’re trying something new.

“I’ll be just a moment!” Mary calls from the bathroom, it’s his cue to reach for the dirty magazine under his pillow.

Girls bound so tightly their fat spills over red ropes like netted meat - posed like mannequins. Farrah Fawcett hair, fake tans and white teeth and a whole lotta legs.

It is not her fault, it is never Mary’s fault. He’s just like this. His perversion is a weed that will grow anywhere, sprouting between cracks in the sidewalk.

James flips the page, his dick stirs at the sight of a small mouth stretched around too many ringed fingers, a pair of bruised breasts, the same mouth licking the underside of a studded boot.

A cigarette sears tender flesh in one photo. A tongue in the other. The crease of a white inner-thigh. So achingly close to a shaven cunt, perfect and pink and soft.

He doesn’t hear the door open, he doesn’t notice Mary is there until she gasps sharply. The magazine is pushed back under his pillows, there’s no time to lament the page tearing in the process.

She’s leaning against the doorway, unable to support the weight in her chest. Mary tips her head forward, the wig falls with it. He’d already noticed the lace. It’s long and blonde, princess curls that frame her face delicately, but the synthetic fibre shines too brightly in this light. Her new babydoll is ill-fitting - hanging off her shoulders, sagging near her breasts, the scalloped hem is too long to be sexy. It’s the same colour as her wedding dress and it fits like grave clothes.

“Mary, honey,” James says carefully, sitting up against the headboard as shame blots his mind, “I was—I was waiting for you.”

Mary steps forward, his arms are outreached to catch her even if she’s too far, one of her knees is bent inwards as she drags herself towards the edge of the bed. She falls in a heap of silk and lace and nylon curls.

“I’m sorry,” he tries when there is nothing else to say, only lobotomised silence and the soft wheeze of her breath.

“No, it’s okay, James” Mary says, mildly, when it is not okay, when it will never be okay. “Can you… Can you show me?” She lifts her head, his fingers twitch to fix her wig.

The sore on the corner of her mouth cracks when she smiles, dried out by her foundation. If James stares hard enough, if his eyes unfocus, it resembles a cigarette burn, a red welt to match her red mouth.

“Show you… Show you what?”

“What you’re looking at, James. Why won’t you show me?” Mary asks, her brows started thinning out a month ago, but he can see how they draw together in irritation.

“Because that’s not—“ Because she is his wife, his Mary, his Virgin Mary, and they might live under the same roof, but there are some things good husbands keep from their wives.

“I’m not a child, James, do you think I haven’t seen whatever it is you’re looking at?” Mary’s voice is tight, and he hears the soft wheeze in the back of her throat, and he doesn’t think he can handle her getting upset today. “I know what you like, so why won’t you do that to me?”

He blinks at her, all skin and bones, there is no flesh to squeeze, to bruise or burn, it’s only going to rot.

“Don’t look at me like that, James.”

James looks away and she’s still unhappy, he hears her scoff.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some sort of monster. I really—I put so much effort into today, and you don’t even care, you think I look ugly.” She stands up, teetering on ankles so thin they might give away at any minute.

“That’s not true, Mary.” There is no point in placating her anymore, she’s so far beyond placating. He’s too tired and she is too hurt.

“Yes it is! You don’t want me, you don’t want me, I know you don’t.”

“I do, I do want you, how do you know what I want?”

“Then why won’t you fuck me, James?”

“I—Because.”

“Because, because, because—Because what? You’re so full of shit, James!”

“Mary.”

“It’s because you think I’m ugly, you don’t have to lie, James. I can see it in your face, you wouldn’t need those-“ She points a finger at the magazine sticking out from under his pillow. “-If I was pretty, would you?”

Mary retreats to the bathroom like every single night before this. He hears her as she goes.

You make me miserable, James. You don’t even love me anymore. Why won’t you touch me like those girls? I’m not going to break.

There’s no spark to catch alight, it’s like they’re using fireproof fucking kindling. Two sticks that can’t even produce hot dust.

