☮️

He's getting worse.

And even though he doesn't say it or ever wants to mention anything related to it, you notice it every time his eyes accidentally linger on the curve of your neck when you talk, something that didn't used to happen.

You also notice it at night, when you— sometimes— wake up with his nose in your throat, inhaling without even realizing it, his hands pressing possessively against the small of your back, clinging to you in a deep sleep brought on by the strong sedative specifically designed for him.

Sometimes you wake up with a damp neck during midnight and fortunately, there are no marks or signs of a struggle, no pain to alert you, but the dried saliva stays on your vulnerable skin. You run your fingers over it to feel its coolness and how far it spreads. Then you turn over and find him with his back to you, and out of sheer curiosity and caution, you peek in and find him mistreating the back of his hand during his sleep, biting and sucking on it to soothe himself and instinctively prevent himself from doing something he would never forgive himself for.

In the morning, he wakes up with no memory of what happened hours earlier, ignoring the sharp pain in his hand with raised marks and dried blood.

After small fragments of memories surface in his mind, he later apologizes for the saliva he left on your neck, feeling ashamed for having approached you in such a vulnerable moment, for having laid a single finger on you without your awareness. He can't look you in the eye when he does, and you promise him that you understand, that it's okay, and that you're okay.

Even if you forgive him in that moment, he can't forgive himself because guilt overwhelms him, as does paranoia. He believes you're afraid of him, even though he doesn't perceive a trace of fear in you when you're near him, not even a hint of that distinctive scent that signals your terror. That doesn't change the fact that Leon wants you to fear him, but you aren't able to because your devotion to him is something he'll never fully understand.

The paranoia, the guilt, the need to distance himself, the constant arguments about your safety when you're around: all of this indicates that the virus is consuming him relentlessly; it's much easier to identify it in the way he moves around the house during the day; he seems to be fighting tooth and nail to avoid breaking something or someone.

The virus had started mildly, due to his body's constant exposure, using little protection in toxic environments where anything could enter his system, proliferate, and corrode everything in its path.

He thought it was just one of those chronic flus he got from time to time when he returned home—those that go away with a few pills, or some tea. But this illness began with a fever that wouldn't break after a mission.

After the fever, he began vomiting a strange, disgusting-looking black substance, which he had been hiding from you for weeks until you discovered it in the worst way when he suddenly collapsed in front of you.

After the vomiting, darkening stains began to appear under his skin like spilled ink, which then became prominent marks as it spread through his veins. After the marks reached his neck and hands, they extended to the pads of his fingertips.

Following this peculiar transformation, a disturbing hunger began, which was considered odd because, usually, hunger is the first thing that comes with the infected—that throbbing, insatiable need to devour. That should have been the initial reaction, but you weren't in a position to question what came first or in what order.

It had been manageable once you both realized what was really happening, both of you found stability in hospital blood bags, the occasional transfusion substitute created by people who knew far more about human biology than they ever cared to admit, and a few trustful scientists from the organization who had no idea how to reverse his condition, secretly helping him out of gratitude and admiration without saying a word because it was more than obvious they would lock him up like a guinea pig or try neutralize him in a heartbeat upon learning what was growing inside him.

There was a time when everything was "fine," if you could call it that, but the virus kept growing and growing, consuming him, becoming a plague that was difficult to contain.

Leon, of course, always joked that if life were fair, he would have become a simple, clean vampire like in those cliché romance movies. An occasional bite, maybe a sensitivity to the sun that would force him to wear cool sunglasses to match his leather jackets.

Instead, he got this, on the verge of becoming a creature worthy of a test tube, destined to become part of Umbrella's collection as one of their most expensive weapons thanks to the superhuman abilities the virus was granting him—which is the height of absurdity considering his abilities when he was just a regular human.

When the hunger intensifies, the toxic marks spread across his body, alive beneath his skin, seeping rot into his organs that beg to be healed. Dark, branching veins run down his arms, his collarbone, dusty patches spreading where once there was a pretty rosy blush, reaching his mouth and mutating his teeth in the most grotesque and painful way imaginable.

