#jack krauser

[skelesass]

warming up idk

[azu-mog]

Some Leon angst to begin 2026

Brought to you because I want to know where are the knives, why does one of his alternative outfits looks like Krauser’s and how will Requiem tackle his trauma since he’s coming back to the beginning (and also I am in need of Operation Javier remake). So yeah, have fun !

read from left to right

[larvamars]

first slay of 2026

[adavalesofroses]

Resident evil charachers about hickeys

characters: Leon, Chris, Albert, Carlos, Luis, Ethan, Krauser, Heisenberg, Claire, Ada, Jill, Mia.

Leon S. Kennedy

He gives them intentionally, usually focusing on the sensitive skin just below the jawline or behind the collarbone. They are small but dark—a quick, focused mark.

Leon is surprisingly easy to mark, as his skin is relatively fair. He makes a low, approving sound when you land a good one, immediately trying to counter it with one of his own.

​Usually covers them with a simple black turtleneck or a high-collared shirt when on duty. If one is visible, he'll simply pull his jacket zipper higher and give a practiced, dismissive shrug if questioned. Or telling that he just got bruises during missions.

​He is protective of yours. If you're going out, he carefully brushes your hair over your neck or insists you wear a scarf or a high-necked top, only exposing them to the world if you're feeling particularly defiant. But deep inside, he is actually proud of this.

His favorite place? Just inside your shoulder, where the mark is hidden by your shirt collar but visible only when your head is turned. It's a sweet, secret confirmation for him. Or your neck.

​He'll trace the edge of the mark with the tip of his finger while you're sleeping or watching TV, his gaze intense, a small, private smirk playing on his lips.

If one of his colleagues spots a visible mark on him, he offers zero explanation, just a cold, challenging glare that shuts down any further inquiry instantly.

​Wakes up and immediately notices the fading mark on your skin. He doesn't say anything, but he gently kisses the spot where it sits, acknowledging the passion of the night before.

​If you ask him stop, Leon will. He respects your boundaries completely and simply laughs, saying, "Alright, alright. I'll stick to the places no one else can see."

​Leon views the person with the most visible marks as the "winner" of the night. He enjoys the silent competition.

Chris Redfield

Chris rarely gives them accidentally. When he does, they are deep, dark, and look like a bruise—a testament to his immense physical strength and passion. They are usually placed on the inner thigh or hip.

​He's difficult to mark because of his thick, hardened skin and muscle. You have to work for it. When you succeed, he groans, a deep, satisfied sound, acknowledging your effort and passion.

​Since he only wears tactical gear or basic tees, a neck hickey is his worst nightmare. Will rigorously apply heavy concealer or neck tape if he has to be visible, cursing under his breath the entire time for the lack of self-control.

​He’s hyper-aware of how public they are. He immediately buys you a very stylish, high-collared shirt or uses the provided thick, wool scarf. He views it as a security risk, not a fun accessory.

Like to put ​on the base of your throat, visible only when you tilt your head back. It reminds him that despite his reserved nature, he allows you to claim him.

​Chris doesn't just trace it; he covers it entirely with his massive hand, rubbing his thumb over the mark, a protective and possessive gesture that says, "This is mine, and I earned it."

​If one is seen, he becomes instantly cold and detached. He uses his authoritative voice to redirect the conversation away from himself, making the person who noticed instantly regret bringing it up.

​If he catches you staring at a mark he left, he'll give you a smoky, heavy-lidded look across the training field that promises more of the same when you get home.

​Intentionally leaves one low on your back or hip before you go out, knowing it's perfectly hidden, a secret symbol that he shares only with you.

​If you ask him stop, Chris will, but his disappointment is palpable. He'll give a gruff apology: "Sorry. Sometimes I forget my own strength." He makes a mental note to be gentler but doubles down on hidden marks.

Albert Wesker

He doesn't seek them out, but he accepts them as a side effect of passion, which he frames as a biological necessity.

Gives them rarely and accidentally. When he does, they are small and precise, usually placed on the inner curve of your hip or thigh. They are not random; they are focused.

​His enhanced durability and speed make him almost impossible to mark. If you manage a faint bruise, he pauses, slightly annoyed but also intellectually intrigued by the temporary disruption to his cellular structure.

​Since his skin is usually covered by his pristine black attire, it's not a major concern. If a collarbone mark is visible, he simply states, "A minor contusion sustained during an experimental endeavor."

​Albert only cares about them being covered if they violate the "optimized aesthetic" he demands of you. He suggests a high neckline with cold, detached precision.

​His favorite place to see one? On the tender skin of your wrist, where he can monitor your pulse while simultaneously appreciating the evidence of your passion for him.

​He uses a small, high-powered LED light to inspect the pigmentation, tracing the bruise's edges and analyzing the blood vessel rupture. He views it as a fascinating biological event.

​If one is spotted, he ignores the person entirely. He looks at you and says, in his low, chilling voice, "Control your impulses, subject. The outcome is aesthetically unsatisfactory."

​Might intentionally leave a mark on you before a high-stakes meeting, using the bruise as a calculated sign of his intense, unchecked dominance over you to intimidate rivals.

​Wesker will sometimes take a digital photo of the mark over several days to track the rate of cellular regeneration and healing, creating a small, morbid database.

​He stops immediately if you ask him and without question. He views the act as functionally unnecessary for intimacy and will simply replace it with more complex forms of physical pressure.

Ethan Winters

His hickeys are usually an accident of intense, relieved affection. They are faint, often fading quickly, and are the result of him getting completely lost in the moment.

He gets them easily due to his pale skin. He jumps slightly and lets out a surprised, breathless gasp when you mark him, often resulting in a brief, nervous laugh.

​Tries to hide them, not out of shame, but because he prefers not to draw attention. Ethan wears a zip-up hoodie or a tightly buttoned shirt, occasionally fidgeting with the zipper/buttons near the mark.

​He is concerned about your comfort. He is the first to gently suggest a scarf or high neckline, asking quietly, "Are you sure you want people seeing that?" It's rooted in genuine anxiety for your privacy.

Like to put them ​on your breastbone, close to your heart. It's a reminder of deep, meaningful intimacy and the life you share, hidden beneath your clothing.

​Will stare at it with a mix of awe and slight guilt, his thumb gently smoothing over the mark. He murmurs an apology, "Sorry, I got carried away" even though he doesn't truly mean it.

​If someone notices yours, he goes red and immediately makes a joke about a terrible "bug bite." If one is spotted on him, he becomes incredibly quiet, avoiding eye contact entirely.

​If a mark on him is particularly noticeable, he might try to cover it with a small, discreet band-aid, claiming he scraped himself on something "while gardening."

​Ethan finds the mark endearing because it confirms his physical presence and reality. It's proof that his hands, his touch, and his kiss are real and impactful.

​If you asks him stop, he looks genuinely troubled and immediately apologizes profusely, promising to be much more careful. He reverts to gentler kisses, but his eyes constantly search for hidden places to leave small, secret marks.

Carlos Oliveira

Oh, he is unlike others, can confidently put hickeys without shame

Put them with enthusiasm, placing them prominently on your neck, shoulder, or chest. They are deep purple and often clustered together—he's not subtle.

​Absolutely loves getting them and sees it as a sign of your matching passion. He will often encourage you by whispering things like, "Yes, right there, show me how much you want me."

​He makes zero effort to hide them. In fact, he might wear a shirt with the top buttons deliberately undone to showcase a prominent mark. He views it as bragging rights.

​He asks if you want to cover them, but secretly hopes you say no. If you do hide them, he gives you a playful, dramatic sigh of disappointment.

​Favourite places are on the prominent curve of your collarbone. He loves how it sits right above his favorite chain and can be partially hidden by his oversized jacket.

​Carlos catches his reflection and immediately smirks, running his hand over the mark, striking a confident pose. He will then saunter over to you and insist on returning the favor.

​If a friend or coworker notices his mark, he doesn't deny it. He laughs loudly, winks, and proudly announces, "My girl is a wild one, no? I love her passion!"

​He tries to take silly, close-up photos of the marks you leave on him, attempting to document the "battle scars" from your passionate evening.

​Loves to gently run his lips over a prominent mark you left, creating a slight tingling sensation just to tease you and make you blush in public.

