Warnings: MDNI, smut (click keep reading to see tags), Leon is cold af at the start.
Synopsis: When Leon returns home from his mission, relief surged over you to see that he is still alive. However, as time progresses, Leon starts acting differently, almost malevolent…
Word count: 9k
Tags: Established Relationship, infected leon, porn with plot, dom/sub, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dry humping, dirty talk, teasing, rough, vaginal sex, size difference, aftercare.
A/N: two posts in one month who is she?? I feel like I’ve read this trope like a dozen times, but I am so obsessed with it, and I feel like I haven’t written smut in a minute, so enjoy! btw this can be read as re4 or re9 leon as both kind of work for this story!
The knock at the door came at 4:47 AM.
You knew the time because you'd been staring at the clock on the wall for the past three hours, counting the minutes since Leon's estimated return window had closed. Each tick had carved a little deeper into the lining of your stomach.
The clock was an ugly thing, plain white face, black numbers, no personality to speak of. Leon had bought it at a gas station outside Raccoon City during his first week as a cop, back when he was twenty-one and still believed the worst thing he'd ever see was a drunk driver on a Tuesday night. He'd hung it in the apartment you'd just moved into together with a handful of pushpins and a grin that was all boyish charm and barely concealed nerves. When you'd asked why he didn't buy something nicer, he'd said, "Clocks don't need to be nice. They just need to work."
You'd been together for six months at that point. Long enough to know that Leon Kennedy said things like that when he was trying to be profound and deflecting at the same time. Long enough to know that the grin was armour. Long enough to know that the rookie cop who showed up at your door with cheap wine and a chip on his shoulder was carrying more damage than any twenty-one-year-old should have been allowed to hold.
You'd loved him anyway.
Seven years later, you still loved him. That was the constant, the unmoving center of a life that had become defined by movement, by departures, by the terror of watching him walk out the door and not knowing if the man who came back would be the same one who left. The clock had followed you through three apartments and two states, its white face yellowing with age, its second hand still ticking with the same mechanical indifference.
Tonight, it was working too well.
1:47 AM had been the cutoff. That was the time Hunnigan had given you during her last check-in. Her voice tight and professional but with an undercurrent of something that sounded suspiciously like worry, when she'd said, "He should be home by 0200 at the latest. If he's not, call me."
You hadn't called. You should have. You knew you should have. But calling Hunnigan meant making it official, meant putting wheels in motion that you couldn't stop, and if there was one thing seven years with Leon had taught you, it was that the government's idea of "help" and your idea of "help" rarely overlapped.
So you'd sat on the couch, and you'd stared at the clock, and you'd counted.
1:47. He's just running late. Traffic, maybe. Or debriefing.
2:15. Something went wrong with extraction. It happens. He's fine.
2:47. He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.
3:22. If he were dead, someone would have told you. They would have called. They wouldn't just—
3:58. Unless there's no one left to make the call.
4:31. Stop it. Stop it. You're doing this to yourself.
4:47.
The knock.
Not the doorbell, he'd disabled it years ago because the sound triggered something in his hindbrain that made him reach for a gun that wasn't always there. Just a knock. Three short raps. Spaced evenly. Almost military in their precision.
You were off the couch before the second knock finished, your legs numb and prickly from hours of sitting, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard you could feel it in your teeth. You crossed the living room in four steps and threw the door open so fast the handle cracked against the wall behind it.
And there he was.
Standing in the harsh yellow glow of the porch light, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp with what you prayed was rain. He was facing you directly, which was unusual. Leon typically approached the door at a slight angle, a habit from his first year in the field that he'd never been able to shake, always positioning himself to see what was coming from more than one direction. Now he stood perfectly perpendicular, shoulders squared, weight evenly distributed, like a soldier awaiting inspection.
"Leon."
Your voice cracked on his name. Three syllables, and you couldn't even get through them without breaking.
He didn't smile.
That was your first clue.
Leon always smiled when he came home to you. It was always small and tight and tired around the edges, a barely-there upward twitch of the mouth that most people would miss entirely. But you weren't most people. You'd spent seven years learning the shape of that smile. There was the relieved smile, which reached his eyes and made the lines around them crinkle. There was the exhausted smile, which was really just the absence of a frown. There was the I did something I'm not proud of smile, which was the smallest of all, there and gone so fast you had to be watching for it.
There was no smile now. His face was completely blank. Not tense, not guarded, blank. Like someone had erased the expression and forgotten to draw a new one. Almost clinical in its stillness.
"Sorry." He said the word without inflection, like it had been pulled from a predetermined list of appropriate responses. His voice sounded like it had been dragged across gravel, raw, scraped, stripped of the warm baritone that had whispered your name a thousand times in the dark. "Took longer than expected."
You didn't care about longer. You didn't care about explanations or debriefs or the specifics of whatever nightmare he'd just crawled out of. You cared about alive, and he was standing right in front of you. Solid and breathing and present in a way that your anxious, spiralling brain had spent the last three hours convincing you he wouldn't be.
So you threw your arms around his neck and held on.