Sometimes, Mary is not a wife, she’s a virus—A nasty one at that.

She has gotten worse, the ward becomes her home, he brings her wilting flowers and broken promises and each time she berates him in front of the pretty nurse—My husband can’t get it up, my husband thinks I’m ugly, there he is, he finally showed up, if I’m no use to him anymore, I don’t know why he doesn’t kill me—James offers a restrained, patient smile.

He knows it’s wrong, but he finds himself browsing the back of the convenience store more often. The usual magazines aren’t doing it for James anymore. He’s gotten bored of sexy little things in nothing more than their smiles and wedge heels, swapping it out for latex gloves and strange metallic tools that poke around in holes only meant for cock. Busty nurses tongue-kissing and pressing their stethoscopes to bulges and violating every health code in the book by helping out well-endowed patients.

It’s so wrong.

Mary is ten minutes down the road alone, and James is too busy rubbing one out in their shared bed to the thought of sexy fucking nurses to come and stay with her for the night.

You’re this sweet little thing, and you are so bad for him.

Blood clots like berry compote. There is no discernable face. What James is looking at could be a pig or a woman and if anyone were to tell him it were both - he would believe it. It’s too ugly to be a woman, but it’s mutilated like one. There’s so much blood he can’t see any skin, and a bone gleams darkly in the stark white of his torchlight. Split ribs akin to gnashing teeth, a gaping maw that beckons him in.

He does not know what to make of this modern art.

“Beautiful work.” Maria gives a somewhat sad glance down to the intestines strung across the ground like a wet jump rope.

He wishes he brought gloves and a breath mint. The smell is thick and wet when the wind blows it up his nose, hair swept into his eyes and mouth, close enough to the corpse to kiss it.

You are brushing Mary’s wig and pretending better than he ever has. You tell her that she’s your favourite patient.

Like a child, she turns and says to him, “See, James? I’m somebody’s favourite.”

“You’re my favourite, Mary,” he tells her wearily.

“Your favourite wife? Do you have any other ones I should know about?” He walked right into that. Mary closes her eyes when you lay her down and tuck her in, fluffing up the pillows and drawing the curtains closed.

“I only love you,” James says quietly, reverently while he watches you cross your pretty legs, blue dress riding up to showcase more skin than he is used to from you. Smoother than fucking soft serve.

“In sickness and health,” Mary mumbles, “what a joke, if you hate me so much, you should just get rid of me.”

From this angle, he sees a flash of toned skin, close to your centre, close enough for heat to settle in his gut.

James is making himself sick.

He and Maria have remained undecided on this creature. Cut up like a canvas, gurgling on the ground, unmoving, but he is so sure it’s calling his name.

James, James, James.

A pile of human remains with a mouth in the mix.

It doesn’t writhe in constant agony like the body bags, their upper halves vacuumed sealed like raw steaks, and it is nothing like those patchwork abortions, scuttling along the hollow walls, tossed aside like dolls by that thing with the sword.

He can make out fabric of some kind, blue like a cloudless sky.

The softness of your hand on his is unimaginable to James. There are no sores weeping into his palm, and when he squeezes nothing bursts and nothing breaks.

It’s nothing more than a kind gesture, you offer him a handkerchief when you find him sniffling outside of Mary’s room and then you leave, skirt fluttering behind you.

He waits and burns, wondering when you are going to pass him by again. He wants to see you once more.

Mary is past that door waiting for him, but he can’t bring himself to get up.

James is going to make her cry again, and then she will get so upset she can’t breathe, and then you will throw him a dirty look, and he can’t handle that right now. To be scorned by you.

He goes home without saying hello or goodbye.

He goes home with you in the forefront of his mind, with you starting in all of tonight’s fantasies.

When James closes his eyes, he sees you with your perfect lips around his cock, blinking back tears when he hits the back of your throat. You’re either the perfect whore or the dick in your mouth keeps you from complaining.

