🩸 KINKTOBER DAY 31 — AFTER-MISSION INDULGENCE 🩸
Title: After-Mission Indulgence
Pairing: H.U.N.K. x Reader
Genre: Smut • Safehouse Sex • Foot Worship • Power Play • Soft Aftercare
Summary:
The mission is over, but the adrenaline hasn't faded. In a hidden Umbrella safehouse beneath an abandoned ski lodge, you find an unlikely luxury—a geothermal hot tub. What begins as recovery spirals into indulgence. H.U.N.K. strips away more than his gear as you end up in his lap, impaled and folded, your feet braced on his shoulders, his mouth as hungry as his hands. Foot worship turns to full-body devotion, and by the time the water settles, so do you—wrapped in his arms, bruised and blissed and claimed. Debrief can wait.
SMUT WARNING! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
The safehouse is a concrete box buried under an abandoned ski lodge—Umbrella black-site turned bolt-hole. Gray walls, fluorescent buzz, the smell of antiseptic baked into concrete. Nothing about it says comfort, not until you found the hot tub tucked behind a reinforced sliding panel. Stainless steel, recessed into the floor, fed by a geothermal pipe that never cools. An odd luxury in a bunker built for attrition.
You’d laughed when you discovered it, giddy from blood loss and residual adrenaline. H.U.N.K. had only grunted, stripped to the waist, and disappeared to clean gore from his gear with the same mechanical efficiency he brought to fieldwork. You hadn’t expected him to join you. You’d almost hoped he wouldn’t—because if he did, it would mean something neither of you were supposed to admit.
Now the water churns around you, lit from beneath by a sickly teal glow that makes the bruises on your ribs bloom like algae in moonlight. You’re submerged to the collarbone, every pulse soothed by heat. The door hisses open.
He steps inside, silent as death.
The mask comes off first—a clack of ceramic against tile. You’ve seen him kill a man without blinking, heard the crack of necks and gunfire, but never his face. Now you have: sharp jaw, faint scar bisecting his left brow, cheekbones cut like shrapnel. Eyes the color of winter steel. Hair sweat-damp and plastered to his temple.
He looks human. Tired. Dangerous.
Tac vest, gloves, boots—he removes everything with methodical precision, stacking it in silent order beside the bench. The last thing to fall is his holster, which he lays atop the pile like a final barrier relinquished.
The water hisses as he steps in, muscles flexing under old scars. You watch the shift in his body, the precise economy of movement, and feel a new heat pool low in your stomach—anticipation wrapped in fear. His knees brush yours under the surface. He says nothing.
You sit in that silence for a full minute. Breathing. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then:
“Feet,” he says, voice made rough from the mask's filter. Not a question. Not a request.
You lift one leg slowly. Water trails off your calf like molten glass. He catches your ankle in one calloused palm, thumb pressing into the arch. He tests the soft tissue like he's checking for damage—and maybe he is.
The touch turns indulgent. His fingers knead with slow, deliberate pressure: the ball of your foot, the delicate dip beneath your toes. You sigh, then bite it back. His gaze flicks up to yours.
“Mission was sloppy,” he says.
“We got the sample.”
“You limped the last mile.”
“Twisted it on rebar,” you admit. “Thought you didn’t notice.”
He lifts your foot higher, water trailing from your heel.
“I notice everything.”
His mouth replaces his hand. Lips brush the instep. Then his tongue—rough, deliberate—traces the ridge of bone. You gasp. He continues.
He switches feet. The ritual repeats. Slow massage. Careful kiss. Tongue dragging heat from your core to your skin. He takes each toe into his mouth, sucking like he’s starving. When he grazes the pad of your big toe with his teeth, a whimper escapes.
“Quiet,” he murmurs. Not unkind. A warning, or maybe a reminder.
His free hand glides up your leg, smoothing over bruises, finding muscle, then higher. Inner thigh. Close now. Your swimsuit offers no barrier. You’re bare beneath it, and he feels it.
He growls.
“Off.”
You comply. Peel the wet fabric down your legs, hand it to him. He doesn’t look at it, just tosses it behind him like evidence. Then he pulls you forward. Into his lap. Onto his cock.
