ugly little secret(s)
✎ Your cheeks are burning with rose-rotted chagrin. February 2nd, 1998. Leon. 21. Multiply, add, divide, and subtract. Do all the math. The upshot is all the same. Your boyfriend’s terrifying older brother is a fucking porn star. Or... was a porn star. God, does that even matter?
cw: fem!reader and has she/her pronouns, boyfriend’s brother ouchchch, shameless smut, drinking, cheating, humiliation, he rlly is an asshole therefore a tad ooc, semi-public sex, hair pulling, fingering, biting, ex-porn star (actually camboy but nevermind) leon omg, biting, degradation and praising, facials, oral (male receives)
world count: 8k (uhm)
tiny note: the second request during a perilous ovulation week, and im quite excited/scared with this one, i did imagine og re4 leon but with remake’s face while writing this cuz og leon’s eyes r scary + i despise making banners and suck big time euugh
Wielding the spare key in your hand, you click a few times on the door, and it slithers automatically open. You make barely a sound since the minute hand and the hour hand have long crossed the midnight horizon. Dragging your bulging overnight bag inside, you step through the door of your boyfriend’s apartment building. A gloomy curtain of secrecy reigns inside. But what’s this? Your boyfriend knew you were on your way. What’s with sending his girlfriend to Coventry now?
Pity, looks like your dreams of getting those welcome hugs and kisses are dashed. Alas, you can’t stop the clock. Unpack your clothes, and you can always give him a call later, let him know you’re home.
To get things rolling, you hang the key on the coat rack in the foyer and mosey onto the kitchen for a glass of water. When you pull the handle of the fridge open, an abstruse smell filters into your nostrils. It’s not your fragrance and certainly not that of your boyfriend. A shade of a strange skin and other colors ride on the current.
Oh, he better not be cheating on you.
Out of dark, dark blues, the lightest nudge on your shoulder from the hands that have been sneaking up on you from behind spooks you. The hairs on your arms stand on end, and thorns effloresce on your skin—the kind of thorns that would cut open your flesh should you skim your fingers over them.
Your instinct, the one that will perchance drive you to your death, blindly dashes the glass of water in your hand in the face of the man behind you.
You get an offended and curt grunt of a veto.
That face bathed in water is actually quite recognizable, albeit a face you don’t see around you very often. The furrow of his brow is sunken, absolutely splotched with indignation—quite irascible.
Your boyfriend’s big brother.
What a lovely first impression you made on him. Unfuckingbelievable.
You think he wouldn’t mind (he would, and he does). Credit where it’s due, the guy is barely in the menage picture; you do see him for a heck of a long time. He’s always off somewhere on a “job,” but you can’t get a sliver of a clue what the hell he’s pulling off as a “job.”. The gist of it is that Leon Kennedy leads a life that would surely inspire a private sleuth—and Leon never holds anyone personally accountable for it.
Rarely do you catch him cracking a mordant smile, which adds mingy zeros to the myriad percentages of his almost impossible odds. You have to cut him some slack, though, ‘cause he did help you once when you couldn’t get the lid off the pasta sauce.
“Fuck! Leon, I’m sorry. You’re—I mean—holy shit! You’re so stealthy, I thought you were a burglar.” You excuse yourself with a nebulous mewl.
A softer flicker of sympathy flits across his face, just duskily.
You know it’s not fine. You know it perfectly well.
His words may assure you that it’s okay, but his eyes are definitely looking at you like, “Were you really planning to confront a would-be thief by splashing water in his face?”
You can’t help but descry how Leon harnesses the same blue as his brother in the circles of his irises—a tint of sapphire that bucks the blues of the rivulets. They are dark too. No adequate translation of this chromatic parallelism.
For no discernible rhyme or reason, you look around wary to atone for your self-pity, and your eyes wander to the roll of tissue folded atop the kitchen table.
With a tear of a leaf, you pat the toweling paper into the droplets that trickle down his chin, a bead, or even two.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Leon inveighs.
He’s the kind of person capable of morphing into a scary person when he wants to. Makes you so wired, but he does it so well.
“What are you, my mother?”
The damp and tattered lump of paper in your hand falls to the floor, and you raise your hands in midair as if in groveling surrender. No need for much falsification.
The last time you felt this dejected in your life was in elementary school when your teacher dragged you out to recite a sonnet from fucking Marlow. And you fucked up so bad. Surely now, these nanoseconds are going straight into the collection of your second most cringe-worthy memoirs.
“So, what’re you doing here?” You clear your throat.
“Just visiting. Temporarily. Got a flight by tomorrow.”
But you want to know more. You always do.
“Uhm. Where’s your brother again?”
“I dunno. Said he had to deal with some stuff in the office before he left.” Leon brushes at the wetness on the collar of his t-shirt with a napkin petal he rips off afresh.
“Oh, that makes total sense. He didn’t say anything to me before I got here, y’know. So I thought the house would be empty since I didn’t see him—but you came out of nowhere, and I got all antsy!” You run off at the mouth, rocking on the balls of your feet awkwardly.
“Yeah, yeah.” Leon hacks your words to pieces all over with a shiv. A tasteless night for you and your speech clumps in your throat, burning your airway so bitterly.
