Stage fright


The stench of blood clung to his skin like grease. It seeped into his body as he panted, coating his tongue with the rancid taste he longed to spit out.

This place was built for death.

Nothing had been spared decay's reach, not even the room itself. It festered with peeling gray paint, chips and bumps maggots that ate plaster. Metal objects had rusted beyond repair, brown flakes littering surfaces like dead leaves. Coils of electricity cables hung from the ceiling, their shadows nooses upon the sticky grate of the floor. Things half rotten and oozing claimed the shadows they had died in.

The only pure thing was the moonlight breaking through the grime of a window. Silver spilled over the floor, missing his form by inches as though it didn't want to touch him. He couldn't blame it; he was disgusting, as disgusting as this place, this room and the monster it contained- the monster that ravished his body with those gleaming eyes, invaded his mind, stole his touch-

(Enough. Quell such thoughts, I am waiting.)

He swallowed, and it wasn't the taste that made him want to retch. Hands that no longer obeyed his brain crept down to the button of his pants. The more he tried to jerk them away, the more that soothing voice wound through his head, cooing and consoling until he sank against the wall.

He was so tired of fighting.

(Strength is knowing when to give in.)

His hands reached down once more and this time he couldn't stop them, not with that seductive voice resonating in his mind. One tear and then another fell, his voice warbling even as hands kept moving.


Pale eyes glinted in the dark. A rustle of cloth and his monster came closer, edging in like a snake waiting for its poison to take effect on a hapless mouse. The button snapped off his pants and clinked as it hit the floor. Traitorous fingers now dragged his zipper down and found heat beneath, skimming over bare skin. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.


He held his breath as long as he could before releasing it with a shudder. One hand gripped his erection and the other busied itself with sliding further between his legs. They both squeezed gently and his eyes widened.


Let this be a dream, a hallucination. Surly nothing this disgusting, this degrading-

(This delightful.)

- could ever be anything close to reality. He knew he was fucked up- dead things in shadows that craved his flesh had seen to that a lifetime ago. Maybe he had snapped and was sitting in some padded cell in a straitjacket, locked inside his own head. He hoped so.

Another squeeze brought a rush of pleasure. This time he did retch; violent dry-heaves that left his stomach muscles cramped and aching. Bile burned the back of his mouth and hit the floor. His hands didn't stop.

The monster still watched. It swayed from side to side in time to its breathing- the same tempo to which he stroked himself. Throat blistered, he spat onto the ground. Blood tasted better than bile.

Fingers still teased flesh but the pain from trying to vomit nearly brought him back. Now he wanted out of this game.

(But it will end, and soon, if you move a little faster...)

As soon as that thought faded in his mind, his hands quickened their movements. He cried out and arched off the wall, the back of his head thumping against concrete. Sick and aroused, aroused and sick, those two very different feelings seemed to blur into each other.

"Get-out-of-my-head!" His sore throat protested those rasping words. The sharp noise and a snap of lucidity were all he needed to gain control of his hands and pull them away. He screwed his eyes shut, savouring the moment of clarity. Heat still pulsed in his groin and he fought to stop his stomach heaving again. Deep breaths... slow breaths...

Something touched his chin. He snapped open his eyes to see the monster standing in front of him, hand outstretched. Shaking legs would not obey that primal urge to run, to escape but whether it was his lack of control or his fear that left him paralysed he didn't know. The monster pressed itself closer. A simple reaction- his fist struck out, battering at the creature with all the strength he had left. It didn't even flinch.

A hand where his had been, claws brushing up the length of his erection, surprisingly gentle. He moaned, trying to tug them away, trying to tell this thing to get the hell off him-

The monster tilted its head down to stare at him with a face that looked almost human. Just a mask, though, just a mask. Another tug and those unnatural eyes narrowed, the monster speaking only one word.


Lips against his. A whisper this time.


The hand increased its speed. Another tear, accompanied by a shuddering breath. That was it, he couldn't fight any longer. If something interrupted, he could break this spell, this hold on his mind, but the room was a graveyard, a place for the dead to lie and rot in silence. Maybe, after, he would become one of them.

He let his hands drop and stayed motionless against the wall. Eyes fixed on one spot of the ceiling and didn't blink or waver. All he thought about, all he concentrated on was that spot and his breathing, even as the monster pressed its lips against his neck and murmured words he couldn't understand. It smelled of must and death, like something left to shrivel up and die in a dusty attic. A mummified corpse sprang to mind, skin all leather and so old, left alone for years and years. He glanced at the monster, caught its eye and looked back up at the ceiling. Not far off. Walking death was at least a little better than the walking dead.

Another roll of pleasure, one that didn't turn his stomach. He could be grateful for that, at least. He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. No noise. The monster wouldn't get a sound out of him again. It tried of course, fingers moving faster and teeth scoring his skin, but all it coaxed was a thin trickle of blood from his lip. His hands curled into fists.

He closed his eyes and felt the pressure build. Nearly over. The monster sensed this and worked him harder, rubbing its cheek against his in some mockery of affection. He would dwell on the twisted familiarity later- now his body was trembling and flexing in time to the fingers that stroked him and his mind ignored everything else.

For a split second, time stopped. Breath caught in his throat and his body tensed. Pleasure nuzzled his body into surrender. Finally, he gave a long, quivering sigh and climaxed into that waiting hand. Through closed lids, he saw red lights pulse and turn dark as the monster bit down into his neck. Come still leaked from his arousal and the palm around it squeezed one last time, then released him.

He fell, face first onto the ground. His cheek smacked against the metal grill of the floor and instantly began to throb. That would leave a lovely bruise.

Leon stayed in that same still position for what seemed like hours. He panted, stomach churning again- yet this time it had nothing to do with mind control. He felt eyes on him, crawling all over his body like worms and heat spread across his face.

(This is not the last time you will submit to me. Remember that.)

Anger made him growl at those unspoken words. He reached down until his hand hit the thing he so loved, almost sobbing with relief that he hadn't been disarmed. Wrapping his fingers around cold metal instead of hot flesh felt more appropriate for this situation.

Without looking up, he fired the handgun at his antagoniser. Three shots. All he had left in the clip. The bullets made a faint twang as they hit the opposite wall and the room itself seemed to ring with silence in their wake. He waited for repercussions, for some punishment. His ears caught every small sound- own rapid breathing, heart thudding, but no indication of anyone nearby.

Confused, he dared to raise his head a fraction and glance around the room. It was empty. Dust plumed from where his bullets had hit plaster and the dead things still held their corners but nothing else stirred. Leon sat up, still holding the empty gun in front of him. He didn't need to look down to know that a stain covered the lower half of his dark shirt. No doubt Ashley would bother him about it when he found her. If he found her. He tried to wipe it off as best he could, but the damn stuff was fucking starting to dry. He gave up and resigned himself to questions.

Sure Ash, while hunting down Mr. I-hate-America, I decided to stop for a mind-controlled jack-off-

No, he shouldn't think about Saddler right now. His priority was to find Ashley and then get the hell out of this place, preferably without running into that psychopath again. He really didn't want to find out what Saddler had planned for him the next time they met.