Waves crest and spill over the tub’s edge, slapping wetly against the tile. Your knees find purchase on either side of his hips. His length—hard, hot, heavy—presses between you, pinning you open with every breath.
He holds both your feet, places them on his shoulders. The angle folds you, exposes you. You feel air kiss your nipples. You feel the tip of him notch against your entrance.
“Hold still,” he rasps.
His hands slide down your shins, pause behind your knees. Then lower. Grip tightens around your ass, spreading you. The head of him pushes forward, slow, stretching you. One inch. Two. You clench. He keeps going.
When he's fully seated, you can't breathe.
The stretch is obscene. You whimper, and he answers it with his mouth—a kiss stolen through instinct, not habit. Clumsy, then hungry. Tongue thrusting in rhythm with the shallow pump of his hips.
Each thrust stirs the water into chaos. Your breasts sway above the surface. His grip migrates—one hand to your back, anchoring you. The other returns to your ankle, thumb tracing a circle over bone. It shouldn't be tender. It shouldn't matter. But it does.
“Thought about this,” he says. His breath is fire in your ear, and your skin prickles with goosebumps, heart hammering at the unspoken danger laced in his voice. “Since the sewers. Your pulse against my blade. Wanted to feel it break beneath me.”
You tighten around him. His pace stutters. He curses softly.
“Come,” he orders. Thumb pressing hard into the arch of your foot. “Now.”
It detonates. You arch. Toes curl. Every nerve spasms. He follows with a broken groan, hips jerking as he empties into you, burying himself to the root.
Still joined, he eases your legs down, massages the tremble from your calves. You collapse forward, boneless. His arms gather you.
His heartbeat is a thunder roll against your cheek.
“Mission debrief in six hours,” he murmurs.
You hum in response, already slipping under. His fingers trace your spine like he's memorizing the ridges. The mask lies forgotten on the tile.
Leon's reaction when he sees Mr. X for the first time 😂 Hahaha I found @moderatleyokcosplay on Instagram and there cosplay video of Leon running from the Tyrant is what inspired this!
📅 KINKTOBER 2025 | DAY 20
🪞 “SEEN AND TAKEN”
🎮 Fandom: Resident Evil (Games)
🎯 Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy × Female Reader
🖤 Genre: Smut | Mirror Sex | Dubcon | Psychological Power Play | Voyeuristic Control
🔞 Rating: E (Explicit)
🩸 Summary:
He doesn’t want you to close your eyes. Not once. You’re made to watch your own reflection in the mirror as Leon takes you apart — slow at first, then brutal, calculating, relentless. His hands hold your body in place, his cock drives into you, and every second is orchestrated to make sure you see the kind of mess you become for him. You might cry. You might cum. But you won’t look away.
SMUT WARNING! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
The room was too quiet. Too soft. Too staged.
Golden lamplight bathed the hotel suite in a warm hush, casting shadows across cream-colored walls and the large full-length mirror that stood directly across from the edge of the bed. You didn’t remember why you were here. You didn’t remember how the night had started. But you remembered the look in Leon’s eyes when he’d told you to sit on the edge and keep your eyes forward.
He was behind you now. Fully clothed.
Your shirt had been discarded somewhere across the room. Your thighs were spread wide, bare to the cool air, cunt soaked and flushed under his stare. The mirror made everything worse — or maybe better — depending on whether you liked seeing your own face wrung tight with need and confusion while his gloved hands caressed up your sides with slow, controlling ease.
“You see yourself?” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low and dangerous.
“Yes,” you whispered, throat dry.
“You look nervous.”
“I—” You blinked. “I don’t know what this is.”
He chuckled. A quiet, pleased sound. His fingers slid down to your waist, holding you in place as he pressed his body flush to your back. You could see the bulge in his pants, hard against the curve of your ass. Could see your own reflection tremble.
“This is just observation,” he said. “I want you to watch.”
He guided your hand between your thighs. “Touch yourself.”
“Leon—”
“Do it.”
You obeyed, fingers sliding through the slick mess he’d teased out of you earlier, your breath hitching as you circled your clit. The mirror showed everything — the flush rising across your chest, the way your mouth fell open. His hands stayed at your waist, possessive. He didn’t even need to touch you yet. You were already unravelling for him.
