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mechezeishe · 22 days ago

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god watches

The hunt for Chris after Edonia is riddled with failure. Piers feels the pressure of both the leadership of Alpha Squad and Chris' disappearance.

Maybe you could help.

Piers Nivans/Reader

Tags: Established Relationship; Church Sex; Oral Sex; Rough Oral Sex; Vaginal Sex; Crying During Sex

ao3 link

Three fingers up.

Two.

One.

On the closed fist, you and Piers kick the metal of the door and tear it from its hinges. It clatters noisily into the room, and you’re immediately looking down the scope and into the eyes of a horrified woman. She drops the files from her hands, spilling them onto the ground, and puts her hands up. Footsteps file in behind you and scan the remainder of the decrepit apartment complex.

The woman speaks in rushed Slovak, stepping back on shaking legs as Piers walks her down with slow steps. When the rest of the squad confirms the place is clear, you lower your scope as they set their sights on her. Piers, too, has a white-knuckled grip on his weapon, pad of his finger gliding along the trigger. You’re partly sure Piers sees a different woman in his scope even as he frightens her to the ground. Pieces of the wall fall with her, and the barrel of his rifle follows.

“Please,” is all you can make out before her words slide back into Slovak. Piers drags her by her collar back to her feet and slips a photo from his pocket. The familiar series of questions are yelled into her face, so she cries more, hiccuping and unable to catch her breath. She shakes her head, and Piers shoves her back into the wall. The crack you hear is unkind.

Your attention’s pulled to the folder. More shouting and weeping carries through the air. Impatience and desperation is getting the best of him, but he won’t shoot, scary as he may seem. He hasn’t grown into his fangs quite yet, but the barrel pressed to her head sure as shit makes up for it.

“Piers,” you cut in. “This isn’t her.” You show him one of the papers, and Piers’ teeth grit.

“Shit.” He shoves away from her, and she once again crumbles to the ground. He vaults the table and snatches the police records from your hands. Lana Horváth, former member of some niche criminal group you don’t even recognize and the attached mugshot. Piers waves to the others, and they help her back onto her feet and let her run from the room. “Another bad tip — damn it — we need to track him back down.”

“It’d be a waste of time,” you reply. “He’s long gone by now, and it’ll be just time lost for us.” You holster your weapon and set your arms over your chest. A myriad of emotions wash over him, but it all comes down to simple anger. At himself, inevitably.

“The rest of you, check the perimeter,” he orders. His fangs may not be in yet, but he’s filling into the shoes just fine. His fingers come to his ear, and his voice echoes through your radio. “Alpha to HQ, our information was bad and brought us to nobody. Reporting to evac.”

“Copy, Alpha. Echo’s en route. Over.” The radio cuts, and you’re left staring at his back. Tense and stringent. One strong enough punch and his spine will crack, but you settle for dragging your fingertips up his back, over the Kevlar vest. Piers jumps, breath catching in his throat, then turns to glare at you. You grin, more tired than anything, and notice the picture still in his fist. You reach down and turn over his wrist, prying each finger from the photo.

"Careful. This one’s his favorite.” You smooth out the wrinkles of Chris’ most recent ID photo. Piers doesn’t laugh. His face is hard set on the picture, and god knows what’s swirling beneath those eyes. Except in this instance, you are god, and you know it’s guilt. Because it’s Piers, and he’s felt little else since Edonia. You shove it into his chest. “Hey, we’ll find him.”

“He shouldn’t even be missing in the first place.”

“Piers—.”

“We shouldn’t have let him out of our sight. I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight. Knew his brain was damaged, so of course he’d do something drastic like this.” He crumples the picture — again — and stuffs it into his pocket. “Now we’re desperate enough to bargain with foreign street corner gangbangers just to get a lead.”

