𓉳ིྀᬊ 𝓬𝔀 — choking. rough sex. jabber is a de-ge-ner-rate!
choking jabber while riding him is the quickest way to force an orgasm out of him.
you’re already on the verge of snapping his dick in half with how hard your riding him, grinding your cunt back n forth at a harsh pace, clenching around his girth like your trying to cut off blood circulation in his cock and he adores it. low groans rumble in his throat as he feels himself getting closer to his orgasm. “mmphm..harder dollface. y’too soft with me.”
soft? you knew he was fishing a reaction out of you, he always does whether it was in or out of the sheets. but something about now ticked you off, you didn’t know if it was even rational or just jabber’s natural talent of annoying you by breathing the wrong way. but, he always got what he wanted, he always does, this time with your hand around his throat and your nails digging painful crescents into his skin. a half gasp punched out of his throat, then you felt his dick twitch. “shiiit..fuck, ‘m bouta cum baby..” he moaned out the best he could, lavender irises rolling to the back of his head as a sick grin stretched across his lips.
Leon Kennedy x ftm reader. Man is just eating you out like he’s starved and dehydrated. As always, this is 18+ not meant for minors! Eh, hope this is good. Dick and entrance are used in this… uhh squirting. Yeah.
“Eyes on me, don’t look away, darlin’” Leon grumbled, his words muffled by the hot flesh between your thighs as he lavishly lapped and sucked on.
You were sprawled out on the table, legs spread wide open with Leon in between them. You whined and cried softly, attempting to not look away from the man pleasuring you but also the man who’s denying you an orgasm.
Leon gave special attention to your throbbing dick; licking it, sucking on it, even giving soft nibbles that sent shockwaves all over your body. His tongue would lap around your entrance, drinking the essences between moving further down to tease your tight asshole — rimming the ring of muscles before moving back to your entrance and dick. His slight stubble rubbing against the skin of your thighs and dick, adding a fuzzy feeling.
“Please… let me cum… wanna cum…” You cried softly, begging Leon to give you the sweet release you’ve been craving — aching — for! The man had already ruined two previous orgasms by pulling away. You could see the evil, satisfying grin on his face before he dived back into your thigh to continue his attacks.
Leon didn’t respond as he was too focused on your dick. Nibbling and sucking on the swollen thing. “Should I?” Using the essences your entrance produced, Leon lathered his fingers with the substance and slid them into your tight ass.
You cried and screamed in pleasure, thrusting your hips into Leon’s face and rolling them in his face. The man grunts as he grounds your hips, wrapping his one of muscular arms around your waist and yanking you closer to him. “H-holy shit… oh god…” you were starting to feel dizzy, your head spinning with thoughts that you couldn’t comprehend. Your toes curled up, thighs squeezing Leon’s head, fingers digging into the wooden desk.
“L-Leon…” You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. All you could was tremble and moan as the older man hit all of your pressure points. His fingers stretch your ass opened, his attention then moving to your entrance while his thumb squeezed and rubbed your swollen dick.
Leon wasn’t going to give up until his boyfriend was crying and shaking from his ministrations. The older man was lost in the sauce, ignoring his throbbing cock as he sped his movement. The tacky, wet sounds of your holes filled the room. The familiar tension returned; the tingling sensation in your stomach began. The older man was determined to bring you to a full orgasm.
“G-gonna cum…” you whined. Your back arching and hands finding Leon’s head, digging your nails into the man’s scalp. You turned away for just a second, but the older man didn’t care. He wants to taste you, see you collapse into a mess, hear you scream his name as you cum for him.
Leon grew relentless. Not stopping for one bit. The pleasure so good, so intense that it hurts, burning hot, but Leon refuses to let you go. The older man could feel your entrance spasming and clenching… your asshole clenching around his fingers…
Shaking and spasming, you let out one last scream — screaming Leon’s name. Crying his name with every breathe as the words devolved into short babbles and cries. The world turned white as the rushing feeling finally released — pent up after being edged for hours. Your holes pulsing as stream after stream shooting obscenely out of your entrance, soaking Leon. The older man didn’t pull back but latched his mouth, wanting every drop of you.
You choked, withered, and groaned, relieved that it was over… sadly. The corners of your eyes blurred, tears welding in your eyes as you collapsed against the hard surface. You couldn’t breathe, it was too powerful. The world then went dark.
“Hey, you alright?” Leon asked after a couple of minutes. There was no response from you as he got up from his position. You had passed out. The older man felt pride swell in his mind, knowing that he brought you to such an orgasm. No one else, not another man could bring you to an orgasm like that.
a/n: im not extremely happy with how this turned out (it’s been a while since i’ve written an actual fanfic, not just hcs, so that’s probably why), i might revisit this idea as hcs instead later on. and another thing, since no one has made any gifs for this scene yet i had to make my own, i worked with what i could so it’s not great.(will change gif once a better one appears)
word count: 1000+
cw: suggestive, sad Luffy, reader thinking he’s cute when sad (im a freak im not sorry), reader licks him, contamination (i guess?), hurt/comfort, reader is playfully self-deprecating, making out like crazy, kissing tears.
It was a shock really, seeing your boyfriend in tears, the jolly guy he always was, now sat here on the beach absolutely sobbing, crying out for you.