“Whatever. I’m going out. Gotta change first, all thanks to “someone” pouring water over my fucking head.”
Allusions and epithets shape his voice into thumbnail knives, and they stab steadily and directly at you. You bleed trickles of mortification.
He won’t even spare a backward glance at your face.
He wanders out of the kitchen, and you just sulk after him.
Eighteen messages you send to your boyfriend, and every time you dial his number, the line rings dead air. Sprawled out on his bed, you try to decompress, but it’s all for naught. Time is repentant to elapse while you’re all alone. Can’t sleep either since you didn’t shy away from drinking a whole cup of coffee. All that has happened to you now is indeed no one else’s but your own fault.
It’s your feet that carry you out of the room again. Inside, it’s colder—there’s one less person and one less blood circulation. Leon must have left, and it’s fairly late.
What a laugh; it boggles your mind as to why this man is like this and why he would go out at this hour, but perhaps your theorem of him being a crook holds some meed of credence.
Who cares? To hell with all the Kennedys.
They’re all rude and... handsome and pretty. Candies for the eyes, so to speak.
On the TV unit, a picture framed with teak wood catches your eyes. A mother, a father, and their two sons. Leon looks younger here. He looks more... puerile and similar to his mommy. Ah, there’s your boyfriend. As for him, he’s a minor character—non sequitur—even through your eyes.
Just blame it on human nature to curry favor for the better and more pleasant ones. It’s simpler that way.
Quite on the fly, the Kennedy brothers’ cat skitters towards you, a gust of wind coming from your left, from your boyfriend’s bedroom.
“Oh, gosh! What the hell?”
Surviving an attack by a cat without a single scratch wasn’t an entry in your mental dossier for this particular evening. What a creepy cat. He reminds you of Leon, to be honest: a grumpy, feral, black cat and quite conniving. A cunt, literally.
You’re fixing your hair properly, but things turn up a notch when you notice that your earring is missing—the one that usually grazes your hair when you push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyebrows spontaneously knit into a rictus frown.
“Stupid kitty.” You mutter to yourself, and your eyes sweep over the surroundings, looking for anything and everything. And voila! You hit the jackpot. A pair of hoop earrings glint in the corner of the bookcase. You waddle on your knees and reach for your precious bijou. Eyes on the floor, your head tilts a fraction from your preoccupation with the insertion of the clamp into the tiny hole in your earlobe. Then you see a small box. It’s one thing for it to be hidden out of sight, quite another for it to be so incredibly grotesque. A jejune beige-colored corrugated box tucked under the bookcase. On it is a stamped label that reads “1998.” That’s like 6 years ago.
Curiosity claws at your guts, and the incisal edges of your teeth zing your bottom lip.
But you’ve already opened the grimy, dust- and paper-covered lid of that box.
A box full of some movie cassettes. About ten, possibly more. What the deuce is this?
It’s hard to pick one out, but somehow you pluck the one that has fallen to the very bottom of the line.
You insert the deck into the tape recorder’s lizard-like tongue.
The television comes to fruition with horizontal and vertical lines that weave in and out of the harmony of blues and greens. Butterflies of distress swirl inside you—something is about to rock the boat. You clutch the remote control tightly to your heart.
A LITTLE PRE-LAUNCH AND WARM-UP.
The screen confronts you with a dark display that momentarily startles you with the reflection of your own agitated features. Whoever this director is, he should never direct a battle in the middle of darkness and winter for the next years!
The screen jerks and shakes some more, lumberingly, and you can see the... thighs of a figure, a man (?).
This is the fucking Leon, his face chubbier on the tape; tender, and with the baby fat now minus his chiseled, washed-out cheeks.
Leon, that very adorable Leon, as in the family portrait, is now sitting there with his considerably big dick in the palm of his hand... pumping the hell out of himself. His hair is darker, brown maybe. And there’s a woman you’ve never seen before, on all fours, sucking on testicles that were probably heavy enough to make mincemeat of the camera if they were to hit against the screen.
“So—suck—big. Gosh, I love them so much, naughty boy. Just like how I love my men younger but with huge cocks. You gonna fuck me after I suck this pretty dick, pretty boy?”
She’s talking dirty and smearing Leon’s balls with bright red rouge, sucking and guzzling on his sacks like there’s no tomorrow. God, how’s this even possible? Can she even breathe?
“Y-yes, ma’am. I’ll give you anything you want,” Leon, in return, stammers amateurishly.
Everything and everyone is looking at you, with all their obscenity and prurience. Everything on the screen. And you’re staring back at them.
A crude tap on the red button of the remote and the screen is the dimness of the night welkin again.
Your cheeks are burning with rose-rotted chagrin.
Multiply, add, divide, and subtract. Do all the math.
The upshot is all the same.
Your boyfriend’s terrifying older brother is a fucking porn star. Or... was a porn star. God, does that even matter?
You’re giving yourself a wake-up pinch on the arm. You need to know if this is a dream or if your mind is playing some sick trick on you.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Your eyes HAVE witnessed everything. What else can you do but believe them?
