🩸 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.
Title: Between Fire and Shadow
Fandom: Resident Evil (Games)
Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Female Reader x Ada Wong
Genre: Smut (threesome, dangerous mission AU, competition, shared heat)
Summary: Tension in the safehouse boils over when Leon and Ada’s rivalry turns carnal. Caught between his desperate restraint and her ruthless teasing, you’re consumed in a dangerous threesome where survival isn’t the only thing at stake.
SMUT WARNING! READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!
The safehouse was supposed to be a temporary stop, four concrete walls and a flickering bulb barely holding out the night and the monsters prowling beyond it. You sat at the edge of the cot, every nerve frayed from the mission, the adrenaline refusing to leave your veins. Leon was pacing the length of the room, jacket unzipped, hair damp with sweat, gun still within arm’s reach, his eyes sharp even though his body screamed exhaustion. And then Ada leaned against the doorway, her silhouette carved in crimson and shadow, that dangerous smile curving her lips like a weapon in itself.
The air snapped taut the moment the three of you were alone together. Heat and friction built not from the threat outside but from the sheer proximity of two people who never did anything halfway.
“You two look ready to combust,” Ada said smoothly, voice low, sultry, calculated. She walked closer, heels clicking like a countdown, and Leon’s jaw clenched as his eyes darted between her and you.
“Not exactly the time, Ada,” he muttered, but his hand flexed restlessly, betraying him.
“Oh, I’d say it’s the perfect time,” she countered, gaze sliding over you like a caress. “Stress relief. Survival instinct. Call it what you want.” Her gloved fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your chin upward until your breath caught.
Leon groaned, half-exasperated, half-desperate, before finally giving in. His hands found your hips, tugging you up from the cot, pressing your back flush against his chest while Ada leaned in from the front, her lips ghosting yours before sealing the kiss with a bruising hunger.
The chemistry was chaos—Leon’s restraint fraying with every needy sound you made, Ada’s tongue claiming your mouth, her smirk tasting of danger, Leon’s groan vibrating against your ear as his hands roamed lower. You were caught between them, dizzy, every breath stolen, every nerve lit.
“Competition suits you, Kennedy,” Ada teased, pulling back just enough to drag her gloved hand down your body, fingertips teasing at the hem of your shirt.
“Not a competition,” Leon rasped, sliding his hand beneath your waistband, making you gasp. “As long as she’s satisfied, we both win.”
Your moan was the only answer as Ada dropped to her knees, smirk flashing wicked up at you while Leon held you steady against him. Her tongue traced fire over your thigh before finding your center, her skillful mouth drawing cries from you instantly. Leon’s arm wrapped tight around your waist, his lips pressing into your neck, whispering rough promises against your skin as his fingers teased higher, deeper, pushing you closer to unraveling.
Two sets of hands, two mouths, two wills locked in dangerous tandem—all focused on you. Leon’s breath ragged in your ear, Ada’s tongue ruthless between your thighs, your body trembling violently between their opposing hungers. The pressure built too fast, too sharp, until you were breaking apart in their hands, the orgasm tearing a cry from your throat that echoed against the safehouse walls.
And still they weren’t done. Leon shifted you back onto the cot, Ada sliding up beside you with a predator’s grin, both of them eyeing you like they had all night to strip you down again and again, the mission momentarily forgotten in the furnace of need.
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