*Explicit | 18+ ONLY | NSFW
*Warnings:* Mature themes, intense content, trauma/PTSD.
*Additional Tags:* Leon Kennedy x Reader, Reader-Insert, Post-Mission, Hurt/Comfort, RE9, DSO, Emotional Whump, Minors DNI, Adult Content
Leon comes back from his latest DSO mission exhausted and haunted. He’s used to keeping everything locked down tight. You decide tonight’s different.
`[MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Fictional adult characters. Do not repost.]
The hotel room reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and whatever the hell they’d been pumping through the vents in that biohazard shithole. Leon Kennedy shoved the door shut with his boot, flicked the deadbolt, and dropped his gear. His jacket hit the floor with a wet slap. Blood. Not his. Mostly.
He hadn’t slept in 43 hours. In his head, the screams were still echoing. The Licker that almost took his throat. The kid who looked like Sherry.
He peeled his shirt off. Dirt caked to his chest, a fresh cut splitting his brow, bruises blooming purple across his ribs. He was shaking. Not from cold. From everything else.
This fic explores power dynamics and emotional vulnerability after trauma. Full content details and warnings are under the cut.
The bed was the only thing that looked clean. He sat, elbows on knees, head hanging. That’s when you stepped out of the bathroom.
“Didn’t realize I ordered room service,” he muttered, voice gravel and sarcasm, even though his hands were still trembling. “You here to debrief me, or just stare?”
You didn’t answer. You crossed the room, grabbed his wrists. He could’ve stopped you. He’s Leon fucking Kennedy. But he didn’t. His eyes flicked up — blue, bloodshot, pissed, and something else. Overwhelmed. Like the pic. Jaw tight, breathing hard through his nose, trying to keep that DSO agent mask on.
You pushed him back. The mattress hit his shoulders. Before he could get a snarky “Easy, cowgirl” out, you had the hotel tie-downs — yeah, this place was that kind of hotel — around his wrists. Click. Click.
“Shit,” he hissed, testing them. Strong. “Kinky. Should’ve known RPD training didn’t cover this.
You straddled his hips. His cock was already half hard through his dirty combat pants. Stress response. Adrenaline. He hated that his body betrayed him like that.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, but his voice cracked. “This is just—fuck—residual combat stimulus. Read the manual.”
You palmed him through the fabric, slow. He jerked, chains rattling. His abs flexed. He turned his head, jaw clenching so hard you thought his teeth would crack. He would not give you the satisfaction. He would not think about Raccoon City. About the dead. About the way he still smelled burning flesh when he closed his eyes.
You unzipped him. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, leaking at the tip already. Dirty. Sweat and pre-cum smeared at the slit. He was big — and he knew it — but he played it off.
“Christ, you planning to file a report after this?” Sarcasm dripping, but his hips twitched up into your hand when you wrapped your fingers around him.
You stroked. Slow. Base to tip. Thumb swirling through the wet spot, spreading it. He bit the inside of his cheek. A muscle in his neck jumped.
“Stop that,” he ground out. Not a command. A plea he’d never admit to. “I’m not—ngh—some rookie you can—”
You pinched his nipple, hard, twisting. His back arched off the bed, a strangled noise punching out of him. His cock jerked in your fist, another bead of pre-cum dribbling down.
“Fuck!” He glared at the ceiling. “You get off on this? Torturing federal agents? Real patriotic.”
But his thighs were shaking. His cock was throbbing, veins bulging. You kept the pace cruel — slow, edging strokes, never enough to let him fall over. Every time his breathing hitched, every time his abs tightened and his cock swelled more, you eased up.
“Tease,” he spat, sweat rolling down his temple. “If you’re gonna kill me, use a gun. This is just—ah, fuck—inefficient.”
You leaned down, flicked your tongue over his other nipple. He made a sound — wrecked, almost a sob — then swallowed it. He turned his face into the pillow, hiding. He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not after Raccoon City, not after all the missions, not after watching everyone else die while he-
You pinched both nipples at once and gave him a firm, twisting stroke. His whole body locked. “God—fuck—stop—” He was babbling now, sarcasm gone, just raw. “Can’t—don’t make me—please—”
You stopped. His cock was purple, drooling, his balls drawn up tight. He was right on the edge and you yanked him back. He let out a broken laugh, humorless.
“Yeah. Real funny. Tie up the guy with PTSD and blue ball him. You should work for Umbrella.”
His chest heaved. Tears were actually in his eyes now, but he blinked hard. He wouldn’t let them fall. “I’m fine,” he lied, voice raw. “Just… just keep your hands to yourself, agent.”
You stroked him again, lazily, watching his face. Every flinch, every clench of his jaw, every time he squeezed his eyes shut and saw the city burning. You weren’t letting him cum. You were letting him feel.
His hips started to stutter up helplessly. “Stop,” he whispered. Not to you. To himself. To the memories. “Stop, stop, stop…”
You leaned in, lips at his ear. “Forget Raccoon City, Leon.”
He made a noise — half laugh, half sob. “Yeah? You gonna shoot it out of my head for me? ‘Cause I’ve tried.”
You twisted your fist on the upstroke and pinched his nipple again. His scream was silent, mouth open, body bowed, cock pulsing furiously but denied release. Tears finally slipped down his temples into his hair.