You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder, right where his neck met his collarbone, and you breathed him in. He smelled wrong, like rain and copper and something faintly chemical beneath it all, something antiseptic that didn't belong on human skin. But underneath that, underneath the wrongness, there was the faintest trace of him. The sandalwood soap he'd been using since his rookie days because it was the kind the precinct provided and he'd never bothered to switch. The faint, permanent undertone of gunpowder that no amount of washing could fully strip away.
For a terrible, suspended moment, he didn't hug you back.
His arms hung at his sides. His body was rigid beneath yours, a wall of hard muscle and cold skin that didn't yield, didn't soften, didn't do any of the things it always did when you touched him. He stood still, like something wearing Leon's shape but not occupying it, and the one second that his lack of response lasted felt like an hour.
Then his arms came up.
Slowly. Mechanically. Like he was following a set of instructions he'd memorized rather than acting on instinct. They settled around your waist, and his hands pressed flat against your lower back, and even through the cotton of your sleep shirt, his palms felt strangely cold. Not cool the way skin gets on a chilly evening cold. Like he'd been standing in a freezer. Like the warmth had been drained out of him and replaced with something that merely resembled a human temperature.
"You're freezing," you murmured against his neck. Your fingers tightened on the back of his jacket, and you felt the damp fabric beneath your hands. It had to be rain, please let it be rain. "Leon, you're freezing."
"Had to walk a ways." His voice vibrated against your cheek, and the resonance felt off, deeper than it should have been. "Dropped my ride a few miles out."
You pulled back just enough to study his face. The porch light wasn't kind, it threw every shadow into sharp relief, turned skin to wax and eyes to hollows, and right now Leon looked like he'd been through hell. Dark circles carved deep hollows beneath his eyes, so pronounced they looked like bruises. His skin had a grayish tint that made the blue of his irises look almost luminous by comparison. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his temples and the bridge of his nose, beading in places that sweat didn't normally bead, and the sight of it made your stomach clench.
"When was the last time you slept?"
The question came out softer than you intended, careful, the way you'd learned to ask things over the years. There was an art to talking to Leon after a mission, a delicate balance between showing concern and not cornering him, between reaching out and not making him feel like a specimen under glass. Too much pushing and he'd retreat into himself, building walls so high and so thick that even you couldn't scale them. Too little and he'd convince himself he was fine, bury the damage somewhere deep, and let it fester until it exploded at the worst possible moment.
"Doesn't matter." He stepped past you into the house, and the motion was fluid but wrong somehow, like his center of gravity had shifted in a way that didn't match his frame. His duffel bag dropped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a heavy, metallic clank that told you it wasn't full of clothes. "I'm fine."
You're not fine.
The thought was so loud it might as well have been shouted. But you bit it back, because Leon never admitted to being fine when he actually was, and pushing him when he'd just walked through the door would only make him retreat further.
So you locked the door behind him, three locks, a habit Leon had drilled into you during year two that you used to think was paranoid and now recognized as the only reason you slept at night.
He walked ahead of you, and you watched his back the way you always did when he came home. Checking for injuries. Checking for blood. Checking for the set of his shoulders that told you whether the mission had been bad or bad, whether he'd killed people or worse, whether he was carrying something that would leak out in nightmares for the next six weeks.
His walk was different.
Leon walked like a fighter. Always had. Even in his rookie days, before the training and the missions and the things that had reshaped him, there'd been a coiled readiness to the way he carried himself. Weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders loose, hands positioned to react. It was the walk of someone who'd learned early that danger didn't announce itself with a soundtrack.
Now, his stride was longer. More fluid. The coiled readiness was gone, replaced by something that looked almost lethargic. Like his body had been recalibrated to move with a different kind of efficiency. And there was a weight to his footsteps that hadn't been there before, a heaviness, a groundedness, as if his bones had become denser.
You filed it away with the cold skin and the gray pastiness and the missing smile, adding it to the growing catalog of wrong that your brain was assembling against your will.
In the bedroom, he set his duffel bag on the chair in the corner, the only piece of furniture in the room that had a designated "Leon spot" and began unzipping his jacket with movements that were precise and unhurried. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched him, pulling your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them.
"You hungry?" you asked.
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No."
"Tired?"
He paused. His jacket hung open, revealing the black shirt beneath it, and in the dim light of the bedroom, you could see the dark lines again, the ones you'd glimpsed on the porch, barely visible at the edge of his collar. They traced up from beneath the fabric, delicate and branching, like the veins of a leaf or the roots of a tree. They were darker than veins should be, with a faint quality to them that you couldn't quite name, almost luminescent, but not quite. Like they were lit from within.
"Tired," he said finally, and the word came out flat and distant, like he was agreeing to a statement he didn't really understand.
"Then sleep." You patted the mattress beside you. "I'll be right here."
He looked at the bed. Then at you. And for a moment, there and gone so fast you almost missed it, something flickered across his face. Something raw and frightened and desperately human.
Then it was gone, and he was pulling his shirt over his head, and you saw the marks.
They covered his left side.
Starting at his ribs and spreading outward like a web, the dark lines branched beneath his skin in patterns that followed no anatomical logic you could recognize. They weren't veins, too deliberate. They looked like something growing. Something spreading. Something that had started small and was working its way through him with a patience that was more terrifying than any violence.
