✧ I post mostly smut, including but not limited to some darker subjects and harder kinks. For that reason, I cry, I pray mon dieu; DON’T follow me if you are under 18 or do not wish to see explicit content on your dash.
Starving graduate wanting to spread the love, share some debauched thoughts and make it through each day ✧
♡ Masterlist ♡ Rules ♡ Prompts ♡
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♡ RUN RABBIT ♡ Jack Baker/Reader
♡ LIVE TO LOVE ANOTHER DAY ♡ Brad Vickers/Reader
♡ DOLLIFICATION ♡ RE5!Wesker/Reader
♡ CAN I CALL YOU DADDY? ♡ RE Men/Reader
✧ Requests are open as stated above; however, I am not taking on any DC requests at this time! See my rules page for more info! ✧
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Miles why are we following play-pretend priests and fucking actual flashing spirits instead of trying to scale the damn fence now that we're outside!! Our ribs are broken and our fingers are missing, we cannot take much more of this!!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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݁ ˖ 𝚁𝙴𝚀: ݁ A friend told me that there was a Jack Baker predator/prey fic around here somewhere and I just wanted to double check if it was true because that's a really scary thought 🙈👀 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼: @acapelladitty 💛
݁ ˖ 𝙰/𝙽: Oh my goodness, Jack Baker? predator/prey fics? ON MY BLOG?... It's more likely than you think. (Also hi Ditty, thank you for the juicy request, Ily xx)
PETA got that shit wrong. You'd rather spend the rest of your life in a box room, being overfed nothing but carrots and sawdust, and being poked and prodded at by kids with fat sticky hands than this.
“Don’t be scared, pet. You can come out now.”
Fuck that.
Every step makes your lungs burn; every breath sears through your windpipe. Though the sun has long since set, the damp Louisiana air sticks to your arching skin like milk and honey; putrid and heavy. Your heart hammers so hard it hurts; every beat thrums against your chest and makes you wonder how wild rabbits can live like this, at risk of predators day in, day out.
You can't stop though. That's not an option.
It’s freedom or nothing. You won't be eaten by some hillbilly Joe and his backwards family. They can feast on your flesh when you keel over from the heart palpitations and no sooner.
“Here bunny, bunny, bunny.”
For all the charm in his thick southern accent, how he thinks his coaxing is going to lure you any closer is beyond you, but then, you’ve never hunted anything in your life.
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.”
Starting my Outlast journey with the first game and as someone who has been consuming and loving all sorts of horror media since I was way to young to do so… I don't like it… it's too scary.
Not to be that guy TM but if I were miles I would have not broken in to a hospital suspected to be committing atrocities against its patients that's already surrounded by army trucks no matter how juicy a story it might be.
And if I had some out of body experience that compelled me to disregard my common sense I definitely would have turned around and crawled out of the window I climbed in through when I found the fucking library and the impaled militia man warning me about all this shit with his last dying breath
Starting to connect some off the dots that the reason this game unsettles me more than most horror games is because the layout and design of Mount Massive Asylum is very similar to the building I live in.
I did not forsee this when I decided to rent a flat in a converted “private lunatic asylum” but here we are
i hope you continue your outlast journey all the way to outlast trials becuz i just KNOWWWW you'd enjoy dr. easterman so much hehe he makes me feel so insane
- 🪦🥀
I fully intend too, it just might take me a while since I keep having to step away from the console to calm myself and remind myself it's just a game haha
Yes… Easterman, I've been forewarned that I won't be normal about him lmao
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Starting my Outlast journey with the first game and as someone who has been consuming and loving all sorts of horror media since I was way to young to do so… I don't like it… it's too scary.
Not to be that guy TM but if I were miles I would have not broken in to a hospital suspected to be committing atrocities against its patients that's already surrounded by army trucks no matter how juicy a story it might be.
And if I had some out of body experience that compelled me to disregard my common sense I definitely would have turned around and crawled out of the window I climbed in through when I found the fucking library and the impaled militia man warning me about all this shit with his last dying breath
Starting my Outlast journey with the first game and as someone who has been consuming and loving all sorts of horror media since I was way to young to do so… I don't like it… it's too scary.
݁ ˖ 𝚁𝙴𝚀: ݁ A friend told me that there was a Jack Baker predator/prey fic around here somewhere and I just wanted to double check if it was true because that's a really scary thought 🙈👀 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼: @acapelladitty 💛
݁ ˖ 𝙰/𝙽: Oh my goodness, Jack Baker? predator/prey fics? ON MY BLOG?... It's more likely than you think. (Also hi Ditty, thank you for the juicy request, Ily xx)
PETA got that shit wrong. You'd rather spend the rest of your life in a box room, being overfed nothing but carrots and sawdust, and being poked and prodded at by kids with fat sticky hands than this.
“Don’t be scared, pet. You can come out now.”
Fuck that.
Every step makes your lungs burn; every breath sears through your windpipe. Though the sun has long since set, the damp Louisiana air sticks to your arching skin like milk and honey; putrid and heavy. Your heart hammers so hard it hurts; every beat thrums against your chest and makes you wonder how wild rabbits can live like this, at risk of predators day in, day out.
You can't stop though. That's not an option.
It’s freedom or nothing. You won't be eaten by some hillbilly Joe and his backwards family. They can feast on your flesh when you keel over from the heart palpitations and no sooner.
“Here bunny, bunny, bunny.”
For all the charm in his thick southern accent, how he thinks his coaxing is going to lure you any closer is beyond you, but then, you’ve never hunted anything in your life.
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.”
You know Priest Wesker has a massive corruption kink.
— Dub-con/Non-con (manipulation), Religious Themes
Something about watching as you descend into hysterics, confessing that you’d sinned. You’re inconsolable, sobbing pathetically in front of him. Such pretty vulnerability displayed, tears soaking and leaving marks down your quivering face. Your lips begin to tremble when he asks you to admit what you’d done, to elaborate.
You’re flushing immediately. Hesitant, beginning to chew on your nails nervously while you ponder at what you’d done prior. You’d sinned. You’d given into lust. Your biology craved him, yearned to be touched and held like a woman. To be bred like they’d described in the raunchy books you’d found hidden in the very back of the communal library. How could you admit to such an act? That you’d shamefully masturbated at the simple thought of your Priest? In front of your heavenly Father who observed from above, likely with such disdain and disappointment for his fallen angel.
Oh, hearing you explain everything in such precise detail. He had little choice. You’d understand, he’d make sure of it.
He’s bend you over and force himself inside of you. Your modest dress discarded beneath the alter, bare and exposed in front of the precious statue of the Lord. You bowed your head in shame and averted your gaze, knowing how much of a disappointment you were to Him. You felt your Priest caress you all over with wandering hands, heard him reprimand you, claiming that only males feel such wrong urges. That you’ve to be cleansed and to embrace the fucking you were to receive, that he would fuck the evil out from within you.
Forcing your head to meet the Lord’s eyes and chant a prayer you’d rehearsed, the one where you’re plead for forgiveness and mercy.
Pounding you, claiming he must go deep and hard to truly ‘fix’ you and free you from such baser needs.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The way I clicked on the fic so fast. OHHHHHHHHHH MY GOOOOOOOOD. POOKIE I LOVE YOU FOR THIS TASTY MEAL. Girl I was giggling and kicking my feet. Thank you for writing this...... hopefully maybe we'll see more brad in the future? Need to see this man so bad it's not even funny
Also gonna give you a big kiss on the forehead for this 😚😚😚😚😚😚
I LOVE YOU TOO BOO!!! You're so welcome, and I'm sure that won't be the last we see of Brad on here 💖
