The facility is supposed to be abandoned. No bio signatures on the initial recon scan, no movement from hostiles after an extended stakeout, nothing. An abandoned underground lab for an experimental arm of Umbrella, potentially full of important documents on bioweapons research.

Your mission is to gather as much information as possible, should any of the viruses created there pop up on the black market or worse.

Easy, compared to the shit you're usually assigned.

Leon agrees.

Well, you think he agrees. He treats every mission as seriously as the last. You've grown to appreciate his consistency. It makes him easy to trust, which is essential in this line of work.

He's the best partner you've ever had. Thorough, direct, and smart. He never questions your abilities and relies on you just as much as you rely on him.

And, god. He's kind. Funny, too, when he wants to be. One time on a weeklong stakeout in the middle of nowhere, Argentina, he explained to you, in detail, the plot of The Count of Monte Cristo, all because you said you'd never read it. You hadn't even known he liked to read.

He's hard to crack, though. Professional to a fault, more dedicated to the cause than anyone you've ever met. And he's handsome.

How could you not fall in love with him?

You keep your ever-growing feelings to yourself. Asking him if he feels the same isn't worth ruining your partnership, isn't worth being someone else who wants something from him that he maybe can't give. Not when you can have him this way -- at your side with your life in his hands, his in yours.

In some ways, this is more intimate than any regular relationship you've ever had.

You'd spent the chopper ride here watching him as he looked out the window, even though you knew he felt your gaze. He's always doing that, always taking in everything around him with militant attention. You wonder what he sees that most people don't. Connections, patterns, maybe even beauty. You've never asked. Whatever it is has kept him alive this long. It's kept you alive, too.

And so, the mission.

You drop from a very long hatch into dark, stale air. The ladder leaves your hands aching and your shoulders tight, but there's no time for recovery.

Training takes over. Leon leads, with you at his right flank. Flashlights on, service weapon at the ready.

"Stay sharp," he says.

Sometimes you tease him about it, his constant readiness for a threat. But you feel it this time. Something's not right here, scans be damned.

Flecks of dust and grime float through your bright beams. The corridor ends maybe 15 meters in front of you in a set of metal doors, no windows. The security pad on the left side blinks a dull red.

"Emergency power," you say.

It was in the brief as a possibility but not a guarantee. Leon approaches, and you follow, digging into one of your belt pockets for the access card some other agent had to steal last week for this purpose.

"You want to do the honors?" you ask.

Leon shakes his head. "Be my guest."

The red light blinks green with a hover of your hand, and the unlocking mechanisms creak to life. The doors open slowly with a hiss. You're greeted with a dark lobby, dull yellowish lights lining the base of the walls.

"Must be on throughout," Leon says. Sometimes these places are zoned, or some other needlessly complicated system of power distribution. "Hopefully that means doors will keep opening."

He's still tense, arms outstretched to shine his light into the new space, shoulders taut. You feel it too, a prickle at the base of your neck.

"If not, I'm sure the power systems will be super easy to find with no issues," you say lightly.

He huffs, as close to a laugh as you can hope for at the start of a mission, but it's a win.

"Ready?" he asks.

You dip your chin. He glides into the room, clearing one side as you clear the other. There aren't any signs of disturbance, but that's how it goes with these places. The closer you get to the exit, the more normal it seems -- because all of the horrible things happen behind closed doors.

And no one makes it out.

"Clear," Leon calls. You echo it.

There are two single doors that reveal a bathroom hallway and the security office, as well as a set of double doors that resemble the locked entrance, another keypad glowing red at one side. Leon finds a map of the facility in the office and spreads it on the desk.

"That locked door will take us to an elevator that goes down to the labs," he says, tracing the path with a finger under the beam of his flashlight. "Three of them, all on different levels, connected by staircases instead of the elevator shaft, only accessible by keycard and on the other side of an anti-contamination corridor."

"Isolated," you observe. "In case of an outbreak?"

"It's bare bones compared to the other Umbrella stuff we've seen. This must be really out-there shit. Less resources, less of a footprint, less of an issue when it goes wrong."

You try to commit the map to memory. Leon will undoubtedly fold it into one of his pockets, but it's hard to consult a piece of paper when you're running from a B.O.W..

Level B1: MENIS, Level B2: KAMATOS, Level B3: PYRETOS

"Greek," Leon mutters. "More creative than T-virus, that's for sure."

This is just like him, surprising you after countless missions as your partner.

"Do you speak Greek, Leon?"

He shrugs.

"Not really." He tightens the strap on his glove, a cue that he's frustrated. You know most of his tells by now. "I don't know the last one. Fire, maybe?"

"Not really, he says," you tease. "What else are you hiding, Kennedy?"

He rolls his eyes at you, but if the lights were on, you're sure you'd see some pink in his cheeks. Battle-hardened agent he may be, Leon S. Kennedy still blushes for you.

If only...

No. You swallow the pang in your chest and roll your shoulders. "Start with B1 and go down, then loop back up?"

It wouldn't be out of the question to divide and conquer, but the slimy unease dripping down your spine prevents you from suggesting it.

He grunts his agreement, eyes still on the map, frowning.

As a pair, you work so well together because of your communication. It took practice, sure, but now you know each other across a crowded room, through the heat of a fight, in the dark. You don't let things go unsaid.

Well, most things, your traitorous heart says.

"Leon," you say. "It feels off, right? We're missing something."

Blue eyes meet yours. He sighs.

"Yeah," he says. "Guess we just have to find out what."

You can't help it -- you put your hand on his bicep and squeeze just a little, holding his gaze. His fringe hangs in his eyes. In another life, you'd push it back.

"Be careful, okay?" you ask him, faces so close you can feel his breath.

Leon got shot on your second ever mission together. It was a clean wound, through and through, except for the fact that he'd already been shot in that shoulder back in Raccoon City. The bullet fucked up the already fragile joint, so he needed surgery and was benched for six weeks (he was back at your side in four).

There was nothing you could have done. It was nobody's fault. But you felt responsible for waylaying your new partner, who was one of the most well-known agents in the whole damn place, so you went to see him in the hospital to alleviate your guilt.

"They have you with anyone while I'm out?" he asked you.

They did, actually, but hadn't told you who. Leon was troubled by it.

"Well, be careful," he said, as if he didn't trust anyone else to watch your back, even then.

"Only as careful as you," you replied, pointing at his shoulder.

That was the first time you made Leon Kennedy laugh.

Now, it's something you say to each other in the field. A mantra, a reminder, a promise.

Leon gives you a small smile.

"Only as careful as you," he replies, like he always does. We keep each other safe.

You release him and busy your hand at your belt immediately, god forbid you touch him more.

He rolls his shoulders back and checks the chamber of his sidearm.

"Into the depths, huh?"

"Into the depths."

--

Level B1: MENIS

The elevator opens to a dead contamination chamber. Nothing happens as you walk through the three zones where you'd expect to be scanned, doused, and dried. Another set of metal doors opens with a hiss when you tap the keycard. The smell of death hits your nose and makes your eyes water.

There are at least 10 bodies piled on the other side, most of them in pieces.

"Fuck," you curse, sidestepping a caved-in head.

"Looks like the party started without us," Leon says quietly.

"Great," you mutter. "God, that's nasty."

