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By now, Leon has had quite e-fucking-nough of sewer systems.
It feels like it's been decades since he arrived in Raccoon City a week after he was told to stay home, hot off the heels of a brand-new breakup and desperate to help in any way he could, expecting the comparatively mundane horror of sick people in the streets. But life has never favored Leon S. Kennedy— making him attracted to men and raised Catholic at the same time was only the start of his misfortune.
No, apparently zombies are appropriately unlucky enough for him. He feels worn to shreds, wandering through ankle-high puddles in what are definitely now ruined work boots, aching from every possible cell. Even the fact that he was shot in the shoulder less than an hour ago doesn’t irritate him as much as the little things— he wasn't even aware that the inside of your ear could sting like a bruise, but here he is, pawing at his jaw as he wanders through yet more disgusting tunnels.
Tunnels. He's been walking through them all day, countless winding, filthy, monster-ridden tunnels, leading from one bad thing to another. The only saving grace of whichever putrid hallway he's stuck in right now is that he hasn't seen much in the way of danger.
Struck by this, he swivels on his heel briefly, looking behind him. He’s not sure what he expects— another bus-sized alligator, perhaps— but he sees nothing but concrete, sludge, and moss growing up the walls from where it coats the floor. It's thick, slimy in texture and ever so faintly bright, leaving glowing dust on Leon's feet as he walks, only visible if he squints. Probably another sign of Umbrella playing God.
So, no monsters. As he's come to expect from this particular part of Raccoon City's endless underground, wherever it may be. He remembers how he got in here— running from a horde of those disgusting fleshy behemoths and their malformed young through some connected chamber and jumping through the nearest door that opened— but it nearly feels like a dream. He's too exhausted, mind and soul.
Leon looks down at the floor and wonders if the moss would be comfortable to sleep on.
It is very thick, crowding up in big piles against the walls. He blinks, and casts his eyes up to where a spiderweb of vines has begun to cling to the ceiling above. Spots of glowing greenish-gold dot the plants' lengths, casting faint light in the dank tunnel. After so long in nearly pitch-black surroundings, something different makes his head spin, nearly to the point of nausea. So he takes deep breaths, and keeps walking.
By his logic, there will be an end to this tunnel; all tunnels end eventually. He'll get out of here in time, all he has to do is keep going. But instead of a light somewhere in the distance, or a cool breeze, the plant life simply becomes more and more lush. The vines grow from spindly threads into thick loops dangling from the ceiling, curling in glow-dotted spirals. The moss sprouts stemmed leaves, tipped with white. The air becomes thicker, wetter, and oddly scented with something Leon can't quite place.
The further he goes, the more profound his weariness becomes. All that keeps him from finding out if the moss really does serve as a suitable mattress is his fear for Ada, his desire to find her again. The thought of her out there, lost in the tunnels and needing help... it makes him feel on edge, drawn wire-thin in a way he can’t explain.
He knows that she can take care of herself, but she makes a confusing riot of emotions ball up in his chest, incomprehensible and, in some ways, scarier than what he’s faced so far in the real world. For now, he lets it lie. Sexuality crises can wait until he’s escaped the zombie apocalypse.
He's not sure how long he walks before he's snapped out of his reverie by the first hint of movement he's yet seen. Adrenaline snaps him into panic almost instantly, but his body refuses to cooperate, fingers slipping on the butt of his gun. When he finally straightens himself out, he's got his sights dead-set on a large rat, eating something next to the wall.
Rats in sewers aren't unusual, but Leon stares at the rodent like it's got six heads. The last time he saw a non-infected animal was before he drove into Raccoon City, which already feels like ancient history. As he is now, it's a revelation, right in front of his eyes. One apparently so earth-shattering that his gun slips directly out of his sweaty hands and falls directly on top of a cluster of glowing yellow pods.