There are two distinct phases in the growth of his teeth, depending on how hungry he is or how fiercely the virus wants to destroy him.

Sometimes the marks spread to his eyes, turning them into pits of darkness where the abyss is nothing but hunger, and the first time you saw those marks appear on his face, he disappeared for twelve hours, only to return terrified and trembling, collapsing in front of you. Luckily, there was no trace of blood on him when you examined him closely.

After that, he told you—heartbroken— that he didn't want you to see him like that.

You told him that didn't change anything.

He didn't believe you.

The transformation reached its peak, and he learned to control it in no time, always adapting to change. The blood sacs kept him stable, along with wild animals, specifically predators, since those seemed to satiate him the most.

He drinks all that blood with the same silent shame every time, sitting on the kitchen counter late at night as if taking bad medicine or injecting crack inside his veins, hidden so you can't see him accidentally getting blood all over himself out of necessity, the mess he makes when the metallic taste spills over his taste buds, how his teeth mutate, yearning to sink into soft and smooth living flesh.

And when too much time passes without him feeding…

That's when things get dangerous.

That's when he begs you to leave, then he realizes you would never leave him and he chose to leave you instead.

This led to that time he packed his suitcase in the middle of the night, swearing you were fast asleep, and left your side, leaving behind a letter he didn't even finish writing because his hand was trembling badly. Leon returned in less than a week because the virus complained and throbbed inside him when it couldn't sense you near, twisting his insides until he wanted to stab himself to stop it from torturing him.

A codependent parasite, what a redundancy.

On another occasion, he tried something worse, something more definitive where he wouldn't have to deal with the agony of insatiable hunger and the fear of hurting innocent people and the few people still alive in his life, and to top it all off, the virus didn't allow it.

His body simply refused to die.

So, finally, you both established agreements and rules because the disease had chosen you along with Leon's body as the host.

You both decided that when his hunger became critical, he would take the updated sedative to make him drowsy but not completely asleep, strong enough to diminish his strength and slow his reactions without eliminating the virus entirely, since it seemed impossible to eradicate.

That drug or “sedative” makes him dizzy, leaving him defenseless, but still hungry.

And when his condition worsened, in every possible way, you kept him in the basement, which was redesigned until it looked less like a part of a house where old things and junk that will never be used are stored and more like something taken from a laboratory in a research center where dangerous things are observed through a glass.

The walls are made of sealed concrete beneath reinforced stainless steel, so well insulated that sound doesn't penetrate them.

Down there, everything feels dull and sterile.

Intense white lights are recessed into the ceiling, reflecting off the stainless steel surfaces and the large panels of reinforced glass that divide the room into two sections.

On one side is the refrigerator where the blood bags are stored and a minimalist counter containing everything needed to create the sedative and a few other supplies. On the other side, that soulless, sealed side, is the chair.

Right in the center and visible from any angle.

The glass is thick and transparent, stretching from floor to ceiling, allowing you to monitor something dangerous without touching it.

From the safe side, you can see every movement, every spasm of his fingers as hunger shoots down his spine. The chair in the center was his idea, and you reluctantly agreed.

That chair is a heavy metal structure, permanently bolted to the concrete floor. The restraints fit his wrists and ankles, custom-made to his measurements, and padded so they don't chafe his skin when hunger compels him to pull. The seat itself is comfortable—because you insisted it be padded—since, after all he's still human, even if the room around him looks like it was built for something that isn't.

Right now, it's one of those nights when he feels anything but human.

The basement smells of antiseptics and the pungent, stinging cleaners used to clean blood after bringing in those enormous animals to feed. The room is lit by a single, dim light, designed not to hurt his retinas when his body is at its most sensitive state, feeling even the slightest breeze on his overheated skin.

Leon is slumped in the chair with his chin touching his collarbone, indicating the drug has taken effect. His breathing is calm, and the monitors show his vital signs are stable and the virus is under control.