There aren't any claw marks or avid stains or other tell-tale signs of B.O.W.'s you see with this caliber of violence. One look at Leon and you know he's realized the same thing. You tilt your head down the hall. He nods, following your lead deeper into the floor.

Red emergency lights pulse along the base of the walls, illuminating the blood splattered pretty much everywhere. You pass the occasional corpse, most of them so horribly disfigured it's hard to tell if they were staff or test subjects or something else.

There are so many things you want to say, but you keep them to yourself until Leon leads you to the floor's main office. You slide in but don't relax.

"They look like they were torn apart," you say as soon as the door is closed. Leon frowns at you, since you didn't clear the room first, but it's a square office. You can see all the corners from where you're standing.

"I know," he replies. "But no sign of what did it."

You sigh. "So, are you going to tell Hunnigan the location survey was wrong, or should I?"

"I think I've run out of my 'bad news' calls for the year," he says. "That one's all yours once we get topside."

"How generous of you."

Leon smirks. "I'm a giver."

The office is small and the computers are dead. There are papers scattered around, so you divide and conquer.

You find an official logbook. Mostly in-the-weeds science stuff, but you skim until you find a change in handwriting.

LOG #57:

Development continues under new staff. Blood transmission remains the only method that carries enough sample to infect a host; airborne tests were unsuccessful. Vaccine/suppressant formulas abandoned for the time being after we were told that our subject supply would be steady. B2 wants to set one of theirs against one of ours, which seems pointless because any B1 subject will win that fight. B3 is a joke, but they're insistent that it'll work.

No vaccine...that's not good news. But what were they actually testing here? Infecting people with what?

You flip more pages until you find something that makes your blood run cold.

LOG #63:

We've finally gotten a host to survive. B2 and B3 are nowhere near this. We won't be sharing. Their subjects die within hours. B3 is practically useless, anyway. What use is controlling people if they die on you in an hour? But here, we've cracked it. I managed to figure out how to get the virus to work with the host's adrenaline production, stabilizing it into a constant state of fight or flight without short-circuiting the nervous system. If this batch survives the week, we'll ask permission to start on the suppressant. Once we have that, we'll be able to control the whole herd. The future of hostile takeover is here! Now, if only they'd let us out of this fucking dungeon more often…

Holy shit. They were making viruses to infect large populations, to control them. But using what? Changing their brain chemicals, making them reliant on suppressants? Leon told you about this kind of manipulation, how it infiltrated a military unit and even made its way to the White House a few years ago. Who knows how far they got this time?

"Leon," you call, turning with the folder in your hands. "You should look at this --"

You make eye contact and fall silent. He's got his finger over his lips and his gun at the ready. 

You toss the papers aside and take your place on the other side of the door.

That's when you hear it.

Groans, grunts, screams. Footsteps -- a lot of them.

He holds your gaze.

Clear the chokepoint, get into the lab rooms down the hall around the corner, make for the stairwell on the other side of the floor.

That's what you'd do, so you know it's what he's thinking, too. No confirmation needed.

The door bursts open. You duck, missing the arms reaching for your neck. It's dark in here, but you rely on muscle memory and gravity to sweep the zombie's legs out from under it and stomp on its head while you fire at the next one.

The attackers are -- well, they look mostly human. But their eyes are wild, blood running down their faces like tears, pink foam and spit dripping from their mouths.

Leon's movements are sharp and decisive. Headshot, parry, twist. Uppercut, knee sweep, headshot. He occupies the air around you like he's magnetized to your movements, always filling the space where you aren't, ceding room when you need it. After hours upon hours of mat practice between the two of you and hundreds of field opportunities to master it, you work together like a well-oiled machine.

It's exhilarating.

You're forced back from the door, but you keep firing, slicing, covering each other. It's essential that you get into the hall sooner rather than later to avoid being trapped in this room.

A zombie rips the arm off another in its attempt to get to you. That's new.

"What the fuck were they doing with this shit?" Leon grunts. He's splattered with blood now. No doubt you are too.

"That's what I was going to tell you before our party of two got crashed," you say between shots. 

"They wanted to control people."

"Yeah, this sure looks like control to me!"

"We have to clear it or we'll have to fight through on our way back up."

Leon grunts his agreement. "They're not biting." His aim is true, as always. He downs two, three, four infected. "They just want to rip us apart!"

"We need to go into the hall. Cover me," you say, dodging bloody fingers and sliding through the door. "Switching weapons!"

Your assault rifle is strapped to your back. You holster your pistol and reach around for it, but something catches your jacket and pulls.

The fabric tears. For a split second, you worry your flesh will be next, but then the tug disappears. Leon grunts and he breaks the neck of whatever had you.

You keep your gaze on the approaching pack, maybe 10 or 15 strong. Leon keeps taking them down while you holster your pistol and check the new cartridge.

"Gonna need to reload in a second here," he calls. "Six left. Five. Four --"

"Ready," you shout. Leon stabs a zombie in the neck and walks behind it, using it as a wall against reaching fingers until he's at your side again. He tears his knife free and slides beside you, solid, ready.

You open fire.

That's all it takes. The hallway is soon empty and bloodier than before. All you can hear is your combined panting.

Leon lowers his gun. "Nice job," he says.

You drop yours, too. "What was this floor called again? Menace?"

"Basically," he says, slamming in a new clip. "Divine wrath or anger."

"No shit." You look down at the tear in your jacket. "God damnit, this is my favorite."

Leon checks his chamber. "I'll get you a new one," he says.

You laugh. He almost smiles, like that was his goal all along.

The rest of the floor is mostly clear. A few stragglers here and there, but they're no match for the two of you. The containment chambers seem to be where the infected gathered in the months since this facility went dark -- the walls are covered in scratch marks.

"I can't believe they didn't kill each other," Leon says with mild disgust. "Not having control of yourself like that...I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

You've read the report from Spain. He knows how it feels.

"Do you think they're aware?" you wonder aloud.

He looks so sad for a moment that you almost reach for him. "I hope not."

--

Level B2: KAMATOS

The stairwell is a mess. The door to B2 is barricaded, but you manage to get through after slamming your shoulders against it over and over.

This floor is quiet, but in a different way than upstairs. Years of field-trained instincts tell you there's nothing left alive on this floor. That, and it made a hell of a lot of noise getting the door open, and nothing popped out.

It's dustier down here, like things have been still for longer.

"What's this one mean?" you ask. "This virus."

"Extreme fatigue," Leon tells you.

"So if they controlled adrenaline levels on the first floor to make them angry, they're depriving people of sleep on this floor?"

He shrugs. "Maybe they found a way to keep the brain awake without killing it."

They did not.

The documents you find suggest the virus was a failure. The bodies you find confirm it. Hosts died from heart failure, self-inflicted wounds, a number of things, no matter what the scientists did to keep the mind from giving up. All by depriving them of sleep.

Being so tired that you see no other way out…

The horror of it all rises in your throat. You leave Leon with the corpses so you can press your forehead to the cool hallway wall.

This job asks a lot of you. Your time, your well-being. Your security, your personal relationships, your hobbies. It's overwhelming and can bury a person. The things you see, the things you do -- it gets to you. It’s easy to shove it down, to pretend like you're untouchable, but that's no way to live, either.