The pods have been showing up— usually on the sides of the tunnel, glowing like tiny lanterns— but he’s never come close enough to touch them before. The transparent outer casing breaks with a soft pop! and before he even has the time to react, Leon is coated with a dusting of glittery powder, head to toe.
He coughs on instinct, chasing the rat away with the sound, but it’s far too late to avoid getting the stuff in his mouth and nose. The taste and smell is instantly overwhelming; an earthy, unmistakably vegetal scent fills Leon’s lungs, deep and dark and intense, not entirely unlike the aroma of fields before rain. But there’s an edge to it that gathers saliva on his tongue, nearly rotten in its sweetness, stubbornly lingering at the back of his throat no matter how much he swallows it down.
“Gah— what the fuck!” he mutters to himself, trying vainly to brush some of the powder off his uniform. It only clouds up around him, glistening on any inch of his skin it meets. “What kind of stuff is this?”
Nothing in the gloom deigns to answer him. With his mind too haggard to truly process frantic thoughts of biological weaponry and G-Virus infection, Leon sighs, picks up his gun, and continues on his way.
For a few minutes, he feels somewhat heartened by surviving the experience. He hasn’t yet sprouted any extra limbs, or gained a compulsion to eat human flesh, so perhaps the dust is harmless and he’s lived through yet another encounter with some weird consequence of a company interfering with the balance of nature. He’s not even stuck in that terrible of a place, all things considered. His only real issue is that it’s very hot down here.
Hot...
He’s already panting when he realizes that it’s just getting hotter and hotter the further he goes, already sweaty skin now beginning to soak through his clothes and making him grimace uncomfortably with every step. Fauna seems to pop up more and more frequently as he progresses, the tunnel now covered floor-to-ceiling with plant life and accompanying animals to feed on it. Moths flutter their wings on the walls, clustered together like leaves; a fat bullfrog hops across his path with a dull croak. His vision is hazy, and he can’t see much clearly, as if his eyes are struggling to communicate with his brain. The sweet flavor at the back of his mouth just grows more and more syrupy, until his throat is coated with honey.
It’s that honey-sweet taste that keeps him going, for some reason. His limbs quake— not really with fatigue, he can tell that much, but the heat is so intense that it’s lancing past his skin and warming up his bones, lighting up every nerve in tandem.
By all rights, he should be losing his mind with fear right now, but he can’t help it: he feels good.
Everything feels good right now, Leon discovers, when he wipes sweat from his brow and unwittingly whimpers at the contact he makes with his own skin. Under normal circumstances he’d be mortified, but the concept of embarrassment is currently completely alien to his fogged brain. Instead, he clasps his hands together, rubbing his thumbs along the flat of his palms, and moans openly at the sensation. Nothing has ever felt like this before, like every touch is utterly electric, sending waves of pleasure down his spine strong enough to make him stumble.
There is, of course, only one realization lying at the end of that particular road: drunkenly, Leon looks down and notices that he’s unabashedly turned on, and harder than he’s ever been in his entire life.
It’s not even just that. He’s been horny before— God, has he ever. More than one ex-boyfriend has complained that he’s insatiable, that they couldn’t keep up in the face of years of repressed desire. Right now, Leon is more than aroused, he’s out of his mind with it; he wants nothing more than to strip bare and fuck his hand until he passes out. But he doesn’t, he can’t, and it isn’t the potential of attack that keeps him from doing so. (Frankly, he couldn’t care less about that even though distantly, he knows he should.) No, it’s because there’s something urging him on, further and further down the tunnel, where vines thicker than his bicep lie in tangled heaps and oddly mottled-green animals creep in shadowy corners, lit by the plants’ yellow bulbs and their own bioluminescent eyes.
On he goes, nearly mindless with want, until a wall unexpectedly looms in his vision, cutting the tunnel off at its apex. The door in its center is wide open, wrenched nearly off its hinges by yet more enormous vines, which at least to Leon’s hazy eyes, seem to coil slowly around themselves as he looks, like a nest of unspeakably huge snakes. Whatever it is that’s calling to him is inside, and he’s utterly powerless to resist.
