Stage Twelve: Amplification
Devil's Elbow, Kentucky
She was weaving her yards of blonde hair into a beautiful, thick, and deadly little French braid. He watched her, considering. The hair was gorgeous. It was nearly platinum. It was silky on the hands and on the skin while she slid above you. And she was struggling with it.
Leon stepped forward and moved her hands. She watched him, in the mirror of the vanity, weave her hair without any pauses. Of course. Of course, he was a man that could effortlessly braid a woman's hair. She eyed him quietly.
"Whose hair have you braided in your life, Leon Kennedy?"
Amused, he caught her eyes in the mirror. "There's always more involved in bodyguarding then just picking up a gun to protect your charge."
And now, oh it was priceless, the humor on her face. "You're telling me that the Ghost, the Immortal, the right hand of the President…was forced to braid his daughter's hair?"
Leon licked his teeth. His face was droll. It was dry. And hers? Oh, soooo amused. Her beautiful eyes sparkled. And so he shrugged and chuckled. "Seems that way."
He finished braiding her thick hair and secured the end of it in a bun at the base of her skull. She kept her eyes on his face in the mirror. "What a man you are."
He lifted his eyes to hers.
"How has no one come along to marry you and keep you?"
An interesting question. He shrugged again. "I'm a hard man to keep."
"Without question."
He considered her in the mirror. "Your hair…it's beautiful. It makes you look like a fairytale princess."
What a thing to say. She felt it shiver in her heart.
"Thank you."
His fingers trailed, gently, over a curl of it against her cheek. "You should cut it."
Surprised, she held his look in the mirror. "Why?"
"It's dangerous, Sherry. Dangerous. What we do? It needs short hair. Something grabs all this beautiful hair? It breaks your neck and kills you. A lover enjoys twisting it around his hands, yes. God yes. It turns me on just saying it to you. But it will get you killed if you leave it."
She considered him now.
"Claire keeps her hair long. Why? She's not in the fight, Sherry. She's in the trenches. She's a savior not a fighter. But anyone who's in the battle? From Valentine to Wong? It's short hair. Jill had long hair for awhile. On a boat in the middle of the ocean, one of those ugly fuckers got a claw in it. If Redfield hadn't been there? She'd have been deader than shit. She keeps it shoulder length now or shorter. You should do the same."
And now he knelt, he knelt in front of her. And her hands came up to cup his face. She couldn't ever get passed the part that said it was ok for her to touch him. Her thumbs skimmed his mouth.
Leon intoned, softly, "Tonight is the first real time you could come up against something dangerous, Sherry. You can't control everything that happens. Not in this job. It's impossible. But you can control how you go into the fight. You can control how you prepare yourself. You can heal damage. You can move, slightly faster and stronger and better. But you can still die. If I grabbed your hair and slit your throat from ear to ear…"
Oh.
Oh, his face.
His face said he didn't like that at all. And it healed her a little to see the pain of it on him.
She comforted him now, kissing his forehead. And this sweet, simple, loving gesture amused him. He cupped her wrists where she held his face. "You'd die just like anyone else, Sherry. Quickly. And painfully. I can't protect you all the time. I can try. But I can't guarantee it. Even I'm not that good."
And so, she nodded; moved to it by the look on his face. "Ok. I'll cut it."
"Thank you." Wistful, he touched it. "It's a fucking crime against humanity to do it though. No lie. You could become a school teacher instead and keep the hair."
Sherry laughed a little, softly. "I think it's too late for that."
"Probably."
He rose and kissed her forehead.
Sherry was quiet now, watching him move. He was so handsome. Utterly. It was insane. His muscles were nicely shown in the black, skin-tight, moisture-wicking shirt he wore. It left nothing and everything to the imagination. The shoulder holster he wore was a nice compliment to all the black. His fatigues, his boots, his gloves: monochrome. He was clearly the Immortal now. From the kneepads to the thigh holster, to the expression on his face as he calculated and assessed.
He shifted to his suitcase and pulled out his jacket. It was good brown leather, soft and pettable, and Sherpa lined. Sherry looked at it and said, softly, "You kept it."
Leon turned to look at her and smiled, laughing a little. "So, that's a long story actually."
She considered him and waited.
