˗ˋˏCreeps & Lovers ONLY!ˎˊ˗

Though, admittedly, you’ve also never been hunted before now, and you’ve no idea if your darting from tree trunk to tree trunk with the lightest steps you can muster strategy is working. You don’t know where you are or how much ground you’ve covered. The swamp brush all looks the same. And worse, you’ve no clue where the ol’ man Baker is. Telling from his last taunt, you’ve managed to gain some di-

"Sneaky thang, ain’tcha?"

Shit. He's closer than you'd thought. How in the fuck is he moving so damn fast?

You slow for a moment to survey your surroundings; gauging his distance, but the quiet crack of a stray twig makes your ears twitch. You dive against the nearest tree trunk, pushing your back to the bark opposite the sound and brace yourself as you listen for more.

Dammed if you can hear anything over the sound of your rapid heartbeat. You can only thank adrenaline for getting you this far.

Luckily, nothing jumps out at you. No sound nor sight disturbs your precarious hiding spot, and though your body aches and screams internally to stay put in the closest thing to safety it's experienced all night, your brain knows you won't truly be safe until you reach civilisation. So, with a half-steady breath, you start moving once more, your sore eyes darting to every nook and cranny as you go. In fact, the one thing you’re not looking at is the ground beneath your feet.

K-CHINK—CRUNCH

The harsh sound of metal slapping together and the wet breaking of what can only be flesh and bone breaking rings in your ears before a deafening, agony-ridden wail rattles through the trees so loudly you can only imagine flocks of birds taking flight to escape its ear-splitting volume.

As you crumble to the floor, you comprehend it's your scream, your flesh and blood—your leg—snapped within the jaws of a bear trap, and your body succumbing to the pain.

It’s not until your back is rested against crunching leaves, and you’re blinking up at the starry night sky that you realise you’d passed out from the pain.

Your leg is no longer ensnared by the bite of the bear trap's harsh, jagged maw, but you’re by no means free. Unnaturally cool fingers are clamped around your ankle, a stark but almost soothing contrast to the burn of your open wound, and the hot blood seeping out of it.

“Poor thang.” His twang makes you jump, your eyes locking with his cloudy grey eyes as you frantically try and fail to pull away from him. His icy grip is iron-clad. He’s smiling at you, which feels infinitely worse than any alternatives. “An’ jumpy too.”

When he starts to snap the fingers of his free hand just inches from your face, you seize your kicking in favour of reaching for him to claw and scratch and bite, but your touch against his is as effective as rain on rubber; your attacks simply roll right off.

"Do I have your attention?” He eventually asks as he easily shrugs you off.

“Fuck you, you fucking freak!” Your jab is as effective as your hits. Jack remains unfazed as he drags you across the ground, repositioning you until your wounded leg is stretched up high, the other anchored between his knees and the mud below you. Every curse and screech of objection ignored.

“You’re about to be a part of something wonderful." The worst comes to mind: that he’s about to snap your already brutalised leg in half or clean off maybe. Perhaps he’ll jam his fingers in it and start rooting around. What you don’t expect is for him to stick his cotton tongue out and start lapping at the blood.

Of all the horror you’d experienced tonight, watching the real-life myth of Jack Baker laving and swirling his tongue across the deep lacerations in your leg is the first thing to truly scare you stiff. You watch with wide eyes and a clamped jaw as he laps up every drop with a quiet, pleasured grumbles seeping from his chest with each lick. You flinching only when he bares his teeth and softly bites at the fat of your calf.

“NO—”

He’s fucking with you. Playing with his food; smiling around a mouthful of blood and even fucking winking when he finally pulls his head back, thankfully taking none of your leg with him. “That ain’t it, just gettin’ you cleaned up fer the real miracle.”

Whether it’s the blood loss, the horror of what you’d just experienced, or his clumsy attempt at fooling around, something has you feeling less on edge, if only enough that your heart rate has slowed to an almost normal pace for the time being. You wait, patience but apprehensive as he roots around for what you assume is his back pocket, and pulls out a little green bottle.

