Unrequited: The Story of her Life

A short story starring

Claire Redfield

and

Leon Kennedy

Chapter 3: Claire the vampire layer

It was dark in the cemetery. The moonlight barely spilled dull and silver over the freshly dug graves. Her hands gripped the wooden stake in a sweaty embrace.

Any minute now, the dead would rise.

She was sure of it.

How? She'd had cramps all day. Apparently her period was a clear indicator of evil rising. PMS, in itself, was a clear indicator of something dark and rage filled, that much had always been clear. But usually it was associated with crying and ice cream, not the undead.

Claire felt the cold air creep down her spine and tingle against the pooling sweat of her clammy skin. Something bad was about to happen. She just knew it.

The cheer leading skirt she wore trembled in the teasing toss of wind and her white KEDS were brown on the bottom with mud. Her uniform wasn't holding up to the February chill, that was damn sure. Even the varsity letterman jacket she wore over her shoulders wasn't stopping the seeping damp from making her shiver in her spanky pants. She should have changed into something warmer before she'd ventured out into the dark.

That was the last time some old dude in a trench coat started blathering on about moles and destiny and convinced her to "face her truth" in an open graveyard.

Seriously.

Aloud, she whined, "I just want to go to prom, have sex with my boyfriend, and die. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Well, she certainly wouldn't be having sex in a fucking cemetery, that much was clear. Seriously.

She added, huffing, "Seriously. What a drag. Some homeless tells you you're the chosen one, points out some hairy old pock you had on your shoulder, and you just...waste your Friday? Seriously."

And then she heard it.

It rumbled. It grumbled. It shook the ground beneath her white feet and had her stumbling. There was a burbling sound of someone choking. The ground beside her tossed chunks of grass and sod up at her face.

Claire squeaked and stumbled back - and a hand shot clear of the dirt to grab for her ankle. She squealed. She kicked. She backed off and shouted, "NO WAY! No fucking way! What is the sitch!?"

And the ugly face of Steve Burnside poked out of the dirt to moan at her.

Horrible. Night of the living dead horrible. He was pale and looked hungry. He was smelly like shoes with old socks or a jock strap in the gym unwashed after a game. He was rank. He was nasty.

He was crawling toward her.

Claire squealed again and kicked at his face, "EW! You wish! I didn't let you touch me alive, Steve. You think you'll get a piece when you're undead!?"

And she drove the stake in her hands into the back of Steve. He didn't like it. The bones crunched. Blood didn't spray..it plopped. It splatted like jelly onto her white shoes.

Claire yelped, "You little douche! Those are impossible to clean! Seriously!?"

She ripped the stake from his back and drove it into his shoulder. Steve moaned and grabbed for her legs. He gummed at her shoes as she shrieked in rage, "No! Don't you chew my shoe, Steve Baker! You homeless!"

And the voice behind her advised, "In the chest, sweeheart. You ever known a vampire to die from a stake to the back?"

Steve flipped over to lunge for her, Claire stabbed him straight in his skinny chest with the stake, and he burped, grunted, and poofed into powder in a handful of seconds. It landed on her sloberry, gelatinous goop covered KEDS and turned them old red blood gray. Claire cursed, "Mother fucker! That's what I get! What am I doing here!?"

"Fighting the undead, kid. What else?"

She turned. She opened her mouth to retort. She might have said something scathing and witty. She probably meant to.

But standing in a black leather duster staring at her was probably the hottest guy she'd ever seen. Ever. Maybe in her whole life.

Probably in her whole town. Raccoon City had never seen a guy this hot.

Seriously.

He tossed his mane of blonde hair and mused, "I'm Leon. Vamp get your tongue?"

And she couldn't even move as his teasing face switched to concern. He moved toward her, she nearly peed herself in excitement, and a pair of hands grabbed her ponytail and breathed the stench of old copper into her face. Instead, she slapped wildly at her attacker, and felt teeth graze the side of her throat.

Terrified, Claire battled with a shout of fear. She slapped and kicked. She didn't need to.

The hot guy in the leather coat punched the vampire trying to eat her right in its face. Right over her shoulder. He just...boom. Right in the snoot.