"Oh. You want to hear it?"
"Seems that way."
"Alright." He slipped his arms into the jacket. Sherry, in a long-sleeved purple top and jeans, moved to get her own jacket from the coat rack. "I was in Spain. I had just rescued Ashley Graham. We hit the far side of the water and her entourage came to evacuate her. The sun was rising and the wind was…well…it was nuts stick to your ass cold…"
A good story. A story about a hero. A story about a question to recover a coat given to him by a girl he'd once saved. A good story.
It made her yearn for him.
But it didn't matter. Not really. It was time for them to finish the mission.
It was time for her to go back to her cage.
She pulled the little car to the edge of the clearing where a muted sedan sat waiting. The back door of the car opened and Burns was extracted. There were no words exchanged; no looks were offered. They just collected the target and left.
The quiet in the car was long now and murderous.
She said, softly, "I have to go back."
They held gazes in the darkness. He nodded. "I know that."
"He won't let me just leave, Leon. Not after all this time."
"…have you tried asking?"
She gave him a bland look. And it clicked. It just clicked into place for him. It clicked and told him the answer of what was ringing in his head. She was Rapunzel.
In a way, she was Rapunzel. She had the hair. She had the tower. She was trapped by a dubious force. She was waiting for someone to save her. But he couldn't. He wanted to save her. He just didn't know how.
Would she let down her long hair and let him save her?
She was curious if he'd offer to protect her. She was curious if he'd ask her to stay with him. He was so very quiet. The silence expanded around them; an organic thing. It grew and grew and killed where it touched.
He did neither.
And it spoke louder than words.
I've had lots of women, he'd said. And so he'd go back to his lots of women. And she? She'd go back to her gilded cage. She'd go back to her loneliness. And back to drawing pictures of him.
That's just how things had to be.
Sherry finally turned back to the steering wheel and drove. She pulled away to the road and focused on the task at hand. It did no good to think about what came next.
She knew what came next. She'd go back to sitting in a quiet room somewhere waiting for Claire. Claire, she queried, where are you? Possibly embroiled in a love affair with a new beau. Claire had a tendency to jump in whole hog with men. There was always a mess of some kind happening with her love life.
Sherry pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine. She felt something shift and roll in her belly. She knew, he knew, they knew…in the morning she'd have to board the plane to take her away from this place.
They climbed out of the car and moved into the house. So quiet. So terribly quiet.
She peeled off the bloody jacket she wore and the ruined shirt beneath. In her little white bra, so plain and simple cotton, she moved into the bedroom. He copied the gesture, hanging up his jacket. He unhooked his shoulder holster and laid it easily on the dresser.
Sherry went into the bathroom to shower away the blood on her body.
Leon sat down on the foot of the bed and listened to the water in the porcelain.
She came out of the bathroom in a puff of steam and heat. He studied her where she stood with the towel wrapped around her. She held his gaze for a long moment.
She finally spoke, softly, "It's ok, Leon. I've never thought I'd get to hold on to you. Not really. Don't feel sorry for me. Being here, being with you…it's the happiest I've ever been. Don't feel sorry for me."
God, she was something. This girl who saw simple human kindness as something special. This girl that coveted a man she barely knew and healed knife wounds and kept trinkets for years and years. This girl that opened a door in him in a dirty city without hope and given him a purpose to keep fighting.
She was his reason. She'd always been his reason. He hadn't even realized until he'd seen her again. He'd taken up the fight to save her, kept on fighting to protect her, and kept on doing it to honor her. She'd found a place in him without even trying.
What cost was paid by letting her go back into the hands of a man who owned her?
But he didn't, Leon thought angrily, you do. You own her. She's yours. Make her yours. It's what she wants. It's what you both want.
Sitting on the foot of the bed, he finally spoke to her, "Come here."
She did, without hesitation. She moved toward him. He opened his legs enough for her to step between them. His hands lifted and unhooked the towel she wore. She held it open for him to look at her. She felt her breath catch as he looked at her now. He just looked at her. His perusal was thorough, it was considerate, it was desperately arousing.