“Luffy! what happened??” you’d ask as you ran up to him, having ran the second you had heard him call out your name in anguish, “i- i’m so sorry, it’s all my fault..” he cried, his bottom lip wobbling, “heyy” you soothed, getting down beside him, sand digging into your knees, “it’s not your fault, it’s okay” you tried to make him feel better as he shook from the overwhelming sadness.
seeing him trembling like that hurt your heart, you grabbed his hand, your thumb softly tracing a pattern into his skin, making him look down at your hands then up to you, a small sob leapt out of his throat, “i’m not- i-..” his voice shaking as he cried, “i’m not good enough for you-“ he heaved, “you’re so good and pretty-.. w-why would you be with me..?” your heart pounded in your chest painfully at his words, “Luffy!” you grabbed his face, “don’t EVER say that, you’re my guy, my boyfriend, and i love you” you’d say your own voice wobbling, “you’re everything to me, you hear??” your words coming out firmer, slightly shaking him as you spoke.
he’d look up at you slowly nod his head, his lip still wobbly as a few tears ran down his cheeks, sniffing quietly as you kissed his tear streaked cheeks, “my sweet boy” you’d mumble kissing away his tears while cupping his face still.
he really was sweet, but just seeing him like this, it made your stomach flutter full of butterflies, the fact that he was really cute didn’t help.
he leaned his head into the nook of your neck, nuzzling into you, your hands slid around him, holding him tight as he just whimpered, “Luffy.. i don’t know what to do..” you’d whisper, pressing a kiss into his hair, “you’re our leader, the captain, the others need you, i need you..” you’d snuggle closer to him, gripping at his shirt, “you deserve someone better..” he’d mumble numbly, “you’re an idiot if you really think that..” you say, pushing him back, his back hitting the sand, “Snap out of it!” you yelled, voice cracking as you got on top of him, grabbing him by his shirt, shaking him, trying to hold in your own frustrated tears.
a small groan of frustration slipped out as you pulled him up, while still being on his lap, “i want my silly captain back” you said out loud, as a tear slipped down your cheek, trying to come up with anything to snap him out of it, you get an idea, do something so out of place that it’ll confuse him out of it, you’ve heard of people doing something like it before when people are scared so why wouldn’t it work now.
so you tightened your grip on his shirt and leaned in, licking away the tears on his face, smudging the blue mark on his cheek, accidentally coloring your tongue blue, Luffy stiffened then shook his head, his breathing evening out, “you’re back..” you said but your tone slowly becoming somber, his eyes widened and he spoke your name, hugging you tightly “thank you!” he said but halted once he saw the look in your eyes, you whimpered, your chin quivering as tears started streaming down your face, “hey it’s okay! what’s wrong??” he’d wipe away your tears, “i thought you were gone” you cried, letting him see your tongue as you spoke, “blue”.
you had accidentally transferred the paint to yourself, not having known it was the paint that had made him sad when you licked him, “oh no, i contaminated you!” he said in distress, grabbing your face, looking into your sad eyes as he thought, “what do i do..” he hummed, rocking side to side like a boat with you on his lap, thinking, thinking….“oh!”.
stopping his movements, he smiled, pushing your hair away from your face, gently caressing your face, “can stick your tongue out, please” he asked like a man on a mission, you looked at him confused and teary but did as requested, sticking out your tongue, just for him to kiss you, letting out a yelp of surprise, feeling his tongue brush against yours, tangling together, soft whines and moans slipping into his mouth as he grabbed your shoulders, pulling you closer, your teary cheek smudging against his, “Luf-.. mmh” you whined quietly, “i got you” he mumbled into your lips, trying his best to water out the paint enough with his saliva mixed together with yours.
tumbling down onto the sand below, he cradled your head with one hand as he leaned over you, kissing your tears quickly as you panted softly, “Luffy..” you tried to speak but was cut off, “nope!” and he kissed you again, not stopping till the paint had dissolved into nothing.
the cloak of sadness lifted off of you mid kiss, kissing him back letting out a small giggle into his lips, causing him to smile wide against you, “there you are!” he pulled back, attacking your face with tiny pecks all over making you laugh out more, “here i am!” you smiled, sitting up only to tackle him to the ground, holding him down by his arms, Luffy not fighting it at all just smiling up at you, just enjoying the moment despite knowing he easily could break free at any moment, you give his nose a little peck before rolling over laying at his side, looking up at the clouds dancing with the bright blue skies.
“i’m totally useless huh?” you laughed, your words making him get on his side, resting his head on his palm, he looked at your smile as he wiped away the tears left on your face, “no you’re not, you saved me without even knowing about the paint, you’re awesome!” he helped you up from the ground, ruffling your hair.
suddenly a loud explosion echoed from the distance “shit- i completely forgot about the others!” you looked at him wide eyed, seeing the smoke behind the far away trees, he took your hand and just bolted towards it while laughing, getting back to the rest of the crew.
Summary: Even after nearly dying, all Leon can think about is his husband.
CW: Soft angst - Hurt/Comfort - Fluff - Established relationship - Married - Leon is canon age (48) - Reader is early 50s - Old man yaoi - Slight spoilers
Words: 4.4k
A/N: Ah yes my favorite old man yaoi is finally making a return. I've been a huge Resident Evil fan since I was a kid, so I'm actually excited to start writing for it. Anyway, this will be a little different than what I mentioned but hopefully it turns out well and y'all like it. A few things as I edit this, if I remember correctly in RE8 it's said Chris works for the BSAA, so reader does too and also this is more or less just based on Leon walking away and putting his ring back on, cause I'm tryna not actively spoil anything. I don't even know what to say about this one......not my best
What had he done to deserve this?
Before the academy, before the nightmare of Raccoon City—hell, even after the world fell apart a dozen times over—what had he done to earn a grace like you? In a world choked by the rot of Umbrella and the shadows of corrupt men, Leon Kennedy had somehow stumbled into your life. He didn't think he deserved you. In his own mind, he was still just a rookie cop who’d had to grow up in a single, blood-soaked night. And you? You were a legend, a pillar of S.T.A.R.S. who had survived the Arklay Mountains only to spend your fifties tethered to Chris Redfield’s relentless, exhausting crusade to fix a broken world.