“Hey, this one seemed very trustworthy.” Piers glowers, and you change tactics. “Even without his memories, Chris is still Chris. If he doesn’t want to be found, he’s going to make it damn hard on us. I’d meet in some back-alley meth lab without my clothes and weapons if there was even a sliver of a chance we’d find out something.” Piers is looking off somewhere, but the place isn’t anywhere tangible. You wonder if he even heard you.

“What if he can’t be found?

“What? No—.”

“It’s realistic. Without his memory, he’s a walking target for anyone. It’s been months, so it’s possible someone just picked him off on the street, and we’re none the wiser.” You shake your head vehemently. “No, no , Piers. He’s alive. He’s—.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t just say it enough times for it to be true. He’s human, like me and you. Maybe it’s time to call it quit and focus on—”

"Shut your fucking mouth.” You shove him hard, and he’s forced off-balance, but doesn’t topple. Your nerves are alight, stomach churning with a substance so fiery your eyes begin to water to cool it off. “You don’t believe that. You know—.”

“I don’t know anything. Neither do you.”

"I do know that if we give up, he’s dead for sure!”

“And if we don’t stop, then how many others die while we’re in this wild goose chase? The C-Virus, Ada Wong, Neo-Umbrella, they’re all still out there, and it’s my responsibility.” His voice doesn’t waver, but his eyes do. You just don’t know which responsibility is getting to him, really. “He would want us to focus on the mission—.”

“Oh, bullshit. Chris Redfield would scorch the earth if any of us were missing, and so would you if you weren’t so caught up in your frustration right now. Stop. Just stop, Piers.” You take an aggressive step into his space and sink your nails into his arms. He lets you, but his simmer is on the verge of a boil, so the allowance won’t last long. “Just because you’re captain in place of him doesn’t mean you assume responsibility for absolutely everything. You have to know you’re human, too.”

“Of course it does.” He shrugs your hands off him and sets his rifle in his hands in finality. “That’s what being a leader is about. If I don’t take responsibility, then who will? Reid? Keaton? You? ” Piers shakes his head as if he disgusted himself with the idea. “Alpha team is the most advanced unit in the BSAA. If the safety of its members, of victims, isn’t the responsibility of its captain, then whose is it? Maybe—maybe if you understood that, you’d be in charge. Not just a soldier lost in Chris and Jill’s shadows.”

He thought about that statement. Hesitated, but still spit it out. Your body buzzes in temporary shock that doesn’t subside until after Marco and Jeff reenter the complex. Piers brushes by you — butt of the rifle jabbing your arm. Your eyes shut, a bulkhead for the pressure building underneath until it settles. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

You follow — you guess not so surprising of a notion. Piers avoids you in transit back to the temporary headquarters in Romania, set up in an old convent, as sacrilegious it is to have the backings of an entire army along the walls of a cloister. The BSAA is terse as of late, a direct consequence of Quint being transferred elsewhere, so there’s no one completely illiterate to the room to cut through the thickness in the air. Eyes follow you, but only after you pass them.

Intel is set up in the chapel, but the post is empty this late, left to the night crew back in the States. Sleeping monitors reflect the setting sun gleaming through the stained glass windows above the altar. Rotted pews haphazardly line either side of the carpet that silences your footsteps towards the front. It keeps the chapel in its quiet state of tranquility. You sit yourself on the ground at the foot of the altar with your back against a splintered pew. You groan on the way down.

The hunt for Chris has been nonstop thanks to yours and Piers’ insistence. With eyes and information from every innkeeper, common carrier, and other commercial source you can tap in through the UN, the most reasonable place he could be is somewhere in Eastern Europe still. Edonia, even, but it’s no place Piers is willing to risk without cause. If he’s still there, then Piers is likely right. No good news has come out of Edonia since your mission.

You unlock your phone and redial your most recent call. It almost goes to voicemail before a familiar voice picks up.

“Hello?” You recognize the voice as Claire’s partner.

“Hey, it’s me. Claire there?”

“...No.” You don’t believe them, really, but you’re too tired to press. “Any news?” Your eyes trail up to the rotted crucifixion. Distance voices pass outside the chapel with heavy footsteps.