Leon was there; he was in that bed, and between his knees was a woman giving him the head of his dreams. That Leon, proud and awed, whimpering in his gruff voice.
It all makes so much sense if you give yourself a chance to ponder it. It’s psychedelic. So, Leon is obviously someone living his own life on his own, but everything he’s done in the past is just a sliver of time littered with wrongdoings.
Either that or it isn’t. It may or may not be a flaw to be a porn star. Correction: an ex-porn star. You really don’t know. You’re all over the place, but there’s a voice inside you questioning why this should even concern you in the first place.
Really? What do you care? How is that any of your business?
Leon’s nothing to you, and you’re nothing to him. He sure as hell despises you, and after your gaffe tonight, it’s a very real likelihood that you’re one of the top three names he’s written in his personal journal of people he holds in contempt.
Your gaze falls on the cat, licking his paws. He stares blankly at you, and you at him. Subsequently, the rattle of keys and the sound of the front door unlocking—you know perfectly well what kind of timbre it grates—jar you out of your haze of apathy. Immediately, you stash the remote in your hand under the cushion on the couch. You never know.
You sink into the armchair, push the ‘Pandora’s’ box (it sure had some scandalous stuff in it, alright) under the bookcase, and snatch the first book that randomly comes to your hand from the bureau.
The patter of footsteps coming in matches Leon’s boots. You watch him walk in like a soldier on standby, but sitting down. You are, indeed, the greatest example of how this can even physicalize.
“You haven’t gone to bed yet?”
You shake your head no. Won’t breathe a word after everything has happened. He’s very much on the same page.
The suspense between you is so thick you could hear a pin drop.
“Felt like reading a book at this hour?” Leon sounds painfully austere. As usual and as he should be.
“Yeah.” You wave the book in your hand at him. It spells “Twilight.” A pop-culture pulp book that cryptically no one can keep out of their hands, in a macabre sort of way.
“You’re reading a vampire romance for teenagers? At 4:00 a.m.?”
You keep repeating the same words like a double robot or like a refrain of a nursery rhyme.
Leon pitches in by keeping schtum. Inwardly, he feels sick ‘cause he has frightened you more or less. He isn’t a complete asshat, sure, but he certainly hasn’t had a very good sense of how he would behave with people he isn’t exactly in rapport with. Until then, and even now, he feels up in the air, especially next to you.
“Well... I’ll just watch some TV.”
He said “television,” and you heard it very lucidly.
The television still tuned to the tape recorder, and the very television still screening the tape in its monochrome black frame.
“Ah! No, Leon. I think it’s totally overkill. It’s so late, right?”
Here come your eccentricities.
“Nah, you’re the overkill. I’m bored. I’ll just channel surf and go to bed anyway.”
“I think you should just go straight to bed, Leon. Look under your eyes. I don’t think purple eye circles flatter you.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that the pills ain’t helping.” His razor-sharp eyes are roving to pinpoint the remote. “The pharmacist said Zolpidem does wonders; he raved and gushed about it. Fuck that guy and the other guys beside him.”
“You do take pills to fall asleep?”
“Haven’t you tried taking some... melatonin gummies?”
Anything to keep the conversation away from the hidden remote.
To your surprise, Leon vacillates in the span of a heartbeat’s whisper. Melatonin hadn’t even dawned on him then, but instead of letting you find out, he’d rather jump off the veranda, thank you very much.
He prods you a little and digs out the remote control that you placed under the cushion, as if he himself had planted it there.
You really need to stop what’s happening and what’s most likely to happen. One way or another, you have to do it, or you’ll be the guilty one here and —
The damned TV switches on as soon as Leon hits that second button.
— and you’re the voyeur watching your boyfriend’s brother’s porn videos. It’s now official.
That’s what you are. Officially, a pervert.
A blanket of quiescence suffuses the room unless you count the gagging and Leon’s tinny whimpers filtering through the telly.
Oh, how you need a new epithet right now, one to define infamy and beyond.
You can’t see what kind of spectrum is delineated on his face. How dare you look at him anyway? How dare he look at your cherry-cheeked face when a twenty-one-year-old Leon’s fucking a milf’s mouth on the display?
The karmic equation of the situation is so complex that his eyes finally apprehend yours. You can tell how far-fetched it all is without even meeting his perusal.
“I didn’t mean to! I swear I found them under the bookcase.”
You meander, glaring at the vinyl flooring, a handful of stray words only barely pinging out of your mouth.
“I mean, it’s your fault. Who leaves personal belongings out in the open?” You try again.
Leon is nowhere with you.
In the room, in all, everything is dead silent. The porn video has fallen dead silent too; there is no other noise punctuating the room than the sound of a clock’s rivets pursuing each other. This must be what dying feels like. Cold, pitch-black darkness and nary a sound. Like a mausoleum, but a mausoleum at 4 o’clock or so.
“And yet you had to butt in.”
Looks like he’s about to rip you a new one right here and there. Hard not to be flummoxed; all glassy-eyed and mouth agape. Even his glare is chopping the remaining of your exiguous logic.
“That’s not what it looks like!”