Leon never expected a forever. It was never supposed to be more than a lingering, sideways glance in a dimly lit bar while Chris talked shop. It wasn't supposed to end in a quiet ceremony, or the secret thrill he felt every time someone called you Mr. Kennedy just to see the smirk play on your aging, handsome face.
And yet, as the infection tore through his nervous system, his mind didn't go to the mission. It went to you. Your voice was the only thing cutting through the white noise of the virus; your smile was the only image that wouldn't dissolve into the blur. You were his anchor. Even as his muscles seized and his mind screamed for the mercy of unconsciousness, the thought of coming home to you kept his heart beating.
But the reality was a cold, hard floor. His body was a cage of fire and ice, twitching violently as the antidote warred with the parasite.
“Can't believe you're heading out again,” you murmured in the golden light of the memory. The bedsheets were tangled around your legs, and the scent of cedar and old coffee hung in the air. “I finally get a week off, and they decide they can't breathe without you.”
Leon huffed a dry laugh, his lips pressing firmly against your weathered knuckles as he lay draped across you. “Gonna miss me, old man?” he whispered against your skin. He knew the answer, but he needed the vibration of your voice to steady him.
You leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his messy brown hair. Leon let out a long, shaky breath, melting into the heat of your chest. “Of course,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I always do. Just….come back in one piece this time. I'm too old to be a widower, Leon.”
Leon closed his eyes, tilting his head up until his lips met yours in a promise he intended to keep.
Then, the world shattered.
His back arched off the freezing ground, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as he shouted your name into the empty air. His eyes snapped open, stinging and bloodshot. There was no warm bed. No hand in his hair. The taste of you was replaced by the copper tang of blood and a sterile chemical stench.
His left hand flew to his chest, searching for the silver band he’d worn for years. His finger felt unnervingly light. The ring was gone—likely stripped away during the chaos or lost in the dirt. The silence of the room was deafening, a requiem for a man who had everything to lose and was currently losing it all.
Leon’s lungs burned, each breath a jagged shard of glass as the last of the infection was purged from his veins. The silence that followed the chaos was deafening—the monster was dead, Victor Gideon was a memory, and Grace was finally safe.
None of that mattered.
His vision was a blurred mess of gray and red, but his hand was already moving, clawing at the dirt and the debris. His fingers felt wrong. They felt lighter, colder, stripped of the one thing that grounded him to his humanity.
"No….no, no, no," he rasped, his voice a broken shell of its former self. He dragged his body across the floor, his knees scraping against the jagged concrete. "Not this. Not now."
His mind was a whirlwind of panic. He had survived Raccoon City, the Plagas, and the fall of governments, but the thought of losing that simple silver band felt like the final, killing blow. It was the only piece of you he had brought into this hellhole. It was the promise of a quiet house, the scent of cedar, and your hand in his hair when the nightmares got too loud.
"I’m coming back," he hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into a pile of ash and spent shell casings. "I promised. I told you….I told you I'd come back."
He was rambling now, a feverish mumble that only he could hear. To any observer, he looked like a broken man searching for a scrap of refuse, but to Leon, he was searching for his soul. He didn't care that his gear was shredded or that his ribs felt like they were held together by the thinnest of threads.
"Can't lose it. Please, just….not this."
He pushed aside a heavy piece of fallen rebar, his breath hitching. There, half-buried in the soot and the dark, damp earth of the crater, was a glint of silver. It was dull, coated in a layer of grime, but it caught the flickering emergency light of the facility.
Leon’s hand shook so violently he almost knocked it further into the debris. He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal with a desperation that bordered on holy. He didn't just pick it up; he cradled it against his palm, bringing it to his lips as a sob he’d been holding back since the mission started finally threatened to break through.
He wiped the dirt off with a trembling thumb, the familiar weight of it centers him. He didn't think about the global implications of all of this. He didn't think about the debriefing or the scars this night would leave. He only thought about the way you looked in the morning light, and how he wasn't going to let that be a memory.
With a grunt of agony, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like lead, but he slid the ring back onto his finger. It was a perfect fit—a constant, solid reminder of the man waiting for him. He adjusted it, twisting it once, twice, until it sat exactly where it belonged.
"See you soon," he whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked toward the exit. "I'm coming home.”
The silence of the house was its own kind of weight. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a cold night; it was the hollow, ringing silence of an empty nest that was never meant to be this still.
You sat at your mahogany desk, the green shaded lamp casting a warm, localized glow over a sea of chaos. Your home office had become a secondary branch of the BSAA in all but name. Scattered across the blotter were thick manila folders and grainy satellite captures—reports Chris had unofficially slid your way. He valued your eyes, the eyes of a S.T.A.R.S. veteran who had seen the world break before the rest of the public even knew it was cracked. But tonight, the analysis of bio-organic weapon dispersal patterns in Eastern Europe felt like trying to read a dead language.
Your mind was miles away, buried in the dark soil of whatever godforsaken corner of the globe Leon was currently haunting.
You knew better than most what he was capable of. You’d seen him survive things that would have leveled a small army, but that didn't stop the creeping dread. You knew how Raccoon City had carved him out, leaving a hollow space that he’d spent years trying to fill with duty. Your greatest fear wasn't that Leon wouldn't be able to handle the job—it was that one day, the job would simply decide it was finished with him, and you’d be the last to know. You’d be sitting right here, analyzing a report for Chris, while your world ended in a silent, classified file on someone else's desk.