“No, nothing yet,” you say in a sigh. “But we won’t give up.”

“We know you won’t.” The silence is despondent, and your foot taps.“Claire’s been . . . well, you can probably take a guess. The Redfield genes are–uh–you know. It’s taken everything I have to convince her to stay in the US. It’s only because of what happened on Sein Island she’s agreed, but that fatigue will wear off soon, so,” they inhale deeply, “please. Find him—fuck. I gotta go.” The line cuts abruptly, and the beep breaks the peace.

Dropping your phone to the side, you hug your knees and rest your cheek on the caps. You should call Jill. She was basically razing the country for him, but the BSAA prioritized her SOA duties and she’s trusted the search to you SOUs available. You don’t, though. You think her inevitable anger would push you over the edge you’re teetering on. The edge Piers might be jumping off of.

Your self-pity continues until the only light left are the ones through the side windows from the abbey outside. Too harsh to be a light that was already present. No one’s the religious sort, you guess, and you rise in the same stillness you entered into. Wiping your cheeks with the ball of your palm, you breathe in through your nose, and raggedly out through your mouth.

You stop short of the door, rushed steps cut off, when they open without you laying a hand on them. You inhale sharply and relax when you see Piers coming down from the same scare. His smile is tight, and barely a smile, actually. More like a polite, awkward stretch of his lips.

“Piers.”

“So this is where you were.” He looks beyond you. “You didn’t come to bed.”

“Officially, I sleep in the bunks with the rest of the squad.”

“No fraternization within units is the official policy of the BSAA too.” He tilts his head. “But we’ve gotten away with it so far, twofold.” It’d be lighthearted if he didn’t try so hard for it to be lighthearted. You cast your eyes away from him, and he brushes by you.

When you turn around, Piers is looking up at the altar with his arms crossed over his chest. The BSAA shirt is loose around his form, and his body, too, has loosened since earlier. You watch for a few moments, and Piers feels your eyes on his back. He turns his head and regards you from over his shoulder, a stripe of light streaking across his face. He looks pretty. “I’m sorry.” It’s a real smile this time, small as it may be. Your heart flutters. “I never should have even thought it. I don’t even believe that—you know that, I hope.”

“It’s alright,” you say. He tracks your movements until you stand beside him. “But also, fuck you.” He takes it on the chin, mumbling a fair enough under his breath. “I know what they say in the locker rooms.”

“Not when I’m—.”

“When you’re not around.” The wry smirk on your face is not assuring to him. His brows crease, and he stands a bit straighter. “Think I can handle it after almost 15 years. Have some faith in your elders.” Piers sighs.

“Please don’t call yourself my elder. Makes me picture my grandma.”

“And you certainly don’t do what you do to me to your grandma .”

“And please don’t even put the image in my head.” He pushes the ball of his palm into his eye, and when his hand drops, he turns to face you fully. “I don’t believe anything I said. Not about you or–or about Chris.” This smile is assuring to him, and he relaxes under the hand you set on his shoulder. He quickly tightens back up when you shake him roughly. His head thrashes about. “Hey—!”

“Just trying to shake you out of it.” Piers pouts and rolls his shoulder once it’s freed. “You’re lieutenant because Chris trusts the squad to follow you. Because he trusts you know how much to put on your shoulders, and to know that you’re human. No person is going to follow some . . . idiot who sees himself as the hero who must solve everything—who attributes fault to himself when there is none.” He’s looking hard at the floor, and you tap his chin to bring his gaze back to you. “We’ll get him back.”

“I know.” You scoff.

“Could have saved us a lot of trouble if you just admitted that before.”

“Yeah, yeah—you know everything and you’re better than me.” Piers shrugs your hand off of him, and you find peace in that cocky smirk on his face. The first sign of normalcy in him. “Even if people think you’re second fiddle to Chris and Jill, you’ll always be the sexiest person on the field.” “...Is that supposed to make me feel better? You did fine the first time.” It’s so bizarre it does oddly make you feel better. You glance away and laugh behind a closed fist.