Sometimes you just have to feel it.

These poor people.

Leon's hand is light on your shoulder. Not patronizing, not rushing, just there. Warm, solid.

You take a deep breath, then stand up straight.

"Let's take a quick break before the last floor," Leon says.

"I'm fine."

You turn to face him, but he's already crouching, back against the wall.

He grins, a real smile this time. It makes him look younger. "Who said it was for you?"

It's like he's giving you permission to put it all down for a second. To forget where you are, why you're there, what you're doing. Leon's guard is rarely fully down, and right now he's telling you that he's got you. Rest for a second, I'll take care of us.

He's proven to you over and over that he will.

So you smile back, shaky but genuine. "Getting old, Kennedy?"

"Something like that." He looks up at you, grin softening into something fond. "Do you remember Greece?"

You slide down the wall to his level. "Do I remember Greece? Be serious. How could I forget --"

"All those stairs," Leon finishes. "Exactly."

It was last year in the height of summer. A small, sleepy cliffside town, except for the fact that a scummy billionaire moved into the monastery and started developing B.O.W.'s in the catacombs.

The town was evacuated. You were sent in to apprehend the guy and secure whatever virus he was using. It turned into three days of running up and down stone staircases away from bats with tentacles and lizards with thousands of teeth where you wouldn't expect teeth to be.

Over the course of your partnership, you've seen each other in all states, but you've never seen Leon as exhausted as he was after that mission.

"I thought I was going to have to carry you to the rendezvous point," you remind him. "You fell down so many stairs."

Leon rubs his knees as if remembering the way they smacked stone over and over.

"And you would have," he says.

He catches your gaze and holds it. He's reminding you that you're in this together. That he trusts you, something you do not take lightly. It's hard to know who you can trust in this job, even your very own employer, but he never doubts you. You never doubt him.

The familiar ache of everything you feel for him sits warm and heavy on your chest. He's the best man you've ever known.

"I would have," you say.

Leon dips his chin, his mouth curling into a smaller smile than before, but this one is just as fond.

"We should go back," you say without meaning to.

It surprises him, but he hides it well.

"That would be nice," he muses. "I don't know the last time I took a vacation."

"We could go to the beach," you continue. It's scarily easy to imagine -- Leon in swim trunks, cheeks pink from the sun. "Stay at the bottom of the stairs and not walk up a single one."

"But you liked the monastery," he reminds you. "We'd have to go back up to see the windows."

Of course he remembers how you'd looked up in awe at the stained glass, gun in your hand and blood on your face.

"I'll climb up by myself. You can relax."

Leon sighs. "Relax," he says. "I don't even know if I know how to do that."

"You're good at everything," you say. "You'll pick it up in no time."

Whatever game this is, you're having too much fun playing it. Leon doesn't lie to you, so while he might be indulging you, there's a part of him that means all of this. He has to know that you mean it, too.

He stands and offers you his hand.

"One more floor," he says. "Then we can go to Greece."

--

Level B3: PYRETOS

The hit comes out of nowhere.

Maybe you're distracted by talk of vacation, or your guard is down after the silence of B2, but you don't see it coming. One second you're rounding the corner, the next you're flying backwards through glass, back slamming against a cabinet. You land heavily on the ground, more glass and something wet raining down on you.

Leon yells your name.

You try to catch your breath, but it's stuck in your chest. He's still calling for you in between gunshots.

"Fuck," you croak, finally finding air. You roll onto your side. Glass crunches under your weight as you try to figure out what the hell just happened.

Everything hurts, but you try to shake it off and push up to standing. Leon hauls himself through the broken window. He begins to clear the room after he sees you on your feet.

"Clear. That was one ugly son of a bitch," he says. "Must have gotten down here from upstairs."

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.

Something isn't right.

Your skin feels tight, like you already went on vacation and got burned to a crisp. Your pulse won't slow. Deep breaths feel impossible. Strangest of all, it's almost like –

Well, your core is buzzing. You press your legs together and try not to panic.

In the early days, after Leon got shot but well before Greece, you hid an injury from him.

You took a knife to the ribs during a fight. It wasn't too deep, but it was wide and bleeding steadily. Adrenaline allowed you to get through it. You figured you could patch yourself up the next time you slowed. But Leon pushed on ahead, and you followed without saying anything.

That is, until you left a bloody handprint on a door. He stopped immediately.

"Is that yours?" he said. "Where are you hurt?"

"It's nothing," you protested. But Leon S. Kennedy does not give up easily.

"Show me," he said, pulling out bandages from his hip pouch. "When did this happen?"

"I'm not compromised," you said, even as you lifted your jacket to show him.

"I know you aren't," he said. "I want to know when you're hurt so I can make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," you said weakly. He patched you up quickly and thoroughly.

"We're partners," he told you. "We have to help each other."

Here, now, you don’t hide from him.

"Leon," you croak. "Something's wrong. I think I --"

He's at your side in an instant, so close your breath hitches. Why are you so affected by him? Why are you so warm?

"The rip in your jacket," Leon says. "Your arm is bleeding."

"Liquid," you gasp. "It felt wet when I hit the cabinet."

The pieces come together. Shattered vials at your feet, an empty cabinet behind you. The dull red emergency lights make it hard to tell what color the puddle is, but you know it can't be good.

"They wouldn't keep a virus out in the open, would they?" you ask weakly. You're shaking now, shivering even though you don't feel cold.

"Fever," he breathes. "Pyretos. It means fever."

You've rarely seen Leon afraid. He's human, so it happens, but normally he faces things head-on without complaint.

Right now, he looks terrified. That scares you more than anything.

"Leon," you whisper. "What do we do?"

He snaps into action. He hands you a roll of bandages.

"Wrap it," he says. He presses a few buttons on his watch until it beeps. Setting a timer, no doubt. Just in case. "How do you feel? Describe it to me."

"Feverish," you say. "But not dizzy. I can think clearly."

Leon starts to dig around the lab, tearing open drawers and rifling through what he finds. The office on this floor wasn't in the same place as the other two, so any information must be in here, right?

"What else?"

You follow his lead, desperately searching for anything helpful. How do you explain the fact that your entire body is pulsing with a very specific kind of need? It scares you, feeling this out of control physically while also being in your right mind.

You land on achey. The buzzing under your skin gets worse every minute you spend looking and finding fuck all.

"There's nothing here," he says, frustrated. "Shit."

You're thinking the same thing: no vaccines. Any hope for you is in this lab.

But then -- your eye catches on a cabinet sitting on deep grooves in the floor.

"There's a door," you tell him, already heading for it. A wave of need hits you so suddenly that you have to brace yourself on the wall to catch your breath. Leon brushes by you. The slight contact has you swallowing a moan.

Jesus Christ.

He shoves the cabinet aside. Behind it is a door that opens into the lab office, as dark as the others.

You follow him in and start searching the shelves. Leon drags a table into the perfect place to effectively barricade you in.

"We don't have time to be interrupted right now," he says. He starts searching the desk.

You're sweating now. If this thing is going to turn you, Leon can't be here for it. You don't want him to see it. "Maybe you should go back to the surface --"

"I'm not leaving you," he interrupts. It's sharp, final.

"But if I turn--"

Leon whirls around. "I'm not leaving you," he says again.