James can’t decide if he would like for you to do it all on your own, swallowing around his spit-slicked shaft, fuck him half to death in that sexy get-up or if he would like to push your head down, to force himself into you. For you to beg him to stop, tell him that it’s wrong and his sweet Mary is right there, but it’s too good and if he’s already inside why would he stop now?

A slut by nature or a slut by force.

He doesn’t know which makes him cum harder.

For her final days, Mary comes home. None go without incident. It seems all James has brought home is a terrible illness

The first day he brings her upstairs and lays her down, she asks him to hold her. So James does, arms wrapped loosely around her brittle body. She’s so cold he thinks she’s gone already.

Mary asks him to hold her tighter, but he can’t. She would break in half. Like everything James does, this upsets her and he spends the night on the couch.

It feels like an entire lifetime has gone by since his Mary - soft-spoken, never unkind, endlessly patient - passed. His Mary. Not whatever has taken her place in their home, crucifying every last word that leaves his mouth.

Everything becomes too much, and as she calls out his name in the dark of their bedroom, the door clicks shut behind him.

She could die for all I care, he thinks in the heat of the moment, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

He catches himself by the scruff of his neck.

He didn’t mean that.

All he wants is his life back, his Mary back.

James leads himself back to the hospital, he sits in his car and cries quietly into his palm, unable to make a noise even when he’s alone.

He’s here because of you, and he knows that, but he tells himself otherwise.

You exit at midnight, satchel swung over your shoulder as you wave goodbye to whoever’s inside, bundled up in a tan overcoat and scarf.

You’re wearing stockings and shoes that keep you a couple inches off the ground. He hears them clack as you make your way to your car.

It takes you a good twenty minutes to start up the engine, too busy fussing over yourself in the vanity mirror.

James doesn’t know what compels him to follow you, but he does. He follows you all the way home, and then he parks a few metres down the street so as to not alarm you.

He rests his head on the wheel and it beeps.

What is he doing here? What is wrong with him?

For all James knows, Mary could be dying right now. Alone, asphyxiating in the dark, calling out for him to hold her. To save her, to make it stop hurting. Just make it all stop, James, I can’t do this anymore.

He doesn’t expect you to open the door, but you’re kinder than you are clever.

Recognition crosses your face, and you take him in slowly, committing his face, gentle and forgettable, to memory. “Mr. Sunderland,” you start brightly, too brightly for the circumstances, “how did you get my address?”

“Phone book,” James lies, he can’t take his eyes off the shape of your soft middle in that nightgown, how your breasts spill past the neckline.

“Right.” You nod, believing him so easily, like any man could be trusted around you. “I’m glad you’re here, actually, you know it completely slipped my mind, but Mary-“ You stop and correct yourself. “-Mrs. Shepherd, she told me to pass on a letter to you and it slipped my mind, I guess that’s what you’re here for.”

You step back, James steps forward, wedged in the doorway. He goes along with it. “The letter, yes.”

“Let me go and find it, I’m sorry you had to come to me, that was the one thing she asked me to do and I just forgot, I can’t believe myself.” You look so small all alone in this big house, he wants to bend you in half to make you even smaller. “You can come in, it’s cold out there.”

He closes the door and you’re boxed in with him.

You’re plucked right off the page of a dirty magazine, the perfect hair, your centrefold tits and those legs. Despite your bare face, remaining smudges of black line your eyes, he still smells your faint perfume.

It’s all going to be over soon, he tells himself. Mary, their marriage, him. Everything is going to be over after this. What he does now can’t chase him to the other side.

James takes your wrist in his hand, and then your hip, he digs his fingers into your flesh. Young and plump. You wouldn’t snap if he held you any tighter.

It follows him. That thing. He finds it oozing and gurgling on the floors and on the walls, seeping into his shoes, dripping on him like a damp spot in the ceiling.

James steps into it more than once and it squeals in a tone he knows all too well.

He finds your ID in the nurse’s lounge, your soiled uniform folded in the locker room, crusted in blood and something even more unpleasant.

The corners of your petal lips split around his fingers. There’s no room to make noise, any protest dies out when he pushes them deeper.

