Craving slooow, deep, worshipful, sleepy sex. Hands grabbing my waist from behind, their hold firm as their fingers dig in just a little bit…. Fucking me nice and deep so I jolt forward a little bit into the soft pillows with their thrusts. If my eyes feel heavy, they don’t need to stay open. If my head feels heavy, I don’t need to keep it up. I can just be soft and loved and taken care of and know that this is making them feel good, too. Warm and pliant and sweet for them. Always so good for them.
domestic!Tom who gets hard instantly just from seeing u bake/cook. whisking the whipped cream? hard. stirring the soup? hard. cutting up strawberries for his favourite cake? fucking hard.
his hands find your waist, hot breath ghosting over your ear as he praises you—and you know. you know what he needs the moment he presses himself up against you, making you feel how hungry he is—for you rather than the food you’re preparing.
being free use means he doesn’t even need to ask before he peels your skirt down your thighs and pushes your panties to the side. before his thick, throbbing cock drags through your damp folds, slicking himself with your arousal—looking, searching for those sweet sounds that tell him you’re ready to take him.
and when he finally spills himself inside you—so deep, you’ll feel him for hours—it’s always with praise. “sweet girl, taking me so well. so good for me. so fucking precious.”
Tom groans into your hair after the bliss of his orgasm subsides, brushing kisses along your jaw—slipping free from the embrace of your slick, velvety walls. he fixes your skirt before he leaves you to it, returning when you call for him as you finish up his plate—for his meal and for round two after. ;)
the first time shoto sees you in a slip dress, he chokes on his breath. eyes half-lidded as he follows your every step, lingering on the lace that rides up your thighs when you go to straddle him. his left palm flares hot—clammy with sweat. right palm—dangerously cold—palming your back as he presses you flush against his chest, savoring the way he can feel your hardened peaks even through his shirt.
you squirm from the heat radiating off of him, shudder from his icy hands roaming your body, over the silk. he lays you down, ever so gently, bundling the fabric around your waist. and when you lift your hips for him to take it off, it only takes one icy palm for him to pin you back on the mattress.
(it's in times like these when you remember how strong he's become over the years. how easy it is for him to keep you where he wants)
"don't. i'm not done admiring yet," he says, voice low and smooth, thick with arousal. the sound shoots straight to your core, aching with need as he trails his lips across your inner thighs, whispering "you're beautiful" and "you wore this, for me?" in between kisses.
his fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the lacy hem as he drives his tongue deep into your cunt, heavy hands holding down your body that writhes with pleasure. letting his admiration show with each wet flick to your clit. devouring you like a man stranded in the desert, your slick as his water—his life source.
it never came off in the end, the slip dress. especially not when he marveled at the way it rippled with each ram of his cock, the texture soft underneath his palms as he pressed onto your stomach. smooth as butter. completely contrasting your broken whines and his rock-hard cock that wouldn't let up. all due to a simple slip you thought you'd just tease him with.
(shoto had to buy you a new one when he grasped the fabric a little too hard. accidentally tearing it when he was cumming deep inside of you :p)
Word count: ~2K
Pairings: Carlos x Reader, Chris x Reader, Leon x Reader
Summary: Wiping his face, telling him that you're cleaning your seat, and seeing his reaction
@clawshots and I have been thirsting after these delicious men since RE9 came out..
Carlos Oliveira
Carlos lounged on the couch, one strong arm hooked lazily over the backrest, black undershirt stretched over his chest, his tactical vest ditched for once in favor of battered sweatpants. The late morning sun painted gold patches across the hardwood, catching in the wild curls of his hair. He looked up from his phone, brown eyes warm, already smiling at you even before you said a word.
You strolled past him, a little swagger in your step, towel still wrapped around your body from your shower, and flicked a facial wipe straight into his lap. “Here. Clean up, soldier,” you said, your tone light but commanding.
Carlos arched a thick brow, amused. “My face?” He plucked up the wipe, looking from it to you, then back. “What, you see something I don’t?”
You grinned, heading for the kitchen, but not before glancing over your shoulder. “I don’t like sitting on a dirty seat,” you tossed back, voice nonchalant but your smile sly.
He stared at you for a heartbeat, the line sinking in. The room filled with a loaded pause. Then, you heard the crinkle of the wipe as he obediently swiped it across his face, slow, and a little exaggerated.
“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” His voice rumbled, the teasing edge undercut with a flash of heat.
You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him. “You want me to sit, you gotta make sure it’s clean.”
Carlos’s eyes narrowed, a devilish grin stretching his lips. He tossed the used wipe onto the coffee table and shot up from the couch, muscles rippling under his shirt. “All right, princess, you wanna talk about dirty seats, huh?” He stalked toward you, his steps heavy and sure, a predator with a glint in his eye.