​When you stopped him, he is slightly confused but respects it. "No more war paint? Alright, mi amor. I will find other ways to show the world you are mine." He then kisses your wrist dramatically.

Jack Krauser

I am sorry for you. His marks are deep, painful, and functional. They are a physical imposition, meant to leave no doubt as to who owns whom. He places them aggressively on the shoulder or upper arm.

He despises getting them, viewing it as a moment of lost control. He grunts sharply and might even momentarily pin you down, demanding, "Don't mark the asset."

​Jack covers them instantly and completely with his uniform or tactical gear. He would view a visible hickey as a failure of discipline and a severe liability.

​He doesn't hide them for your sake; he hides them because doesn't want other people to see his conquest. He insists on covering them with a thick scarf or a high-collar shirt of his own.

Right where your neck meets your shoulder blade is his favourite place for hickeys —a place that requires submission to expose. It is a constant reminder of the physical hierarchy between you.

​Doesn't admire it; he inspects it like a brand. He traces the bruise with his metallic arm, the cold metal contrasting sharply with the warmth of your skin, a moment of cold, possessive analysis.

​The Accidental Public Reveal: If a mark on you is revealed, he maintains absolute silence, letting his intense, deadly glare communicate a promise of pain to anyone who looks too long.

​Krauser is most likely to leave a mark immediately after returning from a dangerous mission, needing a physical, non-verbal way to claim you and ground himself back into his reality.

​If you point out a mark he left, he'll simply sneer and say, "Next time, fight back harder."

​He stops if you ask, but his voice is dangerously low. Krauser interprets it as a challenge to his authority. He won’t leave marks but will immediately increase the intensity and dominance of his physical intimacy to compensate.

Karl Heisenberg

He is wild about them.

His marks are rough, deep, and often painful. Heisenberg doesn't aim for finesse; he aims for impact. They are often placed aggressively on the side of your neck or just above your hip.

​Heisenberg lets out a loud, gruff, satisfied chuckle when you mark him. He appreciates the wildness of the action, viewing it as a moment of pure, unrestrained savagery he enjoys.

​Makes zero effort. He constantly wears his trench coat and hat, but if a mark is visible, he couldn't care less. He might even see it as a mark of honor.

​He insists they remain covered unless you are completely alone. Not for your modesty, but because he views the marks as his private territory sign that others don't deserve to see.

​His favorite place is on the prominent vein on the side of your neck, where the mark is dark and visible. It's a reminder of your lifeblood, which he claims as his own.

​Karl runs his cold, fingers over the bruise, the temperature difference making you shiver. He then gives a rough, satisfied smile and declares, "Good. Don't let anyone forget you belong here."

​If he sees a mark on you that someone else is looking at, he doesn't talk—he growls low in his chest, his eyes flashing yellow, daring the onlooker to challenge him for his mate.

​He refers to them as "my brand" or "my color." He sees them as necessary to assert dominance and possessiveness.

​He enjoys leaving a hot, deep mark and then running his cold, magnetic hand over it, enjoying the physical contrast of pain, warmth, and cold metal.

​Gets defensive and sulky if you asked him stop, taking it as a rejection of his raw affection. "What? Too rough for ya? Fine. But don't expect me to be gentle next time." However, he will try to be less aggressive

Luis Serra

Luis sees that hickeys are "love stamps"—proof that the romantic drama of your life together is intensely real.

His hickeys are everywhere—on your neck, shoulder, and chest. He gives them with a flair, often leaving clumps of smaller, lighter marks, like little constellations of love.

​Luis makes a loud, delighted sound, often exclaiming, "Ah! My beautiful little vampire! I am marked for life!" He enjoys the attention and drama.

​Makes a half-hearted attempt to hide them, maybe buttoning up his shirt for a meeting, but if they show, he simply winks at you and blows a kiss across the room.

​He is protective but proud. He asks, "Do you want to show the world that you belong to the most charming man in Spain?" If you say yes, he beams. If you say no, he dramatically pins a brooch or flower over the spot.

​On the back of your hand or inner forearm his favourite place —somewhere unexpected that can be seen only when he holds you close.

​Luis runs his thumb over the mark and then immediately kisses it, giving it a playful, dramatic flourish and whispering a compliment about your strength and passion.

​If someone notices a mark on him, he doesn't hide it. He smiles brilliantly, shrugs, and says, "Ah, the price of passion! Worth every beautiful bruise!"

​He calls them his "timbres de amor" (love stamps) and insists on leaving a new one every time he comes home from a long, dangerous trip.

​Sometimes pretends to leave a lipstick mark instead of a hickey, only for you to find the real bruise beneath the kiss mark later.

​If you ask him stop Luis pouts dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. "No more proof of our beautiful love? Fine, but I reserve the right to leave invisible ones!" He then proceeds to nibble your ear for five minutes straight.

Ada Wong

Often gives them actually

She gives them precisely, only when she knows they will be covered by high-collared clothing. They are often faint, strategically placed, and are more about the intense feeling of being claimed than the visual mark.

She is very difficult to mark. Her skin is firm but still pale, and she maintains an air of composure even in the most passionate moments. If you leave a mark, Ada pauses, giving you a rare, impressed smirk, acknowledging your persistence.

​They are always hidden. She has a wardrobe full of high-neck gowns, silk scarves, and turtlenecks for exactly this purpose. To expose one would be a gross tactical error.

​Ada is meticulous about concealing yours. She will expertly apply foundation or simply drape a perfect silk scarf around your neck. She views any visible mark on you as a distraction to her mission.

​Her favourite place is Right beneath the small, prominent bone at the base of your spine. It is a secret, untouchable spot that reminds her of the vulnerability you share with her.

​She doesn't just admire it; she takes an internal inventory. She'll trace the mark's edge while you're asleep, analyzing the color and size, seeing it as confirmation that you let down your guard for her.

​Sometimes leaves a very faint mark on your hand or wrist as a private, coded sign of affection before she disappears on a long mission.

​The only person Ada allows to see her marks is you. She might briefly lower her collar when you are alone just to let you see the result of your passion before quickly covering it again.

​She doesn't talk about them, but if you mention a mark you left, she’ll give a quick, knowing look and a deep, low chuckle that implies, "You are lucky you survived that attempt."

​When you asked her stop, she nods instantly. "Of course. No need for crude displays." She is easily redirected to places where the marks are concealed, viewing it as a challenge to make them more intense but less visible.

Claire Redfield

She gives them playfully and spontaneously, usually after a moment of intense, relieved affection. They are often clustered around the shoulder or collarbone—visible enough to make a statement.

​Claire laughs when you manage to land a good one on her, giving you a surprised, "Wow, okay, hot stuff!" look. She wears them proudly.

​Claire makes a conscious decision not to hide them unless she is meeting with a specific government contact. Otherwise, she lets her leather jacket collar fall low or wears an open-neck shirt as a sign of defiance.

She'll gently rub a bit of concealer on your neck if you look nervous, but mostly she encourages you to own it: "Seriously, who cares? It looks great on you."

​Her Favorite Place is on the base of your throat, where she can feel the pulse flutter beneath the bruise. It's a reminder of life and passion after too much death.

​If someone stares, she meets their eye with a challenging, amused smile. She might even lean in and whisper a loud, suggestive comment to you just to make the watcher uncomfortable.

​Often gives them before you leave for a trip as a physical reminder of home and a promise of what's waiting for you when you return.

​If one of her NGO colleagues spots a visible mark, she shrugs and says, "Yeah, I finally got some time off. What of it?" and immediately changes the subject to motorcycle maintenance.

​She stands in front of the mirror, turning her head to admire the shade and size of the marks you left, touching them gently with a wide, satisfied grin.

​When you ask her to stop, she understands immediately but pouts dramatically. Claire switches her target to the inner wrist or shoulder blade, saying, "Fine, but I need my signature!"

Jill Valentine

For Jill hickeys are an embarrassing sign of lack of control, but she secretly finds the vulnerability endearing.

​They are usually accidental, happening during intense moments of physical contact and deep affection. They are lighter in color and often happen quickly on the shoulder or upper chest.

​She lets out a sharp, surprised exhale, pulling away slightly with an awkward laugh and saying, "Did you just... are you serious?" She tries to maintain her composure but fails.

​Jill is embarrassed by them. If she has a mission or training, she rigorously tries to cover them with makeup and high-collared shirts, viewing the mark as proof she momentarily dropped her guard.