The vampire reeled, Claire staggered forward, and the hot vampire killer grabbed her to him. She clung, staring at him in a damsel's sheer delight, and the vampire got a stake in the heart for his trouble. He rushed them and her hero didn't even blink.

He just stabbed him right in the chest.

Poof - instant vampire soup mix.

Into the quiet, her savior mused, "He rang that dinner bell, huh? You were almost a Claire sandwich."

His face turned down to her, "You ok?"

And she stuck her tongue in his mouth.

She probably meant to reply. She might have meant to say something clever. Instead? She stuck her hands under his jacket and molded his back to her as she kissed him.

He didn't even resist. He just went with it.

His gloved hand slid under her cheer leading skirt and scooped, picking her up to set her down again on the lid of the stone sarcophagus near the mausoleum beside them. Her thighs open to let him walk between. They kissed wetly, hotly, in a cemetery infested with vampires. Maybe her belly cramping had been leading her to him after all. Maybe it was her uterus clamoring to be impregnated.

When he hesitated at her spanky pants beneath the skirt, she commanded, "Rip them. Ok? Rip them."

And he did that too.

He tore her panties with a nearly human scream of cloth. It was loud. It was perfect. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her mouth swallowed his tongue with each surge of it. Her hands freed him from his pants.

His belt clanked loudly as he claimed her. The coffin was cold under her bare ass. Her ankles crossed behind his calves as she slapped back against him to take him hilt deep.

Tawdry. Dirty.

Delightful.

His thumbs aligned beneath her chin to tilt her face up. She gasped his name, twice, and her thighs quaked. Her belly tightened again, so hard it hurt, but it had to be the orgasm she was chasing. Right?

His lips trailed down her throat, sucking and nipping. She gasped, clutching her ass in her hands to shove him inside of her. Her mouth opened, the orgasm turned her vision spotty, and his teeth flashed white in the moonlight.

His teeth...and his fangs.

She gasped, "No...god wait!"

And he didn't. He sunk his fangs into her pulsing throat. The pain hit the pleasure. Her belly seized hard and fast. And she came, grunting and jerking, flopping and gasping - and dying...as he sucked the life right out of her.

She begged and craved more.

She begged and died cumming.

She begged and w-

"-ok?"

Gasping, she slapped at the hands gripping her face. Her hips kept right on thrusting though, like the whore she was. She just kept on thrusting into the air like a desperate woman in the grips of a snuff fantasy staring the man looking down at her with concern painted all over his beautiful face.

Her ears popped, her clammy skin ached, her belly seized and he asked again, "It's a nightmare, Claire. You're ok. I'm here."

Jesus.

He was.

Her flushed face felt like it was throbbing. Her thighs were drenched with her own need. Surely he could scent that right? Like an animal?

Hoarsely, she gasped, "I...I-I'm fine. Ok? I'm good."

"You sure?"

No. Hell no.

She should make a joke or something. Right? These goddamn dreams were going to be the death of her otherwise. She should laugh and say something witty.

And he asked, "Does anything hurt? You were moaning."

Christ in a Buffy the Vampire Slayer hat. Was he kidding here? Nope. His face was dead...undead...serious. The beautiful creature that he was. He was so worried for her.

She was having a goddamn wet dream and he was worried. So was she, but not at all for the same reason. So instead, she murmured, "My belly hurts."

Concerned, he lowered his hand to gingerly palpate her belly. "Here?"

Lord. Her dry lips were licked twice before she could answer. "A little lower I think."

He pressed softly over her groin. "Did you pull a muscle, you think?"

Yeah she did. Her vaginal ones. Her sleep-gasm had nearly broken her pelvis. "Is it tender here?"

It was tender everywhere, she thought wildly as he asked, everywhere. She should do them both a favor and just let him go. Why did she keep torturing herself?

But she whispered, "Lower."

His hand slid toward her left hip and she shook her head. "No. Not there. Here." She gripped his wrist. She slid his hand back. She'd never have the balls to put his hand where she really wanted though.

Or maybe she would.

She slid his hand down over her wet mound in the shorts she was wearing.

Whore. She was. She was a straight up whore. There was no other excuse. She curved his hand against her and breathed, "Aching. All over. What do you feel?"