And then, without warning, he shoved your hand away.
“Too slow.”
He unzipped his pants, and the sound made your thighs twitch. His cock was thick, flushed, already leaking. You didn’t look away from the mirror as he stroked it lazily behind you, lining himself up.
“I want you to see what you look like,” he said, tone flat. Dangerous. “When I fuck the sanity out of you.”
And then he slammed in.
“Ahh—fuck!”
Your cry echoed off the walls, hands scrabbling at the sheets as his cock drove into your soaked cunt, stretching you open in one brutal thrust. Your eyes snapped to the mirror, watching your own body jolt, mouth dropped open, Leon’s smirk ghosting behind you.
He gripped your hips hard, dragging you back onto him with a growl, thrusts deep and punishing, timed to your every whimper.
Schlk—schlk—slap—
The mirror didn’t miss a thing. Your tits bounced with each thrust. Your thighs trembled. Your eyes glazed.
“You watching?” he rasped. “You see how fuckin’ pretty you look when you’re used?”
You whimpered. He reached up, grabbing your chin, forcing you to keep eye contact with yourself in the mirror.
“No looking away,” he growled. “You need to see it.”
He fucked you harder now, each thrust designed to force your reflection to fall apart. His cock slammed into your g-spot over and over, the stretch perfect, overwhelming. Your moans turned broken, legs shaking, slick gushing down your thighs, your cunt soaked and messy as he used you.
“L-Leon—gonna—!”
“Look at yourself.”
He wrapped his fingers around your throat. You choked on a cry, vision dimming, and in the mirror, you saw it — saw the way your body writhed on his cock, how your mouth begged silently, how ruined you looked.
And then you came. Hard.
Your cunt spasmed, milking him, and he fucked you through it with a growl, watching your body break.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Gonna fill you—gonna make you watch yourself drip with me.”
He came with a low moan, cock pulsing deep inside as he pumped you full of cum, holding you against him, watching as it spilled out around his cock in the mirror.
Your head dropped, body trembling. But he didn’t let you look away.
“Again,” he murmured, voice low and calm. “We’re not done. Not until you beg me to stop watching.”
Trapped in a collapsing corridor, Leon S. Kennedy lies bleeding while Y/N fights to save him—refusing to leave him behind. As silence presses in louder than the chaos outside, memories of shared missions flash through her mind: near-death escapes, quiet moments of healing, and the bond they built through fire and blood.
In this emotionally charged Resident Evil one-shot, hurt gives way to raw confessions, and survival takes on new meaning. From the wreckage of war to the quiet hum of a recovery room, Leon and Y/N must confront not just the fight to live—but the reason why they keep fighting at all.
The sky outside was a haze of flame and ash, casting flickering shadows across the ruined corridor. Somewhere in the distance, the groan of a crumbling building drowned beneath the bark of automatic gunfire and the unrelenting shrieks of the infected. Smoke curled through shattered windows, thick and acrid, stinging the back of her throat. The air buzzed with heat and decay. But in this broken hallway, there was only silence.
Y/N dropped to her knees beside him, boots scraping against the blood-slick floor. Her hands trembled as they pressed firmly against his abdomen, trying to stanch the flow of blood seeping through his shirt. It was warm and fast, soaking into her gloves.
"Stay with me," she whispered, her voice tight and breathless. "You're going to be okay. Do you hear me, Leon? You're going to be okay."
Leon S. Kennedy coughed, the sound harsh and wet, his body twitching from the pain. Despite it, he forced a crooked smile, as if trying to ease her panic. "You should’ve gone when I told you."
"Shut up," she snapped, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I'm not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."
He grimaced, trying to speak, but it came out as little more than a ragged breath. "I told you... to leave me behind."
The words were soft, barely audible over the muffled gunfire outside—but they hit her harder than any explosion.
Y/N’s vision blurred as she pressed harder on the wound. "You don’t get to decide that. Not for me. Not after everything we’ve been through. You’re the reason I’m still standing. You don’t get to just check out."
