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sickophantic · 4 months

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𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

pairing. stalker!leon / afab! reader

warnings. stalking, kidnapping, noncon, probably other stuff but idkk, read at your own risk

word count. 4,644

note. i like, haven't written anything for ummm half a year,, but i'm super excited about this fic!! started it almost two months ago and i finally finished it :33

Poor baby, haven’t been taking care of yourself for weeks; haven’t been eating or sleeping and barely going out for groceries, always staying inside except for work, leaving the house early in the morning and returning home at 2 a.m. Poor girl’s been coming back so late just for a shower, a quick, shitty dinner or a cup of tea, and after that straight to bed, day after day after day. And of course, Leon noticed what it was doing to you immediately: your sunken eyes from the late hours and the graveyard shifts, the dull skin from all your forgotten skincare, God, all those products collecting dust in your little bathroom, and the way your flesh was starting to cling to your bones, oh you poor thing. He couldn’t have that happen to his angel, absolutely not.

Sitting on the bed, watching you, something broke in him every time he saw you all teary eyed and tired, scrolling through your phone, looking through all your contacts. It’d happen almost nightly, after work and after a shower, all of you but your face hidden in the cold cover of the darkness, your quivering lips and your matted eyelashes limned by the blue light of your phone, your finger hovering over your friends’ numbers as you debated with yourself. He’d see the way your brow furrowed as you weighed the risk of opening up to people who should care about you, but fuck if it actually felt like it. So you’d just sigh, suck in a breath, and set your phone on the bed table and fumble in the darkness to find its charger, before shutting your eyes, preparing for next day’s hell.

He’d watch you breathe for a little while, his own eyes intent on his screen, before he’d shut the app and set his phone down. It was like a nightly routine at this point. He’d come home from the R.P.D., and every day, his heart would soften when he’d check on you, watch you through the cameras he installed and see how lonely and apathetic and pathetic you were. Poor baby had no one. Just made it even more obvious how much you needed him.

When you’d skipped dinner for the third time that week, he decided enough was enough. He didn’t want to, of course he didn’t, but he’d have to take drastic measures. Just, take you away for a little bit. Temporary, of course. Just until you got your things together. He was helping you. You’d see that. That’s why today, he slipped into your apartment with a copied key and stirred something special into your tea.

Sweet thing came home late, rubbing your bleary eyes and yawning, throwing your keys somewhere by the door, slipping your coat off and heading to the kitchen, wanting to microwave your day-old tea. Waited thirty seconds for the microwave to beep. He watched on his phone as you put creamer and sugar in your tea and downed it quickly. You always liked things sweet. You took a shower and stumbled into bed, all sluggish and soft, falling asleep almost immediately.

A few minutes later, the front door opened, letting in the dim, yellow light from the hallway and a pair of silent footsteps. He took his coat off, setting it gently on the rack, slipping his shoes off quietly before stealing into your room. His heart fluttered when he saw you, the only sound in the room your soft breathing and the only movement the light rises and falls of your chest.

He sat next to you on the bed, feeling the way the mattress dipped beneath him, and placed a hand on your cheek, rubbing small circles into your skin. He watched you for a while, resting his arm on your shoulder and gazing down at you, fingers playing with your hair or knuckles grazing across your face, before he smiled. He’d be good to you, real good. Treat you like a princess, just the way you deserved. No more stress, no more hard work. Just smile and look pretty. He wanted you so bad, fuck, even right now, but he promised himself to take it real soft, real slow, real sweet. Just for you, his perfect girl.

His heart almost stopped when he saw your eyes open, eyelashes fluttering, cheeks flushed. He’d been sitting on his bed, admiring your sleeping form, lightly rubbing small circles onto your cheeks with the backs of his knuckles, just like last night. Except, now you were really here, in his bed, with him. Made him want to kiss you and hold you and fuck you, all at once. Couldn’t do that yet, though. But God, he was so excited to see you, couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you, had to pull himself away from work cause he couldn’t get anything done, even made you breakfast in bed. But seeing your waking face not be that of immediate adoration, even though that’d be a little insane to ask for, broke his heart. Seeing your eyes widen and your brows furrow as your mind raced to explain where the hell you where and how this happened made his chest tighten with guilt. Poor baby. He’d make it better, make it all better, pinkie promise.