Your nose stings. It's not the rational choice, but it's the Leon Kennedy choice. You can't help but be grateful for it.

He returns to the papers. Everywhere your clothing touches your skin feels heavy, almost painful. Your skin is sensitive, your throat dry, breath still fast.

You're so turned on, you think you might explode. It's all you can do to just stand there and try to keep it together.

"I found something," Leon says. He says nothing else. It's hard to see his expression in the dark without being close to him. You don't know if you can handle that right now.

"Bad news, doc?"

He swallows and begins to read.

"In an effort to bend the subject to commands, a fever is introduced via the bloodstream that increases testosterone and dopamine to near-unbearable levels of arousal. We have successfully altered the balance to allow the mind to be unaffected, making the reaction purely physical. The fever, if detected and combated within 1 hour, can be reduced by repeated bursts of oxytocin until the subject's internal temperature returns to normal. Required oxytocin levels seem to vary by subject; no pattern discernible at this time."

"What the fuck does that mean?" you pant. Your skin feels too tight. You still can't take a full breath. Control is becoming a missed opportunity. "Do I have a sex fever?"

No answer.

"Leon."

He exhales sharply.

"I think you need to be touched," he says. "To release the chemical that will help you fight this on your own."

Your responding laugh edges on hysterical.

"I do have a sex fever. So, what, you're going to hug me and hope I don't die?"

"I could," he says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I just don't think it'll be enough. This says bursts, and a lot of them. The best way to trigger that kind of response is --"

It clicks in your mind.

"Orgasm," you whisper. "Oh, god."

Leon closes his eyes for a second too long.

"I don't know what to do," he admits. He looks at his watch. "It's been 10 minutes. I don't know what--"

"I'm so sorry," you breathe. The gravity of your situation is like a bucket of cold water. If only it actually made you feel cold. You have to fuck your partner or die. What kind of sick joke is this? "Leon, I'm so sorry. You don't have to do anything, this is my fault --"

He tosses the file onto the table.

"I'm not going to let you die," he says with all his usual conviction. He really believes it, and it makes it easier for you to believe it, too. "Not when there's something I can do about it."

"But not like this," you croak. "This is --"

"I know."

God, you wish the lights were on. You want to see every detail of his face to discern what he's feeling. Can you ask him to do this? Will it ruin everything forever?

A tremor wracks through you. You have to brace yourself on the desk.

He yanks open drawers until he finds a thermometer. It beeps alive, somehow, and he holds it up to your forehead.

"Shit," he mutters.

"What?"

Leon flips the device to show you the screen. 103.2.

"Shit," you echo.

Your brain is going to cook in your skull sooner rather than later. You swallow frustrated tears along with your pride.

"I'm so wet," you whisper. It's the lewdest thing you've ever said to him. "I can feel it."

Leon inhales sharply, standing ever-so-still just next to you, just out of reach.

The pain radiates through you, molten lava in your veins. It's strange to be able to think so clearly. You want Leon as badly as you always do. That's bearable. But the pain. The heat. It's something else, something all-consuming.

You need him to touch you.

"Please don't make me beg," you whimper, turning towards him.

"Jesus," he mutters, filling the space you make for him. His hands find your face. You groan. The contact is like a balm, even through his gloves.

"Oh god."

You nuzzle into his palms. It's like you can feel the battle in your blood, the virus doing its best to cook you from the inside out, but Leon's touch is giving you a foothold, a reprieve.

If it wasn't so awful, you'd laugh at the idea that you're so horny you might die.

"Whatever you need, I'll do," he says. His voice is already hoarse. "But just -- you have to tell me if it's not okay. And I'll stop. We'll figure something else out."

You lean back on the desk and grab his elbows. You've touched plenty, but never like this. Never loaded with all of the unspoken things between you, never with such desperation.

"It's okay," you tell him. "Whatever it takes, it's okay. I trust you."

His thigh slides between your legs.

"Can you forgive me? If I do this?" he whispers, lips so close to yours. You lean forward on instinct, pulled to him by more than just the fire in your core.

"There's nothing to forgive," you say, and then you're kissing.

What you need is an orgasm, but this is something you've wondered about for a long time. Something you've wanted. It almost feels selfish to take it now.

But, fuck, it's good.

He's not shy. You trace the seam of his lips with your tongue. He opens for you immediately, licking into your mouth as he pulls you forward and onto his thigh.

His kisses are desperate, exposing his worry, but also tender, exposing his care. You're in good hands, hands you love.

Even through your pants, the pressure of your cunt on his thigh is enough to steal your breath.

"God," you gasp.

"Not quite," Leon says, kissing a path from your mouth down your neck. "Does that help?"

You grind down on him in reply. His palms have made their way to your hips, aiding you in your quest for pressure on your core.

It's too much. It's not enough. But still, the coil tightens. "Sorry, I just need --"

You chase it, grinding down on his thigh even harder, panting into his neck. You're close, you can feel it. You're chasing it, that snap, that reward. Leon just lets you take and take and take.

You thread your fingers through his hair, panting into his neck. When you tug just a little, he bounces his leg and you keen.

"More, please."

It only takes three more bounces before you're coming, shudders ripping through you, his name on your lips.

When you return to your body, Leon is dragging his palm up and down your back.

"Did you just--"

You're becoming very familiar with the fabric of his shoulder, his leather harness pressing into your cheek.

"Mhm," you manage.

There's a world where you're embarrassed. In that world, you asked Leon out for dinner and then up to your place after. In that world, you made out on the couch and ground down on his thigh until you came. In that world, he laughed with you, utterly charmed, and it was the beginning of something wonderful.

In this one, he gently tilts you back so he can check your temperature with the thermometer.

"Holy shit," he breathes. "102.1. It worked."

You don't feel that different, but the number doesn't lie.

Leon is panting, too. "More?"

You nod. Your cunt aches like you didn't have an orgasm at all.

He tugs off a glove with his teeth, dropping it god knows where.

"Don't know how clean my hands are," he says.

A laugh bursts out of you, but it sounds close to a sob.

Two fingers go in his mouth faster than you can open yours. He doesn't waste too much time wetting them, given how turned on you already are, but he gives them a good suck. A trail of spit hangs from his lip when he finishes.

You work at the buttons of your pants, unbuckling your tactical belt. It clangs onto the desk behind you. Leon slides his hand down under the waistband of your panties. You collapse into him with a guttural moan.

"Leon," you gasp. He holds you up, no problem, even as you go utterly boneless at just his fingers in your folds.

"You weren't kidding," he says, breathy. "You are wet."

"I'm sorry," you pant into his shoulder.

"Please don't say sorry again," he groans. "I can't take it."

"Can I say thank you?"

"That's worse," he says, sliding two fingers into you at the same time. "I just wish it wasn't like this, is all."

The absurdity of the whole thing makes it hard to keep your emotional walls high. What's the point? You're having sex with your partner to save your life in an underground Umbrella laboratory. You're way past keeping your emotions from him.

So you hear his words for what they are. For what he's not saying.

"Oh, yeah?" He curls his fingers and you groan, arching into him. "You have something you want to tell me, Kennedy?"

"Little late for that."

He presses his lips to your jaw, but you pull back so you can see his eyes. He's flushed, his pupils taking over almost all of the blue you love so dearly.