​She is very practical. She immediately applies a cold cloth to the area to reduce swelling and suggests you wear something to conceal it, saying, "We don't need Barry making jokes."

​The inner curve of your arm, near your bicep is her favourite place. It's subtle, muscular, and visible only when your arm is raised, a hidden moment of passion.

​Catches herself staring at the mark on your skin while you're focused on something else. She blushes and quickly looks away, muttering, "God, I'm such an idiot."

If she sees one on your arm during a gym session, she'll give a quick, tight-lipped smile and then immediately push you to work harder, using the mark as proof of your shared intensity.

She keeps a tube of arnica gel or Vitamin cream in her bedside drawer specifically for quickly healing and concealing any accidental bruises or hickeys.

​When you're alone and the lights are low, she might gingerly touch a mark you left on her, whispering, "Don't tell Chris I let you do that."

​When you ask her to stop Jill agrees instantly, a wave of relief washing over her. She appreciates the respect for her need for control, simply asking for a high-five instead.

Mia Winters

First Time was a little hesitant about them.

Mia gives them emotionally, usually during a moment where she feels particularly safe and secure. They are lighter in color and often delivered in a sudden burst of overwhelming affection.

​She becomes instantly flustered and giggly, covering the spot with her hand and saying, "Oh my goodness, I'm going to have to wear my hair down tomorrow!"

​Makes a theatrical attempt to hide them with her hair or a scarf, but she's not very good at it, and they usually end up peeking out, much to her dramatic dismay.

​She worries about you. She carefully pats concealer on the mark and insists you wear a sweater or jacket, constantly checking throughout the day to make sure it's still covered.

​Her favourite place is on the back of your shoulder, where the skin is soft and easily covered by a sundress or blouse. It is a sweet, hidden sign of her domestic claim.

Mia will stare at it with wide, loving eyes, immediately becoming flushed. She'll reach out and touch it with the back of her hand, saying, "You are just too much. Look what you did to me!"

​If Rose somehow noticed one on her, Mia would have a hilarious, panicked moment, scrambling to cover it while whispering urgently to you, "She saw it! She saw the bruise! What do I tell her?!"

​Mia often insists on leaving a mark on the same spot on your body every time, making a small, temporary pattern that only the two of you know about.

Often apologizes for leaving a visible mark, even though she clearly enjoyed it: "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I just... I missed you so much."

​Would be deflates slightly, looking disappointed if you ask her stop, but respects your request instantly. Mia compensates by increasing the number of soft, non-marking kisses she gives you throughout the day.

[sinsofnivan]

JUST THE TIP?! — RE MEN x YOU! — SMUT!

SUMMARY: no summary. just the tip gf x balls deep bf trope.

TAGS: implied marathon sex, dumbification, overstimulation, unprotected sex, this is all consensual, but just in case, i will tag this as dubious consent.

THIS IS MEANT FOR FANTASY ONLY.

PAIRINGS: LEON KENNEDY/you, LUIS SERRA/you, ALBERT WESKER/you, JACK KRAUSER/you, CARLOS OLIVEIRA/you, CHRIS REDFIELD/you.

A/N: consider this as an apology for being away, and will probably continue to be away after a while. T_T but i hope everyone has been doing well.

NSFW UNDER THE CUT!

LEON S. KENNEDY. ♡

you don't know how long you both have been indulging in each other—all you know is that your cunt's jus' so sensitive. but you want more. you need more. thinkin' about being empty and not being stretched full by your boyfriend's makin' your waterline glimmer with tears.

"leoooon, please—,"

leon stared at you, in awe that you were still conscious. aware. clearly, he's not fucking you properly. "please what, angel?" "fuck me—fuck me, please. need your cock. just put it in," his fingertips tease your clit, and you whine, shaking your head. "nooo—nooooo . . need your cock. please, leon,"

today, leon finds out his ovulating girlfriend can turn into a literal succubus.

"but you said your cunt's all sore, sweet girl. you were crawling away," open-mouthed kisses are bestowed on your cheek. "just the tip. just put the tip in," leon could feel his cock stir, quickly growing erect with your neediness.

"okay, baby. whatever you say," he kisses your teary eyes before hovering over you and grabbing ahold of your legs. just the tip. just the tip. just the tip. leon has to repeat to himself, lathering the leaking crown with his creampie mixed with your slick.

just the tip. just . . the tip.

your creampied pussy makes a lewd squelch as leon slowly pushes the head in. but you're both in cloud nine, eyes rolling like it's the first time you've fucked each other. "y, yes, like that!" you whimper, reaching over to your hypersensitive clit and making aimless circles.

leon begins to move, only giving your cunt shallow, slow thrusts. "fuck, angel—," he lets his head fall back, pleasure enveloping his tip. your cunt's so fucking wet and warm. your fingers pick up their pace, cunt throbbing with intense pleasure. who knew you could jus' get off from just the tip?

"faster,"

faster?

how can leon do that without shoving himself balls deep into you? "faster—pleaseplease, leon," you sobbed. "y/n—i," he bucked his hips, trying to go faster without splittin' you open with his cock. whimpers are spilling from leon's mouth, growing needier by the second, his vision continuing to blur as he eased just the tip in, as per your request.

the way you were clenching around him, creaming around his cock—it drove him crazy. how could he not fuck you? leon has to reminded himself that you want just the tip. but he's relying solely on instinct. and before he could even realize it, he's plunged himself deep by accident, and you're wide-eyed, an unanticipated orgasm taking you both by surprise.

"leon—♡!"

"y/n—i'm sorry, sorry—,"

he can't stop. he won't stop, pounding you into the mattress and making sure you feel every length of him with every ferocious thrust. he's drooling, watching you squirm. something about seeing your pussy spurt out clear fluid with every push in makes him feral, potentially unlocked a new turn on and fantasy to jerk off to.

"t, told you just the tip," you whimper, sniffling, and leon cradles your head, essentially smushing your face into his chest. "sorry. 'm sorry, sorry—i l, love your cunt." leon sobbed, his hips doing all the work for him, pummeling into you without mercy.

spit's shining on leon's built chest as you automatically kiss and lick at the area. marks in the shape of your canines are left, and leon hisses when you bite him again.

"gonna cum, y, y/n—gonna cum—cumming. 'm cumming, oh god,"

he vigorously rams his cock in your leaking pussy, hard yet hurried; it's sloppy, and leon's just desperate to fill you again. your moans are muffled by his flesh, and leon has yet to notice that he's crushing you with his chest. not that you minded, either.

with a few more unrhythmic slams of his hips, he's spilling himself in you, all of his cum just overspilling as he kept rutting into you. "hah— h, haah . . so good—so good," he babbles, spit dripping on his chin as his eyes rolled back. "leooohn—," you grunt from beneath your boyfriend.

it's only when his orgasm finally comes down that he stops moving, clarity slowly seeping into his fucked out mind. he retires from you almost immediately, now-concerned eyes soaking in the sight of you. did you pass out? "y/n," a hand caresses your rosy cheek.

"y/n, please come back to me,"

"mhh . . "

oh thank god. he knows you're just fine, but he was still worried. "are you okay?" he whispers, brushing away the stray strings of your hair. "i'm sorry, i was . . too into it," you chuckle when you feel him pepper your face with kisses.

"i'm fine. still in one piece, baby."

you both groan when he slowly pulls out, the rest of his creampies spilling out of your gaping cunt. "i love you, leon." you mutter, weakly wrapping your arms around him. "i love you too, angel."

LUIS SERRA. ♡

"luis . . just the tip,"

you both really shouldn't have fooled around with these aphrodisiacs. it's been hours and his cock's yet to come down. luis isn't even sure if he can cum anym—

wait. did he hear that right?

"what'd you say, mami?"

it's harder to hear you when you're bent over, and especially when you're mumbling and barely coherent. "the tip—jus' the tip," you whine. "is my bebé sensitive?" he drags a finger over your slit, and you squeak, body jerking in response. your knees almost gave out. "luiiis . . jus' the tip, p, por favor . . "

you poor thing. he affectionately runs a hand over your spine, down to your ass where he kneads your curvaceous flesh. "por supuesto, amor. we can go slow. and . . just the tip," [ of course, love. ] he thought he could do it. luis can control himself, can go slow if requested—usually—but the drug that ran through his veins made that fucking impossible. swallowing a nervous lump, he prods the tip against your slit. fuck, you're so fucking wet. this wasn't fair.

with a slow push of his hips, your warmth embraces his sensitive cocktip. "oh, fuck. oh my fucking god. dios mio," luis's grip on your ass tightens, his own way of restricting himself. "sólo quiero follarte," [ i just wanna fuck you, ] he confesses, but only thrusts the tip in and nothing else.