“Hi, hi.” He cooed, still caressing your cheek. Immediately, you flinched backwards, finally noticing him. But he kept going, keeping his voice quiet, low, like he was talking to a frightened, injured animal. “‘m Leon, okay? Don’t be afraid, just gonna take care of you, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth to speak, to scream out, to cry for mercy, to beg to be let go, he couldn’t tell, but instead, with a small, cracked voice, you asked, “What?”

He moved his hand upwards, rubbing circles with the pad of his thumb on your temple. He saw the way your eyes were glossing over and the way your eyebrows scrunched and the way your lips trembled beneath him and he felt so terrible for doing this to you but at the same time you looked so fucking pretty he wanted to do it over and over again. Shit. He didn’t mean to think that way, that was so mean. Didn’t mean to, not at all. It was an accident, honest. He sucked in a breath, realizing he’d been visibly hesitating for a few seconds. Remembering what he was trying to do, he reached behind him, grabbing a fork and a plate, still a little warm, bringing a piece up to your mouth. “Just wanna take care of you, baby.” He spoke softly, trying to hide all his earlier thoughts. “It's just French toast. Nothing else in it.” He promised.

You grimaced. "No."

He opened his mouth to try to reason with you, explain that he just made it and there really was nothing in it and you needed to eat, but he could tell you were scared. He swallowed, setting the plate aside. He scooted a little closer on the bed and kept talking, all soft and sweet, “Haven’t been looking after yourself for the past month, have you?” He asked. “Just wanna help you, angel. Don’t need anything in return. No work, no chores, nothing, okay?” He murmured.

He watched your face for a few seconds, expression twisting from panic to confusion to disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?” You whispered, all hissy and teary eyed and confused and scared. “Oh my God, what, you can’t, fuck, what are you talking about?” You repeated, almost incoherent.

He just shushed you gently, placing a thumb to your lips. “Shhh. I told you. 'm just gonna take care of you.” He cooed.

You squirmed uncomfortably beneath him, trying to escape out from under him only to have his wrap land around your throat, pressing lightly enough to hurt only a little but enough to warn you to stop squirming. He hated squirming. He felt bad, really bad for threatening his poor girl, but your reaction was starting to be a little frustrating. He sighed. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. Just gonna keep you here for a little, unless you wanna stay more,” he smiled. “Get you back on your feet, sweetheart.”

For some reason, you suddenly stilled. He noticed, and he also noticed the way your entire expression grew dazed, but he just kept on talking, almost rambling, enjoying your silence and your stillness, kept murmuring sweet nothings to you, his perfect, perfect girl. He was telling you how much he loved you and how long he’d been waiting to take you home and just how God damn excited he was when you interrupted him.

“I’m gonna,” you stuttered. “‘m gonna throw up.”

The sounds of your dry heaving over the empty toilet were the only sounds in that bathroom, echoing, bouncing off the walls. Sick, pitiful noises. Leon leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as you gripped the sides of the toilet like your life depended on it, knuckles turned white from the pressure and the rest of your appearance disheveled. He knew what you were thinking, knew that you were panicking about the fact you’d never met him before and who the hell was he and Jesus was he a psycho? And was he in love with you? Oh God, what was he saying about you not taking care of yourself? Was he watching you? Must’ve been watching you, or how else would he know? He saw you wretch even harder. Nothing came out. He grimaced.

“It’s not that bad, baby. Promise.” He said, approaching slowly. You were sobbing now, not even trying to vomit anymore. Not like you could, anyways. “C’mon,” he asked, tone dropping a little. Your chest rose and fell faster. Frightened little thing.

“Fuck,” you whispered, voice cracking, and he couldn’t tell if it was because he just kidnapped you or because nothing was coming up. You sat back from the toilet, crawling backwards into the corner farthest from Leon, mumbling, begging, crying something like go away go away please please please. You kept on repeating yourself, sometimes stopping to swallow and bringing a hand up to your chest or your throat because it hurt so bad or maybe you just couldn't breathe. He was trying to comfort you, let you know he wouldn’t hurt you and he loved you and it was okay and you were okay, but you just kept curling further in to yourself, crying now replacing the sounds of your dry heaving, face all red and eyes a little puffy and voice completely broken as you begged about something, but at this point you were just incoherent.