Your breath caught. It was a small sound, a tiny, involuntary hitch in your breathing, but Leon heard it. Of course he heard it. Leon heard everything. He always had.
His hand moved to cover the marks, casual and deliberate, like he was just rubbing his side.
"Got scraped up," he said, not looking at you.
The lie was so transparent, so flimsy, so utterly un-Leon that it almost made you laugh. Leon was many things, a terrible liar not being one of them. The man had sat across from you at dinner and told you he hadn't been injured on a mission while literally holding a bandage to his bleeding forearm, and he'd been so smooth, that you'd almost believed him until you saw the blood seep through.
Got scraped up? A five-year-old with a skinned knee could come up with a better cover story.
But you looked at his face, the blankness of it, the hollow eyes, the set of his jaw, and you understood. He wasn't lying because he thought you were stupid. He was lying because the truth was something he couldn't say yet. Something he was still processing, still fighting, still trying to contain within the walls of his own body.
So you didn't push. You didn't gasp or cry or demand answers. You just looked at him with every ounce of love and steadiness you had and said, "Come to bed."
He did.
He lay on his back, rigid as a board, staring at the ceiling with those pale eyes that reflected the faint glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. Slower than a resting heart rate should produce. You curled against his side, pressing your ear to his chest, and the heartbeat you heard was a deep, thudding bass note that seemed to come from somewhere lower than his chest, spaced further apart than any healthy pulse you'd ever felt.
His arm came around you. Automatically. Mechanically. Like a reflex rather than a choice.
You lay there for a long time, listening to his too-slow heart, feeling his too-cold skin, watching the dark lines on his side pulse faintly in the darkness with a rhythm that didn't match his breathing.
And you thought about the first time you'd seen Leon Kennedy.
He'd been twenty-one, gangly and green and trying so hard to look tough that it was almost endearing. You'd been working the counter at the coffee shop two blocks from the Raccoon City Police Department, and he'd come in every morning for a black coffee and a blueberry muffin, and he'd always sat in the same corner booth with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. You'd thought he was paranoid. You'd thought he was cute. You'd thought, that poor kid looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and you'd started slipping an extra muffin into his bag on the days he looked worst, which was most of them.
It took him three weeks to notice. When he did, he'd looked at the muffin like it might be a threat, then looked at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle, then looked at the floor and said, very quietly, "You don't have to do that."
"I know," you'd said. "I want to."
He'd come back the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And eventually, the muffins had turned into conversations, and the conversations had turned into late nights, and the late nights had turned into him showing up at your apartment at two in the morning with a split lip and a look in his eyes that told you the world was much darker than you'd ever imagined, and you'd let him in because that was what you did, you let him in.
Seven years later, you were still letting him in.
But tonight, lying next to a body that felt like a stranger's, listening to a heart that didn't beat right, watching marks pulse beneath skin that was too cold and too pale, you wondered for the first time if letting him in meant letting something else in too.
Leon's hand moved in his sleep, and his fingers found your hair. They stroked slowly, absently, and the gesture was so tender, so him, that tears pricked at your eyes.
Whatever was happening to him, whatever was growing beneath his skin, Leon was still in there. You could feel it in the way his fingers moved through your hair. Careful. Gentle. The hands of a man who had done terrible things but had never, not once, been terrible to you.
"I'm here," you whispered into the darkness. So quiet he couldn't possibly hear it. "I'm right here."
His fingers stilled. Then tightened. Just for a moment. Just enough to let you know that he'd heard you.
The clock on the wall ticked on.
5:23 AM.
6:01 AM.
6:44 AM.
And the dark lines pulsed.
And Leon's heart beat its slow, strange beat.
And you didn't sleep. Not for a single second. You just lay there, holding onto the man you loved, and watched the darkness beneath his skin spread like ink in water, and wondered what morning would bring.
You tried to make the morning normal.
That was the thing about seven years, you developed a repertoire. A script. A sequence of ordinary rituals that functioned as proof of life, evidence that the world was still turning. Coffee. Breakfast. The Sunday crossword he never finished. The way he always forgot to close the cereal box and you always pretended to be annoyed about it.
Today, the script fell apart before the first line.
He didn't drink his coffee. Just wrapped both hands around the mug and stared into it like the answer to something was floating in the dark liquid. He didn't eat. You'd made eggs, scrambled, the way he liked, and set the plate in front of him, and he looked at it the way he might look at evidence from a crime scene. Analytical. Detached. Like it was an object unrelated to him.
"Eat something. Please."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since-"
"I'm not hungry."
The sharpness of it made you pull your hand back from the counter. He didn't apologize. Didn't soften. Just sat there with his cold hands around his untouched coffee and his hollow eyes fixed on some point beyond the kitchen wall.
You ate your eggs standing up. They tasted like cardboard.
By early afternoon, the gray skin had deepened. The sweat had returned, a persistent sheen that no amount of air conditioning could touch, and the fine tremor in his muscles had graduated from barely visible to noticeable, the slight shake in his fingers when he picked up a glass of water, the faint vibration in his jaw when he clenched it. He'd migrated from the kitchen to the couch. He sat there with his forearms braced on his knees and his head bowed.