Her mind reeled with memories—visions burned into her like scars. She remembered their first mission together, standing back-to-back on the rain-soaked rooftop of an abandoned hospital. Infected hounds lunged through the fog. She'd been shaking, nearly dropped her weapon. He had calmly adjusted her grip, guided her stance, and whispered, “Focus, breathe, and shoot. I’ve got you.” It was the first time she had trusted someone in the field.
Back in the present, his blood was everywhere—on her hands, her knees, smeared across the floor like a grim signature. He reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed her cheek with the gentleness of a man holding back everything. "I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered. "I wanted you to remember me standing. Fighting. Not... bleeding out."
She clenched her jaw. "Then you should’ve fought harder," she whispered, voice breaking on every word. "You don’t get to die like this. Not while I’m still breathing."
His hand slipped from her face, falling limp at his side.
"No," she gasped, more a plea than a denial. "No, no, no. Don’t you dare. Not yet. Not like this."
The corridor trembled from another explosion, dust raining down from the cracked ceiling. The infected were being held off, but it was only a matter of time. She could hear the faint shouts of backup echoing through the rubble-strewn hallways, still too far.
Her mind flashed again. A warehouse ambush. A dozen infected. She had been pinned, comms down, terrified. Leon had thrown himself into the line of fire, shouting over his shoulder for her to get the generator running. She had seen him take the hit. He never looked back.
And then that night in the safehouse—her hands fumbling as she stitched a gash along his ribs, fingers slipping in his blood. He had made jokes the whole time, calling himself "a bad patient with good abs." She had called him an idiot. He had laughed, even then.
She leaned forward now, forehead pressed against his. Her breath trembled. "You don’t get to give up. You hear me? I need you. You idiot. I love you."
For a heartbeat, she felt nothing. Then—a twitch. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. His voice, barely audible, rasped against her skin. "Took you long enough."
She laughed through a sob, salty tears dripping onto his cheek as she clutched him tighter. Behind them, the distant rattle of boots signaled help was finally here. But she didn’t let go. Not until they pulled him from her arms and wheeled him away.
The med bay smelled like antiseptic and recycled air, the steady beeping of heart monitors a metronome for recovery. Sunlight pooled on the tile floor, catching the edge of the bed where Leon lay propped up by pillows. His face was paler than usual, a patch of stubble darkening his jaw, but his eyes were open. Alive. Watching.
Y/N sat by his side, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her fingers tangled tightly with his. Her eyes hadn’t stopped watching him since the moment he was brought in. She remembered the long nights beside him—listening to machines, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified each breath might be the last. The coffee beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.
"You stayed," Leon murmured, his voice still scratchy.
She turned to look at him, lips twitching into a tired, broken smile. "Told you I would. Didn’t believe me?"
He exhaled softly. "Guess I hoped you’d be smart and run."
"You forget who trained me to be this stubborn."
He chuckled, then winced. The movement tugged at his stitches. "Touché."
They fell into silence again, but it was a quieter one now. Safer. After a moment, she reached out and smoothed a hand across his hair. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought I lost you."
Leon turned his head slightly toward her. "You almost did."
She didn’t reply. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. He closed his eyes. "You saved me."
"We saved each other. Like always."
Leon let out a long breath and turned to face her fully. "So what now?"
She smiled softly. "Now? You rest. You heal. And when you're ready, we go back out there. Together."
He smirked weakly. "And if I get shot again?"
"I’ll kill you myself," she said with a straight face, then finally let herself laugh.
It was the sound he hadn’t realized he missed until now. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N let herself breathe. Because he was alive. Because they both were. Because this time, survival wasn’t just about escaping the monsters. It was about finding something worth surviving for.
guess whos back? thats right, its the moron that asked for leon and nemesis to be friends!
and its time for round two
ive managed to smack 2 braincells together to form the dumbest of ideas
leons having the time of his life playing with mr x (leon does not want to play hide and seek :P)
then jill enters the police station, followed by nemesis
cue the two duos meeting and nemesis goes after mr x because he has the audacity to touch his silly little guy
(ive always wondered what would happen if those 2 got in a fight)
Buddy Cop Apocalypse 2: Territorial Dispute
Resident Evil | Crackfic | Comedy/Action
Pairing(s): None (but Leon & Nemesis BFF chaos)
Summary:
Leon’s back in the RPD, trying to survive the world’s worst game of hide-and-seek with Mr. X. Everything’s going according to nightmare—until Jill Valentine storms in, Nemesis in tow, and suddenly the monsters aren’t chasing the humans anymore. Because Nemesis just spotted his silly little guy being manhandled by a trench-coated knockoff, and things are about to get violently territorial.