Leon stepped forward and you flinched back, and he let out a little sigh, leaning against the bathroom wall and staring at your poor, shivering form, brushing his hand through his hair, completely exasperated, and thinking What am I going to do with you?

- A few hours earlier, he was stirring coffee in the breakroom, absently glancing up at the television, when he recognized a familiar pair of tired eyes. Huh, he thought. He sipped his coffee as he watched your parents crying on live television, almost incoherent, recounting all the details he already knew about you. He felt a little pang in his heart, knowing that he took away these people's only child, only daughter, but it was for the best, wasn't it? He was taking such good care of you, and though you would never admit it, he could see the way you were slowly brightening up, the way life was returning to your drained body. He was doing a good thing. He was a good person.

Now, a little later, with keys jingling in his finger, he whistled softly, listening to the small click as the door unlocked and he slipped inside quietly. It’d been about two weeks since he’d… kidnapped? you. He wouldn’t say kidnapped, maybe taken instead. It’d been two weeks since he’d taken you. Sounds a little better. He pulled his shoes off by the door, debating whether or not to call out to you that he was home. It was dark already, so you were probably hiding, shivering under his blankets and clutching that little bear he’d bought you, as if that’d stop him from finding you. He sighed a little. This was taking longer than he thought it would. Would’ve thought you’d have at least warmed up to him by this point.

There were only two lights on, one above him and the other a little farther away by the dining table, leaving the rest of the room in a semi-darkness. He saw your half eaten bowl on the kitchen counter. He yawned, setting his coat on the rack and slipping his keys into his back pocket. He’d have to hide them later. Remembering an earlier text from Chris, he leaned against the wall, taking out his phone to check his messages. He watched the loading sign, watched it swirl and swirl and swirl around nothing. Finally loaded. He tapped on Chris’s icon and skimmed something about a work party. He yawned again. He’d deal with it tomorrow. He was slipping his phone into his other pocket when he heard your voice, soft and strangely deferent. “Leon?” you asked.

He looked up, a little surprised to see you standing there, your silhouette outlined by the light behind you. He was surprised to see you in one of his shirts, completely oversized on your frame. He realized it’d already been a few seconds, passing by with him just staring at you. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. You were just so pretty, how could he not? When he finally snapped himself out of his daze, he yawned again, “Yeah, baby?”, finding himself walking instinctively towards you.

You were fidgeting with your fingers. Your eyes darted from him to the door, from him to the door. Can’t be asking to leave now, can you? Or maybe you were asking for something. He was about to prompt you to finish what you’d started when you finally spoke up.

“I felt…felt really lonely today.” You murmured, looking down at the floor, at your bare feet on the cold ground. Kicked at the ground a little. “Missed you. Didn’t um…” you trailed a little, eyes wandering slightly upwards. “Didn’t know what to do.”

Huh, he thought. His heart fluttered a little at your words, making his chest feel warm and light. He smiled at you. “That’s sweet. Missed you too, missed you so much.” He said. “Was thinking of you the whole day, angel.” He was standing right above you now.

For some reason, he thought he saw you grimace a little. But it was a momentary thing. He probably imagined it. You finally looked up at him, finally made eye contact for more than a split second. He could tell you wanted to say more, that what he said wasn't exactly what you hoped for. What you did want? He didn’t know.

Looking down at you, he stared in silent anticipation, in absolute adoration. His heart fluttered. Just as he lifted his hand up to brush away a stray hair on your cheek, you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his torso and burying your face in the dip between his neck and shoulder. He huffed in surprise a little, holding you against him as you shivered.

"Really missed me, huh?" He laughed, rubbing circles against your back. He was so happy. So happy he could die.

He held you against him until you pulled away, looking up at him with your perfect doe eyes, asking him to come to bed with you. Nothing sexual, you just wanted someone near you. His heart jumped, and so did his dick, but he nodded, willing to ignore his needs for yours. He promised to join you soon, watching you pad off to his bedroom, needing to go finish some nightly chores. He headed to his office, brain so full of rushing, giddy thoughts that he didn't notice the unusual quietness when he walked or even the strange emptiness in his back pocket.

