#im v aware that this is quite shit but whtvr! i wrote!

[whorbidmore]

hey!! this isn't the full fanfic im planning on releasing, but more of a little tester to how easily writing comes to me if that makes sense? i wrote this all in one sitting with zero proof reading so, if there's parts that make no sense/etc., that's why. it started off as another little blurb but then i got a little carried away :3

i wrote this with a pre-top trans masculine reader insert in mind, but kept descriptions relatively neutral since this is more of a focus of a pre-established relationship through the emotional lens of Leon. how he views his partner, what he does to comfort them, etc. though i do attempt to illustrate how oppressive gender dysphoria can be at points. of course not all trans people experience dysphoria, and especially not to the degree I've written, and this should be in no way used as a cover-all essay on trans masculine identity. though im drawing from the experience of some of my most dysphoric thoughts.

also i accidentally posted this a day early so, just know this piece of crap was finished 10/04/24 (today, as of official posting)

Leon Kennedy × Trans Masculine!Reader

content warnings: discussions of gender dysphoria, internalized transmisogyny experienced through an implied trans masculine lens, hurt/comfort (?), fluff, smut, Leon being a sweetheart, not proof read or edited, im actually just shitting this out to satiate the need to write. 18+ content, minors/ageless blogs/TERF/RADFEM's dni.

leon would always be there for his partner when they're feeling dysphoric. he's not the most experienced wordsmith when it comes to assuring them in this way, but reassurance through action can be just as comforting.

on those days where simply telling his partner that he sees them as the person they are, — that behind their body, there's no doubt in his mind that his partner is who they say, and who they feel they are, — isn't enough, he offers solace through action. most often, that means scooping his partner into his arms and holding them, letting them burrow against him, seeking the warmth of his presence away from the harsh glare of gender dysphoria. other times, leon takes matters into his own hands.

times where the level of their dysphoria is all encompassing, looming over them with an oppressive shadowy aura of visceral discomfort, extending beyond their minds view of their body. when dysphoria halts them from completing daily tasks they'd otherwise had no problem in doing. the odd occasion where, if the issue were to be personified, it'd take the form of a sexist, bitter and bigoted old man, waving his cane over their head and grumbling about how 'real men don't do these things' or 'if you were a real man, you wouldn't do this', 'act like this', 'think like this', be like this. eyes darkened and expression hollow, a loose, dissociated grip of the kitchen brush as dysphoria pecks away at their brain like a woodpecker of internalized transmisogyny, Leon steps up to help.

snaking his arms around his partners waist, a tender kiss against their temple as he loosely guides their hands with his own as he washes the dishes. his partner never doubted his own masculinity throughout their relationship, he knows that won't change watching him do the archaically 'female job' of washing dishes.

a display of emphasis, quietly reminding his partner that it's not the actions that make the man. it's the connection between yourself and the identifier of the title. showing that no amount of dish soap, pink button up shirts or anything frilly, prissy or societally deemed 'girly thing's would take away the man Leon knows he is.

Or the person he knows his partner is.

those small, wordless conformations to ground his partners mind back to the reality of those dysphoric thoughts, being just that. thoughts. thoughts that have no place in the world around them. thoughts of a far outdated view of what is manly and what isn't. outdated views that barely apply to cisgender men, let alone people like his partner.

other times leon let's his actions speak the comfort his words try to convey, is when he takes the time to appreciate his partners body.

it's well acknowledged that leon isn't simply the type to be in love, but more openly infatuated with his partner, especially behind closed doors. he wakes up early every morning just to admire his partners sleeping face, the beat of his heart harmonizing a rhythm of raw affection, even as his partner snores with an open, drooling mouth. their face is nothing less than the image of perfection in his mind. every lash on their eyes and healing acne scar, only captivate him further into the safety of their presence. as he does for them. not only does leon worship who his partner is as a human being, he would never withhold himself from worshipping the alter of their form. mind, body and spirit, in leons mind his partner deserves to be worshiped. and when it gets in their head that their mind and soul had been sent down to the incorrect vessel; — a mix up in their otherworldly journey, — how could he ever ignore that?

barely a second thought in his mind, leon would be laying kiss upon heated kiss to his partners lips, fingers tilting their chin to meet him at just the right angle. always beginning so tenderly, words whispered breathlessly as he showers them in praise. voice low against their lips, occasional mumbles of, "...So good...", "...God, you're amazing...", tied together with the prayer of their name, profanities hissed between Leon's teeth.

he tries his best to selfless, especially with his partner, but when he could be sent away from them for weeks at a time, how could he refuse to indulge.

his hands roam along every inch of his partners body, memorizing every dip, curve, swell and crevice. a man who craves every detail of their being. hands so familiar with weaponry and gore, now splayed across the dip in his partners waist, their bodies pressed close together, huffs of adoration caressing the skin of their neck as the muscles in their stomach tense.

it doesn't matter size or shape of his partners chest, whether untouched by the surgical precision of the scalpel or flattened, molded to the shape of their very essence, scars like the thorns of a rose. his rose; bold and beautiful, standing tall and proud against the shroud of spikes and vines that caged them in others perceptions. it doesn't matter the presentation of the flesh when attached to the person he'd give his life for. just as much a man when building Ikea furniture, as they are sitting on the couch in a blanket.

as manly as ever dripping with perspiration returning home from a walk, as they are with Leon's face between their legs. tongue savoring the taste as he tunes into every little motion and noise being offered from his partners lips, a deep chuckle bubbling in his throat at their response to his own lips wrapping around their sensitive clit. god, he could stay like this for the rest of his life. fingers in his hair as he feasts on the love of his partners body, groaning in pleasure with every pulse of their pussy beckoning his tongue further.

keying in to every signal, he only loses himself further the closed his partner is to orgasm, to invested in the task at hand to give a shit about his aching jaw. mumbling the tiniest phrases of affirmation as he hoists their thighs over his shoulder, so carried away their body ends up folded against itself atop their mattress. telling them how fucking gorgeous they are, especially with their face all scrunched up, breaths laboured as they cry out in ecstasy.

resting his head against their inner thigh, hand stroking the dull ache in his jaw, he'd stay in that same spot until his partner catches their breath, nothing short of admiration in his gaze as he stares past the mess he'd made of them.