You shrieked, laughing, darting out of the kitchen just as he lunged. He gave chase, the apartment suddenly too small for your playful escape. The floorboards rattled under the thunder of his bare feet, his laughter mixing with yours, deep and sweet, and absolutely delighted.
You rounded the corner for the bedroom but Carlos was faster. He caught you at the threshold, strong arms circling your waist and hauling you back against his chest. He pressed his face into your neck, breath hot, stubble scratching your skin. “You know, I could show you exactly how clean I can be,” he murmured, voice low and wicked.
You wriggled in his grasp, towel moving dangerously low, laughter bubbling and breath catching as he tightened his hold on your hips. “Oh yeah? Prove it,” you taunted, eyes bright, pulse wild.
He spun you around, mouth finding yours in a kiss that started soft but deepened, his hand sliding down your back, fingers splayed wide. With easy strength, he walked you backward, lips never leaving yours, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. Carlos’s grin turned devilish, dark eyes glittering with intent. Instead of pressing you down, he shifted, rolling onto his back atop the bed, one arm looping easily behind his head, the other sliding firm and sure along your thigh. “C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, command wrapped in velvet. “You talked a big game, sweetheart. Let’s see you back it up.”
He tugged you forward, strong hands guiding you until you were straddling his chest, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his broad torso. His curls spilled across the pillow, his face angled up to meet yours, lips parted, breath fanning hot over your skin. He looked up at you, equal parts reverence and mischief, like he was savoring every second—like he was exactly where he’d always wanted to be.
He pulled the towel away from your body. And then, with a gentle, insistent pull, Carlos drew you up farther until your thighs bracketed his face, your body hovering just above his lips. “Your seat is clean, ma’am,” he teased, voice husky, “but you’re the one who's about to make a mess on it.”
His hands gripped your hips, steady and sure, anchoring you above him. The last thing you saw before you sank down was his wicked smile, all challenge and promise.
Chris Redfield
Chris Redfield never truly relaxed, even on a so-called day off. There was always something about the way he moved—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes alert and sweeping his surroundings as if expecting an ambush behind every unlocked door. You heard the front door click open, boots thudding heavily over the worn floorboards. He stepped inside, broad frame swathed in that dark tactical coat, the collar turned up against a wind long since left outside. Even now, the air around him brimmed with the scent of rain and gun oil, and the faintest trace of sweat and aftershave.
You met him at the threshold, anticipation sparking under your skin. Chris looked tired, lines cut deeper at the corners of his eyes, stubble rough along his jaw. Yet beneath the exhaustion was a simmering restlessness, that constant tension wound tight in every muscle.
He barely got a greeting out. Just a low, “Hey,” voice gravel-thick and weary, before you reached up, pressing a cool facial wipe to his cheek. He jerked back, brows knitting, blue eyes narrowing. “What are you—? Seriously?” His tone was rough, edged with confusion and a flicker of annoyance as you began wiping grime and faint traces of dried mud from his face.
You only smiled, determined, working the wipe across his cheekbones, jaw, the stubborn bridge of his nose. “Hold still, Chris. You don’t want to track all that through the house, do you?” you teased, lips curled in a soft smirk.
He huffed, almost a growl, and tried to lean away again. “I can handle it myself,” he muttered, but you just kept at it with single-minded devotion, chasing every stubborn streak until his scowl deepened.
You paused, drawing the wipe away, and met his gaze squarely. “Well, you know me—I don’t like sitting on a dirty seat.”
A beat passed. Chris blinked, mouth parting, a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he tried to parse your words, the meaning not quite landing. “What—?”
You tossed the crumpled wipe in the trash and turned on your heel, making for the hallway. “You heard me,” you said, letting your gaze drop deliberately to his freshly cleaned face. “I won’t sit if it’s dirty.” The silence that followed was thick and electric.
His eyes widened, the realization sparking behind them, then narrowed with a sharp glint and a dangerous, wolfish curve of his lips. You heard the scrape of his boots, the sudden rush of air as he lunged after you.
“You’re not getting away with that!” Chris’s voice had a new edge—still rough, but now playful, almost predatory.
You bolted, laughter bursting free, heart racing as you sprinted down the hall, bare feet sliding over the hardwood. Your pulse thundered in your ears, his heavy steps close behind. You ducked into the bedroom, yanking the door open and making a beeline for the bed, but Chris was faster—his hand caught your waist, hauling you flush against his chest.
He spun you around, his grip unyielding but gentle, eyes bright with heat and challenge. “You want to say that again?” he rumbled, voice low, his breath warm against your ear.
You grinned, breathless, your back pressed to his chest, your body pinned between muscled arms and the edge of the bed. “I said what I said,” you teased, wriggling in his hold, laughter still spilling from your lips.
Chris shook his head, the last vestiges of his fatigue falling away, replaced by something sharper, hungrier. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to a growl that made your skin prickle. “You want a clean seat? You’re damn well gonna get it.”