"I always want to know how you feel," you tell him. It's honest, raw, perhaps out of place when he's knuckle deep in your cunt.

"Fuck," he breathes, like eye contact is enough to undo him.

"I just want to help you," he says. "I always want to help you when you need it." He picks up the pace with his fingers. "I like being the guy who has your back."

His thumb circles your clit. It’s all you can do to hang onto his shoulders and ride it out as he keeps talking.

"I want to give you everything you've ever wanted," he says. "I miss you when you leave the room. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met."

"Oh, Leon," you gasp, grinding down onto his hand. "Me too. Me too."

He scrapes his teeth along your neck. "Yeah?"

"Yes, yes, yes --"

The orgasm washes over you. You clench around him over and over. He carefully pulls his hand from your panties and licks his fingers. Good god.

Something has shifted between you. It's still about the mission, about breaking your fever, but now it's more. It's more, because you both want it.

Leon leans in for a kiss. You meet him halfway, tasting yourself on his lips.

Beep.

"101.3," he says.

You push his hair back from his forehead. "Is that low enough?"

This time, you do feel a bit different. Maybe it's the confirmation that Leon has feelings for you, but your muscles feel more relaxed, your skin less taut. The need still burns, though.

"There's no way to say this without sounding like a creep," he says wryly. "But I think you should have a few more."

You drag your hands up and down his torso, but your gaze lands on his makeshift barricade.

"Do we think we have time?"

Even as you ask, you're toeing off your boots and shoving your pants down. Leon is quick to help you.

"If anything comes through that door," he says, fingers hooked in your underwear, "I can kill it with my eyes closed."

He hooks his hand under your thighs and helps you up onto the desk fully, sweeping everything onto the ground.

"So could you," he adds. You hum in agreement. Your hand returns to his torso, trailing it down to the front of his pants.

He's hard.

It's not entirely a surprise, but you're pleased.

"I know, I'm sorry, it's kind of fucked up --" he tries. You don't let it get very far.

"Don't you apologize," you say. "You're allowed to want, Leon. I promise you, whatever you want, you can have. You already do."

His answer to that is a kiss, not searing and heated like before, but soft and slow. Like he's memorizing you, learning every inch of your mouth just because he can.

A wave of heat rolls through you, so intense and unexpected that you have to close your eyes and grit your teeth against the pain.

Leon rubs your back and tells you to breathe, it's okay, you're going to be okay.

The heat dulls. "How long has it been?" you ask through gritted teeth, eyes still shut.

"26 minutes."

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, helping you come back to yourself.

"Are you okay to keep going?" he asks. "I'll do whatever you want."

You reach for his belt with shaking hands. Not because you don't want him, or because you're scared, but because you need him. You need him to survive. This was just as true before you got infected as it is now. And you have him.

He has you.

Leon lets you unbuckle his pants as he undoes his harness and his tactical pouches. They both fall to the ground.

You take him in hand and he hisses. His cock is warm, another layer of heat against your already burning skin. His hips jerk when you stroke him root to tip.

His fingers circle your wrist to stop you.

"Another time," he says. He kisses your chin. "Okay?"

There will be another time. Leon doesn't say things he doesn't mean, so you take it to heart. This will happen again.

It's not exactly romantic, the way you lean back on some long-dead bioterrorist's desk naked from the waist down, Leon's pants shoved down his thighs and his cock in his hand. But it's what you've got, and it's what you'll take.

You spread your legs for him. He sucks in air like a man just saved from drowning.

"Ready?" he asks. You feel his tip at your entrance and can't swallow the moan that rips from your throat in the shape of his name. He wastes no more time sinking into you in one stroke.

You come immediately, legs wrapped around his hips. You might scream, it's hard to tell. But you're so full and it finally feels right. Like you've been missing something all along and finally found it.

Leon says your name over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.

"I wish I could see you properly," he says, voice breaking. "I wish –

His hips jerk forward even though he's bottomed out. He leans forward until he's bracing his forearms on either side of your head, brushing your nose with his. He's right. It's hard to see him fully in the red-washed office.

"You know what I look like," you tell him.

"Not like this," he shakes his head. "Not like this."

"You're doing so good," you say, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Leon, it feels so good --"

It's a strange sensation to feel your blood cooling while he's inside you, to regain control of your body just as you surrender your heart.

Leon starts to move his hips, a slow drag at first, but it quickly becomes a snap. You dig your fingers into his biceps and hold on. You can hear how wet you are as he fucks you.

The coil in your core tightens again. "Leon," you moan. "I'm gonna--"

He kisses you, hips slowing to a grind. He reaches between you with one hand to find your clit and give it some messy circles.

"Go ahead," he says against your mouth. "I can take it."

Your cunt clenches around him. Tears prick in your eyes not from overstimulation but from everything else -- the heat in your veins, the tenderness of his hold, the way he's kissing you as you fall apart, swallowing your gasps.

"So beautiful," he says. And god, it sounds like he means it. Half-dressed, sweaty and bandaged, he means it.

Leon goes back to shallow thrusts, but they're becoming more erratic.

"How many is that?"

"Four," Leon says.

"Are you..."

He nods. "I'm close."

His forehead is damp from the effort. You wipe it with the heel of your hand.

"It's okay," you tell him. "It's okay, Leon. You can --"

You tighten your legs around him to hold him inside.

His breath hitches, but he picks up the pace without argument.

The smack of your flesh fills the room. The only thing on your mind is Leon Leon Leon.

The noise he makes just before he comes inside you is a punched-out whine of your name. He stills above you entirely, eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

"So beautiful," you echo. "So beautiful, Leon."

He keeps his weight off you but presses his face into your neck as he catches his breath.

"Fuck," he says. "How do you feel?"

You need to check your temperature, but remarkably better. The heat in your veins is an expected one. You can feel sweat cooling on your skin. The incessant need in your cunt has dulled to a satiated ache.

"Still alive." You kiss him chastely, considering he's still inside you.

"Let me check -- where the hell did that thing go?"

He pulls out. You both hiss just a bit, but he finds the thermometer on the ground.

Beep.

"98.3," Leon says. "That's normal."

You feel boneless and make no move to get up from the desk. If you did, you'd surely make a mess.

"Finally, something normal about today."

Leon tucks his cock back into his briefs, buttons his pants. He drags his hands up and down your thighs.

"Can I clean you up?" he asks.

Even though you now know how he feels, know that he wants you just as much as you want him, he's done so much for you today. Your temperature is back to normal. You still need to make it back to the surface.

"You don't need to," you say. "Just...give me a clean bandage, or something --"

"Let me do this for you," he interrupts. Begs, really, already getting on his knees between your legs. "One more. Just to be safe."

The heat that builds is nothing like the wild, uncontrollable fire of before. This is all you, all Leon. 

The fact that he wants his mouth on you, wants to lick his own come from your cunt.

"Okay," you breathe. You thread your fingers through his hair. He preens.

He kisses the inside of your thigh and pushes your legs wider.

Maybe you should feel exposed, but you don't. You feel wanted. You feel safe.

Leon pulls your folds open with his thumbs. He starts with long licks with the flat of his tongue along your seam, flicking your clit when he reaches the top. But your entrance quickly becomes his focus, and suddenly he's a man possessed.