Read Part 1 >>> HERE <<<
Author’s Note (A/N):
Anon, my beloved chaos architect. You’re back and once again proving that two braincells can, in fact, create pure gold. 💀💥 I read this idea and immediately said “oh no” out loud while grinning like a maniac. Leon’s still trying to have a normal rookie day, Nemesis is still emotionally unavailable but weirdly possessive, and Mr. X definitely didn’t sign up for this nonsense. Jill’s just there wondering how her life turned into a kaiju custody battle.
Thank you for giving me the excuse to write the dumbest, most delightful crossover brawl in Raccoon City history. You are singlehandedly keeping Leon’s therapy bills (and my serotonin) alive. 🧟♂️💚
Leon S. Kennedy had reached the point where everything was above his pay grade. Crouched in the crumbling Raccoon City Police Department, he wondered why his first day felt more like a warzone than a job.
He hid behind an overturned desk, covered in grime, half out of bullets, and fully out of patience. Every few seconds, the air trembled with a thud, thud, thud that made his teeth rattle. Dust fell from the ceiling with each heavy step, snowing onto his hair as if the building itself had given up.
“Okay, Leon,” he muttered. “Stay calm. Don’t panic. Just another day in hell with a giant murder trench coat who hates hats and emotions.”
The door exploded off its hinges. Mr. X ducked his massive head through the doorway, expression unreadable beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His footsteps echoed like gunshots as he entered, scanning the room with unnerving calm. Leon scrambled backward, bumping into a filing cabinet, gun shaking in his grip.
“WHY WON’T YOU JUST—DIE?!” he yelled, firing three useless rounds that pinged off Mr. X’s chest. The man-mountain barely flinched.
Mr. X tilted his head in what Leon swore was disappointment—like he’d expected better from this rookie.
“Sorry I’m not Chris Redfield!” Leon barked. “You want him, he’s probably punching a boulder somewhere!”
Then, the world exploded.
The RPD’s front doors went flying off their hinges in a thunderclap of fire and debris. Leon dove for cover as a wall of heat blasted through the lobby. When the smoke cleared, Jill Valentine emerged from the haze—gun raised, jaw set, looking like she’d walked through hell and decided it was boring. Behind her, the ground shook again.
Nemesis.
For a split second, time froze. Jill’s silhouette cut through the smoke, steady and unshaken, but Leon’s disbelief was written all over his face—jaw slack, eyes wide, hand frozen halfway to his gun. He blinked twice, trying to decide whether to shoot, run, or ask if this was some Umbrella hallucination gone too far.
The last time he saw that eight-foot-tall walking tank, it had ended in a strange kind of mutual respect. But now—Nemesis was here, shoulders steaming, rocket launcher in hand, eyes glowing red like a demonic Christmas ornament. Jill barely acknowledged him. “Target’s inside,” she said, voice calm, all business. “We move before Umbrella sends backup.”
Nemesis didn’t move. His head turned slowly, mechanical servos whining. His gaze locked onto Mr. X.
Two bioweapons. One lobby.
And only one had dared touch his rookie.
The tension was thick enough to chew. Leon froze between them, hands raised like a referee in a deathmatch.
“Guys?” he said, voice cracking. “Let’s not—uh—make this weird?”
Too late.
Nemesis roared, and the sound was catastrophic. Windows shattered. Pigeons fled from the roof. Somewhere, a car alarm started and immediately regretted it. He charged, rocket launcher slung aside, fists swinging like wrecking balls. Mr. X met him head-on. The floor cracked. The walls trembled. Desks flew into splinters. Leon yelped and threw himself behind the reception counter where Jill was already crouched, reloading with perfect calm.