Despite his placid state, the rot is there, awake and waiting for anything it can take and you can see it in the veins of his forearms exposed by the old, loose shirt he's wearing.

It hurts to see him like this, wearing those simple and worn clothes that indicate he should be sleeping next to you, not here.

The soft vibration in the room caused by the involuntary sigh you let out wakes him. He slowly opens his eyes, which are unfocused for a few seconds until he can finally see your figure clearly.

He can already sense your worry, even through the thick glass separating you. He can tell you're nervous, worried about something he'll soon find out.

“Hey,” he murmurs, a little unfocused, his throat is dry along with his lips, and you're aware that the last thing he needs is a glass of water.

You can't even meet his eyes, the bitter taste of helplessness lingering in your mouth.

His brow furrows slightly. “Something wrong?” Understanding dawns slowly in his face because of the lack of response, dulled by the sedative but still sharp enough to hit the mark.

You finally make eye contact with him, and your eyes suddenly feel wet with frustration because he looks like he's on the verge of death.

You failed, and he knows it.

Your state is starting to affect him; he can hear your racing pulse and is increasingly worried about you, so he has to do whatever it takes to control your emotions, and he makes a calculated move.

“Why so quiet? Vampire got your tongue?” There's a long pause, and as expected, that stupid bullshit he said didn't work, so he takes a deep breath.

“…Couldn’t find them?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head in resignation, taking a breath to begin speaking despite the lump forming in your throat. “I tried three hospitals, the donor bank, and the lab. They told me the shipment never arrived, and the only bags left were…” you swallow hard, “the wrong type.”

Leon exhales softly, shaking his head, then letting it fall back against the chair. Chuckling amusedly, “well,” he mutters, “that’s inconvenient.”

“Leon—”

His eyes meet yours again, a gentle expression on his face, and you can't tell if it's the chemicals in his blood or genuine sympathy. “It's okay,” he murmurs understandingly. The veins beneath his skin pulse slightly, and the virus is writhing inside him as your eyes flicker back to the monitors.

“Don't make that face, you look worse than me,” he tries to lighten the mood, and you feel like sobbing.

Your voice cracks as panic begins to take hold, because that little joke could be the last. “You could die.”

He smiles, as if it's nothing.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs gently, “we both know I'm terrible at that.”

You hate the casual way he says it, how he tries to downplay the situation just to make you feel better, as if the night he tried to disappear never happened, as if the blood on the bathroom floor never existed and the bullet scar on his temple wasn't noticeable.

This whole situation makes you want to get angry at him, yell at him for not taking it seriously, but then you remember he's high, mind fuzzy and smooth, and doing what you want to do will only make his jokes worse—somehow.

You approach him, your fists clenched, reaching the barrier between you, and his eyes sharpen as you get too close to the glass.

“You haven't eaten in four days.”

“Four and a half,” he corrects lazily.

“Leon.”

“I'll be fine.”

The lie hangs between you and you don't know if the sedative is wearing off. An expert isn't needed to confirm that hunger is starting to gnaw at him. His fingers are contracting slightly against the restraints, and his breathing is heavy. Your presence is affecting him. His nostrils flare from time to time, and you know that the scent of your blood mixed with your panic and the fear of losing him is suffocating him, with no air to calm the waves.

His eyes constantly shift to your neck and wrists. The sound of your heartbeat makes him want to tear his ears out, but his only response is to clench his jaw and look away.

“See?” he says, then breaks into a weak smile for you. “Like a million bucks.”

You feel your heart breaking in two, but you must come up with something quickly, find a solution to this problem before the structure of his bones changes like that time and the man you love disappears before your eyes replaced by a creature that will die if it doesn't devour something soon.

“Wait… W—What if…” you begin, approaching the glass door, typing the code he doesn't know to open it.

“No.” The word came out more sharply than before, a warning you're going to ignore.

Leon is looking at you with sudden intensity, even though the drug is clouding his mind. Your pulse is racing, and everything in your body is throbbing, just as it is in his. The light in the room is shining brighter for him, starting to burn his skin, and the disease is twitching, dancing in his system, reveling in your disregard for the warnings.