Letting out a heavy, jagged sigh, you scrubbed a hand down your face. Your palms felt rough, the skin dry from years of handling firearms and paperwork. Your fingers brushed against the grit of stubble on your jaw—a silvered, unruly growth you hadn't bothered to trim since Leon left.
"Get it together," you muttered to the empty room. Your voice sounded gravelly, older than you felt like admitting.
With a grunt of effort, you pushed back from the desk, the wheels of the chair groaning against the hardwood. You began the ritual of tidying up, stacking the BSAA reports into a neat, categorized pile. It was a habit from the old days—leave your station ready for the next shift. You clicked the desk lamp off, plunging the room into a shadowy twilight, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.
As you moved through the hallway, the muscle memory of your life together took over. For a fleeting, heart-stuttering second, you expected to see a shadow move in the kitchen, or to feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You could almost smell him—gunpowder, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of rain. But when you turned the corner, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
He wasn't there.
You shook your head, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You were too old for ghost stories, especially the ones you told yourself.
Stripping off your flannel shirt and undershirt as you walked, you let them fall onto the armchair in the bedroom, followed by your belt and trousers. You stepped into the en suite bathroom, the tile cold beneath your feet. The fluorescent light hummed to life, bright and unforgiving.
You leaned against the marble counter, staring at the man in the mirror.
You looked at the silver ring on your left hand first. It was scratched, the metal dulled by decades of life, but it was the most solid thing in the room. Then, you looked up. The light caught the deep salt-and-pepper of your hair, more salt than pepper these days. The wrinkles at the corners of your eyes were deep—laugh lines earned from rare, genuine smiles, and worry lines earned from every time Leon walked out the front door. Your face was a map of a long, hard-fought life. You weren't the young S.T.A.R.S. operative anymore; you were a man in his fifties who just wanted his husband home.
You shook your head again, dismissing the melancholy before it could take root. Turning away from your reflection, you reached into the walk-in shower and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned, a familiar shudder running through the wall, before the spray began to hiss against the stone floor. Steam started to rise, blurring the edges of the room, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain.
The quiet click of the front door’s latch was a sound Leon had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over the last forty-eight hours. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The house breathed with a familiar, lived-in warmth that made the sterile, metallic tang of the lab feel like a bad dream he’d finally woken up from.
He moved like a ghost through the foyer, his movements heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could touch. His tactical boots, caked in the dried mud and grime of a nightmare, were set by the door with a dull thud. He didn't bother unlacing them properly; he just kicked them off, his socks padding softly against the hardwood. His jacket followed, hitting the floor with the muffled thud.
He knew exactly where you were. The low, rhythmic hum of the pipes vibrating through the floorboards told him everything. It was your ritual—the late-night shower to wash away the phantom weight of BSAA casualty reports and the stress of waiting for a phone call that might never come.
Leon moved into the bedroom, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the moonlight. He stripped with a mechanical efficiency, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuckled his holster. His pants and boxers pooled on the faded rug in front of the bed—the one you’d bought together because it reminded you of a proper home—and he left them there.
He stepped into the bathroom, the air thick and heavy with steam that smelled of your sandalwood soap. The humidity clung to his skin, pulling the chill of the outside world from his pores.
Before he reached for the shower door, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
The fog had started to claim the glass, but he saw enough. He looked at the man staring back—a man who had survived, but looked like he’d been dragged through the gears of it. There was a jagged cut along his cheekbone, held together by dried, copper-colored blood. Bruises the color of spoiled plums were blooming across his ribs and shoulders. But it was his face that held his gaze. He saw the gray stubble dusting his jaw, thicker now, and the stark, silver strands peeking through the weary brown of his hair. He was aging. They were both aging, the years stolen by a world that never stopped needing them to bleed for it.
Then, his eyes dropped to his hand. The silver ring sat firmly on his finger, gleaming even through the grime. He twisted it once, a grounding habit, before his gaze drifted past his own reflection.
Through the frosted, foggy glass of the sliding shower door, he saw you.
You were a blurred, familiar silhouette in the spray, your head bowed under the rush of the water. Even through the steam, he could see the strength in your shoulders—the build of a man who had carried a familiar weight and survived. You were standing there, unaware that the ghost you’d been mourning had finally come home.
Leon didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the silence yet. He just stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp intake of air, fixated on the sight of you. To him, you weren't just a man in a shower; you were the end of the road. You were the reason he’d clawed his way out of the dirt.
Slowly, his hand reached out, his fingers pressing against the warm, wet glass, leaving a clear streak in the fog as he prepared to let you know he was back.
The sliding door creaked on its track, a low, metallic groan that cut through the steady drumming of the water. You didn't even have time to turn your head before the sudden draft of cool bathroom air hit your wet skin, quickly replaced by the heat of a body stepping into the stall behind you.
The steam swirled, momentarily clearing as Leon stepped into the spray.
The first thing you felt wasn't his touch, but his weight—the sheer, solid presence of him suddenly occupying the small space. Then came his hands. They were cold at first, a stark contrast to the scalding water, as he pressed his palms flat against your shoulder blades. You felt a shudder ripple through him the moment his skin made contact with yours. It was the touch of a man who had spent days wondering if he’d ever feel another human being again.
He didn't say a word. He just leaned forward, his forehead dropping heavily against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched, a jagged, wet sound that was swallowed by the splash of the shower.
"Leon?" you breathed, your voice cracking. You started to turn, but his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your shoulders, not out of aggression, but out of a desperate need to keep you right there.
"Just….a second," he rasped. His voice was a wreck—gritty, raw, and exhausted. "Just let me stay like this for a second."
