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Grace gasped as she was pushed into, fingers clawing the rotted table of whatever this place was.
What was this place again? Did it matter? Of course it mattered.
She had come here, willingly, angered by grief. It was all for Emily. She was doing this for Emily. All of it. Indulging Victor’s asinine ramblings, agreeing to go with him, sitting by Zeno on the helicopter and wrinkling her nose at his cigarette smoke. Letting him take her here, wherever here was, with its cracked, dirty walls and floor, its walls polka-dotted by bullet holes, its silence as still the FBI’s office at midnight.
This place was never meant to be returned to, that she knew.
But here she was, bent over a desk, her pants and underwear dropped to her ankles, letting Zeno crane over her and mist her in his invasive aftershave and stench of nicotine. She swore all old men’s aftershave smelt the same: that rich, tingling smell that lingered on seats they sat at.
He had been soft, though, to his credit. If ‘soft’ was the word. Softer than that creep Victor. He certainly didn’t have to choke her out and screech her name like a drunken patriarch in order to make her listen, to make her do what he wanted.
Still, it didn’t stop sweat dripping down her body like droplets racing on a window, and it didn’t stop the shakes, her throttling heart, the dizziness blurring her vision, the- oh, God, she was going to be sick-
“I’m sure you have questions,” Zeno said in that deep, oddly gentle voice of his. His thick, gloved hand glided down her shirt, rubbing the space between her breasts, as if to give rest to the anxiety she barely concealed.
But was here really the place for questions? Grace couldn’t push words past her lips. Strangled muffles shoved around her mouth, desperate to escape, but she swallowed them. She had to. Zeno’s girth spread her, and her nails chalked against the wood.
She’d never been very sexually active. Maybe a few times in college, forced to attend parties she never really wanted to go to, standing in the corner, alone, getting tipsy on cheap beer, to eventually end up in someone’s bed. Normally boys, maybe a few girls. All of them seemed cruel. They didn’t care about her comfort or her pleasure. At least, from what she could recall. She could barely scrape the memories. She’d stopped after the first few times when waking up in vomit grew tiresome, and focused on work.
But she’d remember this. It hurt. Zeno was... sizeable.
Choosing to go with him to this ruin of a building was her first mistake. She should have gone with Victor, she should have, but the man was discomfort incarnate. He was vile, he shadowed her, he spoke every word like she was something on an operating table he was dying to cut into.
Zeno seemed normal. And he smelled nice. And was well-dressed. And human, but clearly he was not entirely so. She’d accidentally bumped her leg against his on the helicopter and apologized profusely like her mouth was a machine gun. He’d told her it was fine. He’d made small talk. Asked her how working with the FBI was. If she wanted a cigarette. If she had a boyfriend, or girlfriend.
Maybe she could ask a question, as awkward as it was over a desk.
“W-What is this place?” she sputtered.
A hand combed through her hair, gently intertwining strands within fingers, puppetting her head upwards, forcing her to view to the decrepit walls of… here.
She squinted, tears streaming her cheeks, legs already buckling underneath him. He hadn’t even begun to fuck her yet-
Then her mouth pried open: a shocked gasp popped from her lips as Zeno’s own ghosted her neck. Not what she expected when she agreed to this. Not that there was any verbal agreement at all. Not that there was anything except a thick wall of tension as she’d shadowed Zeno like a mouse into this room.
“The ruins of the Raccoon City Police Department,” Zeno finally answered, and he sounded solemn, like it was a loss. Like he remembered something.
He kissed her jaw tenderly, like he was handling something fragile, then spooned his head against her neck. The dark scarring of his face was rough and rigid against her cheek, like sandpaper, and for some reason – after everything she’d been through tonight – it was welcome. He was warm. And heavy. She was full. She was safe. No clicking of typewriters here. Nothing lurking in the dark. Finally. He’d promised that.
“W-Why did you bring me here?” she pushed out. Damn her stuttering. Damn her investigative urges despite it all.
He didn’t move. He pushed against her on the desk now, cock warming inside her, deep, grumbling, hot breaths beside her face, and-
“Oh!” Grace struggled to stay in place. He was fucking her now. Slow. Deep. It hurt. “N-No… Wait. Waitwait. Wait!”
She could have sworn she was yelling it, but there was no echo, no strain of her voice. No. Just hushed whines that not even the walls of RPD would remember.
“I’ll explain everything. You don’t have to be afraid.”
He said it so softly, like he was speaking to something more than just a “key”, and Grace’s fingers uncurled. She took a breath. She was smarter than this. He couldn’t be trusted, but something about it seemed so honest, as if he was caught up in some kind of Hell as well.
It was too late anyway. He was inside her. Fucking her. Faster now, and her heart rammed her chest with each push as he quickened his pace. His breaths melted into grunts. Grace squeaked with each push. God, she squeaked. Did he like that? He hastened now. The speed was ungodly. Could a human even fuck that fast? It fucking-
“It hurts,” Grace whined, and she attempted to angle away, as if that would stop him.
“I will remedy that,” he growled.
He flipped her over, grappling her legs and curving them around his waist before promptly shoving himself back inside. Grace couldn’t clamp down the sputtered, shattered cry that clawed out of her throat: he was fondling her clit. A practiced hand, she could tell. It was unlike anything else she’d had before. And he wouldn’t stop. He pinched it between two fingers, rotating it, lathering it, spitting on it, gathering her slick to massage her more and- was she arching now?
“G-Good girl,” Zeno groaned, but Grace could tell he didn’t want that slipping. The wrinkles of his face creased, as if he was frustrated with himself that he was actually enjoying this.
Somehow, it turned her on more. They were warming a place that had been so cold and devoid of bodies, and it was the first time she had felt any comfort in days- no, years. And she was so close already. So damn close.
“I-It hurts so-so good,” she stammered. Was that dorkish? Was she bad at this? Would he care? She couldn’t tell because of his shades. But it was the truth.
“Good,” Zeno snapped, and the wet squelching of her cunt was the loudest noise this place had probably heard in years. “Wish you had that- mmph- FBI badge with you. Set in front of you. Let you look at it as I- as-”
Grace didn’t hear the rest. The arousal muted everything. Everything blurred. Everything was meaningless. He wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t tell him to stop. She didn’t want it to stop. She didn’t want this old terrorist stopping, she wanted to be a ruin, just like this place.
Undone, just like this city.
“Coming,” Zeno grunted. “Come… with me.” He leered close, golden eyes glinting behind shadows.
It was an order, and Grace obliged. She could follow orders. She was good at following orders. She needed to follow this order. She didn’t want to let go, but she had to. She was being told to. She nodded for him. She was a good girl, right? They nodded, right?
A passionate “fuck” escaped Zeno, and the tension in Grace’s crotch snapped, and fireworks exploded before her. Pregnancy, protection. She had forgotten it all. Everything was dead here, and she had felt dead too.
She moaned, and it climbed as he gyrated his orgasm inside her, and suddenly she was so warm, and so full, and she wondered if this inhuman man felt human again.
At least she had finally saved someone, she guessed.
Zeno pulled out of her with a violent schlop. Her knees buckled. Her eyes screwed shut. Had she really just…? He had… she had…
“You need to understand,” Zeno started.
The clink of his belt sounded off; he was already redoing his slacks, and he yanked her pants up, hurrying her on. It was cold again now. He stabbed a finger at the briefcase he brought, shaded eyes revolving to her, lips pressed thin. He was the man he was before now, the man that spoke of her destiny, like she was an object for something horrible, and Grace’s fist curled so tight that she swore her nails had broken skin.