“I know that look.”

You don't stop, stepping into the other room and closing the door behind you, and he continues speaking. “I'm serious, don't do it.”

Your hands tremble at your sides as you close the distance between you. Standing in front of him, you lick your lips, preparing to speak.

“You're starving, s—stop being so fucking stubborn.” Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and he clenches his jaw, resisting; the sound of your voice feeds the parasite with the pleasure of that delicious melody full of sweet fear, the repulsive poison whispering to him to try harder to break free and come closer to you so that whatever has to happen, happens.

“I'll live.”

“You don't know that.”

“Oh, but I know 'cause when I put a bullet through my—”

“Don't.”

He sighs, his gaze softening as he looks up at you when you get closer. “Yes, I know.”

You shake your head while your lower lip is trembling, and you do everything you can to appear strong in front of him, “I can't lose you.”

Leon let his head fall back against the metal frame of the chair, exhaling ragged breaths through clenched teeth, trying to expel the air from his burning lungs when he instinctively inhaled and found himself again with that divine fragrance, more intense than before.

“You won't lose me, okay? you won't, please don't do this...” he insists, his voice hoarse, worn from the effort of keeping his body still even as it continues to burn him alive from the inside.

His eyes meet yours again, glossy and dark with dilated pupils and there's defeat mixed with panic gripping them as he realizes that once you make that face, nothing can stop you.

“I made you a promise,” he mantains, trembling when he has a little more control over his breathing. “Remember?”

You ignore what comes out of his mouth, begging yourself not to respond to his constant pleas.

“I said I'd never feed on you,” he insists needily, trying to reason with you, but you already lost all reason the first time you witnessed him feeding.

Leon's attempts are utterly futile, but you admire his determination even while drugged. He gasps when you gently sit on his lap, but doesn't fully react immediately, as the sudden contact has left him dazed.

It's only later that a pitiful groan escapes him, a sharp inhalation tears at his lungs, and his head tilts slightly in an attempt to surpress your scent, but there's no escape, and he has to get used to it. Your heat oppresses him, your pulse throbs just inches from his face, the steady, vital rhythm resonating in the room and stirring the poison.

Your hand finds its way into his hair, your fingers intertwining in the sandy strands, touching deeper, all the way to the roots where his hair is damp with sweat, cooing at him.

“No…” he groans breathlessly.

The parasite is reacting in pure ecstasy, reveling in the pleasure of having you so close, and the marks on his neck begin to move, dark, thin, sickly lines thickening and branching beneath his pale flesh, sliding up the sides of his throat like ink in water. You watch them slowly ascend toward his jaw, becoming bruises of the same hue, much smaller and thinner lines sprouting from them as well, rotting him alive.

His hands tremble under the pressure of the restraints as the burning sensation intensifies this time, the stinging pain traveling down his arms, irritating them from within. His head falls forward, resting on your chest as his fingers curl inwards and begin twitching forwards. His muscles contract, trying to hold something tightly, and the tendons in his fingers make him gasp from a sensation that tortures him, feeling an agonizing torment eat his flesh, only for his fingernails to begin changing afterward.

The matrices and cuticles fade into a profound darkness as you stare horrified as fascinated how they spread like a painful fungus to the tip, so that true agony can begin when they lengthen dramatically, sharpening to a point and pulling at the flesh of his fingers as they push forward, escaping the skin.

You hold him through the change, trying to soothe his discomfort, tears welling in your eyes at the small sounds he stifles against your skin.

“Shhh, I know, I know baby, you'll be okay, I p—promise it's okay,” you comfort him tremulously, cradling his head against your cleavage. You feel him purr, a sting of pain blossoming in your clavicle as you feel something sharp scrape against your exposed flesh. Then you realize his teeth have mutated too. You pull his face away from your chest, and he looks at you with devotion, hunger, but he's still him, terrified of what might happen to you.