You stood still, the water cascading over both of you. You could feel the grime of the world washing off him and onto you. The water at your feet turned a murky, tea-colored brown as the dust, soot, and dried blood from the facility began to melt away. He smelled like ozone, wet earth, and the metallic tang of an oncoming storm, but beneath all of that was the scent you knew by heart—the faint, lingering musk of his skin.
Slowly, he began to move. His hands slid down your arms, his fingers interlaced with yours, and that was when you felt it—the cold, hard press of his silver ring against the back of your hand. You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the day he left.
Leon finally pulled back just enough to let you turn around. When you faced him, the sight nearly broke your heart. The water was slicking his hair back, revealing every new line of exhaustion on his face. The cut on his cheek was weeping a faint pink under the spray, and his eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles that looked like bruises.
He looked at you with an intensity that was almost painful. His gaze traced the graying hair at your temples and the laugh lines around your mouth, his eyes softening with a reverence that bordered on worship. To him, you weren't an aging veteran; you were the only beautiful thing left in a world of monsters.
"You're late," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed over the gray stubble on his jaw, feeling the prickle of life beneath your touch.
Leon let out a broken, huffed laugh, his eyes closing as he leaned into your palms. "It.was….complicated."
"I thought...." You stopped, the words catching in your throat. You didn't need to finish.
"I know," he murmured. He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space between you until your chests were pressed together, the water trapped between you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in so tight it was hard to breathe, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I promised I'd see you soon. I wasn't going to break that. Not for anyone."
He was shaking now—the post-adrenaline crash finally hitting him in the safety of your arms. You held him, your fingers threading through his wet hair, shielding him from the rest of the world.
Leon didn't move. He stayed anchored against you, his weight heavy and honest, his damp forehead resting against your collarbone. You could feel the tremors running through his muscles—the slow, rhythmic aftershocks of a body that had been pushed past its breaking point and was only now realizing it was safe to collapse.
Gently, you reached for the bottle of soap, the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood rising with the steam. You didn't ask him where it hurt; you already knew. You could see the map of his pain written in the dark blooms of purple along his ribs and the jagged, angry red of the laceration on his cheek.
You poured the soap into your palms, lashing it into a thick, white foam before you began.
The silence between you wasn't empty; it was thick with everything that didn't need to be said. You started with his shoulders, your large, calloused hands moving in slow, grounding circles. You felt the knots of tension under his skin—hard as stone—and as you worked, you felt them slowly begin to give way. The water at your feet was still tinted a murky gray, the filth of the facility swirling down the drain, leaving Leon’s pale, scarred skin behind.
As you moved your hands down his back, Leon let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't a sigh; it was a surrender. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closed tight, his hands coming up to grip your forearms as if to make sure you were still solid, still there.
You were meticulous. You cleaned the soot from the nape of his neck and the dried blood from the shell of his ear. When you reached the deep bruise over his ribs, your touch lightened, becoming a ghost of a caress. You saw him flinch, his breath catching in a hiss of pain, and you paused, leaning down to press a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to the top of his wet head.
I’ve got you, the gesture said. You’re home.
Leon finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, reflecting the overhead light, rimmed with a weariness that went bone-deep. He looked small in that moment—not the government’s top agent, not the survivor of a dozen bio-hazards, but simply a man who was tired of fighting.
He reached out, his trembling fingers taking the soap from you. He didn't wash himself; instead, he began to wash you. His movements were slow, almost reverent, as he ran his hands over your chest and arms. It was his way of checking you, of confirming that while he was gone, the world hadn't touched you. His thumb traced the silver band on your finger, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, his ring clinking softly against yours—a small, metallic heartbeat in the spray.
The water was starting to run clear now. The grime was gone, but the exhaustion remained, etched into every line of his face.
You took the showerhead from the wall, turning the spray down and rinsing the last of the suds from his skin. The water smoothed his hair back, revealing the silver at his temples that seemed more pronounced tonight than it had a month ago.
Leon leaned his head back, letting the water hit his face, his throat working as he swallowed back the emotions he wasn't ready to voice. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at you—truly looked at you—with a raw, unfiltered devotion. He reached out, his wet palm cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your graying stubble.
Still, neither of you spoke. The hurt was there, hovering in the bruises and the haunted look in his eyes, but the comfort was stronger. It was in the heat of the water, the familiar weight of his wedding band, and the fact that, for the first time in days, his heart rate was finally beginning to match yours.
You reached over and turned the handle, the sudden silence of the bathroom feeling heavy and holy. The only sound left was the drip-drip-drip of water hitting the tile and the ragged, synchronized breathing of two men who had cheated death one more time.
You stepped out first, grabbing the largest, plushiest towel from the rack and holding it open. Leon stepped into it without a word, his body shivering as the cool air hit his wet skin. You wrapped him up, pulling the fabric tight around his shoulders and rubbing his arms to bring the heat back. He leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, letting you guide him like he was a man walking in his sleep.
The walk to the bedroom was slow. The only light came from the moon spilling across the hardwood, illuminating the trail of discarded gear Leon had left in his wake—a reminder of the man he had to be out there, contrasted against the man he was allowed to be here.
You sat him down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He looked small, wrapped in that white towel, his damp hair sticking up in golden-gray tufts. You stood between his knees, taking a smaller towel to his head, gently drying the strands with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.
"Stay," he whispered, his voice finally finding its vibration. His hands, still clean and smelling of your soap, reached out to circle your waist, pulling you closer until his face was pressed against your stomach.
"I'm not going anywhere, Leon," you murmured, your fingers raking through his hair. "I’m right here."
After a few minutes of quiet, you helped him into a pair of soft cotton lounge pants—the ones he always complained were too loose but wore every time he came home. You climbed into the other side of the bed, the linens cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the grime he’d been caked in.