He laps up his own release as it drips from you, humming when you tug on his hair. He hardly comes up for air, but you know he's paying attention to your reactions based on the way he moves his mouth. He sucks on your clit. Your hips buck, so he does it again.

"Leon," you gasp. How is it possible that you're going to come again? But you feel it, the rising tide in your core. All it takes is a glance down to find him watching you, soaking in whatever he can see in the dim light.

He keeps his mouth on you through your final orgasm. This time, a few tears leak from your eyes. Your breath evens out and your heartbeat actually slows the way you expect it to. The fever is broken, you're certain of it.

"Just to be safe," you say to the ceiling. "You just wanted to show me how good you were at that."

Leon wipes his face with the back of his hand.

"I like to be thorough," he replies. He stands, drags your underwear and pants up with him. 

"Are you okay? How are the symptoms?"

"I think so." You scoot forward on the table so he can pull your clothes over your hips. "It doesn't feel like a fever anymore."

"What does it feel like?"

Your legs are a little shaky, but you stand and wrap your arms around him. You've just had sex to save your life, but you don't know if you've ever hugged Leon before.

"It feels like you," you tell him, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

Leon stills, but you can hear his heartbeat pick up. He envelops you in his embrace, lips pressed against your temple, his inhale shaky.

"I'm glad," he whispers. "I'm so fucking glad."

He's hidden his fear from you so well this whole time, but you saw the look on his face when he realized you were infected. You hug him tighter, willing the fear to leave him. You're okay. You're here, in his arms. He saved you.

"What now?" you ask. You turn in his arms. He releases you so you can reach for your tactical belt.

"We get out of here in one piece," he says. "We get you to medical."

"Fucking medical," you mutter. You shove your foot back in your discarded boot.

"I won't leave you there," Leon says. They could keep you for days, but you know he means it. "Then I'll take you home. And we'll sleep for days."

You almost forget that you don't have to keep your feelings from him. You let the joy take over your face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, a little sheepish. "If you want to."

"I want to," you assure him. "I want to."

You'll have to talk about this, surely. The way it changes your partnership, how to navigate field work. There is so much to learn about him. What he's like on a quiet morning at home instead of a stakeout. The noises you can pull from him in a real bedroom. His face when you tell him you love him.

The future is bright.

Leon buckles his harness. He laughs to himself, tearing you from your thoughts.

"What?"

He straightens your belt and grins crookedly, boyish and lovely.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

As you became surrounded by an endless expanse of trees, you led your horse along with no sense of direction, looking for the meadow. You were definitely lost.

Your gown kept getting caught and further torn on the branches you navigated through, and every sound you heard sent your head snapping around in to search the shadows, afraid that you’d been followed.

You were so lost that you worried you might be going back in the direction of the castle. You wouldn’t even know it if you were.

You tried to keep track of where you went, but it all started to look the same. The ground was too covered in tall grass and moss for hoofprints to signify if you’d been there before. 

By some miracle, you finally entered the clearing, though it looked much different in the daylight. You slid off the back of the horse and led it by the reins to the chapel ruins, tying it off on a tree before you stepped inside. You don’t really know what to do with yourself, and you don’t know how long you’ll be here. All you can do is wait to see who finds you first: the monsters, or Leon’s “people,” whoever they are.

If they come for you, how will you even know that they're telling the truth? Couldn't the prince's men come in modern disguises...?

You feel far too vulnerable in the light of day. No matter how shadowy the chapel is inside, your gown is too fluffy and bright to be easily concealed, and you stick out in the dark like a lighthouse in the sea. 

You gather the skirt above your ankles as you walk up the steps and search the altar for resources, anything you can use that might come in handy, despite not knowing what you’ll need. You grab a candelabra off the floor, and finding it made of heavy, rusted metal, you decide it’s as good of a weapon as you’ll get. You go back down and wedge yourself between the scattered pews, tucking the layers of your skirt under you so it takes up less space, and make yourself as small as possible while clutching the improvised weapon to your chest. 

You stay there a long time. The sun rises to the top of the sky, and then clouds overtake it as it crests over the horizon, night falling like a hammer. Every time your horse whinnies, you flinch, hoping no one else is around to follow the noise and discover you. Every time a distant tree bends and creaks in the wind, you tense and clutch the candleholder tighter. Every coo of an owl is ominous, and every breeze is foreboding. The night had never seemed so loud before, and you’d never been so afraid of the moonlight as it illuminated your hiding place through the cracks of the broken ceiling.  

Your mind fills in the shadows by going between what just happened and what will happen next. It’s hard to comprehend it all. 

You wondered if you went insane that morning and you’re just perceiving your wedding as the nightmare it felt like. Maybe in reality, you ran away from the altar, and you’re hiding in your bedroom instead of this chapel. Maybe Leon didn’t die in battle, and you were just coping with the fact that he left, since you mourned like he’d died all the same, and you were lost in a fantasy of him saving you. All those people weren’t monsters, they just acted monstrous towards you, so you hallucinated it. That sort of thing couldn’t be real. 

But you saw it with your own eyes, and every chill breeze pinched your skin into goosebumps, and you knew that you weren’t dreaming. 

You wondered who will find you first. You wonder how long you should wait, and what you should do if no one comes for you at all.

You could hardly comprehend the events of the day as you tried to recount them in order. While you were getting dressed, you thought you felt an earthquake, and you heard a small group of people rushing through the halls. But you were assured that it was nothing, and then you were rushed to your entrance. Now you understand that you were hearing your father die, and Leon was the one doing it. Your father must have deserved to die.

Your thoughts scrambled when you put together that he’d set this all up from the start. This was the plan for your wedding all along. Your own dad married you off as a deal to the devil and didn’t care what became of you after. Not only that, but all the citizens he was supposed to serve were dead now, too. And for what? You didn’t know. You didn’t know what things all those people turned into or why on earth it’d be done on purpose.

Your brain was far too overburdened to have an appropriate emotional response. Another twig snaps and brings you back into the present. 

But this time, the little sounds repeated one after another. They were muted and dull, faint enough you wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you until they steadily get nearer. You hold your breath as the footsteps enter the chapel. And then you hear your name in a whisper. 

You don’t move until you see him pass in front of your pew. You whisper his name right back. 

Leon.

The sound of the candelabra crashing on the floor startles him to face you, and before he knows what’s happening, your arms wrap around him so tight he finds it hard to breathe. But that isn’t why he pushes you away; he’d choose you over the air in his lungs in an instant. He holds you in front of him by your shoulder so he can study you in the moonlight, frantically looking for wounds. 

His whole hike here he didn’t know if you were safe, so the battle wasn’t yet won, and adrenaline still coursed through him. He spoke frantically, rushed.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt, did anyone find you?” 

You softly encircled his wrists with your fingers. You were telling him you were fine, but he wasn’t convinced. He only met your gaze after he was sure he saw no wounds and your eyes were the only place left on you to look. When he did, you both stopped in your tracks as you took the other in. 

He looked at your wild hair, wind-blown out of its elaborate style, a few strands caught in your earrings. There were only remnants of makeup left on your face: fading lipstick and rouge that kissed your cheeks like a memory, expired powders that settled into your thirsty pores, muddy mascara under your eyes like ink spilled from a broken fountain pen. 