Your hand travels to his cheek, studying his contoured features while he lets himself be guided by your hand, which is moving down until you caress his sensitive lower lip with the pad of your thumb, eliciting a little gasp. Then you lift his upper lip when he's distracted by your neck to reveal a sharp canine tooth. He tries to turn his face away, but you hold him still with the grip you have on his warm cheeks in response.

“Please, please let me see them, show them to me,” you plead in a small voice, a subtle manipulation. He responds with a huff and opens his mouth slightly so your fingers can inspect the newly canines. There's no sign of the virus in his mouth, but there is a little blood on his gums where the new teeth emerged.

After making mental notes, you test how sharp they are, pressing with the pad of your thumb until one pricks the soft skin, drawing blood to the surface too quickly surprised by how easy it was and Leon grunts, so thirsty and tense but focused on your intentions. You can hear his nails scratching the hard metal of the chair.

“You don’t have to do this…” he insists wearily, and your gaze softens, filled with love, noticing how he has started to salivate and yet he's still trying to push you away.

He’s so good.

“But I want to,” you whisper so close to his lips that he has to resist the temptation to crane his neck to bite your mouth off with nothing but his teeth.

You slide your hand down directly to the restraint on his left wrist, and there’s a soft click that he doesn't know where it came from. The chair mechanism responds and releases his hand, but he clings to the metal, still resisting. You—regardless of his actions—gently place your wrist just beneath one of the sharp claws, pressing it into your skin, then move it to the side to make an almost clinical cut in the thin skin. Blood starts flowing quickly and effortlessly, not even measuring how deep the cut was.

Leon tenses up when the intense tang reaches his nostrils, so fresh and so enticing, you can't waste any more time and you put your wrist right in front of him and that little piece of self-control remaining in him breaks, just a bit of hesitation before his lower lip starts trembling and his chest rises and falls in rapid breaths.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whines closing his eyes and the distance between you. His lips press against your skin immediately, gripping you without hesitation, and you gasp in pain as his teeth dig into your skin, disregarding the cut you just made, tearing so easily through the soft flesh. Leon begins to suck hungrily, the flavor exploding in his mouth and he starts purring with sheer pleasure, his eyes tightly closed as he feeds, and you press yourself against him, murmuring words of encouragement for him to continue.

His free hand grips your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him in such uncomfortable position, but you’ve never felt better sitting on his lap like this. Your attention shifts to other parts of your body and you feel how his nails are digging in, pressing dangerously harder than they should against your waist, however, you dismiss it; not even the stinging pain can make you pull away.

Nothing compares to the pleasure you're feeling, the way it makes you bite your lips from the tingling sensations that raise your temperature is enough to make you hum happily, and the open raw wound he's feeding on deepens as he moans, gently licking it, soothing the itch as he continues to suckle.

Eventually, he opens his eyes to look up, still feeding on you, and he looks more pretty than ever. Surprisingly, the virus hasn't affected his eyes, and you're so grateful for that, so happy with your boy worshiping you this way.

You grin mesmerized, and if it weren't for the way your eyes are about to close, you could swear you see him smiling too.

Each time he sucks a little harder than before, a strange shiver runs through you, ending in your lower belly, a mixture of pain and something more rotten and alarming that makes your breath quicken.

He grips your wrist tighter, biting harder than he should, and you huff softly. “You're doing so good, Leon… such a good boy, keep going,” you purr aroused, lost in the sweet but filthy sensation.

Your fingers slide through his hair, caressing the blond strands damp with sweat. Up close, you can see the dark veins running down his cheekbone, disappearing beneath his neck, evidence of the battle raging inside him.

Now he looks calmer, relieved, that sickly pallor of his skin replaced by his natural tone. His cheeks are flushed, and his brow is relaxed, something you haven't seen in a long time. His humming softens as the euphoria subsides. The hunger remains, but the rough tugs become slower and more careful, and his tongue continues to graze the wound, cleaning the damage he's causing. His grip on your waist loosens slightly, though his fingers still clutch the fabric of your shirt as if afraid you might disappear.