Drugs? Seasoning to pair with your gamey meat? You won't get far in your current state; maybe he’ll only take the one limb for tonight, and you can hobble away when he’s fattened himself on it.

Your eyes are getting heavy, dragging over his garish yellow button-up to his stomach; it's seemingly flat. His belly is what you’d wanted to examine, but your lethargic eyes droop to the swollen crotch in his khakis against your will.

Suddenly your fire returns, and though you know it’s useless, you start to struggle and swear once more, almost managing to kick the bottle from his hand before he can get a firm grasp on you again.

“Real feisty one, huh? Don’t know what's good fer ya.” He spits as he grits his teeth around the bottle lid to twist it open. Somehow able to keep you down with whatever ungodly strength he possesses. “Quit squirmin’, else I’m gonna have to put you down altogether.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, I AIN’T—” Whatever shit he just started splashing on your shin stings like an absolute… “MOTHERFUCKER!!”

As quickly as you’re consumed with blinding pain, it dissipates, not just to its formerly damaged state but to completely and miraculously healed. If not for the puffy, scarred skin left behind, you could be forgiven for thinking that you’d never been injured in the first place. The fuck kind of health insurance plan is this guy on?

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you expectantly. Teeth still bared into a sharp smile, his eye and their blown-out pupils hungry. As you’d stilled in your shock, his hands had drifted further along your leg, his fingers drum against your soft thighs impatiently.

You won't apologise for struggling, nor will you thank him for fixing the problem he caused; if any of those are what he wants, then you'll be at an impasse, but you have a deep, instinctive feeling that he wants something else.

With ease, he starts to shift you both, displacing your other leg from between the lock of his knees. He parts your thighs, holding them open as he uses his still blood-stained teeth to nip and gnaw his way between your thighs.

“EMMM I don’t…” he doesn’t look up at you as you fumble for something to say, an excuse, an insult, anything. His sudden lack of interest in any part of you that isn’t in his sights makes it even harder to find the words. “… I should probably get back to running.”

“I ain’t lettin’ you go, cottontail.” His tongue is thick and still bright red. He unabashedly runs it along the seam of your clothed core before nuzzling into it, really getting comfortable. He takes a deep, hungry sniff and hums in approval at whatever he smells. “I caught ya. Now I get to eat ya.” 

Brad had looked straight into the eyes of death when the two of you had run into Nemesis.

He could have pissed his pants; instead, he turned to you, still so beautiful even drenched in blood, sweat, and tears—a shining light amongst all the chaos and finally made his confession.

He knows what the others say about him, that he’s a lucky bastard. Chicken-Heart. A coward in the right place with the right skills when S.T.A.R.S needed someone, and maybe they were right; after all, he’d been too shy to confront his feelings for you until this very moment. Until he had literally nothing left to lose. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse, right? Wrong.

Handing your heart to the woman of your dreams only for her to say “okay” before running full speed towards certain death. That’s definitely worse.

Fortunately, you hadn’t died, and neither had he.

Although, thinking about it… Spending eternity in a crappy motel with brand-spanking-new trauma and the woman who ran away from your affections sounds like a certifiable circle of hell.

You catch him staring before he even realises he’s doing it, but you don’t scold him for it. In fact, you don’t look offended at all, just lost in thought, and a little out of place against the aged paint and the light of the naked buzzing bulb above your heads. 

Fuck, he’s such a jerk, all tied up in his own emotions, stewing on your rejection instead of offering you a shoulder to cry on. It’s times like these when you should be leaning on each other more than ever.

He thinks about joining you on the bed and offering you a hug, but he’s not sure if that’d be crossing a line now that his feelings are out in the open.

“We should get some sleep.” You interrupt his inner monologue, turning off the TV and the big light as you speak. All that illuminates the room now is a yellowed bedside lamp that mostly casts you in shadows. He can’t make out your expressions anymore, but he can see your distinctive silhouette as you strip out of the scratchy motel-provided robe, leaving you in just your panties and his mostly bloodless wifebeater.