And your dress. God, your dress. It was an extraordinary piece of seamstering, embellished with crystals and intricate lace appliques, but now it was torn to ribbons. It was soiled with grass stains and dust and soil from the chapel floor. There were blood splatters on the hem, slight enough they’d be easy to miss but alas, Leon had a keen eye for that sort of thing. It was hardly white anymore, and the terrible poetry of it wasn’t lost on him. Whatever purity you had left was surely destroyed by the trauma of today, and it showed in every pulled stitch and loose gem.

He didn’t think you looked any less beautiful– he always liked your bedhead and your tired face– but this was something different. He never wanted you to go through something that’d leave you marred like this. He wished he got a good look at you before everything went to shit. He bet you looked incredible. 

He regretted wondering if he’d ever see you on your wedding day again, where everything went right. You’d glide down the aisle like a fairy made of smiles. He imagined you walking towards him. He felt one last cruel squeeze from fate’s fist around his heart, imagining it never happening. 

Leon, on the other hand, looked like he crawled all of the way back to earth from the ninth circle of hell. He was a walking piece of evidence for the horrors he endured. 

The ends of his hair were tinted red, and an especially dark patch caked several strands against his temple, a since-dried trickle falling down his cheekbone. His plush lower lip was split down the middle, and his arms were decorated with larger papercuts. You saw bruises on his bicep that had already ripened to purple, and you could make out each finger that’d grabbed him there. His knuckles were scraped and swelling from heavy use. His once black shirt was a greyish-brown, and his pants were even worse, darkening below the knee until it reached his blood-drenched boots. 

You couldn’t tell which tracks of blood belonged to him and which ones didn’t. There was too much of it in too many places in varying stages of congealment. You wondered why on earth he was checking you for wounds. You were terrified for him.  

What sent you over the edge was the revealed skin you saw in a place it shouldn’t be. You would’ve missed it if the moonlight didn’t hit it just right. You craned your head to get a better look and gasped when you did. On the outer side of his mid-thigh, something had sliced straight through his jeans and several layers of the flesh underneath it. 

Your pulse rose like a flash flood in your throat. You moved to inspect it, but his hands were still on your shoulders as he held you away, tried to explain it away, too.  

“Don’t worry about me, we have to move, I’m f–”

“Leon, are you serious? Oh my god, sit down.” He lifted his chin like he always did when he was about to brush something off, but you interrupted before he could. “I’m not asking.”

The last thing he wanted to do today was argue with you, so he let himself be led to sit on the steps to the pulpit. His injuries were his last priority right now. 

He hardly felt it, actually. Couldn’t even recall who or what had dealt it. There were too many moments when a burst of pain landed and he ignored it to keep fighting, he couldn’t tell you the specifics of each one. All he felt in the area was a dull throb, but that wasn’t unique to any part of his body at the moment. 

Looking back, he’d perhaps known it was there, but it’s not like he had the time to stop and assess it. He’d been running on adrenaline and fumes and whatever energy he’d scraped up to push through for upwards of ten hours now. He’d become a being of pure instinct. All he’d thought about that day was dodge, attack, survive, and save her. 

He still mostly was, but he was starting to come down from the high. He noticed the contrast between the sweetness of your touch and the burning of his skin. He felt like one big sore bruise, and he grimaced as he lowered himself to sit. 

You were still too close to danger for Leon to fully relax. The returning boat Hunnigan would’ve sent was undoubtedly not arriving, seeing as how its captain likely wasn’t breathing, so there’d be a long journey ahead to find comms signal and safety. He had to keep a grip on himself to do that.

He stared straight ahead into the shadows of the meadow outside, hoping to harness his fear so his body would keep ignoring the pain, tightening his jaw so hard his teeth hurt to keep his grunts of pain at bay. 

“We can’t stay here long.” It was a fact to disguise his protest. 

You heard him but you didn’t respond. You were focused on steadying your hands and praying that he’d be okay. You kneeled beside him and parted the torn cloth with delicate fingertips. You subtly looked up at him, doing your best to conceal your horror. All you saw from him was the muscle of his jaw clench and set, and you wondered how on earth that was his only reaction. 

It was hard to tell just how deep it was. You had to squint to see it clearly in the dark, and the layers of coagulated blood held onto the open flesh like snow on the ground in winter. It was safely deep enough to warrant a dozen or so stitches if you had the needle and thread or know-how. 

At least it wasn’t life threatening. Unless it got infected. It could easily become infected. You knew only the basics of first aid and you didn’t have any supplies. 

Leon looked down at the sound of tearing fabric to see you ripping off the ends of your dress. He nearly stopped you from ruining the expensive garment as if it wasn’t ruined already. His eyes stayed on you as you blotted the edges of the wound. You didn’t apply enough pressure to make much of a dent, too scared that it would hurt him, and the silky satin cloth just slid across his skin, but he still marveled at your work. 

You stole another glance at him to check for sign of pain, but instead, he was looking at you with an open mouthed smile, teeth parted like he was about to say something or laugh. “What?” you asked. 

“Nothing, just… think this is the first time you’ve taken care of me.” 

You went back to your work, considering it for a second. “It’s long overdue.”  

Tearing off another long piece of your dress, you wrapped it around his thigh and secured it with a knot. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d keep the elements out. 

You held out a hand to help him up and you both looked down at yourselves. Your dress was now mid-calve length and you were kind of glad, since it’d be easier to walk in. Leon looked down at your handiwork and chuckled. You asked why, worried you’d done a poor job. 

“I couldn’t ask for a better nurse. It kinda looks like I’m wearing a garter, though.” 

You pulled up your skirt with a grin and revealed the lace garter that was hidden on your upper thigh. “We match.”

He couldn’t help himself. He pulled you into him, one hand running up your leg and thumbing across the accessory, the other on the small of your back to hold you tight. Your faces were inches apart, but he didn’t kiss you yet. The air between you wasn’t quite hot with temptation, it was thick with something else. Everything went still, even the night birds seemed to quiet down in anticipation.   

In that moment, everything between you melted into something new. The future was a blank slate, the past nothing more than indents on paper, a memory of what’d been erased. The pain Leon felt when you rejected him was irrelevant now, gone with the kingdom he destroyed. You had no kingdom to serve, no suitor to submit to, no crown or cross to bear. 

Your problems had gone up in smoke along with the rest of your life. And though you knew there were new problems now, and you mourned the total loss of the people you once lived for, your life was suddenly and completely your own. For the first time, you had free will. 

Leon had his own realizations in the quiet of the night. The walls Leon had built around himself were useless when it came to you. He knew that now. When he inevitably rebuilds his walls again, he’d make sure to leave an opening in the exact same shape as you– the weak spot he’d never wish to change, and the exception to all his rules. 

He fought for you and won. Waged war against the impossible in ways you didn’t yet know about and couldn’t begin to fathom, much less understand how he survived. But he did, and it was all for you. If he loved you enough to do that, he loved you more than you thought mankind was capable of, and you stood completely and utterly in awe. 

You had no need to repress yourselves anymore, there was no one left to hide it from. The story of your love would be etched into the permanence of history, his life intertwined with yours forever in the tale of your kingdom’s fall. 

He could finally be yours. He was yours. Your relationship was free to be whatever you both wanted. 

Your whole life may finally be free to be whatever you want of it.