He collapsed back, panting, wrecked, cock still weeping and untouched, tied down and shaking and furious and broken and alive.
“Fuck you,” he breathed, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just a man who’d carried the dead for decades, finally not having to hold it alone.
You kept stroking. Slow. He wasn’t allowed to cum. He wasn’t allowed to hide. Not tonight.
You didn’t let up. Your fist stayed wrapped around his cock, slick with pre-cum and sweat, stroking at that maddening pace that kept him hovering on the cliff without ever letting him fall.
His wrists yanked against the tie-downs. The metal bedframe creaked. “You sadistic little—ngh—shit,” Leon spat, but his voice broke halfway. His cock twitched in your hand, fat and red, the head swollen and sloppy wet. He was drooling pre-cum like a faucet.
“Gonna ruin me?” He laughed, but it was wrecked, desperate. “Joke’s on you. I’ve been ruined since ‘98.”
You pinched his nipple again, twisting until he choked on a moan. His abs clenched, hips bucking up helplessly into your grip. “Fuck—fuck—stop that—” But he didn’t mean it. His cock pulsed, thick veins throbbing against your palm, begging to cum. You wouldn’t let him.
“Color me shocked,” he hissed through gritted teeth, tears still drying on his face. “Federal agent tied up, getting his dick milked. This some new kind of interrogation? ‘Cause it’s working. I’ll confess. I’m a fucking mess. Happy?”
You leaned over, reached into the nightstand. He heard the click of the lube bottle and went still.
“Oh, hell no,” he muttered, eyes wide. “You are not—you don’t actually—”
You dragged a lubed finger down his taint, circling his hole. His whole body jolted. “Jesus Christ! That’s—ah—off-limits. Read the fucking DSO handbook. No pegging on duty—”
You ignored him. Pushed one finger in, slow. His mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. His cock jerked so hard it slapped his stomach, smearing pre-cum across his abs. He was leaking everywhere, desperate, untouched, and denied.
“Fuck!” His head thrashed. “You can’t just—ngh—finger my ass like you own it—” You crooked your finger, brushing his prostate, and his words died in a strangled moan. His thighs shook. The tie-downs rattled.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he babbled, eyes squeezing shut. “That’s cheating. That’s so fucking—ah, goddamn—cheating.”
You added a second finger, scissoring, stretching him open while your other hand kept that cruel, slow stroke on his cock. He was sobbing now, not even trying to hide it. Sarcasm stripped away, just raw and filthy and overwhelmed.
“Please,” he choked out, hips rolling helplessly, fucking himself on your fingers. “Please don’t make me—please, I can’t—I’ll—I can’t cum, right? You said—fuck—you said I couldn’t—”
You strapped on. The harness clicked. His eyes snapped to it, blue and blown wide, panicked and needy.
“You’re insane,” he whispered. “You’re actually gonna—fuck me? Me? Leon S. Kennedy? Do you know how many BOWs I’ve killed? And you’re gonna—”
You lined up, the silicone head of the cock nudging his hole. He was trembling head to toe, cock purple and dripping, balls tight and aching.
“Last chance to use a safeword, hero,” you murmured, pressing in just the tip.
He let out a broken laugh. “Yeah, right. Like I’d give you the—fuck!—satisfaction.”
His back bowed off the bed. A noise tore out of him — not a scream, not a moan, something guttural and ruined. “FUUUCK!” His cock pulsed, untouched, spurting a thick string of pre-cum across his stomach without you even touching it. He was that close. That destroyed.
“Move,” he sobbed, all pride gone. “God, please, move, I need—fuck, I hate you—I need it—”
You set a brutal pace. Pegging him hard, deep, hitting his prostate with every thrust. The wet slap of your hips against his ass filled the room. His cock bounced on his stomach, sloppy and leaking, never once getting touched.
He was a mess. Crying, cursing, babbling. “Ah, god—fuck—right there—you’re gonna make me—no, no, don’t, I’ll cum, I’ll fucking cum—”
You reached down and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, squeezing. Denying him.
His eyes rolled back. “You BITCH,” he wailed, tears streaming. “Let me—please, let me cum, I’ll do anything—fucking anything—just—ngh—don’t stop—don’t stop fucking me—”
His ass clenched around the cock, his whole body shaking. He was sweating, dirt and blood still streaked on his skin, hair stuck to his forehead. Mission-rough Leon Kennedy, DSO’s golden boy, tied down and getting his ass fucked until he forgot his name, forgot Raccoon City, forgot everything except the need burning him alive.
“Pathetic,” he gasped out, trying to claw back some sarcasm. “Look at me… some hero… getting railed and crying… fuck…” But his hips kept chasing your thrusts, desperate.
You pinched his nipples hard, twisted, and his cock gave another helpless spurt of pre-cum. Still no relief. Still denied.
“Please,” he sobbed, broken open. “I can’t—I’m gonna—if I cum, I’ll—fuck, I’ll die—”
You didn’t stop. You fucked him through it. Through the tears, through the begging, through every shattered piece of Leon Kennedy hitting the mattress. His cock was weeping, his ass was clenching, his voice was hoarse from moaning.
He was yours. Overwhelmed. Ruined. And still not allowed to cum.
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