He eased you forward, guiding you with unrelenting hands until your knees hit the mattress. Then he tugged you gently, insistently, until you were facing the bed. With a low, amused grunt, Chris shrugged off his tactical coat, tossing it aside, and sprawled out on his back, eyes locked on yours—steady, smoldering, utterly sure of himself.
One arm looped behind his head, the other sliding up your thigh, coaxing you closer until you were hovering above him, knees braced on either side of his broad chest. He looked up, blue gaze dark and unblinking, lips curled in the faintest, cockiest smirk. “C’mon,” he murmured, voice rough velvet. “Let’s see if you’re brave enough to put your words where your seat is.”
Leon S. Kennedy
A shaft of lazy afternoon sun sliced through the curtains, painting the rumpled bed in honeyed gold. Leon lay sprawled across the sheets, one arm tossed over his brow, jacket half-off, boots abandoned somewhere at the foot of the bed. His breathing was deep, steady; his face, for once, looked soft, brow smooth, the lines of decades smoothed out by sleep. That stubborn, iconic hair curled over his forehead, brushed by the gentle, late-day light. Stubble shadowed his jaw.
You knew you should let him rest. The man was a legend, a survivor, a protector battered and rebuilt by every horror the world had to offer. But he was also—especially now, quiet and undone by sleep—irresistibly, and infuriatingly hot. You crept in, bare feet silent on the worn floorboards, a soft, mischievous smile tugging at your lips. In your hand, the weapon: a single, cooling facial wipe.
You leaned down, hovering above him, heart quickening at the sheer intimacy of this little tableau. Gently, you pressed the wipe to his cheek, tracing a line from the corner of his jaw up toward his temple, sweeping away the faint shadow of dirt, the salt of sweat, the lingering memories of chaos and darkness.
Leon stirred, brow furrowing. His blue eyes blinked open, clouded and unfocused, lashes thick and dark against the tired hollows beneath. His voice was a sleep-heavy rumble. “Mmhh… What’re you—” He stilled, adjusting to the sensation, then squinted up at you, clearly both annoyed and amused. “Seriously? Can’t a guy get some beauty sleep?”
You grinned, not even pretending innocence. “Just making sure you’re clean, Leon. Gotta wipe down my favorite seat.”
He blinked, the words bouncing off his drowsy brain, smirk tugging at his lips but confusion clouding his gaze. “Your… seat?” he echoed, voice gravelly, as if the implications hadn’t quite landed yet.
You leaned in, letting your breath tickle his ear, your voice syrup-sweet and absolutely unrepentant. “Yeah. I’m making sure my seat’s nice and clean before I put it to use.”
You could practically see the gears grinding, the moment of realization dawning beneath that battered cool. One eyebrow arched. His mouth parted, a slow, crooked grin spreading across his lips, surprise and delight flickering in his gaze.
“Wow,” he said, voice suddenly lighter, cheekier, “never thought I’d hear that line before coffee. Or a glass of bourbon.”
You snorted, straightening, and started to slip away, already plotting a retreat—but Leon was faster, even with the ache of years and scars. His hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist, grip gentle but unyielding. “Oh no, you’re not getting away that easy,” he murmured, a wolfish glint in his eyes as he tugged you down, guiding you to his chest, pinning you there with surprising strength.
You squirmed, breath catching, pulse fluttering against the hard muscle beneath your palm. Leon’s hands slid up your sides, slow and languid, coaxing, coaxing, until his thumb brushed just beneath the hem of your tee. He lifted your chin, gaze locked on yours, and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft, sweet, lingering—like he meant to taste every ounce of mischief still fizzing on your tongue.
He pulled back, mouth inches from yours, voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse, sweetheart? Maybe you want me a little dirty, huh?”
You felt heat bloom on your cheeks, the flush bright and unmistakable. “I—no, I just—” You tried to wriggle free, but he tightened his hold, his hands sliding down to your hips, anchoring you firm against him.
Leon’s grin widened, all wolfish charm and dangerous promise. “How am I supposed to get any rest knowing my wife’s got a clean throne to sit on?” His breath was hot against your cheek, his tone teasing, but beneath it there was a hunger that made you shiver.
You barely had time to stammer a protest before Leon’s fingers were deftly working your shorts down, peeling away the last barriers, his gaze never leaving yours. He nudged your knees apart, guiding you up, his hands gentle and sure, until you were straddling his firm chest, thighs trembling, anticipation buzzing through every inch of your skin.
He looked up at you, eyes dark and dazzling, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth. “You know, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice full of wicked, lazy confidence, “this seat’s not gonna be clean for long.”
And with that, he pulled you forward, lowering you down until your thighs bracketed his face, your breath hitching as his stubble scratched your skin, his hands holding you steady, reverent, right where he wanted you. The last thing you saw before the world narrowed to pleasure was Leon’s grin—cheeky, devil-may-care, and utterly, gloriously yours.