You were dragging your nails down his skin like some feral animal, nose red and cheeks flushed and eyelashes all wet and matted, tears freely flowing down from your pretty doe eyes. He grabbed you from behind, placing a hand over your mouth to muffle your cries as you sobbed and weakly writhed against him. He held you close to him, hand on your face and an arm wrapped around your waist. He was about to say something, to tell you just how disappointed, how pissed off he was, when his voice caught. A minute ago, maybe two, he'd found you at 3 a.m. in the morning, fucking with his front door and his keys, you ungrateful idiot, yet here he was now, tongue tied. He barely got a syllable out before he stopped himself, cursing you when he realized he was getting all breathy, his face flushing a little, his pants growing tighter. Fuck, was he getting off to this? That’s sick. He was sick. He was getting off to the idea, no, to the sight of you choking. Made him feel all warm and fluffy inside for all the wrong reasons. Actually, he was getting off to the idea of raping someone. Jesus, Leon. Fuck. He was getting off to the idea of raping you. Damn.

He held you against his chest, staggering backwards to lean against the wall for support. He hissed curses under his breath next to your ear, warning you to keep still. He couldn't stand squirming. Made things so much more difficult. It was hot though. God damn. Fuck. Fuck. He wanted to scream. Shout at you, maybe. He didn't know. Hearing your muffled pleas, something stirred within him, pent up and tired and angry, and for some sick reason, he didn't lift his palm from your mouth, instead wrapping his arm around your neck, pressing your windpipe in between his forearm and bicep, hissing in your ear, "Shut the fuck up."

He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes, ignoring your begging and yet at the same time reveling in it. He needed to think. Needed to think about what the fuck he was doing. He felt you hiccup against him, felt your warm tears drip onto his cold skin, and Jesus Christ his dick was harder than ever. He loosened his grip on your throat, hearing you gasping for breath, not even trying to beg him to stop. He slumped a little, guilt climbing up from the depths of his wretched soul. He was still breathing hard.

When did you get his keys? He heard you sobbing apologizes now. How the fuck did you manage to snatch them without him noticing? He was running through all his interactions with you recently, unable to pinpoint when, where, how, until he remembered what happened just a couple hours ago. Oh. Oh.

"Feeling sorry, angel? Or feeling guilty?" He murmured into your ear, fighting to keep his tone flat. He was irritated enough that he had to stumble out of bed at three in the fucking morning, pissed that when he was still rubbing the blurriness from his eyes he found you trying each of his keys and still somehow failing at unlocking a fucking door, but at the same time, he was hurt, betrayed that you had tried to leave him, even entertained the passing thought of escape.

"Sorry, sorry, 'm so, so sorry," you sobbed against him, breathing erratic and your entire body shaking. What a mess. You could barely stand.

"Really?" His voice dropped. "Sorry for waking me up at three in the fucking morning? Sorry for stealing my keys? Sorry for lying to me, for betraying me?" For some reason, he couldn't feel anger at your escape attempt. Not like he wasn't angry, though. No, he was angry, but not because of that. You lied to him. Said you missed him in that sweet voice, looked up to him with those big, innocent eyes, shivered against him and said you missed him, all just for some bigger plan. He was almost disgusted.

He heard your incoherent, pathetic pleas for mercy. He wasn't hearing you out, though. He grabbed you, tossing you over his shoulders and headed to his bedroom.

He kicked the door shut and threw you down onto the mattress, watching you cry and shiver and open your mouth to scream. Nothing would come out, though. He felt his hands fumble with his belt, with his jean's zipper. He dimmed the lights. Maybe he wouldn't feel as bad if he couldn't see your face. Maybe.

He found himself crawling on top of you, slipping his hands up your shirt. He wanted to be mad, wanted to be able to take out his anger on you, choke you and slap you and bruise you and bite you, mark you as his, fuck you so hard you wouldn't ever think of escaping again, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to hurt you, even when you deserved it. At least not that way. He cursed you under his breath as his hands found your breasts, kneading and grabbing and even twisting your nipple between his thumb and index. You cried out, all pathetic, squirming beneath him. His heart softened, just a little.

"Shh, don't cry. Don't cry." He murmured against your ear. He heard your loud swallows, and looking at you, looking into your eyes, he saw your lovely, naïve face twisted into one of pure terror. Maybe even disgust. He felt so bad, but it wasn't his fault. He tried to be so good to you, treat you all soft and sweet, take it real slow, make it romantic, make it easy. But he was just a man. You committed the crime. It wasn't his fault. Not his fault. He heard himself groan a little, even as your hands pitifully shoved against his chest, even as you tearfully begged him to stop. He was just a man.