Sleep comes easier than he'd expected, exhaustion winning out, but it’s by no means a restful slumber. His dreams are assailed with memories and nightmares of the people and places he loved, devastatedand decayed. He wakes, fitful and alert, every few hours with visions of blood on his hands haunting him into his waking moments, until the one time he’d woken, panting and sweaty, only to find you nestled into his chest, his fingers clinging tight to your torso and pulling you in closer.

Like ships passing in the night, he’d seen you often lying awake or locked up inside the bathroom in the moments when sleep had violently alluded him. You were fighting your own battles, but now you seem almost at peace; your breathing is steady, a patch of your drool clinging to his chest hair. Though he knows he shouldn't, he lets himself get lost in the fantasy of being your safe haven. The thought of it slows his rapidly beating heart.

He can’t possibly pull you any closer, so he tilts his head down, gently rubbing circles along your back as he nestles his face against your scalp. You don't smell like yourself; the artificial scent of the motel's cheap soap has washed it away along with blood and sweat, but that’s okay; your quiet proximity is enough to settle his nerves for now.

With the curtains closed and no clock in sight, it’s hard to determine how long he stayed like that, lulled into semiconsciousness by the notion of there being something more to your relationship.

“Are you upset with me?” Your voice against his ribcage makes his chest rumble. The sound, feeling, and absurdity of your question unceremoniously dragging him back into the present moment.

“Upset with you? Never.” He replies plainly. Not in a million years could he hold a grudge against you. Christ. Six months ago, he’d been tasked with updating and setting up a new computer system for the entirety of the S.T.A.R.S unit. You’d spilt Chocha-Cola unceremoniously all over your set-up within an hour of him finishing off yours, and he knows damn well that he would have snapped at any other member had they done the same, but not you. Never you. He’s not really mad at you for not reciprocating his feelings, but damn if it doesn't hurt like hell. “But why did you just say ‘okay’?”

‘Okay’ was a shitty answer. It doesn’t give him anything to seek closure in; any other man would be demanding answers, but he can’t muster the fire to be pissed about it. If anything, he’s worried that prying now will only give you the chance to twist the knife. Chicken-heart.

“It felt too cinematic.”

Despite himself, he laughs. “What does that mean?”

You roll back. Unwilling to let you go, unsure if or when he’ll get to hold you like this again, his hands ghost over your body, following you as you move. He can’t make out your expression in the dark, but a glint of something reflects in your eyes that makes his breath catch.

“I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but feel like if I’d said it back, we wouldn’t have made it out. We’d have died like some kind of romantic tragedy, and 20 years from now someone would have found our rotting, zombified corpses huddled together in the dust, and I didn’t want that to be the end of us, Brad. I- We had to survive.”

With one arm still planted on your shoulder, Brad shuffles around, reaching for the bedside lamp. Maybe he’s letting his heart run away with your words, but he thinks he knows what you’re saying, as convoluted as it may be, but he needs to see you, real and beautiful, and in the flesh when you answer his next question.

“So, what you’re saying is that you love me too?”

“Yes, you big dope.” He’s so glad he turned the light on because you’re a vision, your eyes crinkling as you try to disguise your sheepishness with a smile that makes the cut on your lip bleed. Somehow sensing that he needs to hear the words, you continue. “I love you too.”

“Why didn’t you say anything until now?” He could kick himself for asking. It’s an answer he needs, but it could have waited. He’d much rather be kissing you than grilling you. You love him. You. Love. Him. Years of pining, dreaming, and a disaster big enough to have rattled his entire world. Life would never be the same again, but things would always be a little bit better as long as you’re by his side. Your smile falters, and so does his chest. “You don’t have to-”

“No.” You interrupt. Your eyes are big, guilt-riddled; he feels like he must be on the other end of the very same look he’s been staring at you with since you’d got here. “You seemed so torn up. I thought you were pissed off at me, and I was scared of making it worse.”