You sat beside him. Not touching. Just close enough that your knee was a centimeter from his, a sliver of warmth reaching toward the cold that radiated off him in waves.
"Leon."
"Hmm."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
The flatness of his voice was worse than anger. Anger you could work with. Anger meant feeling and engagement. This was nothing. This was static
"About the marks." You said it carefully, precisely, the way you'd learned to say difficult things. "About the fact that you haven't eaten, haven't slept, haven't done anything except sit there for the past four hours. About the fact that your skin is cold enough to give me goosebumps from a foot away. About-"
"The marks are nothing."
"Leon, they've spread since last night."
Silence. Long and heavy and suffocating.
Then, very quietly: "I know."
The two words landed like stones in still water, and the ripples they sent through your chest made it hard to breathe. I know. Not they haven't, not you're imagining things, not any of the deflections you'd steeled yourself for. He knew. He was watching it happen. He was tracking his own body in real time, and he was sitting on your couch in the middle of the afternoon pretending everything was fine because that was what Leon Kennedy did. Carried the weight alone, swallowed the damage whole, died a little at a time where no one could see.
"Tell me what happened on the mission."
"I can't."
"Leon, you need to go to a hospital. A real one. Not a-"
"There is no hospital for this." He turned his head and looked at you, and the look in his eyes was so exhausted, so defeated, that it stole the breath from your lungs. "You think I haven't thought about it?
The room felt smaller. The air felt thinner. You were aware, suddenly and acutely, of how alone you were. No neighbors close enough to hear a scream, no weapon in the house because Leon had never needed one at home, nothing between you and whatever was sitting next to you on your couch except seven years of love and a rapidly deteriorating certainty that love was enough.
"What does it feel like?" you asked, because you couldn't not ask, because the silence was worse than any answer.
He was quiet for a long time. Then: "Like I'm being rewritten. Like something's going through all my files and changing the entries one by one. My temperature's wrong. My heart rate's wrong. My-" He stopped. His eyes dropped to your knee, the one that was almost touching his. "My instincts are wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean-" His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "I look at you, and part of me wants to hold you and tell you it's going to be okay. And another part of me wants to-" He didn't finish. He didn't have to. The hunger in his eyes said it for him.
You should have been afraid. You should have been reaching for your phone, calling Hunnigan, locking yourself in the bathroom, running. Every survival instinct you had was lighting up like a Christmas tree, screaming at you to put distance between yourself and the thing your boyfriend was becoming.
But you didn't move. Because beneath the hunger, beneath the wrongness, beneath the cold and the paleness and the marks that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath his skin, you could still see him. Trapped behind his own eyes. Fighting. Losing.
So instead of moving away, you closed the last centimeter between your knee and his, and you leaned into his side, and you felt his whole body go rigid at the contact.
"It's okay," you said.
"It's not." His voice was fractured. "It's really, really not."
"I know. But I'm here anyway."
His arm came around your shoulders. Hesitantly, like he wasn't sure he could trust himself to touch you gently. The cold of his hand seeped through your shirt immediately, but you didn't pull away.
For a while, you just sat like that. Two people on a couch in the middle of the afternoon, holding onto each other while something dark and patient and alive spread its roots beneath the surface of one of them.
Then his thumb started moving against your shoulder. Slow, deliberate circles that pressed hard enough to dimple your skin. Not quite a massage. Not quite something else. Somewhere in between, in a space that made your breath catch for reasons you couldn't fully identify.
"You're tense," he murmured. The vibration of his voice traveled through his chest and into yours. "Let me help."
Before you could respond, his hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, and his fingers curled into the hair at your nape. Not pulling. Just gripping. Holding you in place with a certainty that made your stomach flip.
"Leon-"
"Shh." His other hand came up to your chin, tilting your face toward his. Those pale eyes searched yours, and this close, you could see things you'd been trying not to notice. The way the blue had turned almost translucent at the edges. The way his pupils had contracted to pinpoints despite the dim room. The way the veins at his temples were darker than they should be, tracing delicate patterns beneath his skin.
"Tell me to stop," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, rough and low, and it skittered down your spine like a physical touch. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Because here was the thing, beneath the wrongness, this was still Leon. Still the man you loved. Still the hands that had held you through nightmares, the voice that had whispered your name like a prayer, the body that knew every curve and dip and sensitive spot you had.
But there was something else riding shotgun now. Something that turned his familiar touch into something sharper, something that walked the line between devotion and danger.
"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.
The sound he made wasn't quite human. It rumbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, a low, resonant vibration that you felt in your bones more than heard with your ears. And then his mouth was on yours, and any coherent thought you had left scattered like startled birds.
He kissed like a man starving. Not gentle, not careful, consuming. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling until you gasped, and then his tongue was in your mouth, tasting every corner like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. The hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head back to change the angle, and the hand on your chin slid down to your throat.
His fingers wrapped around the column of your neck. Not squeezing. A constant, weighted presence that said I could without ever following through.
You whimpered into his mouth, and the sound seemed to short-circuit something in him.