The bed creaked, and you cried, and his breathing just kept getting heavier and heavier. He tried to ignore the slight tightening of his throat, the just noticeable watering of his eyes. He couldn't hurt you. He couldn't. But he was, he was hurting you in the worst way possible. His heart broke as he watched you flinch, but his dick somehow hardened every time you sobbed, as you somehow tightened with every wince.

He gripped your hips to pull you up against him with each thrust, and at the same time tried to ignore the way you gripped the sheets, knuckles white, face frozen in pain and pleasure and fear. He had to stop himself from crying a little. You felt so wonderful, though, looked so pretty, even now. He leaned his forehead against yours, felt you rock beneath him. "Sorry, 'm so sorry," he murmured with each thrust, voice clouded by lust, apologetic even as he raped you. He still loved you. Really did. But still, he didn't stop, shutting his eyes instead as if that would make all his guilt disappear.

You'd been acting nicer for the past two weeks. Compliant, deferent, soft and malleable. Your voice was always low, sometimes to the point he'd have to ask you to repeat. You didn't say much anymore, not like you did before. There was a heaviness in your movement, like everything you did was a struggle. He'd notice it when you woke up, with the morning light streaming in through the window, his arm wrapped around you, holding you close to him, and you just wouldn't move. He'd brush his nose against your neck, murmuring soft Good morning's and How're you feeling?'s, but you just wouldn't move. You'd sit there like a corpse, cold and apathetic, yet your flesh was still so warm and your skin so soft.

He'd wonder about that while he brewed your morning tea, watching you slump against the dining room chairs, staring out the window, staring into stillness. He'd talk to you the whole time, trying so hard to coerce some sort of response other than your one word answers or your quiet hums, but nothing would come out. Your eyes were constantly glazed over, like an unending cloudy day. It wasn't all bad, though. All those jokes about women existing to be looked at, not to be heard? You were just that. He was just a man, you know.

He came home from work a few hours ago, whistling, keys jingling as he spun them on his fingers. Now, you were curled up together on the couch, your back to his chest, engulfed by the darkness of the early winter night like a heavy blanket, your form illuminated only by the blue light of the TV. He had some random local channel on. It didn't matter. Only you mattered.

After that incident, you stopped squirming in his arms, stopped trying to escape his grip or lose his touch. Instead, you just sat there like a pretty doll, just like you were meant to. You let your entire body weight slump against him, let your head rest in the crevice between his neck and shoulders. He pet your hair, brushing his fingers through each strand, gently detangling. He wrapped his arms around your torso to hold you close to him, and he hummed in contentment. "Missed you, baby." He watched your head slowly perk up to look at him, expression all dazed and dumb. So pretty. "What'd you do today?" he murmured quietly, looking into your glassy eyes and brushing away a stray hair.

You had a neutral expression on your face as you thought the question over. It took you a few seconds to respond. "Slept."

The TV, which he vaguely recognized to be playing a news channel, buzzed in the background. He laughed a little at your response. It made him so happy that you even spoke. "Really? Slept all day, but you still look so tired." He teased, almost commenting on the growing bags beneath your eyes but holding himself back. You just nodded in response, laying your head back down on his shoulders.

One hand rubbing soothing circles on your back and the other still playing with your hair, his mind started to drift. Not to anything in particular, though. He wondered what that secretary at work was writing down, what Chris and Wesker were talking about, just little, curious things. He felt your breathing slow, and he suddenly felt so warm inside, knowing that you could fall asleep against him. His breath right against your ear, he murmured, "Night, sweetheart," and looked up at the TV, noticing a missing person's report.

A random boy returned his gaze. The camera panned to shots of a forest, and a news reporter recounted all the details. Name? Jack Reed. Age? Seven years old. Last sighting? Three days ago, heading into the woods for some reason, somewhere. Leon didn't care. What he did care about, though, was that this meant that the world had already moved on. Everyone had stopped looking. Or at least, the public gaze had already shifted. Now, they were looking for someone new. And the week after that, someone else. And with each passing week, the world would forget about you, and that just left more for him. So he just kept on brushing his fingers through your hair, humming quietly to himself. You were his girl now, his perfect, perfect girl, and maybe he hadn't made it real soft, hadn't taken it real slow, maybe even the opposite, but at least now, he could make it real sweet.

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