An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Zeno, Leon S. Kennedy/Mr. X | Tyrant T-00
Characters: Leon S. Kennedy, Zeno (Resident Evil), Tyrant (Resident Evil)
Additional Tags: Game: Resident Evil 9 | Requiem, Monsterfucking | Teratophilia, Anal Sex, Choking, Handcuffs, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Angst and Porn, Size Kink, Come Inflation, Mind Break, Desperation, Begging
Series: Part 7 of WWNHN (What Will Nail Him Next?) aka Leon's adventures in monsterfucking
Summary:
The one wherein Zeno uses Leon for stress relief, and then the Tyrant gets its turn.
In those moments, though, Bucky was neither, suddenly faced with a possibility, an option, that he’d never ever considered being a real one. He couldn’t remember how to do fucking anything, how to do any one thing, when his brain (and other parts of him) wanted him to do everything and do it all at once.
This was how his phone ended up … somewhere. It was over on the other side of the bed, he’d heard it hit the floor, the soft thunk of it before it slid on the tight nap.
He could care less about the phone, though, and it was really only a footnote, an acknowledgement within his mind that it had happened, occurred, the sound waves reaching his ears as he cross over the threshold of his door.
Only a hallway now, between them. It wasn’t even an actual hallway, just a space that could kinda seem like one for all that the floor plan was new and spiffy and open.
Bucky would like to think that he paused, that the space yawned wide like some kind of chasm, that he took a moment to think.
But thinking wouldn’t get them anywhere. Wouldn’t get him anywhere. Thinking would be the end of what was happening.
And Bucky most definitely was not in favor of ending any part of this.
So he didn’t slow. He didn’t think. He didn’t adhere to that age old wisdom (which actually wasn’t even as old as him) before he was taking long strides, jogging even, hitting her door with his shoulder (right, the right shoulder, no damage to the door) as he turned the knob and swung it open.
“Fuck,” he snapped out at the sight of her. It was just the bite of the word, though, the harshness of the constants as he was stripping his boxers off. Somewhere. There. On the floor. Like the phone. Out of sight and out of mind because the only thing he was thinking about was her.
There.
His shirt swallowing her frame, bunched up around her hips, thighs glistening enough to make his mouth water.
Maybe later, though, maybe another time, or maybe never because this might be it, might be it, might be it.
It hurt, loving her. It hurt, putting up those walls.
It hurt, pretending like it was okay and he was okay and he wasn’t bothered.
Nothing hurt, though, more than the sight of her, there on the bed.
Waiting.
For him.
He didn’t even slow. Just one foot in front of the other until his knees were cutting into the mattress, until it sunk below his weight. Her legs opened for him, accepted him readily, as he continued to surge forward.
No words.
No question.
No hesitation.
Just the slick heat of her, the squeeze of her, tight so fucking tight around him as slid in, slid home, a hissed pulled out of him.
Her skin was flushed, warm, her face beautiful, there, with those doe eyes and those long lashes and fuck, he’d forgotten how soft her lips were, forgotten the give of the plushness of her lips as he licked his way into her mouth, all while snapping his hips.
Metal groaned beneath them. He knew there’d be a complain from the downstairs neighbors but he didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care, because all that mattered was the way she fit him, the way she tasted, and the clench, the clench, the clench of her around him.
His right hand went to her shoulder, there, at the curve of her neck, gaining purchase, leverage, looking for depth and speed and the quick solid thrusts that he bottomed out on each time because he needed to fucking fill her and make her stretch.
“How many,” he panted, words tight and broken every time he sheathed himself completely, “how many fingers you think that is?”
The end date for my job loom e’er closer and I keep vacillating between wondering what I’m going to do with my life and then being super excited that no matter what, IT WON’T BE THIS
Shoutout to anyone who reads my really long posts, cause sometimes a person posts something on here and I just look and go "too long, not reading all that, but sounds cool!" and like it for later and then never go back