He finally touched her while she watched him enraptured. One delicate glide of his finger against a satiny hip that moved to her belly button and swirled there. He traced her taut little tummy with his thumbs when his hands shifted and bracketed her narrow waist. They were about the same height with him sitting there. It was incredibly intimate.
His hands slip up to cup her breasts and weigh them. The contrast of softness and sensual need was incredible. He tasted her, tongue and lips. No teeth. He wasn't trying to devour her. No. He was trying to CONSUME her. His mouth plucked each perky little treat and suckled her, almost delicately. When her breasts were tender and excited, when her nipples were peaked and pinked and damp from his attention, those questing hands finally slid up her collarbone and over her throat. His thumbs traced her cheeks and over her mouth.
She shivered and gasped as his hands slid down her back and caressed her sweet bottom. She whispered, so, so, softly, "Please."
And one eyebrow quirked from him. "Please what?"
She didn't know. She only knew she craved him.
She dropped the towel and grabbed for his shirt. She peeled it off him and threw it aside. And she climbed on his lap. She straddled his lap and kissed him.
She pressed their naked torsos together and made a little mewl of excitement. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, feeling the tickle of his hair against her smoothness. Her fingers threaded through his hair and gripped while they kissed.
No screaming, tearing, taking kiss. This kiss was smooth, wet, and wonderful. She was learning his mouth, his need, his taste. She was learning his signs and signals and wants. She sucked his tongue and then pulled his hands up.
Her hands trapped his above their heads while they kissed. Intertwined fingers, intertangled tongues, and they were lost in the thrill of it. She pressed their foreheads together while she breathed, heavy and thick.
And she whispered it again, softly, "Please."
His gruff response echoed it, "Please what?"
Sherry shook her head, frustrated. "I need you."
She let go of his arms and they slid around her and lifted her. He rolled her to her back on the bed. She grabbed for him and he laughed a little, delighted with her.
He said, "Take my clothes off me. But don't touch me anywhere else. Not yet."
She unhooked his belt and unzipped him. She dropped to her knees on the floor to unlace his boots. She was almost clinical about it. She didn't grope him, she didn't grab him, she didn't steal a caress of a squeeze. A good girl, she peeled each layer of his clothing off his body without any extra touches.
She rose back up his body when his boxers were finally free to join the rest of his discarded clothing on the floor. She didn't even try to grab his thrusting erection in her fist to milk him. She waited, watching him so quietly.
Leon almost whispered it now, "Lay back on the bed and open your legs for me."
Sherry did so, trembling.
"Part yourself and let me see you."
She did it, exposing the heat of her to his hungry gaze. She was so swollen, so sore, so very beautifully used. It throbbed in his groin like possession. It throbbed in his groin like greed. He wanted to mount her and thrust into her aching body while she clenched and cried and came around him.
He rewarded her obedience by sliding between her legs almost sweetly, so gently. Her thighs settled over his shoulders as he lowered his head and laved her body with his needy tongue. He licked and loved her, gently, wetly, thickly and with sure, fulfilling strokes. She kept her body open for him. He hadn't told her to stop after all.
He rolled the taste of her around in his mouth and put his tongue in her, in her, in her until she was fairly sure she was going to die there impaled on his tongue. He slid one finger against her creamy center and stroked the tiny bud of her need; he favored her clit with his attention while he loved her with his tongue. And he spoke against her body, "Go, Sherry. Let go."
She came almost instantly. She came in his mouth while he suckled her. God, she was amazing. She came on command for him. He was sort of wildly afraid he was becoming obsessed with her.
He rose up her body and gathered her close against him. He held her while they lay there, stroking her back. Sherry shivered, coming down the other side of her orgasm. It took her a moment to realize he wasn't going to do anything else.
She leaned back in the circle of his arms to see his face. "Leon?"
He kissed her forehead and stroked her back. "Shh. Go to sleep now."
Sherry blinked at his closed eyes. She said, "What?"
"Let me hold you now. Just lie there and let me hold you."
That sounded nice. It did. But it wasn't what her body wanted. Her body wanted him. It always wanted him. She said, "Please."
He opened his eyes, studying her face. She was so sore. He'd seen that while he'd loved her. He'd rewarded her for being such a good girl. He wasn't going to follow that up by hurting her. No.
"No. You're too sore. Go to sleep, Sherry."