The room he steps into is significantly larger than the low passage he had traveled through to get there, with a tall, domed ceiling and ample space in its cylindrical construction. What little of the walls are visible are stained with moss and mold, getting in every tiny crack and lining the concrete like mortar. But he can’t see much of that, because the room is sized quite comfortably for its occupant: the heart of the vines.
Taking up nearly every spare inch in the room is the source of all the plant life in the tunnel. It’s a massive, unfathomably dense tangle of curled vines, shifting with movement as he watches, forest-green skin broken up by bulbs, thorns, and patches of scruffy leaves. The thickest are bigger around than his own leg, the thinnest no wider than his pointer finger. If they have a singular point of origin, it’s so deep in the thicket that Leon has no hope of spotting it, but it’s not hard to ignore that, because the plant has far more interesting appendages right in front of him.
Bulbs. Countless golden bulbs, ranging in size from barely bigger than a thumb to larger than Leon himself, hang suspended from the tangled mass, full of unidentifiable liquid and the barest hint of form inside. Some have burst from the inside out, as if a creature within clawed its way free, but most are whole, glowing in a steady rhythm, mirroring the way his own heart pounds within his chest. When he enters, the beat quickens, as if excited to see him there.
There’s only one other thing arresting his attention, the one thing he can’t drag his eyes away from: a huge, pistil-like protrusion, ringed by silky, pointed yellow-red petals and shining with some form of fluid. As Leon watches, overwhelmed with sensation, the pistil ‘head’ swings around on a longer-than-usual vine, nearly animalistic in its movements, and draws close to him, opening up in four segments dripping with slick, observing him just as surely as he’s staring at it. This close, the size is baffling; the pistil alone is bigger than his head, and the vine it’s suspended from is thicker than his torso where it connects.
It smells like honey, this close to it. A vine rises up behind Leon and gently loops itself against the plane of his back, and involuntarily, he whimpers.
“You called me here,” he mumbles with what little rational thought he has left. The plant tilts its head, oddly bird-like, and Leon reaches out a shaking hand to brush his fingertips against the woody curve of its coils. Every bulb in the room brightens in response, and suddenly, there’s a flurry of movement behind him and he’s swept off his feet to fall face-first into the embrace of the floral tangle.
It’s far from a rough impact— the vines are soft, yet still firm, catching him soundly and coiling around his frame, supporting every inch of his body in their strangely comforting hold. With this much sensation on his skin, Leon absolutely can’t contain the moan he lets out at the rush of pleasure wherever he’s touched, and the plant seems to notice that too. He’s absolutely powerless to resist as yet more tendrils snake over him, finding the gaps in his uniform and creeping in to surround him more and more. Even if he could resist, he wouldn’t want to; every second of it is nigh-orgasmic, and he can feel his dick twitch as the plant investigates every inch of his body.
One particularly enterprising vine finds its way inside his shirt, sliding inside where Ada ripped off his sleeve and curling across his collarbone to dart down and brush across a distinctly peaked nipple. Leon nearly bites straight through his tongue at the sensation, throwing his head back to cry out wildly, and the plant must hear it, because it repeats the movement with even more intensity. Another tendril joins the first, and before he knows it, he’s gasping as the vines curl around his tits, every teasing tweak of his nipples making him babble senselessly, begging wordlessly for more.
His pants are already far too tight, chafing against his clothed cock, but instead of making him uncomfortable, the added sensation proves to be too much as his hips thrust involuntarily against the assault. Leon chokes out a cry as he comes, still clothed, like a teenager. It offers little relief from his delirium; he’s just as hard as before, and the plant’s insistent exploration is far from over. He goes limp in its questing grasp, letting it twine under his clothes and begin deftly peeling off his uniform piece by piece, undoing zippers and buttons with unusual skill.