The moment Leon slid under the covers, he didn't just lie down; he sought you out like a compass needle finding north. He draped himself over you, his heavy head landing on your chest, his arm hooking firmly over your waist as if to anchor you to the mattress. You felt the cold metal of his wedding band press against your skin, a solid promise.
You pulled the heavy duvet up over both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic, slowing thrum of Leon’s heart against your ribs.
"It's quiet," Leon mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with the onset of sleep. "I forgot it could be this quiet."
"That’s because you’re home," you replied softly. You reached down, taking his hand in yours and interlacing your fingers. The two silver rings clicked together, a tiny, domestic sound that felt more significant than any explosion he’d survived.
Leon let out a long, contented sigh, his entire body finally going slack. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since he’d left Raccoon City decades ago seemed to melt into the mattress. He nuzzled closer, his nose brushing against the gray hair on your chest, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady pull of a man who finally felt safe enough to dream.
You lay there in the dark, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the ceiling. You felt the weight of your years—the laugh lines, the gray hair, the old injuries that ached in the rain—but as you looked down at your husband, finally at peace in your arms, you realized you wouldn't trade a single wrinkle. They were the marks of a life lived together, a map of how far you’d both come to reach this bedroom, this bed, this moment.
"I love you, Leon," you whispered, so low you weren't sure he heard it.
But in the dark, you felt his grip on your hand tighten just a fraction. A faint, sleepy smile touched his lips before he drifted off completely.
your wish is my command nonnie!!! tw for talks of shots and needles!
transman leon kennedy who... teaches you how to give yourself t shots when you first go on it, or if you're already on he's making sure to sync your shot days. and he's the one giving you your shot now, treating it like he's putting a gun together before he injects you. it's more fun if you twitch a bit when the needle first goes through your skin.
afterwards he's patting the injection spot, if it's in your thigh he gives a firm squeeze too, pulling you closer. every once and a while he'll shove his hand down your pants afterward, especially if he was gone for a while, and feel around, stroking your tdick and chuckling to himself about how you're getting bigger, almost his size.
transman leon kennedy who... brings you to sex shops to have you pick out a new strap for him to use on you. his favorites are the realistic ones, but no matter what he'll gladly use it to make you that cute little braindead boy in his bed.
transman leon kennedy who... admires your top surgery scars if you get it, tracing them over each night. it's a surefire way to make him blush if you return the favor. he'll furrow his brows and look away or shove his head over your hair, anything to make sure you don't see the pretty way his cheeks get all red (his ears too!!! hehe)
transman leon kennedy who... brags to all his fellow mission partners about you. they notice the pep in his step when he has you to come back to. they don't have to drag him out of bars much more, although he still ignores their calls as much as always
he keeps pictures of you in his wallet, little polaroids that range from cutesy little photos you took of the two of you to the more... intense ones he keeps hidden underneath the pile. you in increasingly lewd positions, one he took of you sucking his strap, one of you leaking after he used lube that looked like cum to give the image of a creampie.
transman leon kennedy who... teaches you how to suck his tdick, training you till he's cumming on your tongue, his hole fluttering with each successful orgasm. he'll start out soft, but the longer you go on, the more he's pulling your hair, or grabbing onto the back of your head to force you at angles that have stars bursting behind his eyelids.
transman leon kennedy who... gladly matches your libido with testosterone. he already had a high sex drive, but the second he notices any of the signs, he's shameless. he'll stuff a hand down your pants, or just shuffle your boxers down enough so he can eat you out. even quickies end up lasting a while, leon has no self control and whenever he thinks he's done.. well, he isn't. he'll go until you tell him to stop. at least it puts you both to bed quickly :3
a/n - thank you nonniee!!!! smoochies you. if anyone wants to send requests for some drabbles like this please lemme know!!! i absolutely will write them hehe. if i get enough i'll make a real request rules post >_<
holdin’ hands enjin x reader
། ݊ ݂𓏼 ftm or fem afab reader, smoking, understimulation, orgasm denial
He’s nursing a cig in his right hand, keeping it nice and steady between his fingers as his other arm curls underneath your leg. His hand came out from underneath to pat your naked thigh, kneading the fat with his tattooed fingers. Sweat still clung to your skin, sticky, but Enjin’s didn’t particularly mind since he was cozied up by having his head rest on your inner thigh.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling with his eyes closed. He shifted to push your legs a little wider, pinned to the white sheets as he blew out the smoke right over your cunt. The soft wisps of ashy air flicked at your sensitive lips still slicked from before, making your legs tremble under his tight grip.
“Cute,” he purred like a lazy cat. “You like that?”
Enjin shifts again, smoothing the hand cradling his cigarette over the lump of your pelvis—he coos a small apology when a bit of fallen ash makes your stomach flinch and flutter. He leans up to take another drag, sucking in the smoke and letting it fill his mouth before blowing it out along your pussy. It’s a concentrated blow, enough pressure to have your fingers rasping against the sheets and your hips bucking up into seemingly nothing.
“You’re squirmin’ so much doll,” he snorts, pulling your fingers into his as he locks your hand in place with his thick knuckles. “Just be still f’me, be good.”
Enjin does it again: takes a hit, hovers over your sex and blows the smoke out. He even sneaks a kiss to your folds: open-mouthed and addictive as he traps the smoke before letting it disperse when he pulls back.
It tickles and he’s not even touching you all that much.
Enjin glances up at you, chuckling at your fluttering eyes and that sweet blush on your cheeks—he would put a strawberry on you and eat you up like a shortcake if he could.
“What’re you laughing about?” You frown, and Enjin squeezes your hand a little tighter.
“Nothing. Besides the fact that you look like a quivering pup.”