Surely he was kidding.
She watched his closed eyes. She watched his peaceful countenance. She could feel the turgid, throbbing, veiny length of him against her belly while he held her. He wasn't sleeping. His body wasn't sleeping. No, he'd said. No? Sore? She was sore. But she was desperate for him.
No.
No was the wrong word.
She laid in the circle of his arms and hated the word no. It was stupid word. It was a hateful word. It was a ridiculous word.
Leon drifted off to a light sleep rubbing her smooth back in circles like he was petting her. It was a nice feeling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen asleep with a girl in his arms. It had been awhile. He rarely stuck around passed the orgasm part of the program.
A soft gasp in his ear awoke him from his slumber. He shifted to grab his gun and realized, quickly, that he couldn't. He was trapped.
He was bound to the headboard.
Surprised, he tested the bonds that held him. She'd secured him perfectly to the wrought iron rungs. He tried to jerk his hands-free and couldn't.
Sherry was straddling his lap and kissing down his neck.
Leon said, softly, "Untie me."
"No."
And there was that word again.
She'd left on the bathroom light. Apparently, she wanted to see him while she tortured him. The wild little thing that she was, she wanted to see him while she stole his power.
He tried again, commanding her, "Untie me, Sherry."
"No." She shifted her body and slid her hand around him. She worked his body, watching his face. He made some sound and humped against her pumping fist.
"Stop," It was hoarse, "You're too sore. Stop. Now."
"No." Was that the only damn word she knew?
Sherry shifted and angled him toward her damp opening. He tried to twist his hips away and she jerked him back toward, almost roughly. His eyes flared with excitement at the strength of it. Jesus. Apparently, his body liked the idea of her taking it from him.
Who was he kidding? They both liked the idea of it. They all did. His body, her body, him, and her. They were in it together.
He'd never, ever, had a woman try before.
She had to work to get him inside of her. He watched her while she sunk down on him, each painful little inch. The angle was so sharp and her body so swollen and sore. She actually slapped his chest twice with the pain of it while she mounted him.
Leon grunted, gasping himself, as she took him into her and settled there finally, utterly, filled up. She rolled her hips and ground herself there against him. He knew it hurt her. He saw it all over her. His voice came again, hoarse and needy and commanding, "Stop it, Sherry. God. You're not ready. Stop it."
"No." And she lifted off him and slapped back down.
It was hard. It stole his breath. It stole hers. She clenched and cried out. And she did it again. And again. She finally grabbed his face and just rode. She rode him. She didn't stop. She cried out and shook her head in denial of the pain of it and kept on fucking his body like a possessed little thing.
He tried so hard to lie perfectly still while she used him. He watched her breasts bounce, watched her hair curl around them, watched his dick slip in and out of her tight little body. And he commanded her again, inches from coming in her. "Untie me, Sherry! Now!"
Gasping, Sherry grabbed his bonds and jerked, freeing him. His body sat bolt upright on the bed, spilling her into his lap even further. His hand came down to spank her, so very hard. It brought her mouth open in a soundless scream.
Her pert little butt liked it. It spurred her on. She kept on trying to fuck him stupid. He shot a hand down and flicked her aching clit, just once, and she came around him jerking like a landed fish. She jerked like she'd touched an exposed electrical current. He put his mouth against her breast, pulled it into his mouth and bit down, and dumped his load in her while she bucked, jerked, and screamed around him.
God. What the fuck was he supposed to do without her?
He'd never touched a woman who'd let him own her before. Never. She didn't just give it everything she had, she went beyond that. She opened her flesh and bone and showed him the soul of her. She offered herself to him without any rules, without any chance of survival. He killed her and killed himself while she burned and bled on top of him.
He knew she was bleeding. She'd pushed it too hard, pushed it too fast. She was too swollen and sore. And she bled on his body while he held her.
Shivering, he pulled her back by the hair to meet her eyes.
"Little fool. Why?" He was angry at her. And mad for her. And lost in her.
And Sherry whispered, "It might be the last time I touch you. I needed you to remember me."
Little fool.
Did she think he'd forget her?
Did she think he ever could?
He would never forget her. He couldn't.
Because he was starting to think he might be falling for her.
And it scared him to death.