Before he knows it, he’s completely nude, his worn-out uniform discarded to the floor somewhere. The plant’s touch on his exposed body is soft, almost caring. It tenderly curls a vine around the bandages on his shoulder, seemingly aware that they shouldn’t be removed, and the flora against it is oddly warm. Leon whines, half-heartedly wriggling in order to make more and more contact, and the dripping pistil above him leans in closer.
It comes up close to his face, filling his entire view with its mass, near enough that the smell is overpowering. He can only stare as the segments of the head split apart with slick, wet sounds. Inside seems to be the source of the fluid: a smooth golden protrusion, faintly glowing in the dark crimson of the pistil’s inner curves.
Bidden by some strange mixture of lust and fondness, Leon meets it where it is, opening his mouth, drool dripping from his bitten lips. The plant doesn’t hesitate, and aided by its own juices, Leon moans as the golden stem is shoved down his throat.
As the plant begins to move, slowly beginning to rock back and forth into his waiting mouth, a particularly thick vine is unceremoniously shoved between his legs, rubbing up against his dripping dick. Barely able to think as every thrust from the plant’s head trickles more honey-sweet liquid down into his stomach, Leon manages to choke out a moan from around the mass against his tongue and pushes against the vine, instinctively spreading his legs as wide as he can. It supports him as he grinds his way to another orgasm, fucking his throat in a steady rhythm. When it pulls away, a cord of its own sticky fluid follows it, coating his lips and neck as it drips from his gaping mouth.
There’s some minuscule part of his mind, dulled nearly to silence by the overwhelming ecstasy flowing through him, that reminds Leon that by all rights, he should be terrified right now. Whatever has a hold of him is undoubtedly one of Umbrella’s twisted experiments, shoved down here for an inscrutable purpose, and he has no idea what it intends to do with him.
But the plant is gentle as it holds him up in the air, vines caressing every inch of his exhausted, battle-worn body, and it’s been so, so long since he got to feel good. So Leon ignores the warning bells coming from the deepest part of his brain and hikes his legs up further, exposing himself fully, begging for more, more, more.
And the plant notices his plight, bumping the sticky head of its pistil against his chin in a strangely affectionate gesture before it pulls back, vines looping around his ankles and the junctions where his legs meet his torso. There’s a rustling sound, like wind through leaves, and the plant shakes its head as a pair of strange, woody claspers emerge from behind its petals, bending at their joints like the legs of an insect. As if stretching the appendages, the plant wiggles them a bit, and then snaps forwards to grab Leon around the waist.
It happens so quickly— he’s just registering the sensation of the claspers around his abdomen, holding him firmly without bruising him, when the pistil opens again and proceeds to securely envelop his dick within it, along with most of his torso. Fireworks go off behind his eyes, and he bends nearly backwards against the plant’s grip as he howls, white-hot pleasure erupting in his pelvis as something makes its way inside.
He’s never done anything like this before, and now he never wants it to stop, bucking in further to the tight, wet grip of the plant’s pistil, forcing it deeper inside of his cock. When it starts to pulsate, sending vibrations up his bones, Leon cries out and flexes against the vines around his wrists, desperate to grab onto something, anything— but he can’t do anything but take it.
He comes like he’s dying, vision shorting out in white pops, and when he regains his sight and looks down, he sees the plant open its pistil again and slide out of his dick, smeared white with his cum. His lungs heave in his chest, stimulated to the point of exhaustion, and the plant gives him a moment to rest, curling around him protectively. Leon is certain that he’s never been safer in Raccoon City than he is right here, comfortably trapped in the vines’ embrace.
But, despite it all, he’s still hard, still glowing with the need for some unnamed more. Their rest only lasts for a few minutes; without anything touching him, Leon mewls and reaches up for the plant’s head, fingers shaking. It lets him run his hands over the smooth flesh of its pistil, brushing his knuckles against its petals, and the vines looping around his legs momentarily tighten. He isn’t sure why until the head rears up, gathering its strength, and in a single movement, flips him upside down.