"me estás matando aquí, bebé," [ you're killin' me here, baby. ] luis babbled on, a shiver running down spine. "are you sure you're sensitive? y, you've been—you've been always able to take it," turns out, he didn't have it in him to fulfill your request. luis could hear the obscene squelches your creamy pussy made, and his brows narrowed as he winced, almost as if he was pained from your instruction. yet, his restrained thrusts—it was more like gentle rocking, to be honest—continued, the tip pulling out with an obscene pop with every withdrawal of his hips.

he enjoyed it, of course. more than anything. but luis was a greedy, hungry man. yearning more. needing more. your pussy was just so fucking inviting, creaming all over for him with just the tip—fuck, you can't ask this from him.

"bebé—y/n, i can't—can't take it anymore. i have to. t, tengo que follarte," [ i have to fuck you. ] your eyes widened when luis slowly slides in an experimental inch. you squeal, reaching behind you with one arm, but luis just pins it on your back.

the moment he's stuffing himself completely fucking full into you, you're just sobbing, legs shaking from the mind-numbing pleasure. luis was, too, not even realizing he had just cum in you. his hips moved like clockwork, "luis! luiissss—fuck!" was all you could cry out. you squirmed, writhed, tried to crawl away from the addicting pain of pleasure, but he's tugging you right back and slamming himself into you to the hilt.

"lo siento—lo siento bebé. feels good, h, haah . . " [ i'm sorry—i'm sorry, baby. ]

all that cum pouring out of you made it much, much easier to pound that cunt. "h, haaah—fuck! luiiss—," you sobbed, unable to stop your legs from giving out. his chest rests warmly on your back, and you feel a loving kiss pressed on your temple.

"te amo, te amo . . . " he murmured as he pummeled that pussy, making sure that the tip thwacked against your perky cervix and hitting all the right spots. your head rests nicely on the pillow, and you're so fucked out, you think you're about to pass out from all the pleasure.

the bed creaks as luis kept ramming his cock deep into you, and you squeal as another orgasm washes over your body. the nth orgasm made your eyes cross, made you see fucking stars as your legs quivered and you clutched the sheets helplessly. luis didn't see it, but he sure as hell fucking felt it as you squirt all over him and his legs. "dios—dios mio, you're making a fu, fucking mess,"

his thrusts begin to slow down, hard-on still intact, but the aphrodisiac wasn’t as strong as it was from the beginning. blinking, luis realizes he was crushing you by resting his whole weight on you. "shit, shit—y/n, i'm sorry," he shuddered when he slips out of your creampied pussy. "mierda, hace frío," [ shit, it's cold. ] is whispered to himself whilst he gently lays you on your back.

"luiiis . . " you huffed. "that's not the tip," "i know, i know. i'm sorry. but, in my defense, eso es imposible," [ that's impossible to do. ] an affectionate hand caressed your hair. "still sensitive, prinsesa?" you groggily nuzzle your face in his arms.

you only hummed. the next minute is spent in silence, as luis kept you warm and held you firmly. "next time, no more aphrodisiacs," you stir as he spoke, letting out a scoff. "what? booooo."

"wha—excuse you, señorita, why are you booing me?"

"oh, c'mon. don't lie. that was fun,"

"jesus, you are such a freak. me asustas. you need to read the bible or something,"

"wow. like it wasn't you who bought those pills!"

"oh. ehehe. right."

ALBERT WESKER. ♡

bro this gif im going to start s/creaming

you're already fucked out. already trembling from the orgasms wesker's given you, and it's all thanks to the new toys he had bought from his trip. a clit sucker and a vibrating, ridged, girthy dildo. you sobbed as wesker kept thrusting the toy in and out of you, making sure you take all of its length.

"f, fuck—! s, sir, cumming—, 'm cumming,"

there wasn't much you could do, not when a silk ribbon tied your wrists and ankles to the headboard. ( he bought those, too, by the way. ) "again? look at the mess you just made." you look over at the silicone, the base was coated in your creaminess—and it was already smearing to his already-soaked fingertips.

it was so easy for him to break you, and he hasn't even undressed himself yet.

your hips buck against the air, and the unintentional reflex just makes you grind your clit against the toy that lavished its attention on you. "fuuck—! fuckfuckfuck—, a, albert—!" you clutched onto the ribbons, eyes rolling as you felt your cunt throb with need. you were close, you could feel it in the pits of your stomach. "what was that?"

wesker clicked his tongue, clearly displeased. "you call me sir, brat. or are these toys getting into that head of yours?" you hear a few clicks, and your eyes widened when you realized that the clit sucker's set to its highest setting. "s, sir—i'm sorry! i'm sorry!"

the dildo could never compare to your sir's cock—never—but the extra sensations of the pulsations and the ridges quickly sent you to the edge, never missing where you were most sensitive, always grazing that spongy nub that made your mouth fall agape. "don't w, wanna cum anymore—too much," you whimpered.

"aw," he cooed, a small smile appearing on his lips; barely noticeable. "that's really too bad, pup." he taunts, giving you a slow, but hard thrust. you squealed, clutching on to your ribbons.

"you're not in charge here,"

your cries are music to his ears, and his eyes gaze over to your squirting cunt in amusement. even though you're trembling and drooling, he's yet to withdraw the toys from you.

"are you?" "n, no, sir!" he's tight-lipped and has yet to move an inch. "n, no, sir! i'm n, not in chaaaarge—y, you are!" "hm," good enough. much to your relief, both are turned off, and you're granted a few seconds of relief.

your body relaxes on the soft bed, chest rising as you pant. “colour?” wesker asks, a rough palm caressing your shaking thighs. “g, green,” you mutter. “good. ‘m not done yet,”

wesker retires from the bed, taking his sweet time in undressing himself. it was quite the sight, though; seeing him undo his tie, unbuckle his pants. his boxers had a wet spot from his leaking tip. “you’ve been a good pup, darling.”

the bed sinks with his added weight, and you watch him leave kisses on your inner thighs, stroking his cock with a spare hand as he lathered his pre all over his monstrous girth. fuck . . could you take that? you don’t think y’have it in you. but you didn’t want to stop. y’wanted him . .

“s, sir,”

you call, and wesker’s eyes tilt up. now that he was much closer, y’could see how blown out his pupils were. “yes, my love?” he asked as he positions himself, grabbing ahold of your thighs as he slaps his fat cock atop your mons.

“c, can you put just the tip i, in—?”

wesker acts as if he didn’t hear a word you just said, rubbing his length all over your slit—continuing to lubricate his shaft with your juices. you gasped when the tip slowly sinks in, and you finally get your answer when he slammed the rest of his girth into you. you screamed, back arching as your eyes crossed.

“why should i?”

he begins to rut into you, pummeling your sensitive cunt with mean thrusts. “tell me, pet. why should i?” you couldn’t utter out a proper response, not when your brain was turning to fucking mush as he pounded you. “speak up, slut.” the added nickname’s making you clench around him, and wesker only scoffed at your lack of coherence.

“gone stupid? from me just putting—hnngg—it in?”

with the position he had you in, it was impossible for the tip to not kiss your cervix, impossible for you to not scream for him as he mercilessly plowed that cunt. "s, sir—h, haaah . . ! fuck—!" your overstimulated pussy's fucking throbbing. a squeal's torn from you as his palm collides with your puffy clit with a smack! the sting's makin' your eyes fucking water, and you could feel your legs tremble again.

"will you tell me what to do again, pet?"

"n, no, sir!"

wesker grinned, rewarding your sore clit with a kind caress of his thumb. "good pet. that's—," he groaned. fuuuck, wesker shudders at the feeling of your cunt spasming around his girth. "—more like it. gonna—gonna fuck you how i want to," his words are emphasized with harsh thrusts, to drill that idea in your pretty fucking head.

"where i want to,"

"u, uh-huh!"