“Please tell me they’re on the same side,” Leon begged.
Jill didn’t look up. “Depends. Are you S.T.A.R.S.?”
“No!”
“Then… maybe.”
A filing cabinet whizzed past their heads, embedding itself in the wall. Leon risked a peek just in time to see Nemesis body-slam Mr. X into the front desk, roaring like a kaiju with a personal grudge. Mr. X retaliated with an uppercut so powerful it sent floor tiles flying like frisbees.
“I think they’re fighting over custody of me!” Leon shouted.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jill muttered, ducking as Nemesis hurled a bench like a frisbee of pure destruction. “He’s probably just territorial.”
“Of me!” Leon cried, indignant.
Nemesis, hearing that, bellowed louder—confirming the theory.
“STAAAAARS!” he thundered, slamming his fist into Mr. X’s face so hard the marble floor cracked like ice.
“God,” Leon breathed, “it’s like watching two refrigerators fight.”
The fight spilled into the hallway, shattering glass and toppling filing cabinets. Mr. X ripped up a section of wall and used it as a shield. Nemesis answered by tearing down a statue and using it as a club. Every impact sounded like a thunderclap. Leon and Jill peeked through the chaos as sparks and dust filled the air.
Leon groaned. “If they bring down the building, we’re dead.”
“They are the building,” Jill replied dryly.
Mr. X finally managed to grab Nemesis by the throat, slamming him through a pillar. But Nemesis barely flinched. He twisted, ripped the marble apart, and drove his knee into Mr. X’s midsection. The impact echoed through the entire station. Leon winced at the sound of breaking concrete—and possibly bones.
Nemesis reached for his rocket launcher but paused when he saw Leon, standing frozen by the doorway, covered in plaster dust and regret. His red eyes flickered once, as if in recognition. Then, with surprising restraint, he aimed slightly to the left and fired.
Mr. X went flying through a wall and out into the street, leaving a perfect bioweapon-shaped hole.
Silence followed. Dust settled like snow.
Nemesis stood panting in the wreckage, smoke rising from his shoulders. When he spotted Leon peeking from behind the counter, he made a low rumble that sounded almost… pleased.
Leon blinked. “Uh… hey there, big guy. You win.”
Nemesis grunted. “LEON.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Leon forced a nervous laugh. “You, uh, sure showed him. Definitely the alpha refrigerator here.”
Nemesis tilted his head, then reached down and—with shocking gentleness—picked Leon up by the back of his vest and set him upright. Jill just stared, caught between awe and existential horror.
“I’m gonna need therapy after this,” Leon muttered. “Assuming therapy still exists.”
Nemesis gave a single approving grunt—something that might’ve meant Don’t worry, small human. Then he stomped off through the rubble in pursuit of his airborne rival.
Jill holstered her pistol, raising an eyebrow. “You two are… friends?”
Leon rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. He saved me once. I think I’m his emotional support rookie now.”
“Right,” Jill said. “You need new friends.”
Leon exhaled with a tired laugh. “Tell me about it.”
Later, Leon limped—still half in disbelief that he’d somehow made a friend out of a bio-weapon. Maybe tomorrow he’d start questioning his life choices, but tonight, he just laughed softly at the absurdity of it all before moving on.
He stepped over debris and shattered glass, spotting something sitting neatly atop a busted desk: a single green herb and a crushed soda can. He smiled faintly. “Miss you too, big guy.”
Outside, thunder rolled—and from somewhere distant came a faint, unmistakable roar.
“STAAAAARS.”
Leon snorted under his breath. “He’s not even chasing her anymore. He’s just vibing.”
And for one absurd moment, amid the ruins of Raccoon City, Leon thought that maybe—just maybe—friendship could survive the apocalypse. Even if it involved bioweapons, property damage, and serious emotional confusion.
Raccoon City wasn’t ready for this level of bromance.
With the rerelease of the new RE2 game, my love for the RE universe has been rekindled. So expect lots of Resident Evil fanart trash XD My two beautiful children made it.
More RE TRASH! WOOP! Did a sketch and then coloured it digitally. Give me a follow guys if you love Resident evil Fanart and especially if you love our handsome boi Leon Kennedy.