What a beautifully terrifying prospect. But standing here with him, it didn’t make you feel scared.

For once, the concept of a future didn’t make you want to run and hide. You wanted to run towards it as fast as you possibly could, come what may.

Night birds sang in the distance and beckoned you both there. The midnight fog began to part like a curtain, holding itself open for two birds to fly free from a place that’d become a cage, one in which they’d never belonged.

A condor and a swan. One who over-watches fiercely from the sky, and the other who spends the day swimming in serene waters. But where could they both call home?

Two people who met as opposite as two could be, yet somehow, in this desolate and secluded kingdom, they built nests each other’s hearts, and no home could ever be more permanent than that.

And what a ragged pair you were. One on the distant brink of death, the other a blushing bride. You didn’t look any less beautiful to each other.

But still, the moon called to you to move as it tipped away from the center of the sky, inching towards the horizon. Reality must be met.

Leon rested his forehead against yours and swayed with you in the softness, noses touching, slow and guttingly sweet. He had to savor it while he could before he told you it’s time to leave. 

He’d have a hundred things to answer for in the morning, and you’d have a hundred questions about what your life ahead would be like. There’d be a long time for adjustment as you settled in to the modern world. He was pretty sure you’d love it, but it still wouldn’t be easy. 

On top of that, even if they’d all been robbed of humanity, he was pretty sure you hadn’t wrapped your mind around the number of lives he took today. A lot of them were people you knew. One of them was your father.

And he wouldn’t return home to a simple 9-to-5; what he did today was his job. It came with bloodstains and secrets and a lot of weeks he wouldn’t be home. He couldn’t expect you to understand, much less to endure his shackles alongside him. 

You could decide not to be with him, for those reasons or much simpler ones. Maybe in a week, maybe in a year, even if he did everything right. You’d be well within reason to want more.

Plus, you had a lot of time to make up for when it came to your autonomy; Leon knew what that might mean. He wouldn’t ever blame you for it, either, although it’d cut him to the core. Another understandable reason a relationship might not work out.

But he knew deep down he could live even with that as long as you were somewhere living happy and free. That’s all he needed. That’s all he’d fought for. For you to be happy, not to fly from one cage into his.

Even if you left him and he spent the rest of his life lying awake alone in his bed wondering where you were, what you did that day, who you’d grown and flourished into— he could at least manage to sleep knowing the scars were worth your safety.

But god, did he want you to stay. He’d fought so hard to make you stay.

He made a new vow in his head: to savor every single moment you remained by his side. Every day he’d make sure you knew you were still the princess he served, the girl he loved, and the woman he’d die for. If he thought you deserved better, he’d become better, that was the purpose you gave him. And if you ever decided you wanted to– he’d be happy with or without it– someday he’d get down on one knee and promise all of this out loud, and he’d spend the rest of his life fighting to live up to it. 

“I love you,” Leon whispered, so lost in yearning it slipped without thought. 

You didn’t have to think about it, either. It came as naturally as the breeze. 

“I love you, too, Leon. Always.”

On the steps of the abandoned chapel, your lips came home to each other. The misty moonlight was a blue affusion over your hearts, and they intertwined in the baptism, emerging together as something fresh and new. 

Pulling away was only bearable because you could stay hip to hip. He lifted you up and onto the saddle, and your heart skipped a beat as he cooed to the horse, introducing himself and petting its face as he untied it from the tree. Then he hoisted himself to sit in front of you, taking care not to sit on your dress. 

“You okay back there, princess?”

You smiled at the irony and the sound of his voice when he said it. You had no kingdom, and that meant you had no title. The word was shed of all its baggage, existing only for Leon to call you by. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” 

You wrapped your arms around him tight as he swung the reins, and then you were off, galloping through the forest and into the great unknown. You took one last look at the meadow before it was lost in the rows of trees. Your sacred hiding place where you worshipped each other in secret. You knew it’d remain there for centuries to come as it’d been there for centuries before, and your mark on it would remain there, too, even if you could never return.

Leon steered with one hand, bringing the other to cover your hands on his chest, pressing them closer to his heart. You held onto him tighter, your cheek pressing against the top of his spine, and smiled.  

You looked ahead, and you didn’t feel scared. You knew wherever he led you and whatever might come next, fate had finally smiled upon you, because it had brought you him.

𝔣𝔦𝔫.

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.

"We'll fix this," you echoed.

His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk. 

His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth. 

“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”

He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.

“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”

You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.

“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”

“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”

“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”

The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”

“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”

“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”

Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.

“I’ve already read it.”

“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”

“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”

“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.

“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”

Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.

“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”

Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”

“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–” 

You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”

You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it. 

The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up. 

Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable. 

“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”

“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.

“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him. 

“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest. 

The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult. 

“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”

A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently. 

When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly. 

–

“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”

“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”

“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”

“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”

You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.

Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him. 

“Fuck me.”

You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”

“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”

You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”

“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes. 

“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”

Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”

“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”

“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”

“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.

“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”

“A chair is close to your heart?”

You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”

“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”

“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.

Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”

He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.

You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”

Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”

You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak. 

“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.

“Yes!”

Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile. 

“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”

“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back. 

Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.

“You gonna let me out?”

“What?”

When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.

You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–

You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.

“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”

“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”

His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”

“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.

Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.

“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”

“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”

“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”

“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy. 

“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”

He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”

“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”

Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”

“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”

“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”

It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him. 

“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”

“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”

“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”

You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.

He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve. 

Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.

“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.

“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”

“I happen to be full of those.”

“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.

His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.

“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly. 

He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.

You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.

“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing. 

His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly. 

“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.

“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”

The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.

“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”

“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”

“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy. 

“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”

You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.

“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”

“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.

“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”

A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek. 

“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.

“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.

“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”

“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”

You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.

“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”

“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.

“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”

“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”

“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”

“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”

“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.

“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”

You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.

“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”

“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.

“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”

“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch. 

“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.

“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”

“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out. 

“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.

Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.

“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”

He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit. 

“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”

Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right. 

“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.

His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”

You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.

“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”

Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air. 

“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”

You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”

“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.

“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy. 

“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”

“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”

“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.

You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”

A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back. 

You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.

“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”

“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure. 

His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.

“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.

“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”

You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.

“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.

Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”

“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”

He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath. 

“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”

You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.

“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.

“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.

“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”

You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”

You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.

“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.

“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.

His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.

“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”

“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down. 

Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.

“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”

Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”

You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.

“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”

You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock. 

“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”

You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white. 

“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”

“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.

When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.

“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.

Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap. 

Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.

“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”

“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”

You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.

“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.

Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.

“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”

Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”

“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”

“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”

“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck. 

“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”

You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size. 

“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat. 

“Atta girl.”

Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”

You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.

“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”

“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”

He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips. 

“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass. 

Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock. 

“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”

You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit. 

“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”

“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at you when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”

“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”

Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.

You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.

“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.

“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”

You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls. 

Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.

“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.

Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.

“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.

“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back. 

You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.

“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”

“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”

Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.

Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.

“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”

“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”

“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.

You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”

Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”

He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.

You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.

“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.

“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”

“I aim to please.”

He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”

You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”

“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.

When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.

You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.

“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.

“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”

You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”

He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec. 

“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”

“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.

“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”

Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.