He pulled back, just far enough that you could see the way his chest heaved with breaths that didn't seem to do anything for him, and his eyes were wrong. Not the color, not the pupils, but the expression behind them. Possessive. Ravenous. The look of something that had found what it wanted and had no intention of letting go.
Then he dropped to his knees.
Not slowly. Not with the controlled grace he usually moved with, the kind that said I'm doing this because I want to watch you fall apart from below. This was different. This was urgency. This was a man who'd been drowning and had just broken the surface, and the only air he wanted was between your thighs.
"Leon, wait-"
He didn't wait.
His hands hooked under your knees and yanked you forward on the couch so hard that your back hit the cushions and your legs fell open around his shoulders. The motion was so fast, so effortless, that it barely registered before his mouth was on you, through the thin cotton of your sleep shorts, hot and open and hungry, and the shock of it made your hips buck off the cushion.
"Fuck-" Your hands flew to his hair, not pushing, just holding on, because there was nothing graceful about what he was doing. He was mouthing at you through the fabric like he was trying to taste you through it, his jaw working, his breath scorching hot against fabric that was already dampening faster than it should have been.
"These need to go." He said it against you, the words muffled and vibrating through the cotton, and then his fingers were in the waistband and he was pulling them down your thighs with a single, ruthless tug. He didn't bother taking them all the way off, just shoved them past your knees and spread your legs wider with hands that gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.
And then he stopped. Just stopped. Stared.
Leon had always been an eater. From the very first time, he'd approached going down on you with a focus and enthusiasm that had ruined you for anyone else. He'd spend hours between your thighs if you let him, lazy and thorough, building you up and pulling you back and whispering filthy things against your skin until you were begging so prettily he couldn't deny you anymore.
This was not that.
This was assessment. His eyes, those pale, wrong, beautiful eyes, tracked over every inch of you with a focus so intense it felt physical, like he was committing you to memory at a cellular level. His nostrils flared, and you realized with a jolt of something between arousal and alarm that he was smelling you. Not in the casual way lovers do, deeply, deliberately, like your scent was the only thing keeping him anchored to the planet.
"You have no idea," he said, and his voice was wrecked, barely holding together, "how long I thought about this. On the way home. In the shower. Every second since I walked through that door."
"You were gone for sixteen hours-"
"Sixteen hours of thinking about you." He said it plainly, the way he'd say the sky is blue or I need coffee, and the bluntness of it made heat flood your face and your chest and the place between your legs where he was still staring. "Sixteen hours of wondering if I'd make it back in time to put my mouth on you one more time before-"
He stopped himself. His jaw clenched. The veins at his temples pulsed.
"Before what?" you breathed.
"Doesn't matter." His thumb pressed against the crease where your thigh met your hip, and your body jerked like you'd been electrocuted. "Nothing matters except this."
He leaned in and dragged his tongue flat up your center in one long, slow, devastating stroke.
The sound that came out of your mouth was embarrassing, loud and broken and completely beyond your control. Your thighs clamped around his head on instinct, but his hands were there immediately, forcing them back open, pinning them apart with a grip that said try me.
"No." The word was a growl against your slick skin. "You don't get to close these. Not until I'm done. And I am nowhere near done."
He went back in, and any hope you had of composure evaporated.
This wasn't the Leon who teased and drew things out with agonizing patience. This was something that had been denied a meal for too long and had finally been seated at the table. His mouth was everywhere, your clit, your entrance, the sensitive skin on either side, places he'd never paid this much attention to before, like he was mapping new territory in a country he thought he knew.
And his tongue. God, his tongue. It moved differently. Not the deliberate, controlled strokes you were used to. This was faster, more fluid, almost greedy in the way it curled and flicked and pressed, finding angles that made your spine arch and your toes curl and nonsense syllables spill from your lips.
"Leon, oh fuck, Leon."
He hummed against you, and the vibration travelled straight through your clit and into your pelvic bone, and your hands tightened in his hair so hard you felt strands pull free between your fingers. He didn't wince. If anything, the mild pain seemed to spur him on, his mouth sealed around your clit and he sucked, hard, relentless, and the pressure built so fast it made your vision swim.
"You taste-" He pulled back just long enough to speak, his chin wet, his lips swollen, his eyes black from edge to edge. "You taste like the only thing that's ever felt real. You taste like home. It's better than I remembered, it's always better than I remember-"
His mouth returned before you could form a response, and this time two fingers slid inside you, and the combination of his tongue and his fingers and the filthy stream of words he was muttering into your flesh was so overwhelming that you could feel the orgasm building already, coiling tight and low in your belly.
"Wait, slow down, I'm gonna-"
"No." He curled his fingers upward and pressed against the spot that made you see stars, and his tongue flattened against your clit in rapid, firm strokes that matched the rhythm of his hand. "I want you to come. I want to feel it. I want to feel you squeeze my fingers while I'm inside you, I want your taste to flood my mouth, I want it so bad I can't think-"
"Leon, please-"
"Please what? Please stop?" His fingers withdrew almost completely, and the emptiness was so dire it made you whine. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"Don't you dare-"
He shoved his fingers back in, three now, a stretch that burned in the best possible way. His mouth found your clit again with a precision that felt almost predatory, and the orgasm hit you like a car crash.