Written on his face is the projectile vomit of aversion to you. It’s the kind of vitriol that will drive you fifty feet under the ground, and the blues of his eyes aren’t malleable—no azure pinpricks. Asperity in the green, bloodshot eyes.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if you didn’t paw at everything you happen to see, huh?”
It would be really nice. If you had the decency to recognize your boundaries, this would never have had to happen. You’d have remained two virtual strangers, and perhaps you could have dimmed the tingles between your legs for him. That much exposure to porn makes anyone wet; fair play to you. The problem is that you’re soaking wet for your boyfriend’s blood and kin.
That’s what makes you a wench: your anatomical reaction—if you want to gloss over the obvious.
What the hell is wrong with you?
“The fuck are you still doing here? You deaf or something?”
His question—equivalent to him banishing you from this place—rocks your whole world to the ground. You may agree with Leon, but you still can’t come up with the flimsiest excuse to stop yourself from hating him. How he refuses to believe you precisely because it’s cheap to write you off as the wanton one.
You need to do something about it.
Guts suddenly coursing through your body, you retort, “It’s not like I’m looking forward to being here anyway. What a fucking weird family you have. Christ! Your moron brother cheats on me; I try to ignore it, and when I try to do something to clear my head, I see a porn video of the man who will be my brother-in-law.”
Oh. Ouch. Now you have done it.
That felt so good. The ultimate and only panacea: spewing out the poison that had clogged inside you.
So much so that even Leon finds himself reeling. The feeling of being enough to sway him— however, fleetingly—gives you a strange sense of vindication.
“You give him the ring. I’m done with any of this.”
You fling the ring aside and it thuds down on the floor.
Indubitably, you slam the door stormily before you leave. Just like a movie scene. It’s overly melodramatic, but it must be executed. (Note: you’ll probably throw up in the toilet when you remember the antics you’ve just carried out).
After that night of odium; you now avoid any place in your daily life where you ever read the acronym “Kennedy.” Conversely, you cast withering glares at people’s mouths before the birth of anything that begins with the L-word. The stakes are alpine.
Over and over, your now ex-boyfriend texted and paged you, and you didn’t return a single one of them. As if you didn’t walk in on him with the girl in the office—time and again—on the desk, his ugly hand and zaftig fingers under the girl’s pencil skirt. You weren’t born yesterday, and while your ex was snoring his ass off to sleep, you were engrossed in reading his texts to other blonde girls with small tits and waists.
All those nights when you went into the living room and read Fur Coat Madonna under the dim lamp as if nothing had actually changed.
You had only one simple answer for why you put up with it: sublimity. You lusted after money; you had a yen for power and glory.
A grounded family—the Kennedys were what you were looking for. Young and adolescent girls, young Americans, loved the handsome, blond men and their pretty eyes. To be one of their girlfriends—they’d murder someone or start a cult even, really.
Luckily, your father’s pedigree and the blood that runs through your veins qualified you as a golden plum. Although you’ve always gotten your eye on Leon, unfortunately, the better Kennedy wasn’t up for grabs.
Not only is (or was) he a porn star, but the fact that no one has ever heard of him only serves to raise huge fishy questions about what kind of a cover story is playing out behind the screen.
You’re off to Italy and ready to drink the stress away. Drama-free and only the blue sea of the alluring Mediterranean.
Who doesn’t like a warm Sicilian starry night?
After a lap in the pool, you climb up the pool ladder and dry the excess water from the tufts of your hair with a towel while unintentionally eavesdropping on the chatter of the two girls working at the minibar. They’re right behind you.
Excitement and bustle are at their peak; one of them is showing the other something on her phone. Slowly, you make your way towards them.
“Girl, it looks sooo fine—he’s, like, sooo fine.”
The staff speak Italian amongst themselves, and you struggle to translate their words by hearsay against your moribund Italian language background.
“Are you kidding? You can’t even sit on it. It’s so big.”
“I’d happily sit on it,” the other girl says (presumably). “Look at the tip... just tie a ribbon on it. Awwh.”
This is so... hocus-pocus. They say, “Nastro something something something.”
Doesn’t that equate to a ribbon?
It’ll set your head on fire if you mull it over any longer. You could do well with a cold drink and mayhaps find a hot Italian tutor.
The girls won’t even hear you approaching. What’s the deal with all this? Because this is getting overly gelastic.
“Ahem.” You bitch up. You’re good at that.
One of your girls nearly drops her phone, and the other one smiles sweetly at you as an amends for her friend’s indignities.
“Signora! Good evening to you. The usual again?” Her Italian accent makes it even funnier.
Strapping the thin sarong around your hips, you settle on the stool and wait for your order.
“White Russian,” a voice next to you pipes up. You know that voice all too well. Oh, and the puff of his whispery perfume—something sandalwood or cedar.
“Buona notte, sweetheart.”
That autocratic sass and gruff. Your stomach lurches.
“What the hell are you doing here, Leon?”
Sarcasticity and irreverence read like the trappings of the only emotion in his bones, and that makes you feel ill at ease. The degree of clownishness of the look you get when you glance over your shoulder at him is simply gobsmacking.
“What are those glasses?”
In the darkness at the ninth of the night, his Wayfarer sunglasses portray a very unhinged vignette.