She watched the blood rush to his face. She felt it rush to her own. He could have pulled his hand back...but he pressed his fingers inward. His voice broke, he cleared his throat twice and charmed her, and answered, "Maybe it wasn't a nightmare."

"...no. It wasn't a nightmare. Leon?"

"...yeah?" Gruff. Soft. He turned his face toward her. His thumb swept over where her clit would be in those shorts. She made a small sound of need.

And she whispered, "Maybe you should check how tender I am...inside."

She tugged his face down at the same time he slid those shorts to the side and sank his thumb into the heat of her. They both moaned. Their faces pressed. Their tongues circled.

She thought, "Well...you've burnt the friendship bridge now, kid." And her hips surged against his hand.

Better. Better than all those dreams. This was better.

She tasted the smooth promise of whiskey on his tongue. He circled his thumb over her throbbing clit, delving between her dewy folds to pleasure her even as her hand slid down to join his as it plunged into her body. They fingered her together, rhythmically, and she surged her hips toward their paired palms while mewling around his tongue.

Their mouths broke with a pop. He shifted, shedding the leather jacket her wore to the floor with a tinkle of zipper and cloth. The short sleeves of his gray t-shirt showed his arms in the pale moonlight as he scooped her sideways on the cushions and settled at the foot of the couch.

She didn't ask. She couldn't. She gripped handfuls of his hair as he slid her shorts to the side and settled her thighs over his shoulders. Of course he was that guy. He was the guy that went down on you without being asked. More than? He was the guy who seemed to love it.

He shifted her hand to her clit to rub as he blew a hot breath over her throbbing lips and taunted her. Claire moaned. She whined a little as his tongue slid in to dual with his fingers for control of her body. Better.

Better.

BETTER.

The orange shorts were bright against his pale hair in the soft gray darkness. She stroked herself as he dined at the apex of her body. Merciless, he twirled and flicked, licked and lingered. His tongue tortured and his free hand slid up her body. It went under her shirt. It found her left breast, palmed the whole thing, and squeezed.

Not easy.

Not gentle.

Hard.

Her nipple peaked into his palm. Her mouth opened and Claire grunted, "...shit. Oh...shit. Shit."

And her fingers flicked just right on her clit. Tongue, thrust, flick, tug - done.

She didn't do that. But she did cum. Hard. As hard as his hand plucking her breast. As hard as the twisting of his hair in her hands. She ground his face against her eager thrusting cunt and just came all over his sucking lips. The hands gripping his hair released to slap at his shoulders as she humped, gasping, "...oh, oh, fuck. FUCK."

She wanted to do that too.

He laughed softly against her jerking body. Her legs spaghetti noodle fell out to the side as the shock waves over took her.

Her shorts slid back as he leaned away and licked his fucking lower lip like a cat or something. It made her tummy clench hard. Why? He was savoring her flavor.

It was hot as hell.

She gasped, shaking, thighs quaking, "...jesus christ...what was that?"

He laughed, rising, and moved toward the kitchen. "That was an orgasm, kid. You never had one?"

"...apparently not." She shivered on the couch, "Holy hell. I thought the dreams were good."

Leon handed her a glass of water. "Hydrate, kid. Trust me."

She grinned, shaking her head, "I feel like I might have pressured you into that. Maybe."

His brows winged up. His eyes twinkled. "Oh, yeah? Forced me, did you? Manipulated me like a virgin. I couldn't say no!" He shook his head and patted her shoulder, "You needed it right?"

Something flickered in her belly. What was it? And she mused, "...maybe. So this was what? A mercy thing? You get hungry and decide to try a Claire sandwich?"

He shrugged and chuckled, "It's a friend thing. You needed it. I was here. I like doing it. I helped you out. What are friends for huh?"

Holy...shit. It was pity. It was pity head. She was the girl who'd gotten pity head from Leon Kennedy. Her thighs snapped shut. Claire sat up on the couch.

The anger spread like fire through her belly.

"...wow. Ok. So..." She considered it, decided - what the hell, why not?- and threw the water in his face. "Go fuck yourself, you beautiful bastard. I'm nobody's pity party."

She was about to toss Leon Kennedy out on his ass into the merciless snow.