Carefully, he rolled her to her back on the bed. And eased himself out of her sore body. She made a gasp of pain and tried not be turned on at the way he inspected her swollen, wet, wanting opening. It shouldn't turn her on. It was clinical and concerned, and nothing sexy. But the sight of his shaggy hair between her legs would never do anything but enthrall her.
Leon made an angry hiss. "Little fool. You will be sore for days."
Sherry shrugged and sighed. She was sore. But it was a good sore. A sore that said he'd used her and loved her and wanted her. He gingerly touched her slick lips to see how bad the bleeding was. But it was minuscule. As long as he kept from fucking her for a few days, she'd be just fine.
His fingers on her body brought her mouth open in a moan. He lifted his head and gave her hot, amused, and damning eyes. "I don't think so, you little devil. You're already used...I'd break you."
And that worked. He was fucking hard again for her. Of course he was. The idea of breaking her and her loving it...it flipped his switch. He eased one finger into her weeping body, slipping through the stickiness of their coupling. Her body stretched, stretched, and sucked him into her pulsing heat. Her hand grabbed his wrist and simultaneously pulled him into her further and tried to push him out.
Jesus.
He asked, gruffly, "You want me to stop?"
And he whispered, hoarsely, "No."
Little fool. He curled his finger into her body and watched her bow.
On the nightstand, his phone began to ring. The musical strains of the Chocobo Theme Song from Final Fantasy filled the room. Sherry blinked while her sore body clenched and unclenched around where he was buried so far inside of her.
Amused, she watched him lift a hand and tape his ear. And she realized that while she'd been tying up Leon Kennedy, he'd still had a bluetooth headset in his ear. She tried to picture him answering it while they fucked and gasped and groaned. The dirty girl inside of her shivered at the idea of it.
"Kennedy."
He listened and he petted her. He petted her bottom while he listened. He stroked her tender skin and stayed so still against her. Sherry watched him curl his finger in her body and stroked his forearm while he eased in and out of her waiting sheath. Sore, god yes, in a great way. In a way that said Leon Kennedy had fucked her and fucked her and fucked her. And couldn't seem to stop.
She was obsessed with him. It would probably kill her. And she wanted to die with him inside of her.
She felt him stiffen against her. "Yeah. Yeah. Get me what you have. Yesterday. Yeah. Thanks."
He clicked the call off.
Sherry said, softly, "Work?"
"Not exactly. Sherry," He slid his finger out of her and she hated it. He wrapped his arms around her to hold her and she liked that. His hold on her increased, exponentially, and worried her, "Sherry, that was Barry Burton."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Claire is missing."
She tried to lean back to see his face. "What are you saying?"
"She's been missing for several days. Everyone is tugging lines to find her. But no one has anything right now."
Sherry tried again to move. He kept on holding her. Frustrated, she said, "Let go of me."
"No. You'll do something stupid. Don't. Let me find her."
And now she was just pissed. "You want me to go home and wait for you to find her? Is that it?"
He was so quiet. She leaned back enough to see his face. He didn't look angry. He did, however, look determined and worried. It softened her a little. She cupped his face and kissed him.
Smooth, soft, she ran her hands through his hair while she did it.
And he said, "Claire is the only person on earth that knows about you and where Simmons is keeping you. She's the only person on earth that knows the location of no less than five safety banks where biological weapons are stored and studied. Similar, to the CDC in a way, it's how we control the spread and containment after a fallout. Claire assists in clean up and helps coordinate protection of the recovered samples. She's Chris Redfield's sister and the sole person responsible for maintaining the archives at the GPC."
Sherry was already shaking her head. "You think someone kidnapped her."
"I think someone took her, yeah. And there's no shortage of reasons why."
"Oh my god. What do we do?"
Leon scooped her hair off her face. "I come with you tomorrow. They'll try to stop me when it's time to take you to wherever they are keeping you. You let me handle it from that point on. Ok?"
Oh god.
She held his face, terrified for Claire, elated that he was coming with her. A heady contradiction.
"Tell me we'll find her." She was looking to him for the answers. Like she'd done all those years ago in Raccoon City. He hadn't had them then. He didn't have them now. But he'd find them.
"I won't stop until we do."