“My new style. Y’like it?”
“No.” You huff out, “your head looks bigger, and your forehead is awfully wide with them.”
That’s beyond cruel, but you do what you do; you tell him the truth. Leon, in regards, opens his mouth to make you eat the humble pie, but the bartender chimes in and plops your freshly poured cocktails in front of the two of you. No sooner is she out of the way than Leon skulks over, and his whisper, drifting closer to your ear, forebodes fiasco.
“I know what you’re doing. Don’t you dare divert the subject.”
Now what the fuck is this? Why is he rambling on like a riddle and serving no purpose other than to vex you?
In one swift guzzle, Leon swallows all the velvety liquid in the old-fashioned glass, the movement of his Adam’s apple a downward slide as the liquor coils up his parched throat; it all goes down smooth and fulminates his insides.
“Look. I told you I’m done with you and your stupid sibling after that night,” you clarify in a more affable tone, but Leon shows no interest in humoring you.
“Believe me, I thought so too.”
“So then why are you here?”
Leon first downplays his eyes at this question, and then you can trace an aweless grin on his face again—ablaze with the glow of the clinquant candles stacked on the counter.
“This is my hometown, y’know.”
A strange turmoil to explore, to espy how much his facial expressions play for the first time since you’ve come to know him. Turns out he can be pretty silly when he wants to be an Italian.
But maybe you’ve pissed him off too much, so he grabs you by the arm uncouthly and steers you nearer to a not-so-appropriate vantage point. Nose to nose and lips to lips.
Up close, he’s much comelier, indescribably so. Freckles dotting along the bridge of his nose and his kissable, aflush lips. He looks like a breeze in the summer, and you adore the aestival fire flowers.
Be sure to ask him about his skincare routine after this carousel still.
“You uploaded my videos on this fucking website, didn’t you, you little backstabbing bitch?”
Stop, stop, stop, stop. Stop the tape, the recording, and everything.
Your face is veiled in an acidic visage. Now the cat’s out of the bag, and it’s clear why he’s walking around like a super spy with these goofy shades on.
“I didn’t release your videos or shit. You see, I’m in my own business, and having the best vacay in the world,” you pull your arm free, and his hand falls idle, “only for you to come and fuck it all up. So, congratulations, you’ve ruined my whole vacation.”
“Do you take me for an oaf?”
Actually, yes. In your judgment, he’s the flesh-and-blood manifestation of the idiocy.
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Do not say it aloud.
“Think this is a wiiild coincidence how my fucking clips have been all over the internet since that night?” Leon demands again. He wants some answers.
“I told you I didn’t do it.”
Leon certainly isn’t taking your word for it. He scoffs and pilfers your margarita glass. Fucker is drinking your cocktail while he’s looking you in the eyes. This only drives you to a point of an afflictive angst, and you once again seek to justify the circumstances. Just one last time.
That’s a very... plausible interpretation.
The abyss of blue in his eyes behind his sunglasses knocks you sideways. You can’t do anything about it.
“Remind me again why I should believe you?”
Finally, he says something, and something cold, something roseate, drizzles into your heart.
“Uhh,” you falter and make a pseudo moue, “listen to your gut and your heart. I think... yes. Trust me when I’m telling the truth, my good friend. All hail to the power of friendship!”
For every second you waste sitting with Leon, you unconsciously lose your conversational and persuasive faculties. Not a good rapport; you feel like a psychopath with a double personality and so forth.
What you look like to Leon is a guileful suck-up at best.
He pities you, but perhaps his heart melts too. You leave a strangeness on Leon’s tongue like the mysteries and absurdities of the Bermuda Triangle when you two come together. Funny how he knows what you taste like without tasting you.
Cute, he thinks; you don’t even attempt to slut-shame him for his past. He wants to believe you’re in the clear, but he can’t resist giving you a little piece of his mind. For now. At least until Hunnigan figures out whose name put that spectacular viral video of Leon’s dick on the Internet.
“So? Are we still friends?” You rhetorically ask, just to be sure for once.
“No,” he says tersely, forthrightly even. Shithead. “Just gotta make sure you really didn’t do it.”
Call it a hunch or the sixth sense, Leon knows you didn’t upload that one particular video. Hunnigan was quick to take care of the matter to expunge the videotape from the entire history of the internet. A few people may have seen what they could see, but America has more substantive matters to settle. All Leon needs here is a little dalliance with you.
In antagonism to his ambitions, you barely have time for an inauguration, much less a speck of free time for him.
Hence you stand up, all the more assertively. Not that he hates it; he likes the little attitude and mannerisms you’re giving.
“Sounds like it’s your problem.”
You want to show off, but your aptitude in this field does not know the right vernacular. You suck at flirting, and you really want to leave.
“I’m still mad at you. You need to make it up for me,” he echoes your words without spoiling his deportment.
“Like I said, your problem,” you give him a goodbye wave, “Good night and have sweet dreams.”
You part ways if only for a season. As far as Leon is concerned, you’re still on the list of suspects, and it’s something that he definitely needs to tackle, but for the time being, he has to recede from the spotlight for his very reputation.