Legs dangling over his own head, Leon moans at his position, bent nearly in half and hung suspended above the floor, held up by nothing but the smooth vines covering his body. As he watches, those same vines curl around his ass, pulling him apart and exposing his aching hole to the plant’s watch. A drop of its fluid falls on his perineum, and he whimpers as it drips down into his ass.
The plant continues drooling, parting the segments of its pistil to allow a steady stream of fluid to flow down onto him, and it’s the best and worst thing he’s ever felt— too much and not enough, all at once. He’s about to protest, or try and wiggle his body closer to the plant’s head, but before he can, he feels a distinct pressure at his hole. His eyes cross as he feels the unmistakable sensation of a smaller vine creeping up and penetrating him, growing thicker as it goes, the slick easing its passage.
It’s what he’s wanted for what must be hours now— with another man, he’d be pushing back, eager to have everything inside him. But the plant has him firmly trapped in its tangle, keeping him nearly immobile as it fucks more and more vine into him, the sloppy sound of its fluid in his ass echoing in the otherwise silent room. Every thrust of its appendage punches another sound out of him, breathless gasps and full-bodied moans interspersed between incoherent babbling.
Every time it seems like he’s been filled to capacity, the plant forces more into him, making him sob brokenly with every added inch, every bump and imperfection along its stem. Then, the vine inside him twitches, slamming up against his prostate, and Leon can do absolutely nothing to stop himself from coming for a fourth time, his own cock spurting onto his chest and face. There are tears running down his cheeks now, he’s certain, weeping from overstimulation when the vine still doesn’t stop, fucking in and out of him in short, sharp thrusts, hitting his prostate every time. The pistil drools fluid over it all, looking nearly hungry as it stretches him open.
When it finally stops, Leon is a drooling, fucked-out mess, his own cum dripping into his lolling mouth and flush high on his cheeks and shoulders. He can tell he’s not done, though, when the vine pulls out of him with an audible squelch, leaving his hole gaping, the plant’s fluid leaking out with every shuddering breath he takes. He doesn’t know what’s next, where they’re going to go from here, but as much as he can, he lifts up his hips for the expectant plant in a manner he hopes is enticing.
“Come on,” he croaks from an overused throat, the first words he’s said in ages, and, as it always does, the plant does not disappoint.
The pistil opens again, threads of sticky liquid looping between the segments, exposing the golden stem at its core. It looks thicker now, pumped full of that strange fluid, suffusing the air with sweetness and trickling down in long strands from its tip. Leon is absolutely ravenous for it.
All in one movement, the plant grips Leon’s hips with its claspers and shoves its stem into his waiting hole.
Leon screams his throat raw, spine arching perfectly in the vines’ grip, electric-white bliss filling him from head to toe. The stem is thick, thicker than anyone he’s ever taken before, and it wastes absolutely no time, fucking in and out of him at a brutal pace. Every single stroke drags the blunt head of the stem across his prostate, over and over and over, nearly mechanical in its ceaseless pumping. Untouched, his own cock bobs wildly over his head, somehow dripping more precum in time with the pounding despite the orgasm he achieved only minutes ago.
Gone completely limp in its grip, Leon’s body is forced back and forth as it slams its core into him, merciless to the whims of his floral captor— but no matter how intense it gets, the vines holding him in place never get too tight, never bruise his skin. He cries out as it forces itself deeper and deeper in, slick and burning deliciously inside of him, filling him with more and more fluid as its motions get rougher and rougher. Every single movement sends ecstasy through his veins, rendering him motionless and slack in the face of his pleasure, until he can barely breathe, barely think against the delight that suffuses him.