"when i want to,"

"u-uhnnn—y, yes s, siiiir . . ♡ !"

seeing how disheveled and how much of a drooling mess you were, were you even remembering what he was saying? probably not. but don't worry, he's more than willing to remind you where you belonged. he could no longer hold back his noises, but he wasn't even interested in trying, anyway.

the way he sounded—feral, almost beast-like, even—you'd be lying if you said it didn't incite more arousal from you. wesker ensured you felt all of him, hips moving without thought as he mercilessly slammed into that tight fit. unfortunately for you, he was more monster than he was human.

you were fucking tightening up around him—still adjusting from the sudden switch from silicone to flesh—and how could wesker ever resist ramming and bullying that pussy with his fat cock? the way he could see how he split you open, shuddering when his tip's right against your cervix—oh, you were such a sweet, sweet pet.

his cock throbbed with the ache of a release. you made it difficult for him to control himself. "fuck—'m gonna fill you up," he hissed. "think y'deserve a creampie from me, sweet girl?" smack! the collision of his palm on your cunt brings you back to reality for a brief moment. "i'm—i'm talking to you," he snarled, an you nod mindlessly. "s, sorrryyyy . . . y, yes sir! yesyesyesyes—please!"

you continue to beg him, plead for his cum whilst he busied himself with rearranging your fucking insides. it's all you could do amidst your fucked out state. don't you worry. wesker was more than satisfied with your expressions.

burying himself to the hilt, you let out a scream as an orgasm is forced from you again, fingertips affectionately rubbing on your clit. wesker can't decide where to look—if he should watch that pussy quiver as you squirted or your face that's contorting as your irises disappear behind your lids.

"yeaaaaah, just like that. look at you—fuck, you're such a slut,"

his hips stutter as spurts of thick, warm semen floods your womb and walls. wesker groaned, shivers pricking his skin. your cunt milked him so good; and not like he'll tell you, but he's fucking obsessed. obsessed with how you're so obedient fo him, how your cunt clenched around him as you quivered from overstimulation.

"tsk, you're leaking. tighten up, slut. don't spill any more," you only oblige him—it's all you could do in your fucked-out state. a groan echoes in the room as he slowly slips out from you. from where wesker knelt, he had the perfect fucking view of your gaping cunt, trying her absolute best to keep it all in as he asked. you squeaked when he caresses your puffy clit affectionately. "shh, shh . . i know," he cooed, the other hand undoing your restraints. you didn't have the strength to keep your eyes open.

the tension slowly rolls off your muscles as he sets your legs down slowly. "you did well, my love," you could feel him bestow kisses on your face. eyes, nose, lips—they were all showered in loving kisses. your wrists are set free as he undid the ribbons on your sore wrists, his lips ghosting over the red marks over your skin, too. "missed you, albert," you mumbled, eyes slowly opening. "i missed you too, my love," there's a faint smile on his face—meant to be witnessed by you only.

"you know we're not yet done, right?"

JACK KRAUSER. ♡

krauser really has lots of pent-up frustration and sexual frustration. blessed with inhumane stamina, it's really no surprise that he can last multiple rounds. 'specially when all of it just piles up on him, mmmm—god, he loves nothing more than taking it out on you and using you for fucking hours.

but krauser is mean. cruel. you want just the tip? that's really—

"too fucking bad, baby,"

that request is fucking impossible, because he's got you folded and locked in a full nelson hold. did you expect that he'd just not bury himself deep in your pretty cunt? your eyes widened as you watched his cock slowly stretched you out again. your cunt was too sensitive.

"n, no—krauser! don't! d, don't—pleasepleaseplease—,"

his balls only throbbed, eyes rolling as your pleas fall to deafened ears. your groans echo in the room as he pushes another inch or two into you. fuck, you need to breathe—

krauser laughed breathily in your ear. "what was that?" you couldn't muster a single word—it was all just pathetic squeaks. "just the tip, you say?" he'd purr, pushing in as slow as he can so your pulsating walls can feel every single inch stretching you. ruining you.

"c, can't—,"

"can't what? can't speak?"

he completely slams into you with a loud plap! you're speechless and fucking stupefied—but, frankly, what else is there to say? "urgg—feel that?" this fucking asshole just had to start gyrating his hips. you could feel the tip poke 'nd prod against that cervix, and fuck, you're trembling.

"c'moooon, sweets. y'better be awake,"

sticky drool's drippin' from those pretty lips as he began to pound you like he hated you. him doing all the work was not a problem, not at all. krauser could easily manhandle you, and he made sure that you knew. he was bouncing you on his cock like you weighed nothing and fuck—you couldn't even think of anything to say aside from his name and ah's! and oh's!

it didn't help his cock was a mix of both veiny and fucking gargantuan—you're convinced your cervix's all bruised because his tip kept hitting 'nd hitting all of your spots. "love your cunt—fuck, you like this? huh? bet you do. look at your cunt's reflection. messy fucking slut," he groaned, ramming into you vigorously. it's like he hasn't even broken a sweat.

"k, krauseeeer—," you sobbed, absolutely broken and cockdrunk. "yeah? 'm here," he pants, eyes threatening to roll back. but he had to watch you in the mirror, had to watch you crumble and go fucking stupid just from his cock. "what does my baby want, h, huh? want me to go faster?" before you had the chance to respond, he's fucking pummeling into you faster than you could even blink; you're fucking dizzy and barely lucid, but that's okay. no need to think, krauser's got you. ♡

"'m c, cummingggggg—cumming. j, jaaaaack—♡!"

"my fucking goooood—fuuuuuuck . . look at this squirting cunt,"

clear liquid's spurtin' out of that stretched pussy, coating him and yourself as he forces an orgasm outta you. you're so fucking hot, fuck. krauser's never ever ever letting you go. "you love my cock, babe?" if it wasn't for how both his large hands held your head, you would have nodded. "u, uh-huh! love—l, love your cock—♡!" "attaaa girl. i love your cunt so, so fucking much—♡,"

krauser doesn't even realize he's drooling himself—completely immersed in the pleasure. he could stay buried in you for fucking eternity. "fuck—wanna breed you. lemme breed—lemme breed you. need to knock you up," he babbled on, focused on jus' chasing his release. and with the pace of how he fucked you—it wouldn't take long.

and you?

you're fucking spritzing all over him everytime his tip grazes against that spongy nub in your dripping pussy. why'd you even ask him to not put it all in? clearly, you loved this. but don't worry. for once, he'll humour you. "y'wanted just the tip, right?" "h, hnnngg—♡," good enough of an answer for him. you're brought back to reality briefly when his movements halt. confused, you only watched your obscene reflections whilst he shifted his hips. "j, jack, what're you—?!" your eyes widened when you feel his tip slowly bury into the tight barrier of flesh in your cervix.

krauser whimpered. fuuuuuuck, you were sucking him in so good. he can't even pull out. "baby—baby, oh god. fuck, fuck. i'm fucking—cumming. 'm cumming—oh my gooooood," it didn't take any more thrusts for him to start filling your womb up with fertile, sticky cum.

you whined as your cunt's flooded with his seed, and you couldn't do anythin' except for clawing on his built forearms as he held you in place. "urgg—yeah . . . just like that . . fuuuck, i love your pussy baby," you couldn't utter a word. you felt so fucking full. krauser finally releases your head, but still held your body close as he settles on the edge of the bed. you practically collapse on his muscular frame when he finally sits, and that's okay. ♡ krauser made sure he held you tight, wrapping large arms around your body and leaning into you so he could kiss your face.

"tongue out, babe. lemme . . "

you oblige mindlessly, sticking your pretty tongue out for him. krauser's scarred lips wrap around your wet muscle, groaning as he sucked on it. didn't take long 'til he was devouring your spit-stained mouth as you cockwarmed him.

"mmmm. ♡."

CHRIS REDFIELD. ♡

this gif is so? um.

chris usually loves to prep you. loves to spend his time devouring your pussy and having his lips wrapped around that sensitive clit.

but you've got work in an hour, and time isn't a luxury you both have. "chris, j, just the tip, okay?" you say, raisin' your hips as you bent over the dining table; weight propped up on your soft palms. of course you can't say no to him, especially when the outline of his erected cock on his grey boxers is all you've been seeing this morning. but you're just a girl. you have needs and wants.