Let the sting of that scandalous video subside so that people can find something else to talk about and forget it for the next episode of something more debauched.
Not always do people associate a former porn star with a government agent. It’s a very tongue-in-cheek deal, but Leon never knew how to stay on the good side with his father, and he grew up as an incorrigible kid, so his father cut him off from his money.
Since his college tuition wouldn’t pay for itself unless someone like the fairy who helped Cinderella came alive, Leon ended up working for a crummy company as a last-ditch effort. He hit his twenty-one, and he found himself sucking a pussy in front of the cameras like his life depended on it.
A five-month-long process and a timetable that would greatly tarnish his morality. That stuff was too damn much for his little heart. Better to do it as a “camboy” for the sake of monetization later on—the die was cast.
Then Raccoon City kicked in, and things spiraled out of control for him. For a while, Leon went into a period of estrangement from everything he’d ever known.
Until then, you showed up—out of the blue—and gave him another flashback of his odious past on that stupid TV screen.
Doesn’t that give him the right to blame you? It’s more than enough.
Keeping a “close” eye on you is just another one of his foibles. Not something he had planned, and it’s certainly not healthy. On Leon’s behalf, touching base with Hunnigan and asking about your whereabouts doesn’t sit well with him. Something inside him kept reheating and reheating like a leftover meal from last night that what he was doing felt wrong but also that it was necessary.
He scarcely had a week off work, but to spend it with following you around gives him a perverse pleasure.
Now, he’s simply addicted to his own suffering.
In such wise, he follows you, deep sea and cross-ocean, dark doom and curious. Italy to America, America to Canada, and America again.
The crossing of your paths is just as “serendipitous”.
One night, as you are about to ask the bartender to do a refill on your hideously strong scotch, you coincidentally make eye contact with the guy sitting one seat away from you.
The classic sets of blue eyes. He’s in the distance and observes you from afar—it’s like a summons to his company. Can’t really blame his eyes—they’re the only interesting thing to look at around.
You’d say a “hi” or “hey”. It’s no big deal, and you like your friends.
Only you’re chickening out, and he’s not your friend; besides, peeping at your boyfriend’s brother (well, ex-boyfriend) and letting him do the same to you might not be your proudest moment.
Since you’re absolutely determined not to join him, Leon himself stands up and puts his glass on the bar. He slides onto the stool next to you—under his breath that smells of minty chewing gum—and gives what appears to be a frazzled sigh.
“Does it ever grace you, ignoring me like that?” He tuts you.
“Maybe I just wanted to be alone.” You smile back, biting back the acute inclination to roll your eyes, feeling the liquor sizzle in your throat as you take a big throatful.
“Hm. Copy that.” Leon leans back a little, studying—no—appraising you. Hard not to flounder under the rapt fixation of his glance, as it lingers on your eyes for half a second too long, and it’s almost as if you’re the only thing he pays any mind to in the room.
For every second that washes away between you, he looks even better in your eyes. You could swear there’s a spell cast on his eyes, inveigling you in. It’s abysmal; he’s abysmal.
“When the hell have you ever believed me anyway?” You tip back the rest of your pint.
Oh, he hears you loud and clear. Leon knows more or less what it is that you’re being so uptight about. In the back of his mind, he recognizes how bitter he’s been with you and that you do deserve a quick mea culpa.
“I’ve always been a supporter of you. You just got me mixed up, beautiful.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Your own choice of wording doesn’t even speak for itself. It’s equally fatuous to expect that you did manage to convince him.
“Wrong again. You didn’t get up and walk away. You would have gladly done it if you wanted to. Hell, you’d be bitching about me sitting next to you in the first place.”
In spite of your inner voice begging you to abscond and save yourself, your body is pertinaciously attached to that stool, and you loathe to tell him he’s absolutely justified. This is why you fall quiet, and Leon loves it, not in secret but overtly and nakedly.
“I’m going back to the States tomorrow.” You launch your escape plan. He was interested in you before, but seeing how well you adhere to the dignity you are trying to manifest, he itches to get close to you, to touch you, and feel you. To take away that “good girl” pretense. Stripping you naked like rose petals is just a prelude to the ritual.
“Can’t you stay with me a little longer?”
“You don’t understand, Leon. The flight’s so early. I need some sleep.”
“Aww, shame,” he wittingly leaves a white and an electrically charged void between his question and his amative suggestion, “I can think of a few more things I’d like to do with you, you see.”
Pretend you’re not impressed, cold, cold, rude.
“Yeah,” he sings, smiling affably down at you, “all I’m asking if you wanna fuck. With me.”
Something about this guy makes you almost feel like a chaste virgin. Almost. Certainly, he would coax you and actually say that, judging from the type of background material (his... given career) you’ve amassed, he doesn’t exactly give you the overall illusion that he’s the type to play on the matters. That’s the picture you’re reading. Must be an old habit of his: talking dirty and saying what he wants so bluntly without a backward second thought. Even so, you gape at him—allegorically and disconcertingly attuned to the proximity between your very bodies.
He idly swishes the dregs of the liquor and ice cubes left in his glass. Under the bar, you two are perilously close, his knee cradling your thigh, drawing a mucronate intake of gasp from you.