The cherry breathes a bright red, and Enjin exhales it to the side, just brushing against the curve of your thigh as he sighs like teasing you had taken a toll on his energy. He finally traces his hand lower, down the plane of your belly and to those curled hairs he threaded his ring and pinky finger in.
A skinny stream of gray dances in the air-conned space while Enjin finally pats a thumb against that throbbing clit he’s been eyeing the whole time. His movements are frustratingly slow, lazily ghosting his thumbprint over your nub, only to squeeze your hand and pull away when you canted your hips up. It’s like he’s handling a bubble underneath his fingers and any sudden movements would make it pop.
From gentle circles, he moved to sliding his thumb in between the silky crevices of your labia, just barely swiping along the outside. You feel almost embarrassed under his eyes—he’s only really staring at your cunt, weeping under his touch.
It’s slow, but it’s something. He rubs along your slit a moment more before pulling away when starts to feel you get a little too wet.
He straightened up his back, fixing the shirt strewn over him in a lazy attempt to cover up before crushing the cigarette on the ashtray nearby.
“Sorry to get you so worked up baby.” He wore that stupid grin of his, patting your thigh and pushing himself off the bed, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” A kiss, “Don’t miss me too much.”
Summary: Tim’s overworked and you’re in the wrong outfit.
Pairing: Tim Drake x Ftm!Reader
Word Count: 2.1k
Tags/Warnings: Anatomy referred to as: T-dick and hole. Cock-warming, Petnames: Baby, Pretty boy, Good boy. References to prior sexual encounters, (Y/n) not used
Can you check this file? Can you review this footage for me? Can you run these prints— He swears, it’s like he’s working with incompetent children. Not people cited as great detectives, not capable vigilantes who strike fear into criminals. And this stuff should’ve been carted off to Babs, but no B just had to be a prick and get her upset so now she was on strike. Never mind that Tim had a life of his own and didn’t live there anymore.
Angrily, his eyes drag over from his computer set up to you. You’re busy on your phone, legs kicked up on the couch bed he keeps in his office, chewing on your bottom lip. You were supposed to go on a date tonight, someplace nice and outside of Gotham but he can see the stupid city skyline behind you. He should go on strike, he figures someone else could pick up his slack. And it’s not even his slack, none of this work are for cases he’s working on.
Turning your head at the sound of his loud huffing, you find Tim running his hands down his face before he angrily picks up his tumbler that’s filled with something that can cause him his first(?) heart attack at twenty-two. He takes a quick sip before shaking his head, muttering something you can’t quite hear before he returns to typing.
“Need help, baby?” You ask, watching as he turns to you, his gaze softening. You’re not the best with technology but you know your way around well enough.
“No,” He breathes, giving you a small smile. “I’m fine, thank you, though.” He figures if he pushes through his anger he could finish half of the cases by the time you get hungry for dinner and then just finish the rest when you go to bed.
You nod, flashing a toothy grin. “If you change your mind, I’m here.” Turning back to your phone, the two of you fall back into the blanket of silence for twenty minutes. Within that time you can hear him growing more and more frustrated— this is taking him longer than it should’ve because he doesn’t have complete access to files or whatever is needed for the case. So he has to text the others for access or whatever information they kept off the record— which was difficult for a group of people who hardly ever check their phones. Let alone text.
And despite what they might think, he’s not at their beck and call. He could’ve been productive today— and not productive to them. Again, his eyes trace over your figure. Your shirt pulled up, your hand lazily draped over your exposed flesh, shorts accidentally pulled down so he can see your tan lines, shorts that are too short for company.
You shift on the couch, letting out a small disgruntled moan in an attempt to get comfortable, unaware of Tim’s gaze. Feeling his sweats getting tighter, he shakes his head and returns to his work, trying to focus on that instead of making new memories of him fucking you on that couch. Unfortunately instead of watching over some warehouse footage, he remembers the way you looked on the couch. Naked, panting, one hand pressed against the fogged up window, the other reaching back to hold his hip—
Fuck. He needs to focus, to push through. He can do whatever later. He rewinds the footage, watching as some goons check crates. But his mind goes back to you, back arched on the couch, trying to rut into him because he was being so cruel and making you do all the work. Begging him, using your puppy dog eyes that makes him weak in the knees and hard—
The footage can wait. He’ll just read some files then. Some case about an upcoming rogue. He shifts in his seat, sighing while holding his chin up. It’s one of Jason’s cases, a rare occasion that he asks for Tim’s help without being held at gunpoint. He reads about something— he can’t remember it, but one of the words sends him back to that couch. Your lips wrapped tightly around him, your tongue working its way around his length while he fisted your hair, gently guiding you.
Closing his eyes to gather his thoughts, he shakes his head before looking down at his sweats. There’s a distinct wet patch right at the apex of the tent, his dick twitching when he tries not to think of more times the two of you had sex. He can’t think properly, can’t even read the stupid file. All he knows is that he can’t work under these conditions, he’s too frustrated— sexually and at this stupid case load. One of them needs to give.
“Pretty boy,” He calls, both his words and tone are something you know he only uses when he’s ready to have sex. Dropping your phone, you turn, grinning wildly at him. “I think I figured out how you can help me.” His face betrays nothing, but you can see his pants, how the wet spot grows when your eyes travel down, twitching when you stand up, making a show of grabbing your phone, letting your shorts tighten around your ass. Fuck.
“Really?” You ask, faking nativity. “How, baby?” He watches, nearly groaning when you lean on the edge of his desk, not bothering to fix your shorts or shirt. You’re not wearing underwear, the shorts now low enough that there’s nearly nothing left to his imagination.