"just the tip?"

chris asks, pressing his clothed chest against your back. you feel his stubble against your cheek as he pressed open-mouthed kisses on your skin. "i don't . . i don't think i can do it, princess," he whined as his hips push forward. you couldn't utter another word as the leaking head stretches your cunt out.

you shuddered, lips quivering as you clutched on to whatever surface you were bent over on. "y, you caaaan—a, aaah, fuck—you have to . . ” you whined. but chris was greedy. hungry.

he’s not sure where he gets the courage to pull out, but he does. the tip slides out from you with a lewd, almost muted, pop! and you’re both unsatisfied, left yearning with feeling the other completely; but it makes do. it has to. tonight, he can have you for as long as he wanted.

“y/n, p, please—,” he pleads, still fuckin’ you with just the tip. chris can feel just how wet you are, hear how that cunt squelched as bucked his hips. “n, nooo—chris, i’ll—i’ll be late,” “don’t go,” his canines graze your skin, and you squealed when he pushes an inch in. your cunt’s pulsating—trying to accommodate his fat cock without prep. “don’t go—y’don’t h, have to go. please stay,” “ch, chris, i—hnnn!” the rest is completely slammed into you, and your eyes cross. chris takes advantage of your agape mouth, kissing you and letting his tongue glissade over yours.

chris starts to pound that cunt, and muffled cries were swallowed by his lips. you can’t really lie, this felt waaaay better than just the tip. the way the tip bulges out from your lower tummy, the way the pink crown keeps kissing that sensitive cervix, it can’t compare. ever.

“mhhhf,” you groan against his lips, and chris playfully bites down on your lower brim. it was hard to take in air when every thrust into you knocked the air outta your lungs. chris parts from you as he held your hips with those big hands of his.

his pace quickens, ramming into you mercilessly. you're both whimpering, voices blending together in melodious sin; whatever thoughts you had before—gone. not when chris had the skill to turn your brain to mush. "goddd—fuck, y/n. y, y'feel so goooood . . " chris sobbed. if only you could see his face. brows scrunched as he struggled to keep his eyes open; only you could bring these facial expressions to this big, beefy man's face.

you squealed when a hand snakes under your skirt, fingertips rubbing against your neglected clit. "oh fuck!" you mewled, unable to keep your cries to a low. "feel good, princess?" chris purred whilst fucking you into oblivion. "u, uh-huh—♡!" fuuuuck, his balls are fucking throbbing.

"d, don't go . . jus' stay. be my pretty little wife. i can t, take care of you,"

he babbled on, rutting into you, stuffing you full with that veiny cock. chris wants nothing more than to fucking breed you, fill your womb with his cum. "'m g, gonna fucking cum," he pants, chest heaving. but he doesn't stop pummeling that cunt—goes faster, actually. chasing his release and eager to give you yours. the table's creaking, and everything on it shook with every thrust. upstairs neighbour behaviour.

you screamed when he lightly pinches that sensitive bud, and you're seeing stars; mouth agape and back completely arched as he coaxes an orgasm from you. your legs trembled, and chris bit on his lip. "fuuuuck, baby. you're so hot—love you, i love you," "chriiiis, fuckfuckfuckfuuuuck. love youuuuuu . . ♡,"

your lips crash together again, sloppily kissing each other as chris fucks you through your high. he grunts, wrapping his lips 'round your tongue, tasting you. with another slam of his hips, you moan against his mouth when he's completely buried deep in you; thick ropes of cum flooding your creamy, spasming cunt. he can't move any more, can't think anymore. he pulls away from you, because he's sure he'll forget how to breathe.

"oooooh, fuuuck—♡,"

spit's trickling down his stubbled chin, and chris is quiet for a moment; sent to cloud nine and completely fucked out. it takes a minute or two for him to recover, and he tilts your head to the side so he could briefly kiss you while he slid out of your cunt. you both groan, and chris kneads your ass, watching his cum slowly leak from your gaping pussy.

"heheh . . gonna call in sick?"

well, you couldn't feel your legs, so. yes.

CARLOS OLIVEIRA. ♡

carlos watched you writhe whilst you came undone from his tongue. your fingers were tugging on his already disheveled, raven tresses. it's your fifth orgasm—he thinks, if he's counting right; and he'd gladly give you more. his wet kisses trail up your tummy, chest, lips, and you liked how your taste lingered on his tongue.

"carlooos,"

"yes, meu bebê?"

carlos gets a realization tonight.

"want more. 'jus wanna feel you,"

he spoils you a little too much.

your cunt was still twitching with need. you'd do anything to satiate your hunger, anything to relieve that arousal pooling in your tummy. even though he's spent the last few minutes coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you.

but he loved seeing you like this. desperate. needy. like he was the only person you needed. you knew just how to get his gears going without trying. "hmm? but you just came, meu bebê. my beard's still wet," he teased, lips latching on your neck and tracing your skin with sharp canines. you held on to his built biceps, and carlos brings your knuckles to his lips. "j, jus' the tip. please. i want more," "i know, i know, bebê. shh . . "

he can never resist you. especially when you were begging him so prettily. didn't take long for him to prod his tip against your needy hole. you both gasp when the tip slowly sinks in, slowly stretches that wet pussy apart. your nails dig into his skin, and carlos bit his lip. "fuuuck, y/n. your pussy—," fucking warm 'nd tight. clenching on him like you needed him.

carlos didn't mind being bossed around by you, especially by you. he'd do anything you'd ask before you could even blink, but he just has to remind you who's in charge.

you gasped when he slowly sheathes an inch or two into your tight cunt. "carlos, w, what're you—?!" he makes sure to slide in nice and slow, so you'll feel every inch of him splitting him open. and also so he can savour that surprised look in your face.

especially when he harshly shoves the rest of his cock in your leaking pussy, god. you'll kill him. "y, you're so unfair, princesa. so cruel t'me," he cooed, not even giving you the time to process a thought as he began to pound you with ungodly stamina.

"you think i don't have needs too? think i don't need to fuck this cunt and to fuck you 'til you're cockdrunk and overstimulated?" nasty mouth, nastier thrusts. your eyes crossed, body jouncing with every slam forward of his hips.

"c, carlos—h,hnnngg!"

he grins. "yeaaaah, that's right, baby. scream my name." you were so sensitive already, flesh walls spasming around his veiny girth, but fuck, you were oozing so much milky essence, it smeared all over his balls. he leans in so your lips could crash together, and carlos grunts against your mouth as you instinctively wrap you legs around him. of course he had to pick up his pace. why wouldn't he? he was such a good boyfriend to you, paying attention to all your needs.

you whine when he parts from you, but he has to, or else he'd lose his balance. he needed to focus on fucking you, tire his pretty bebê out. he bites his lip when you run your palms all over his built chest and abdomen.

"fuckfuckfuck—carlos—♡!"

a hand wraps around your breast, kneading your tits and running his fingers over your erect nipple. whatever thought you had, he quickly fucked it out from that pretty mind of yours. whatever. not like you needed to think when he could do that for you. well, try.

"y/n—♡ godddd, minha linda garota," [ my pretty girl, ] he babbles on, absolutely hypnotized. god, what were you doing to him? carlos kept pummeling that cunt, bed creaking obnoxiously in the process but it seemed that neither of you cared.

more marks littered his skin, ranging from bites to scratches, and they were definitely going to be sore later, but that's okay, a little pain didn't hurt no one. spit trickles down on carlos's stubbled chin, and you lift yourself up a little jus' so you could lick it up.

"y/n—♡! f, fuck! você é tão porra de suja, m, merda!" [ you're so fucking filthy, shit! ] hooking his arms around your thighs and lifting it up to his shoulders, you squealed when he begins to fuck you faster. harder. sounds of skin slapping growing louder as he rammed you without mercy.

a spare thumb began to trace aimless circles on your clit, and you screamed as an orgasm was ripped from your poor oversensitive cunt. "c, carlos—♡! oh fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuuuuck!" you clutched onto the pillows, sheets, fucking anything. you sobbed, and carlos gently flicks his middle finger against that puffy clit—you squealed as you squirt in small fountains.