Leon dips his head, drinking in the authentic scent of the perfume you’ve painstakingly sprung on the right side of your neck. Against him, you recline slightly, your head inclining upwards to make space for his teeth to bruise your neck. Leon, against your better judgment, recoils to the side. You let out a soft oh? under your breath. Motherfucker. It’s a suit of an absolute assholery not to deliver what you want the most when you need it the most—the very thing Leon would do.
“I’m still waiting for an answer here. Say the word and I’m all yours.”
He’s already dead set on you, all along, from the moment he had you in his sights, but what he really wants to see on your pretty face is the certain voracity that he’s felt for you. For Leon, it’s the most sublime mirage he’ll ever have, to see his girl like that and in that shape.
“Me. Do you want me?” Leon elaborates on your words for you. He can be generous like that.
Just as generous when he kisses you in the bathroom of a dive bar. Kisses you filthy, tongue-fucking your mouth in perfect rhythm with the pumping of his two fingers inside your weeping pussy. You bleed on his fingers, and Leon scissors them inside you while he mouths indecorous things in your mouth and grinds the heel of his palm against your little clit.
Shame he doesn’t take the time to pledge to make you cum on his digits, plus there’s no subtlety in his gesture as he pushes you against the cold, cold tiles. Not that you’d expect this kind of affection from him. By now you’ve undoubtedly deciphered the sort of man he is, but the way he shows off as he licks your arousal, glistening on his fingertips, is just as inexplicable. It’s the thing you can’t figure out, and it has the effect of numbing you with a groan through gritted teeth.
Tugging at your skirt and ruching it up until it’s a waistband—and that’s the crudest of the crudities. Leaves you homesick for his caresses and kisses.
Out of the question, just like how your panties are out of the picture now. You can’t think respectively and look at yourself at the same time.
Ass out, pussy bare, you let his finger paw at the nylon fabric of your tights, leaving a gaping hole. In other words, he’s ruining you, and you’re acting like you need it. You need him, indeed.
Leon shudders in the pent-up tightness of the pucker that squeezes around his cock as he slides inside you, shaping your insides along the way as he does so. A string of self-conscious words, of dirty promises praising you, trammel at the base of his sore throat.
He lurches clumsily to your ass with a hand and leans a little lower to your ear as he takes a lump of puffy flesh, eliciting another fluctuant whimper from your lips, “Arch back for me, beautiful. Jus’ a little so I can fill you all up.”
Oh, God. You want that. You want it so badly, so you arch back so beautifully. The sugariness of your exhale and his sigh mingle as he slowly melts into you, disappearing inch by inch. Your thighs tremble when you close in at your limits, and you hear him rasping, “That’s it. You’re doing amazing, pretty.”
Right then and there, you might crash, but the hand ghosting around your waist from behind intones that all is well. Your whimpers and clenching of your pussy, every ounce of praise that ricochets in your ears; he can feel you scorching inside. First and one-night stands are hardly ever this romantic, especially for Leon, for whom this is very much a debut. Despite the arrogance of his conduct as a rule, Leon doesn’t hold any disrespect for the women he fucks, and he doesn’t abate his ministrations to you while you’re so nicely grasping him inside you. He hits slower when he catches you slamming your fist into the ceramic wall with a thump, and he pounds harder when your lovely hands reach for him again; he relishes in how you push your hips into him and drill him raw, trying to fuck yourself on him. Sequentially, he fucks the fleeting kisses on your cervix, lingering and volatile, fingers curled tightly in yours; you’re both tense but reckless.
“Fuck,” is the foul-mouthed note under his breath, and you eagerly savor every second of him filling you until your sublimate wails ring out and bounce off the walls of the private restroom. How embarrassing it is to be so out of it in a lavatory, and how utterly crushing it is that the person fucking you from behind is none other than your ex-boyfriend’s brother. The memories are gnawing at you, but Leon fucks you just well enough to kill the charade once and for all.
“P—ah—please!” You cry out depravedly.
It’s just as vertiginous to see those pearly crooked teeth so close, and the bruise biting into your neck is just as narcotizing. A competition, too, and the more moans he pulls out of you, the closer he is to laurels.
Repel the drive to cram your legs together a little while he grasps your thigh with one hand, holding it up and apart enough to malleate in all the way. His thumb promptly abrades your clit, and with measured rolls of his hips, the tip of his cock tickles lightly over that spongy spot inside you.
“Leon, m—more. Please.” Your plea transpires in an aquaking objection. You can’t even breathe; it all feels like you’re trapped in a nightmare, and your voice is never enough for crying help. The difference is this is very much of the real life, and he hears you faultlessly. Leon knows what you need from him.
Moments before you can find yourself coming, as that all-consuming, sweltering heat envelops your body, Leon retracts the hand he has been playing with your greedy clit.
“Leon, f—fuck you!” Diluting and blinking open your closed eyes, you’re cussing out, and there he is with his hand on your neck, his thumb threading your vein, which is pulsing in a hot red from his previous bite. Soothing? You really don’t think so. He just likes to feel you up.