You're dizzy when he finally pulls away to let you react. Thin strands of saliva mixed with blood cling to the skin of your battered wrist and connect with his swollen lips covered in your warm blood. He licks them to clean off the excess, and your eyes are glued to the ugly, delicate, raw wound he left on you.

“So gorgeous,” you mutter under your breath, so fuzzy, bringing your finger to touch the wound and Leon watches you attentively, reveling in the soft gasp that escapes your lips as you measure your own pain, the drug that kept him serene completely out of his system now, your blood made him tipsy almost in the same state as you are at this moment.

“Like you,” he whispers, raising his hand to caress your cheek. You respond with a silly giggle, moving closer to his face until you can smell your own blood on his breath. A hunger mixed with an unfamiliar need takes hold of you, causing you to push yourself toward his lips for the first time in days. As expected, he returns the kiss, deepening it with enthusiasm. Both of you eager for each other, surrendering to the delicious metallic taste that ends on your tongue as Leon plunges his into yours, fucking your mouth obscenely. They rub together frenetically while he's swallowing your saliva like it's water for his insatiable thrist. You tilt your head to go deeper, and he obediently follows your movements, his hand moving possessively up your back to your neck, squeezing gently until you gasp within the passionate kiss.

One of his sharp canines hooks into your lower lip, effortlessly splitting it and eliciting a hiss from you that Leon immediately swallows with nothing but pleasure, proud of his vulgar work, sucking on the wound as your hips instinctively thrust forward into his lap.

That's when you realize how hard he is inside his clothes, feeling it pooking against you causes you to start moving firmly against it, feeling Leon tense up and to then release with a low whine, squeezing your neck tighter until you feel like coughing and everything around you feels so different, so good, your hands settle on his firm chest, fingers squeezing the hard muscles covered in a soft layer of fat making them perfect to massage under your restless hands, and taking into account his susceptible state he pants pathetically against your swollen mouth, his hips pushing up feeling a painful twitch on his sensitive cock from how good it feels when you play with his tits, humping you needily, you push back down to give him the frictionhe craves for through the clothes.

He responds to every tiny sound, grinding and pressing against you, eager for more, hunger compelling him to take more than your body can offer.

The kiss grew clumsier and more painful, letting you be swept away by tongues that slipped indecently against each other, wet lips smacking loudly, ragged breaths, saliva and blood pooling obscenely at the corners of your mouths.

Sloppy sounds make your face heat up; he's so loud with his mouth that if you weren't in this state, you'd mock him and then you both break apart when you need to catch your breath, and Leon chases you with his mouth, so needy, panting like a thirsty dog.

“More, more please, I need —I need you,” he begs wih that sweet and hoarse voice of his breaking, nothing like how he was acting before, his hips fucking you through your clothes, his cock leaking making a milky mess inside his pants. He leans forward until his lips brush your neck, and you stifle a moan at how sensitive your fevered body has become.

“Do it, don’t hold back, please do it,” you pamper, hugging his head while urging him to continue. First, there’s a hot and soaked tongue licking your skin, sending sparks of burning pleasure beneath your flesh, and your hips press down drawing a little breathy whine from him.

A muffled cry escapes your stained mouth as he sinks his fangs into your neck, quickly beginning to suck with fein, and you tilt your head to expose more of your neck to him.

Leon is lost in your taste, reduced to an uncontrolled animal unable to recognize how many boundaries he's crossed and how there's no going back. You taste so sweet, so good, so warm and wet and fucking delicious in his mouth, and he wants to stay there forever, so much so that he ends up breaking the restraint on his right hand so he can fully embrace your body as that deep red liquid slides down his throat and the arousal consumes him like flames. The metal hitting the floor reverberates in the room, hurting your ears, but you're too lost to pay attention to why you could hear that so deeply inside your head.

The sensations you cause are enough to send him to an overwhelming and intense ecstasy beneath you, making a pathetic, sticky mess inside his underwear faster than he would have liked after your mind—or the virus, began to mix pain, pleasure and hunger long ago.

© machiavelliam | 17 / 03 / 26