"you're sensitive, aren't you, bebê? eu te quebrei, princesa?" [ did i break you, princess? ]

and oh, the way you only responded in fucked out mewls, how fucking precious. now that you've coated his girth in your squirt, it was much easier for him to move in 'n out. you could hear jus' how wet he made you, how that soaking cunt squelched with every thrust. you were such a slut for your boyfriend, and rightfully so.

he stops being cocky when his orgasm nears, grunts turning into high-pitched whimpers as he fucked you into the mattress. carlos tried to keep his monstrous, merciless pace, but fuck, he was so close. the closer he was to filling your cunt up and flooding your walls, the sloppier his hips got, probably from fatigue.

but you were such an angel, his god-sent angel, movin' your hips as you tried to meet his thrusts halfway. carlos could cum at the fucking sight of you trying to fuck yourself against him.

"oh god—♡! oh god, fuck, fuuuuck. vou gozar. vou te engravidar. ai meu deus." [ gonna cum. 'm gonna get you pregnant, oh my god. ] carlos sobbed, and after a few more push of his hips, he's crying out as ribbons of thick cum filled that cunt.

he rides his high out with a few more mindless thrusts, combing a spare hand through his hair. he's in fucking heaven, jesus christ. it's you that brings him back to reality, rubbing his forearm and eventually interlacing your fingers with his.

"oh my god, baby. are you okay?" he caressed your face, and you tiredly smile at him. "never better," you kissed his palm, and carlos tucks away the stray hairs on your face. "you sure? you okay? does anything hurt?" "no, i'm fine. well, a little sore and sensitive, but it's okay. i like it," a grin tugged on his lips, and he shook his head. "you're such a freak, baby. it's okay, i love you," a kiss is pressed on your forehead, nose, and then lips.

you shuddered when he pulls out, and his cum slowly leaks from your used, gaping hole. "i love you . . " you mutter, scooting over to the side so carlos can have the space beside you. he sighs in relief when he finally lays down, absolutely spent. "c'mere," carlos sleepily grunts, pulling you to his arms. you took it upon yourself to cover both your bare, sweaty bodies with the blanket.

"did i tire you out yet?" "hmm . . no, not really," you jeered, and carlos chuckled. "well, i certainly tired myself out," you both laugh, and it didn't take long 'til you both dozed off.

end.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! more to cum. ;) also, regarding carlos's fics, i will repair them soon and change his bilingual dialogue from spanish to portuguese. i'd like to apologize for mistaking him as hispanic!

[jonnasse]

[mimmixerenard]

You know, I wish we could prevent Luis from getting stabbed. Sure, it may just be postponing the inevitable but... one can dream.

[sadgirlnamedmaria]

RE MEN WITH A S/O THAT LIKE TO TAKE CARE OF THEM

HC Preferences: Resident Evil Boys x Reader Taking Care Of Them

------------------------------------

♂️Male Characters:

Leon S. Kennedy

Chris Redfield

Albert Wesker

Carlos Oliveira

Piers Nivans

Jake Muller

Jack Krauser

Luis Sera

HUNK

Karl Heisenberg

The Merchant

Glenn Arias

Billy Coen

Zeno Wesker

------------------------------------

Leon S. Kennedy

At first, Leon brushes off your care with self-deprecating jokes like "I'm fine, really. I've survived worse than a scraped knee," but he secretly melts when you insist. 

He has massive guilt from constantly putting himself in danger, so when you patch him up or make him coffee after a nightmare, he gets quiet and stares at you like you're a miracle he doesn't deserve. 

Physical touch while being cared for, such as you washing his hair or massaging his shoulders, makes him close his eyes and sigh deeply; he's touch-starved from years of isolation. 

He pretends to hate "being babied," but if you try to stop, he gives you those puppy-dog eyes and mumbles, "Wait... don't go yet." 

Homemade meals hit him hardest; he eats like a man who forgot what real food tastes like on missions, then pulls you into a hug afterward, whispering thanks. 

When you're bandaging his wounds, he watches your focused face and thinks about how you're the one stable thing in his chaotic life. 

He reciprocates by being overly protective of you, but in quiet moments, he lets himself be vulnerable and lean on you. 

Cuddling after you force him to rest? He turns into a clingy koala, burying his face in your neck and muttering that he could get used to this. 

If you're running a bath or forcing him to sleep, he teases you about being his "personal medic," but his voice cracks with genuine gratitude. 

Deep down, your care is slowly healing his burnout, he starts smiling more genuinely and even takes fewer unnecessary risks because he has someone waiting at home.

Chris Redfield

Chris is the ultimate "I can handle it" guy, but when you take care of him, he softens instantly; big tough soldier turns into a teddy bear. 

He loves when you cook hearty meals; after missions, he eats seconds and thirds while telling you it's the best thing he's had in months. 

Getting shoulder rubs or ice packs for his sore muscles? He groans in relief and pulls you onto his lap, insisting you stay there. 

He worries about being a burden due to his absences, so your gentle insistence on caring for him reassures him that you're in it for real. 

Post-mission, if you help him shower or change bandages, he gets emotional, quiet tears while he holds your hand. 

He brags to his team about how amazing you are at taking care of him; of course in a proud, lovesick way. 

He repays the favor tenfold; cooking breakfast in bed or carrying you around when you're tired; but he secretly prefers when you pamper him. 

Cuddles are mandatory; he wraps his massive arms around you and sighs contentedly when you play with his hair. 

If you're forcing him to rest, he grumbles playfully but complies because "you're the boss." 

Your care reminds him there's life beyond fighting; he starts prioritizing home time more because of it.

Albert Wesker

Wesker initially scoffs at "needless coddling"; he's superior, after all but your persistence intrigues him. 

When you prepare precise, high-protein meals tailored to his enhanced body, he raises an eyebrow in quiet approval. 

He allows you to adjust his coat or smooth his hair only because it amuses him... and because your touch feels oddly grounding. 

Wound care? He lets you do it with clinical detachment at first, but his glowing, fiery eyes soften when you worry. 

He finds your concern both inefficient and strangely addictive; he starts "accidentally" coming home injured more often. 

If you draw him a bath or insist on rest, he lounges dramatically while lecturing you... but doesn't actually stop you. 

Your care challenges his god complex; he begins viewing you as a rare equal who can "handle" him. 

He reciprocates with calculated gifts or protection, but never admits he enjoys being fussed over. 

In private, he might lean into your touch longer than necessary, murmuring that "perhaps humanity has its merits." 

Ultimately, your nurturing becomes one of the few things that makes him feel something beyond cold ambition.

Carlos Oliveira

Carlos absolutely eats up the attention. He grins like an idiot whenever you fuss over him. 

He calls you his "personal angel" and dramatically flops onto the couch for you to pamper him. 

Homemade food? He devours it and showers you with compliments and kisses. 

If you're patching him up, he flirts the whole time: "Careful, doc, your bedside manner is dangerously hot." 

He loves when you run your fingers through his hair or give him massages, he melts and gets all soft. 

He worries about dragging you into his dangerous life, so your care makes him feel worthy of love. 

He repays by being super affectionate; constant hugs, carrying you, spoiling you right back. 

Post-mission cuddles are his favorite; he holds you tight and whispers how much he missed this. 

If you're forcing him to rest, he pretends to resist but secretly loves being "taken care of." 

Your nurturing makes him more open emotionally, he starts sharing fears he never told anyone.

Piers Nivans

Piers is quietly grateful; he's used to putting others first, so someone caring for him feels new and warming. 

He blushes when you tend his wounds or make him tea, mumbling "You don't have to..." but never stops you. 

He loves simple acts like you cooking or laying out clean clothes, he sees it as true partnership. 

All those physical care like hair pets and back rubs makes him relax in a way missions never allow. 

He opens up more during quiet moments of care, sharing stories from his BSAA days. 

He reciprocates fiercely; always checking on you, protecting you but cherishes when roles reverse. 

If you're insisting he rest, he complies with a soft smile: "Only because it's you." 

Cuddling? He holds you like you're precious, breathing you in after long days. 

Your care helps him cope with trauma, he starts sleeping better with you around. 

He tells you quietly one day that you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Jake Muller

Jake acts tough and brushes off care at first "Jeez, Y/N. I don't need babysitting", but he secretly craves it. 

When you patch him up or cook, he grunts thanks but watches you with softer eyes. 

He melts during physical affection with his head on your lap, you running fingers through his hair. 

Your insistence on him resting makes him feel safe for the first time in years. 

He starts letting his guard down more, even joking about you being his "handler." 

He repays by being protective and surprisingly sweet in private. 