“Never. You could never make things worse.” He feels like a broken record at this point; he’s sick of hearing his own voice.

The smile returns to your face. He could look at your lips all night, blood and all, his awe never wavering, but there’s one other thing he wants even more than that.

Kissing you is like hearing his favourite song on the radio or finding 20 bucks he didn’t know he had. Pure, unfiltered joy, the taste of copper and overnight breath included. The kind of thing he’ll want every day for the rest of his life.

What had meant to be, and started as a soft and slow, introductory type kiss quickly devolves into something far greedier, his already half-hard cock already straining into the hardest erection he’d ever experienced.

You swing a leg over his thigh, shuffling closer, grinding your groin over his. It’s clumsy and awkward. Not ideal for your current positions, and he has to arch his back forward to help connect your crotches. It changes nothing however; simply put, he can’t get enough of you: the hard and soft parts of your body, the smell of you, the taste of you.

With care not to graze the parts of you still bruised and swollen from the events prior, Brad guides your body against his own until he’s on his back and your legs are spread around his hips, allowing you the freedom to rub your leaking panties against him at will.

Undulating against his bulge doesn’t satiate you for long; you start to strip off the vest he’d loaned you, and quickly he reaches up to help you, unsubtly groping your breasts, fawning over the short squeaks you fail to hide at the feel of his fingertips rolling against your nipples.

Next is your underwear, and though he sits to assist you, he needn’t. You waste little time ducking onto the empty side of the bed, legs in the air as you pull off the offending fabric before climbing back atop him.

Before he can get his hands on you, however, your fingers latch onto the elastic of his boxers. You start tugging straight away, and he obliges you immediately despite the sudden cold sweat that prickles the back of his neck as he watches intently for your reaction.

He’d been with women before; he recognises that look in your eye—sheer panic as you register the thought of him putting that thing inside of you.

He’d never talked to anybody about it before. What was he supposed to say? Oh, woe is me, my dicks too big? It’s a champagne problem, but a problem, nonetheless. He can remember every rejection, every third date and one-night stand who reeled back from him and declared they only wanted to do hand stuff, or who had cited the pain of being intimate with him as their reason not to call him back.

If he wasn’t already head over heels in love with you, he could swear watching the shock dissipate from your face, replaced by nothing but syrupy-sweet affection, would be the moment he fell.

You look almost dazed as you slather his cock with kisses. Chaste pecks to the base of it, sloppy open-mouthed smooches to his dusty pink head, and everything in between. You roll your tongue diligently along every vein, mixing together spit and pre-cum, lubing him up before taking him in your mouth. You can barely fit half of it between your lips before his crown hits the back of your throat, but you keep pushing, choking back your gag reflex just to take another inch and letting out little coos that make his balls twitch when he pets the tears from your eyes.

He must look like such a mess to you, panting and keening his back in pleasure. Nobody had ever done this for him; had really fucking tried and succeeded in making him feel this good. 

Selfishly, he doesn’t want it to end. This is what heaven must feel like.

His fellow soldiers had made fun of him for not wanting to rush into danger. Those men obviously hadn’t experienced something like this. How could you ever want to die on a battlefield instead of in the arms of a woman? Idiots.

He’s so enveloped in his own ecstasy that he hadn’t even noticed how you’d clamped a hand between your legs, stuffing your fingers as far as you can reach inside yourself. Not until you release his cock with a wet pop.

“You- Brad you’re-” You gasp around your words, barely stringing them together at all as you struggle to keep your eyes open. “You’re so sexy when you moan like that.”

You’re so sexy, getting off just sucking my dick—is what he wants to say. Instead, he lets out some kind of incomprehensible moan that makes his cheeks burn even brighter than your compliment had, as he leans down to cup your face, pulling you on top of him as he engulfs you in another searing kiss.

In the tumble, you brace yourself for impact by putting your hands on his shoulder. Your fingers are as slick as your pussy, which he can feel resting up against the underside of his cock. It takes every ounce of his already limited self-control not to put you on your back and fuck you like an animal.