Shit, you’re driving him crazy. “C’mere,” He begs, watching as you take two steps before you’re in front of him, staring down at him. He loops his index fingers on the band of your shorts, all the while keeping his eye contact with you. “Can I?” You nod and suddenly the shorts are on the floor and you’re stepping out of them, kicking the black fabric to the side.
“I thought you had to finish your cases,” You remark, watching as he pulls his sweats and boxers down to his knees.
Grabbing your hand, he pulls you onto his lap. “Oh, I do.” He flips you so you’re facing him. “I want you to just sit on my dick,”
You frown, hooking your hands on his shoulders while looping your legs over the armrest. “Really? Just sit?” You spare a glance down, looking at his erect dick as it just barely brushes against your skin. “I can’t ride you?” Quickly, he looks away, trying not to fall for your pout and puppy dog eyes.
Shaking his head, he gives you a quick kiss, chuckling when you try and chase his lips. “I just want you to sit nice and pretty, yeah? I can’t be too distracted. But once I’m done, I promise I’ll fuck you nice and good, yeah?”
Thinking about it, you agree and grab the base of his dick, rising high enough that you can push him towards your entrance. Tim grins, watching your face as he grabs your hand, moving his tip along your folds and T-dick, collecting your arousal as lube. Your head drops to his shoulder as he helps you sink on him, lifting his hips to push inside of you. “Wait,” You gasp, using your free hand to fist his shirt. He stills, trying to lean back to see your face. It has been a little bit since he fucked you, you’ve mainly been fucking him, truth be told. He’s pulled out from his head when you sink further, your walls fluttering around his dick.
Moaning his name in his ear, Tim squeezes his mouse, trying to show restraint when you’re being so good for him. He wants to give in, just give you what you so desperately want. But he’s pulled back into the case, ignoring the urge to roll his hips into you, to pull your head towards him and kiss you stupid.
Your thighs touch as you sink fully on him, soft moans drifting up to his ears. Without realizing it, you start rolling your hips. It’s slow, second nature, but it drives Tim insane. “Not yet, baby,” He pants while firmly holding your hips down, keeping you still on him.
“You feel so good,” You whine, pulling back to see his face. “Just— just five minutes— two—?”
He shakes his head, softly stroking your exposed thigh. “After these cases, but you have to be a good boy for me, can you do that?” Reluctantly, you nod, resigning yourself to leaning on him. The action itself makes him twitch inside of you, feeling your arousal collect on him, slowly dipping down his dick and eventually on his thighs.
You lay on his chest, head down, while you watched videos on your phone. The two of you pretending as if this was a normal occurrence and not the fact that Tim’s dick was inside of you and you were desperately trying to think of ways to convince him to fuck you for just a bit.
Thankfully for him, he’s able to focus on the case with you like this. His mind isn’t drifting— he thinks at least. You can tell it is when he starts lazily thrusting up while typing. It startled you at first; you’d gotten used to the feeling of him sitting inside of you, him filling you without any of the added pleasure you’re used to, so the slow movements caught you off guard.
He rolled his hips at first, shifting the chair closer to his desk when the case was getting good. So focused he didn’t hear your sounds or notice when your head dropped to his shoulder when the rolling turned into shallow thrusts. You worried that if you made too much noise, made it too obvious what he was doing, that he’d stop. That the feeling you’d been chasing for what felt like half an hour would go away. Biting your knuckles, you reach for your phone, trying to keep your act up when he suddenly stops.
Stretching, he grabs his phone, pressing it against his ear opposite to you. “Yes, Bruce?” He grunts, slipping the phone between his head and shoulder so he can continue typing. If you wanted to, you could listen to what Bruce was saying but you just wanted Tim to move again, to get so focused on his work that he forgot about his hips and just started moving. “No, that’s third in the pile. Wait your turn,” Third. How many cases did he have to finish? How long was he going to torture you like this?
“Maybe consider that next time before getting Barbra upset and letting five people dump their cases on me.” His phone clatters to his desk while he huffs, leaning back and shaking his head. The movement has him moving in you again; this time he feels it and lets out a quiet moan. His eyes flutter closed before he opens them, looking at you. Your eyes are half lidded, frustrated tears building up and there is a mini pool on his legs. “I’m sorry, baby,” He cooes, reaching down to your t-dick and giving it slow circles that makes you arch against him. “Can you give me five more minutes? Please? And then I’m all yours.”
“Okay,” You pant. He gives you a rushed kiss before using your phone to start a timer and getting back to his work. This time, you have less restraint, staring at the timer that seems to pass at an excruciatingly slow pace.
“You’re squirming, baby.” His breath fans against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Can’t help it,” You cry. The tip is right there, you can feel it, just half a centimeter to the left and he’d be pressing directly on your G-spot. Tim, cruel as ever, lets out a small chuckle and squeezes your thigh when his laughter makes him move inside of you.
“Just a bit longer, yeah? You can last that long and get your reward, right, baby boy?” He removes one of his hands from his keyboard, placing it on the small of your back. “How much longer?”
Looking at your phone, you groan. “Four minutes,” He thinks for a moment, eyes scanning his various monitors and his progress on the case. It’s one of Dick’s, so there’s really no rush, right? The lapse in his judgment makes him ever aware of the feeling of you around him, the way you’re clenching around him, the soft noises you’re making, the way you’re tense against him, trying so desperately not to move.
And it has been a while. He hasn’t kept track of the time, but… the cases can wait.
“Come on,” He murmurs, kissing your cheek while pushing away from his desk. “But we have to be quick.” He laughs when you rush to stand, nearly falling because your legs feel like jelly.
You nod, having not heard a word he said after he agreed to discard the five minutes. “Right, right. Hurry,”
