I can make your dreams come true.

Sure, it was a little rough sometimes, it's not easy to have the life sucked out of you (literally) and kneel for prayer right after as if nothing was wrong. You were always found a little too dizzy after private confessions with Father Leon, much to the dismay of your friends that worried for you a little deeply. You always assured them you were fine and safe, Father Leon was simply bestowing his wisdom upon you and taking his rightful reparation in exchange. Besides, the worst that’s come from it is having to wear higher collar dresses and shirts to hide the marks his fangs leave. And you’ve only ever passed out once, it’s not that big of a deal. 

It was never that big of a deal because the rewards of your efforts and bloodshed were great. Fantastic even. You became Leon’s right hand, from lowly devout follower sitting in the pews and raising your hands in reverence to sitting right beside Leon and watching others in the pews. It gave you a rush of power, which you carried with you every time you stepped into Leon’s office and were subsequently stripped of all other power you had.

That was the only way to describe what it was like when he fed. He always tried to be gentle about it, but that only worked so much when he insisted on only feeding from you when he was practically at death’s door. Every now and then, you think he does it for the rush, for the way your blood seems to taste a little sweeter. 

You’re thinking that now as Leon feeds from you, your frame is pushed indelicately over his desk as his hand fists your hair, holding your head at such an angle that your neck is so deliciously bared for him to sink into. The initial stab of his fangs is as jolting as ever, and the rush you feel as he sucks is dizzying. Your head rolls on its own, but Leon just tightens his grip with a sharp grunt, keeping you straight and steady. You feel dizzier than usual and Leon can tell. Skipping breakfast would do that to you. 

“I’m almost done,” he mutters against your neck, eyes rolling at the sweet fluid gracing his tastebuds. Sweetest nectar he’s ever had, and as much as he says he’s almost done, he’s sure to drink a little more than he should be taking from you. He always does, and he always rewards you after. Your reward is what keeps you going until he pulls back with a sharp gasp, lips painted in the sultriest red imaginable as he laps at the lingering blood on your neck, and you wonder for a moment what it would be like to kiss him. To taste yourself on his lips and let his fangs nip your tongue in the process. 

You feel dumb for thinking it, about a man as devout as Father Leon is. You feel even dumber for the way you lean forward, searching for something before you process your actions through your haze and jolt back. He sees it, as much as you wish he hadn’t, and his gaze darkens. He has half a mind to clean you up and remind you of his standing. That he is naught but a devout man of cloth that met an unfortunate fate after a run in with a vampire. Naught but a man trying to live. The other half of his mind, however, is now letting him lean in, still riding the high from tasting you as he seals his lips against yours. He groans, deep and low in his chest as he kisses you and you lick at him, wincing at the metallic taste that greets you yet still seeking the warmth of his mouth. 

He suddenly feels as dizzy as you do, drunk off the heat of your body as his hands wander. It's illogical, letting himself wander this far down the path of sin, but truthfully, what atonement could he ever hope to receive as a vampire? As a monster known to sin? The thought has been lingering on his consciousness for weeks now, whispering in the back of his mind how he should just give into it all, to every mortal and immortal sin. He’s done well to keep the urges at bay, but the taste of you, the rush you give him with how good you taste. He’s practically powerless to fight the way his hands wander up to your chest, palming to hear the way you whimper into his mouth, arching into his hands. 

He’s powerless as his hands find their way beneath your dress, tugging your panties down just enough to let his thumb find your clit, rubbing insistent circles with the calloused pad of the digit to watch the way you writhe against his desk. He’s utterly powerless as he presses two thick fingers against and into your weeping hole, soothing your whines of pain with a sharp bite to your neck, fangs sinking in once more. He sucks deep against you as his fingers pump, his free hand spreading your thighs just a few inches wider, cursing internally at how pliable you are beneath his hands. Perhaps he would never be so tempted if you pushed back a little. If you were leaking all over his fingers right now, he’d be less inclined to crook his fingers until you arch the way he was. He’d be less inclined to bite a little harder just to feel your walls clench around his fingers. 

You were so good to him, so willing to submit to his every will, so willing to walk the path of ruin with him just because he said the lord bids it so. You were every bit the good little  lamb he moulded you to be, every bit the good girl he praises you to be as you seize around his fingers, soaking the wood beneath you and making a mess of your dress in the process. You were too good to him, too compliant as he shoved your dress a few inches higher, dropped to his knees and sealed his lips around your poor clit. He sucked just as he had against your neck, not relenting even as your hands fisted his locks and tugged viciously. You wouldn’t be able to pull him off any time soon no matter how much you pulled, just like when he feeds. 

This was feeding in a different context. He slurps at you so deeply, tongue lapping and lashing and lingering a little too deep for your liking, making you jolt, twist and writhe, crying ‘Father Leon!’ so loud you’re sure anyone left in the church is for sure hearing your corruption. You can’t find it in yourself to feel shame about this, not with how good it feels. You’d even say this was your reward, your retribution for the liters of blood you gave to your lord, Leon Kennedy. 

Yes. Leon was your lord, the man who came to your mind during daily prayers, the man who guided you towards salvation, the man who held your legs apart as his fangs nipped at your clit until you seized and came on his tongue with filthy gushes. He was the lord, and the lord placed a slick kiss to every bite he left on your body as he strained you out with a low murmur. “I’ll feed from you more often now, my child.” And what else could you possibly do aside from obey the will of the lord? 

~~~