Your whole body seized. Your thighs slammed against his hands, and this time he let them, let you squeeze and shake and fall apart while his mouth and fingers worked you through it with a stamina that shouldn't have been possible. You came with his name on your lips, once, twice, a third time that blurred into the second because he didn't stop, didn't even slow down, just kept going while your body convulsed and tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and your hands in his hair went from pulling to pushing to just holding because you had nothing left.
"Good," he growled against you, and you could feel your own wetness smeared across his chin and jaw, could hear how wet you were every time his fingers moved. "That's good. Give me another one."
"I can't-" Your voice was shredded, barely recognizable. "I can't, I can't, it's too much-"
"You can." He pressed a kiss to your clit, gentle, almost sweet, a jarring contrast to the savagery of moments ago. "I know your body better than you do. I know exactly how much you can take." Another kiss, lower, right where his fingers were still buried inside you. "And I know you have at least one more in you."
He wasn't wrong. You could feel it, that faint, trembling tremor beneath the overstimulation, the coil that hadn't fully unwound. Your body was already responding to him, already rebuilding despite the protests from your brain.
"You're so fucking wet." He twisted his fingers slowly, deliberately, and the obscene sound it made should have mortified you but instead just sent another pulse of heat straight to your core. "Dripping down my hand. Making a mess all over this couch. You're always so wet for me, but this-" He withdrew his fingers and held them up, and in the dim light of the living room, you could see the slick coating them, could see the way the strands connected and broke when he spread his fingers apart. "This is something else."
He put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, and the sight of it, Leon on his knees, eyes black, tasting you off his own fingers with a reverence that bordered on worship, made your clench around nothing.
"Leon."
"Hmm." He released his fingers with a wet pop. "You say my name like that again and I'll put my tongue back inside you."
"I-I need-"
"I know what you need." He crawled up your body, dragging his cold chest against your overheated skin, and when his face was level with yours, you could see the full extent of what you'd done to him. His mouth was swollen and glistening. His cheeks were flushed, a startling slash of colour on that pale, gray skin. His eyes were still dark but there were cracks of blue bleeding through the edges, like Leon was fighting his way to the surface.
"I need to be inside you," he said. "But not yet. Because I'm not done eating."
He kissed you, open-mouthed and filthy, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, salt and musk and something darker, and then he slid back down your body with a speed that made your head spin, resettled between your thighs, and started again.
This time was slower. Almost lazy. The desperation of before had been temporarily sated by your orgasm, and now he settled into a rhythm that was somehow worse, because slow meant you could feel everything. Every stroke of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, every time he paused to press a kiss somewhere new and murmur something that made your face burn.
"You have the prettiest cunt I've ever seen." Said it like a confession, quiet and reverent, his breath ghosting over your entrance. "I used to think about it when I was in the field. In those shitty safe houses, in the dark, with nothing but the sound of my own breathing for company. I'd think about how you taste when you're close, all sharp and sweet at the same time, and I'd get so hard it hurt."
His tongue pressed inside you, just the tip, just barely, and your hips rocked forward trying to take more.
"Ah-ah." He pulled back, and the loss was devastating. "Patience. I'll give you what you want. I'll give you everything you want. But you're going to let me take my time."
"Your version of taking your time is torture," you managed, your voice thin and reedy.
A smile. The first real smile you'd seen from him since he walked through the door. It was crooked and dark and so Leon that it made your chest ache even as heat pooled low in your belly.
"Baby, I haven't even started."
He built you up slowly this time, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered everything and pinpoint focus on your clit that had you mewling and writhing. His fingers stayed inside you the whole time, two of them, moving in slow, deep thrusts that matched the rhythm of his tongue.
"Look at me." The command came from between your legs, muffled but unmistakable. "I want to watch your face when you fall apart."
You forced your eyes open and looked down. The sight hit you like a freight train. Leon, on his knees, your legs draped over his shoulders, his face buried between your thighs, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that bordered on hypnotic. His jaw was working, his cheekbones sharp and hollow as he sucked, and the dark lines beneath his skin were pulsing with that faint bioluminescent glow, casting him in an eerie blue light that made him look like something from a fever dream.
Monster. The word surfaced unbidden in your mind. Beautiful monster.
"I can feel you getting close," he said against your clit, and the words vibrated through you. "You're squeezing my fingers. Your thighs are shaking. You're trying so hard to hold on."
"I'm not-"
"Don't lie to me." His free hand pressed flat against your lower belly, holding you down against the couch, and the added pressure shifted everything, made his fingers inside you feel deeper, bigger.
"I can feel every tiny movement you make. Every flutter, every clench. Your body doesn't lie to me the way your mouth does."
He curled his fingers in a slow, deliberate come here motion and simultaneously took your clit between his lips and sucked, and the combination shattered whatever fragile control you'd been clinging to.
The second orgasm was different from the first, deeper, slower, rolling through you like a tide rather than crashing like a wave. Your mouth opened in a silent scream and your back bowed off the cushions and your hands found his hair again, pulling so hard you heard him grunt against you but he didn't stop, just kept going through it while your body trembled and shook and tears tracked down your temples into your hair.