“See what a fucking sight you have become,” he coos, bent on shaming you into decorum. Angling your head with a thumb under your chin, he entombs you below his jaw, his bicep enfolding your face securely. In the mirror, it’s you and Leon—winded, debauched. Curse yourself a thousand times inside for not wiping your lipstick. You look like a shitty cosplayer of the Joker; mascara flakes off your eyelashes, and your clothes are beyond reproach. Beside Leon, you look like a girl he fucked in one of those cheesy old porn videos you’ve been snooping around with, and next to you he looks perfectly fine. You, indeed, recreate the ones titled “college slut bends over her classmate and her grades skyrocket, blah blah.” Very aroused and thoroughly fucked.
“You won’t take any cock that doesn’t carry the Kennedy label, huh, baby?”
“Leon, God, I need—” You bleat, maybe a notch squeakier, and he automatically tugs you by the back of your neck, braiding your hair in his fingers. You hate it when your eyes mist up, but it’s not hard enough to make you break down in tears, yet it’s hard enough to sever strands of your hair. Ruleful he is, panting puffs of revilement.
“Hush now,” his voice drifts into your ear with a dash of amusement in it, “You want them to come and find us, pretty? Hmm, that what you want?”
“Sorry, but please?” You, too, whisper back, and your teeth clatter, blood thin on your tongue.
“There you go.” Only then does he give you what you want. He reaches out and finds the delicate spot between your thighs, thumbing the pearl of your clit much vigorously.
A heartfelt pledge of alms from him grants you the right to rest on his shoulder. You cling to his every thrust, and he circles your frayed nerve bundles. How everything can be too much and yet so damned meager is beyond your fathomable comprehension. Your eyes almost roll back to your skull, and Leon is bucking from the sheer pleasure of the bliss of the heat covering his cock, your pussy gushing around him. Blankets him just flawlessly.
There is no stopping; he pushes you against the wall for another round before you can even get your head in a regular whirl. Who could leave a beautiful girl who takes him so nicely? He certainly won’t let you go, least not until he gets what he wants.
“On your knees, now.” His teeth bite into his lower lip.
You can’t make sense of his blunt demands and the words that tumble out of his mouth before you come to your senses.
“Huh? Now?” You hiss out the melting brain molecules from your brain as you speak.
“If you want a facial, then turn around and kneel down. Will you?” He asks once more, demanding, choking on his air.
Hard to believe how you get down on your feeble, wobbly knees, but you come to terms with the fact that you can do anything when you want to. Leon tap-taps the head of his cock against your cheek despite his terrible pull-out klutziness. Glissades in nicely against the pucker of your lips, blurring the color of your flesh into hot whites. Can you imagine how appealing it looks, mouth open and letting him pleasure himself over your knees on the filthy mosaic floor? The dignity you’ve been trying to maintain since you met him is in shambles, making your knees bleed as if they were splintered from a cracked mirror. It should be fine as long as he doesn’t make hash of your hair.
You do the rest, your hands on your knees, and swipe the tip of your tongue over the flushing head of his half-erect dick. Not too deep since your poor throat is all patchy from moaning like a pornstar, and definitely not too sluggish. Just enough to taste and spruce up the situation.
“That’s it, good girl, swallow it.”
Even his minutest words enhearten you more than you already are.
In the next split second, you pop his cock out of your mouth in the worst kind of graphic sound, and Leon groans only unhesitatingly. He mumbles out something rather nebulous. His moony gaze lands on your moue, and he swears his heart makes a leap in his chest.
Bloodless blues imbed on your irises, but it’s not for persistent minutes—only for a spell.
The magic eventually gives up the ghost.
He simply flicks a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping the salad of chaos off your face. Warmth drips from the corner of your mouth, and Leon dabs it away with his own finger, your fingertips tingling and glued to the corner of the sink so you don’t fall down. Still busy rebounding yourself together, Leon refastens his belt and zips up his fly. He throws the discarded handkerchief in the trash, reaches for your hands, and hoists you to your feet as if you were made of feathers.
“You okay?” He gives you his casual, day-to-day inquiry, as if what happened seconds ago was nothing extraordinary.
“Yeah,” you auto-answer, reeling in a groggy daze. Meditatively, you are still recovering. You feel so full that semen is leaking out of your nostril, but it’s only a psychological manifesto, and you look still lovely in this mess written by him.
“Good.” Leon stows a lock of hair that has fallen in front of your eyes behind your ear. Such a random ploy; hell, even he wasn’t expecting it. No traces of rapt Leon in the flicker of those awkward seconds that pass between you.
On the contrary, he’s almost unbelievably sweet, kind, and thoughtful.
Although you went your separate ways after that night, your text messaging phrase (bottom note: sexting) didn’t terminate. He makes you feel like a doltish teenager in high school, and you have to be quite honest: you like it.
Only time will tell—and surprises often have a way of tugging at the heartstrings. You don’t have any idyllic dreams of having a boyfriend, but perhaps you want to shoot new videos with him—the hottest ones—to be his partner in that aspect of the relationship.
The first thing, and the rule of thumb, is you have to secure his assent. Hopefully, he’ll give you that “yes,” and you’ll be the next rising star because he always says you fuck so prettily.