When you pull back from his ravenous kiss, he almost doesn’t want to let you go. It’s enough right now, with your lips on his and your body rutting against him yet again, but once your hand wraps around his length, he folds. Hesitates even, as he sees you lining his tip up with your entrance.  

Now he sees you through the eyes of all the girls who shot him down before they got to this moment. You’re not exactly some weak, feeble little thing, but fuck him- how is that going to fit inside you?  “We don’t have to do this now; we don’t even have protection.”

“I want to.” Your certainty, while wholly intoxicatingly provocative, isn’t enough for him to overlook the way you wince as you start to lower yourself onto him. What keeps him complacent, however, is the way your walls give way to him; hot and wet—tight, but slowly and surely stretching to accommodate. You jerk your hips up and down, inching down him just a little more with each thrust. 

He must have died in Racoon City, bitten by an infected or shot down by a survivor, and this is his reward for a life well lived.

“Y-your perfect.” Brad has never been one to stammer or trip over his words, but he’s making a habit of it tonight. He can’t help it; he feels too good, and the sight of himself almost fully sheathed inside you is turning that part of his brain to mush, but he remains determined to encourage you. “You’re taking it so well.”

That makes you smile as you brace through the pain of him hitting your cervix. Fuck, that smile should never be allowed to leave your face. The timing and the beauty of it all make something in the back of his brain crack. He finally gives in to the adrenaline-fuelled, animal impulse to put you under him and fuck you almost without restraint.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” You nod in agreement, your eyes locked onto his, though he can tell how you’re fighting to keep them open.

Mindful not to push those last few inches all the way inside of you, nose and lips nuzzled into the side of your beautiful face, breathing you in, kissing you over and over, Brad plunges his cock in and out of your pussy in sharp, wild jerks.

In his head, he’s been here a million times. He’s taken his time, careful and slow; learning all the tics of your body, spoiling you with kisses and touches so tender and sensual you can’t imagine passion without his face in the scene. He’s been rough and broody; biting your lips and ruthlessly bringing you to orgasm so many times your voice shakes when you call his name.

For all his fantasies, however, in reality he’s far less graceful or collected. There’s barely a rhythm or rhyme to his thrusts, just instinct and fumbling hands that can’t decide which curve of yours feels best beneath his hands. It doesn’t help that his shoulder is still aching or that his body has been put through the wringer these last few days, but those are just excuses.

The truth is that his body is so flush with excitement that he doesn’t have the faculties to remain on any task. He’s fucking you on pure instinct, whatever feels good, whatever gets a rise out of you, whatever your bodies call for is what he’s doing.

He feels inexplicably clumsy and brutish when he starts haphazardly pressing his thumb against your clit, but you seem to like it and that fills him with dread. Your pussy clenches and pulses around his cock, your eyes squeezed shut as you seem to try and cling tight to whatever pleasure his thumb is creating, but- but…

“Fuck honey…” Honey? Shit, he’ll have to unpack that later. “You need to cum quick, I’m gonna- shit.”

At that point he’d expected… we’ll actually, he’d not entirely sure what he’d expected from you, but it wasn’t for your eyes to dart open into impish, challenging slits, and for your core to squeeze so hard around him that he has to scramble for dear life to pull out of you just in time to ride out his high, twitching and grunting like so kind of creature as he spews his load across your stomach.

Despite not even being inside you for the end of it, Brad can’t recall the last time his body has been rocked so hard by an orgasm.

It takes a hot minute for his senses to come to and when they do, a million thoughts race through his head; things to address, days to unpack, praise to shower you with, permission to return the favour, but when he looks up and takes you in; beautiful, eyes still half glazed with mischief and ecstasy, your fingers absentmindedly glazing his cum across your stomach, only one thing comes to mind; “You did that on purpose!”

𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚁: The pullout 'method' is not an adequate form of protection or birth-control.