You gag, pushing at his chest, a good deal of spit coating your chin as James fucks your throat with the wrong fucking thing. Each time you swallow, gurgling wetly, angry tears wetting your lashes, he wishes he stuffed his cock in your mouth instead.

It’s been so long since he had a mouth to warm his dick, and Mary was so willing, but attraction reaches a crest before it ebbs away. And it was not her fault—It’s not her fault. It’s his fault he can’t touch her. He never stopped loving her, but at some point James started to hate her, and now he can’t go back on himself. He won’t be able to wake up after today, after what he’s done to you, what he’s going to do to Mary.

“I’m sorry,” James says, and he really is, you have to believe him. He didn’t mean for this to happen. When he followed you home, when he stuck his foot in the door, when he pushed you against the wall so hard your skull rattled—He didn’t mean for any of that.

He feels weak in the knees looking at you, his grip eases up, but James can’t just stop halfway, he can’t just rattle you and leave like that.

(He can’t half-ass it like he does in bed with Mary. He’s got to go all the way. He can hear her nagging at him in the back of his head.)

Your tits pop out of your nightgown when he forces you down onto all fours, it rides up to show off your cute pink underwear, stretched over the swell of your ass.

James has always liked to take Mary on her back, face to face, watching over her carefully. How her lashes flutter and her lips part when she cums. It’s been so long since he’s seen it, felt her, touched her.

He never treated her like this. Not his Mary, no matter how much she asked for it, he wasn’t capable of treating her in any manner other than gentle.

A hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you down as the other fumbles with his zipper.

Please, sir. Please. I’m begging you, sir. Please, don’t do this to me. Anything but this, sir. I can do anything for you, please, don’t do this to me.

“I’m so sorry,” James says again, it’s the only thing he has said to you, the only thing he can say. He doesn’t have the guts to say that you deserved this, that he has been wanting this from day one, that he has had dreams about this very moment.

Something must tear inside of you when he pushes in, splitting you down the middle, the drooling tip of his cock hits your cervix rather soon. You’re tighter than Mary, not the right fit, not ready for him. Not the cunt he’s so used to fucking, the one that wears him like the perfect sweater.

You suppress a pained noise in the back of your throat, clawing at the floor, scrambling for purchase as he draws his hips back, cock popping out of your ruined cunt. James would like to see your face, but the view from back here is better. Puffy pussy lips framing your slit, swollen from forced entry, your tighter hole, the puckered rim he traces with a finger. Face down, ass up. You don’t cast sultry looks over your shoulder like the girls in his tapes, you bite down on your fist and cry, tear drops falling in little wet blobs on the ground.

James pushes in, with more force this time, unrestrained, he feels his last nerve snap as the resistance melts away with each stuttered thrust. He presses his face into the back of your neck, he’s crying, possibly harder than you. He leaves your nape wetter than your pussy.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” James chants feverishly, a clammy hand reaching round and smoothing down your body, parting your folds and fumbling for your clit. Miraculously, he finds it with no help, none of Mary’s gentle instructions to guide him.

“No, no, no, no, don’t do that, please,” you beg, whine, tightening up around his cock because that is all soft, pliable holes know to do, swallow up the cock that feeds it. He rubs you roughly, rubs you raw until you tense up and he feels it. He feels you cum around him, how your pussy twitches and your clit throbs under the pads of his fingers. It must hurt. You cry out and clench your fists, squirming so much his dick almost slips out of you.

James buries himself deep, to the hilt, feels the squishy start of your cervix moulded to the head of his dick. You inhale sharply, stifling another noise, like you’re embarrassed to let him hear you.

He leaves you there leaking seed like a deflating blow-up doll, a pile of bloodied limbs. He leaves you there knowing you will never be the same, that you’ll never smile again. James leaves with empty balls and an even emptier heart.

You win some, you lose some.

#reading later <3 #JAMES CONTENT IM SO EXCITED #and i KNOW it's going to be good!#fics ੈ♡˳

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