He isn’t sure how long he spends suspended there, nothing but a hole for the plant to fill, fucking him like he’s never been fucked before, but eventually, it shudders. Caught off guard by the pause in its ceaseless pounding, Leon tries to make a sound, the barest threads of his consciousness pushing to ask the plant what’s wrong— as if it could answer him— but then it shudders again, fucking into him harder and harder, and he loses coherency entirely.
Whatever question he could have asked is answered in short time when the plant drives itself fully into him and trembles, stilling, as Leon gasps with the feeling of an unbelievable load of fluid being stuffed into his waiting hole. The sensation is enormous, and it just keeps coming, filling him to every conceivable brim with sticky warmth until rivulets spurt out from the plant’s open pistil, streaming down the line of his spine and over his cum-spattered chest, marking him inside and out.
This time, when he comes, he blacks out.
When Leon finally wakes, he’s no longer upside down. Instead, he’s cradled gently in a nest of the plant’s vines, curling protectively around his body and forming a remarkably soft surface for him to cuddle into. He blinks, and blinks again. His head is clear, cohesive thoughts returning to him in a rush, but the endorphins still raging through him are enough to keep panic at bay.
“What... the fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing his forehead. He’s sticky all over, coated head to toe in both the plant’s fluids and his own, and when he shifts his hips he inhales sharply at the liquid that leaks out from between his thighs.
There’s a suspicious rustling sound above his head, and when he looks up, the head of the plant looks back down at him, tilting from side to side in the same birdlike manner as before. Seemingly satisfied that he’s now conscious, it leans in further, opening its pistil a tiny bit to investigate him, poking gently at his skin. Despite himself, Leon recognizes the behavior, and— much to his own surprise— laughs.
“No, you didn’t hurt me,” he mumbles, playfully reaching up to push at the head, and he realizes that it’s true. The stickiness is uncomfortable, yes, but it’s as if the aches and pains from all of the hours of torment above have been washed away. He rotates his shoulder questioningly, and finds that even his gunshot wound doesn’t feel so bad, though it definitely stings.
No, the plant hasn’t hurt him. In fact, Leon feels better than he has in days, if not weeks.
“You’re something else,” he says fondly to the pistil, and if a plant could look satisfied, he thinks this one does. The vines shift behind him, revealing the very messy pile of his uniform tucked safely away underneath.
Leon lets himself linger, watching the myriad bulbs pulse gently around him, pulling on his pants and undershirt with deliberate slowness. Finally able to perceive the finer details around him, he notices the patches of flowers growing around and on the mass of vines, the faint light that seems to stay steady at the very heart of the tangle. The head accompanies him in his movements, curiously doing what Leon can only describe as studying him.
But it can’t last forever. Leon stands, fully dressed, and places a secure hand on the butt of his gun, weirdly... energized, in the face of what just happened.
For a moment, he thinks he’s going to have to trek back through where he came, but instead, the plant shudders again, and a mass of vines on the far side of the room lift up, revealing a similar door to the one that’s ajar. It looks nearly rusted over, but it’s no match for the plant, who pushes it open with ease, revealing a similar tunnel behind it, stretching away into gold-dotted darkness.
“You’ll just let me go like that?” he asks it jokingly, to little response. He’s not sure if the petals around its head really do droop, or if it’s a trick of the light. Either way, he steps forwards, turning around in the doorframe for one last look.
All alone in its chamber, the plant watches him go, pistil angled towards his position, bulbs dimming and brightening in a comforting tandem. He isn’t sure what he’s found all the way down here, but for once, he’s certain that he isn’t at any risk of harm. Not from this lonely plant, hidden in the sewers.
Overcome with unexpected sentimentality, Leon reaches up and rubs at the nearest vine. “...Goodbye.”
He hopes his eyes aren’t fooling him when the bulbs brighten in response. Then, he’s through the door, and it slams shut behind him.
For the first time since he arrived in Raccoon City, Leon smiles, and forges onwards.