He worked you through every aftershock, his tongue slowing but never stopping, his fingers gentling but never withdrawing, until the pleasure crested and receded and left you limp and gasping on the couch, your chest heaving, your legs trembling.
Only then did he pull back.
He sat back on his heels and looked at you, and the picture he made was devastating. His hair was wrecked from your hands, sticking up in every direction. His mouth and chin were soaked, slick and shiny with you. The dark lines on his skin pulsed steadily, and his chest rose and fell with those slow, too-deep breaths.
He sat back on his heels and looked at you, and the picture he made was devastating. His hair was wrecked from your hands, sticking up in every direction. His mouth and chin were soaked, slick and shiny with you. The dark lines on his skin pulsed steadily, and his chest rose and fell with those slow, too-deep breaths.
Then he stood up.
It shouldn't have been as intimidating as it was. Leon had always been taller than you, broader, built like a weapon wrapped in a leather jacket. But standing over you now, with those pulsing black lines mapping his chest and his sweatpants doing nothing to hide the massive, straining erection tenting the fabric, he looked like something else entirely. He looked like a predator who had just finished the appetizer and was ready for the main course.
Before you could catch your breath, he bent down, hooked his arms under your knees, and hoisted you up.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat as your back left the cushions. The strength it took to lift you was staggering, there was no strain in his arms, no hesitation, just a terrifying, effortless display of power as he pulled your legs around his waist. Your bare, oversensitive center pressed directly against the rough cotton of his sweatpants, and the friction against your swollen clit made you jolt in his grip.
"Leon-"
He was already moving. He carried you out of the living room like you weighed absolutely nothing, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs, his pace hurried and purposeful. He didn't take you to the bedroom so much as deliver you there, kicking the door open and crossing the room in three long strides before dropping you onto the mattress.
The impact knocked the wind out of you, but before you could even process the bounce of the springs, Leon was crawling over you, caging you beneath the sheer mass of him.
He didn't take his sweatpants off. Instead, he settled his hips between your thighs and ground down.
A broken, ragged sob ripped from your throat. The rough, damp fabric dragged agonizingly over your hypersensitive clit. It was too much, the friction too harsh, but your body betrayed you, your hips tilting up to meet his as he began a slow, torturous rhythm of dry humping against you. He dragged the thick length of his clothed cock through your slick, coating the fabric, grinding the hard ridge of it right against your aching flesh.
"Feel that?" he growled, his mouth dropping to your ear. His hips rolled in a heavy, deliberate circle, pressing you deep into the mattress. "Feel how hard you make me? I've been hard since I walked through the fucking door. I missed you so much. The only thing keeping me sane was the thought of dragging my cock through this wet little cunt."
"Please," you whimpered, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders. The size of him was overwhelming like this, all that weight, all that muscle pinning you down. "Leon, please, I need-"
"I know what you need." He pulled back just enough to hook his thumbs into his waistband, shoving the sweatpants down his thighs. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark, the tip slick and weeping. He wrapped a hand around the base, giving himself one long, tight stroke.
He shifted lower, aligning the thick, hot head of his cock with your clit, and tapped it against you. Once. Twice. The wet, heavy smack of his flesh against yours was obscenely loud in the quiet bedroom.
You flinched, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through your nervous system. "Ah, fuck!"
"So pretty," he breathed, his eyes locked on where he was tapping his cock against your swollen bud. "Look at this pretty little clit. All swollen for me." He dragged the blunt head down, slipping it through your soaking folds, teasing your entrance without pushing inside. "You're making such a mess. You want it inside, don't you? Want me to fill you up?"
"Yes," you gasped, trying to roll your hips up to take him in, but his free hand clamped down on your hip, pinning you effortlessly to the bed. The size difference had never felt this pronounced, his hand nearly spanning the entire side of your hip, his thighs bracketing yours so wide you felt entirely consumed by him.
"Beg me."
"Leon, please-"
"Say it." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit again, harder this time, and you saw stars. "Tell me you want this cock."
"I want it," you sobped, your nails digging into his forearms, trying to find purchase on his cold skin. "I want your cock, please, please fuck me-"
With a dark, guttural sound, he lined himself up and pushed inside.
It was a slow, relentless slide, and the stretch was immediate and immense. He was thicker than usual, the infection seeming to alter even this part of him, and your body had to open up to accommodate him inch by agonizing inch. You threw your head back into the pillows, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he split you open.
"Fuck, you're tight." He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, a violent shudder running through his entire frame. "Always so fucking tight, but this, Christ, it's like you're milking me already."
He bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and for a second, he just held himself there, letting you feel the full, impossible depth of him. His hands were everywhere now, one sliding up your side to pinch your nipple, the other tangling in your hair to pull your head to the side so he could bite down on the curve of your neck. The sharp sting of his teeth grounded you in the storm of sensation.
Then, he started to move.
There was no gentle buildup. No slow, loving rhythm. Leon pulled back until just the tip was inside you and slammed forward, driving the air from your lungs. The bed frame slammed against the wall with a thunderous crack.
"Oh my God-" you choked out, but he was already setting a brutal, relentless pace.
He fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. Every thrust was deep, hard, and punishing, his hips snapping forward with a terrifying, inhuman stamina. The wet, slapping sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, echoing off the walls in a rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of your heart.
"You're mine." The words were snarled against your throat, vibrating through your pulse point. His hand left your hair and wrapped around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head swim. "Say it."
"I'm yours," you gasped, your eyes rolling back as he hit a spot so deep it hurt. "Leon-"
"You're mine." He emphasized the word with a particularly vicious thrust that shoved you up the mattress. "This cunt is mine. This body is mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to feel you squeeze them like this. Do you hear me?"
You couldn’t speak. All you could do was nod as you felt the tears prick from your eyes. You couldn’t help but notice the wicked smirk on Leon’s lips as he fucked you senseless.
"I know," He cooed as you sobbed, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper even though it was too much, even though you were sure you would break. "I know. I know baby."
A ragged, broken sound tore from his chest, half-growl, half-sob, and his hips stuttered for just a fraction of a second before he doubled his efforts.
His hand left your throat to grab your thigh, hooking your leg higher over his shoulder and bending you nearly in half. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, and the new wave of pleasure that crashed over you was so blinding you screamed.
"So pretty," he panted, his black eyes roaming wildly over your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your breasts bounced with every merciless thrust. "Look at you. Taking it so good. Taking everything I give you. You were fucking made for this. Made for me."
"Leon, I'm gonna-I can't-"
"You can." His thumb found your clit, rubbing harsh, tight circles over the swollen bundle of nerves in perfect time with his pounding hips. The dual sensation was sensory overload. "Come on my cock. Give it to me. Let me feel it."
Your body obeyed without your permission. The orgasm ripped through you like a shockwave, tearing a hoarse, silent scream from your throat. Your walls clamped down on him like a vice, fluttering and spasming around his thick length, and Leon groaned, a deep, resonant, inhuman sound that shook the windows.
He didn't stop fucking you through it. If anything, he went faster, chasing his own release with a single-minded desperation. His thrusts grew erratic, losing their perfect rhythm, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps that sounded like they were being torn from his lungs.
"Inside," he gasped, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. "I need to-I have to-"
"Do it," you whispered, your hands weakly clutching his face, pulling him down to look at you. "Come inside me, Leon. Please."
His eyes met yours. For one brief, terrifying second, those beautiful, tired blue eyes stared back at you, full of so much love and agony it made your heart physically break.
Then his hips slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and he shattered.
His whole body went rigid, a low, guttural moan spilling from his lips as he came. You could feel it, hot, thick pulses of him filling you, marking you from the inside out. The dark lines beneath his skin flared with that eerie, bioluminescent blue light, pulsing in time with his climax, making him look like a dying star collapsing in on itself.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the mattress. You didn't care. You wrapped your arms around his sweat-slicked back and held him tight, feeling his heart hammering against your ribs.
The room was destroyed. Sheets tangled on the floor, pillows scattered, the headboard cracked where it had slammed against the wall one too many times. The picture frames that had somehow survived the first assault had finally fallen, their glass faces shattered on the nightstand. The air was thick, sweat and sex and something else, something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat.
But beneath you, Leon's chest rose and fell. In and out. In and out. The rhythm was stuttering, uneven, like a engine trying to find its idle, but it was there. He was breathing. He was alive. He was here.
Light.
Soft, warm, golden morning light filtering through the curtains. That was the first thing you registered.
The second was warmth. Real warmth, not the feverish heat or the corpse-cold from before, but the familiar, lived-in temperature of a human body that had been sleeping beside you for seven years. It radiated from the arm draped over your waist, from the chest pressed against your back.
You turned your head slowly.
Leon was behind you. Eyes closed. Face slack and peaceful in a way it hadn't been since before the mission. The gray pallor had visibly faded. The dark circles were still there, but they looked like exhaustion now. Illness you could handle. Illness you understood.
You pressed the backs of your fingers to his cheek.
Warm.
His eyes opened.
Blue. The blue from the coffee shop, from the apartment with the pushpin clock, from a thousand ordinary mornings that felt like miracles in retrospect.
Confusion. Recognition. Horror. All three flickered across his face in rapid succession.
"Oh God." His voice was rough but his. The baritone and the immediate warmth. "Oh God, last night, I-did I hurt you?"
His eyes dropped to your throat, to the fingerprint bruises and the bite mark darkened to purple overnight, and the color drained from his face.
"Leon. Look at me."
He looked. His eyes were wet.
"You didn't hurt me. I'm right here, and I'm okay."
"I don't remember all of it. I remember enough." His jaw clenched. "Something else was doing this, and I-"
"Then we find out what it is." You said it simply. "We find someone who knows what this is, and we fix it."
"You don't know that it can be fixed."
"No. But I know you've survived things that should have killed you. And I know that whatever is inside you picked the wrong host."
A wet, broken laugh escaped him. Barely a laugh at all, but it was his.
His hand came up to your face, slowly, carefully, and his thumb traced your jaw with a tenderness that made your eyes burn. Warm. Completely, perfectly warm.
"We'll fix this," he said. Quiet but certain. The voice of a man who had stared into the abyss so many times it had stopped scaring him.
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