If you're caring for him post-fight, he pulls you close and mutters that he doesn't hate this. 

Deep down, your nurturing heals his abandonment issues, he starts trusting you fully. 

He gets clingy when tired, wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. 

Your care makes him want to be better; not just survive, but live for someone.

Jack Krauser

Krauser growls that he doesn't need "pampering," but he doesn't pull away when you insist. Yes, he wouldn't pull away at all; being the stubborn oaf that he can be sometimes.

He secretly enjoys when you tend his scars or wounds, your gentle touch contrasts his harsh life. 

He lets you fuss over him in private only, grumbling the whole time but leaning into it. 

Homemade meals surprise him; he eats quietly, then pulls you in for a rough kiss as a form of gratitude. 

Massages or hair play? He closes his eyes and relaxes more than he'd admit. 

Your care softens his edges, he starts seeing you as his one weakness worth having. 

He reciprocates with intense protection and rare tender moments. 

If you're forcing rest, he smirks and says "Fine, but only if you stay right here." 

Cuddles turn possessive, he holds you tight like you're his anchor. 

Deep down, your nurturing makes him feel human again after years of being a weapon.

Luis Sera

Luis starts with his signature flirtatious charm, teasing you like "Mi amor, you trying to make me soft?" but he absolutely soaks up every bit of attention. 

He dramatically flops back when you patch his wounds, winking and saying "Be gentle, doctor. I'm delicate," even though he's grinning through the pain. 

Your homemade meals blow him away; he eats with exaggerated moans of delight, then pulls you close for a kiss, murmuring "This is better than any cigarette." 

He loves when you fuss over his hair or adjust his coat; he leans into it with a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded in contentment. 

Post-mission, if you force him to rest, he complains playfully but stays put because your worried look makes his heart flip. 

He reciprocates with over-the-top romance like flowers, poetry, surprise gifts, but secretly craves your quiet, steady care more than anything flashy. 

Nightmares hit him hard; when you hold him and whisper reassurances, he clings tighter than he'd ever admit. 

Massages or running a bath? He melts completely, turning into a purring, affectionate mess who won't let you leave his side. 

Your nurturing reminds him of a life worth fighting for; he starts being more careful on jobs because he has you to come home to. 

Deep down, he feels like he doesn't deserve this kindness, but your persistence makes him believe maybe he can be more than just a charming rogue.

HUNK

HUNK is all business at first. Silent nods when you offer care, like "Unnecessary, but proceed." But he never actually stops you. 

When you clean and bandage his wounds with precision, he watches intently, impressed by your efficiency (and secretly warmed by the concern). 

He eats your prepared meals methodically, then quietly says "Adequate nutrition. Appreciated.", basically his version of high praise. 

Physical touch is rare for him, so when you smooth his shoulders or fix his gear, he freezes for a second before relaxing minutely. 

He worries your care could make him "soft," but he finds himself returning home faster after ops just to see you. 

If you're insisting on rest, he complies without argument; sits still while you hover, mask still on but posture less rigid. 

In private, he lets the mask come off more often around you, allowing small vulnerabilities like leaning into your touch. 

He repays subtly; extra protection, leaving supplies for you, but your nurturing is the one thing that pierces his stoic shell. 

Cuddles are awkward at first (he stiffens), but he eventually wraps an arm around you like it's tactical support. 

Your care humanizes him after years of being a ghost, he starts valuing downtime and even cracks the rare, dry joke about "mission: recovery."

Karl Heisenberg

Karl laughs it off at first, "What, you think the big bad lord needs coddling?" but he doesn't push you away when you insist. 

He dramatically presents injuries like trophies for you to fix, smirking while you work: "Careful, sweetheart, don't want to ruin the masterpiece." 

Your cooking surprises him; he devours it with gusto, then pulls you onto his lap: "Damn, you trying to domesticate me?" 

He loves when you play with his hair or massage his tense shoulders; grumbles about it but leans back with a contented growl. 

Forcing him to rest? He resists with sarcasm but caves when you give him that look, muttering "Fine, but you're staying." 

Your gentle care clashes with his rough worldview; he starts seeing you as the one "strong" thing worth protecting. 

He reciprocates chaotically; builds you gadgets, shields you fiercely, but secretly adores being fussed over in private. 

Post-fight cuddles turn intense; he holds you like metal to his magnet, whispering that you're his real power source. 

Your nurturing chips at his lone-wolf armor, he opens up about Miranda, vulnerabilities he hides from everyone else. 

Ultimately, it makes him want freedom not just from her, but for a life where he can come home to someone who cares.

The Merchant

The Merchant chuckles mysteriously at first "Got somethin' special for ya, stranger". He'll definitely be way too chill to let you fuss without protest. 

He appreciates practical care: you sharpening his tools or prepping supplies earns a rare, approving "Heh, good eye." 

If you cook for him, he samples with theatrical flair, then nods: "A fine trade, worth more than pesetas." 

He enjoys when you adjust his coat or hat, stands still like a statue, but his eyes soften behind the shadows. 

Wound tending? He guides your hands with gloved ones, murmuring "Steady now... that's the ticket." 

Rest is a foreign concept, but when you insist, he lounges dramatically: "Only 'cause the customer's always right." 

He reciprocates with "gifts" such as rare items, protection in shadows; but your care is the real treasure he hoards. 

Quiet moments: he lets you lean against him, cloak enveloping you both like a secret shop. 

Your nurturing makes him linger longer in one place; he starts appearing more often just to see you. 

Deep down, the wandering merchant finds a "home" in your attention, he values it more than any deal.

Glenn Arias

Arias politely yet devilishly smiles at your concern; "You think a little care will fix what's broken in me?", but he allows it with dark amusement. 

He watches you tend wounds with cold fascination, grey eyes tracking every gentle move. 

Your meals intrigue him; he eats precisely, processes then with an almost warm smile comments "Efficient... and unexpectedly palatable, darling." 

Physical touch unnerves him at first; he tenses, but he starts craving the contrast to his vengeful life. 

Forcing rest? He lounges like a king, lecturing you on humanity's flaws while secretly relaxing. 

Your care stirs old memories of loss, he gets quieter, more contemplative around you. 

He repays with calculated protection and rare, intense affection; but never admits he needs this. 

In private, he might pull you close, murmuring that you're the one variable he didn't account for. 

It challenges his hatred against the world; he starts questioning if "resetting" the world means losing you too. 

Ultimately, your nurturing becomes his secret weakness; the one thing keeping a shred of humanity alive.

Zeno Wesker

Billy Coen

Billy brushes off care at first "I'm fine, really", but his eyes soften when you persist. 

He melts when you patch him up, mumbling thanks with a shy grin from his rough past. 

Homemade food hits hard; he eats slowly, savoring it like freedom he almost lost. 

Shoulder rubs or hair pets make him sigh deeply, he's touch-starved from years on the run. 

He worries about endangering you, so your gentle insistence reassures him he's worth it. 

He reciprocates protectively; always checking on you, but loves when you take the lead in care. 

Post-escape cuddles? He holds you tight, breathing you in like an anchor. 

If you're forcing rest, he complies with a soft "Alright, boss," smiling faintly. 

Your nurturing helps heal his guilt, he starts sleeping easier with you nearby. 

He tells you quietly you're the reason he fights to stay alive, not just survive.

Zeno regards your care with detached curiosity "Intriguing... a human impulse toward weakness.", but doesn't refuse. Unlike Wesker, Zeno may give you a chance to provide him gentle care, without any symptom of getting offended over being taken care of.

He allows wound tending with clinical interest, shade-covered eyes watching your focus intently. 

Meals are analyzed; he eats methodically, then notes "Sustenance optimized. Acceptable." 

Touch surprises him; he stiffens, but lingers longer than necessary, processing the warmth. 

Rest? He reclines like it's an experiment, murmuring about "futile comforts" while relaxing. 

Your nurturing clashes with his Connections programming; he starts questioning his "superior" design. 

He repays with calculated intensity; protection, secrets shared, but craves your gentleness privately. 

In vulnerable moments, he removes the shades, letting you see the flicker of something human in those golden eyes of his (if I'm correct, he did have golden eyes when he still had his powers). 

It stirs buried echoes of Wesker's arrogance turned to doubt, he sees you as a flaw he doesn't want fixed. 

Deep down, your care makes him feel less like a clone and more like something worth saving.