“Well, that, and to try and segway this into make-up sex.”

“Piers. Come on, he can hear you.” You nod to the crucifixion. He slides his hands up your sides and rests them on your waist. His fingers tap through your shirt, then press in before he pulls you flush to him.

“And he teaches all about penance, right? Let me make it up to you. I can make you feel all better.”

“More like make yourself feel better.” He shrugs.

“Both?”

“...Both.” Piers grabs both your hands and begins to walk backwards with you in tow. His eyes don’t leave yours as the shadows pass over his face, and his smile grows with each step. Boyish, yet tempered. The weight of his responsibilities can’t squash everything, but it presses down on him even now. You could fix that, at least temporarily. You do with Chris, after all.

Piers falls back onto the stairs of the altar and brings you with him. Your knee hits the wood, echoing through the chapel. Piers swallows your hiss of pain and keeps himself upright with a palm on the stair. His other hand stretches along the back of your neck.

You two haven’t done much of anything besides search for Chris. When you weren’t scouring intel, attending briefs, or getting verbally abused by a panicked Jill, you were too exhausted to even think about anything sexual. Even if you’d had tried, it’d be wrong without Chris’ heavy presence — like a room without a hearth. You feel his absence now, but your urgency to be with Piers and rein him back lessens the loss, at least for the moment.

Piers’ own desperation seeps out of his lips. He pushes forward and pulls you closer, and the moan vibrating through his throat gets caught and turns into a whimper. He coaxes your tongue into his mouth and brings the hand from beside him to your back to push you onto his thigh. The seam of your pants catches your clit, and he smiles at your gasp. Thick lips wet with spit stretch into a smile, his eyes gleaming just the same.

He bounces his leg, and you have to steady yourself on his shoulders. He flexes his thigh, so you sit pretty right on the peak of his quad, adjusting your hips to grind down on the muscle, slow and steady. Piers' head falls back, and his Adam’s apple is too tempting. The crucified man’s forced to watch another woman fall prey to the temptation of the fruit. You kiss the bobbing bulge, teeth grazing the skin and breath wafting around his throat.

“Baby,” he breathes out, and brings his head forward after he feels your lips dip towards his shirt collar. Piers watches under heavy lids, feels your hands slip under the edge of his shirt and up the plane of his abs. Your fingertips follow the line up his stomach and between his pecs. He lifts the shirt up and off of him and pulls you into another bruising kiss.

It's s tough press of lips, and you lift from his thigh with a throbbing clit. There’s a tantalizing rise and fall to his chest, his dog tags resting on the dip of his collarbone. Not as big as Chris — simply as a matter of impossibility – Piers is still all corded muscle, thick veins running under his skin and more trailing down his navel and disappearing under the raised waistband of his boxers.

“Lieutenant,” you whisper. You lower yourself, rest your cheek on his stomach and look up at him with doe eyes of the kind that has his dick twitching. You feel it under your chest, and he’s looking down at you with flushed cheeks, a softly opened mouth, and a silent plea. He doesn’t rise to the rank, and that’s okay. Ideal, really. “Tell me what you need.”

“Whatever you’re willing to give.” His teeth drag up his bottom lip, and then it fall back into place with small white lines. “Everything you’re willing to give.” You smirk and kiss the skin right above his belly button. He shudders. “Please give me everything — it’s all I got.”

“You have more than just me, Piers.”

“Do I?” He spreads his legs to let you kneel comfortably between them. The altar has some dusty pads of altar servers of past, and you set one under your knees, but it hardly supports you in its condition. You run your hands up his clothed thighs and settle them at his narrow hips. Piers blinks down at you, and the lines of stress are back on his face.

You’ll never forget his face. This image. This moment. Boyish in a different sense this time — hanging onto your every word and breath and looking so young, yet Chris has entrusted to him so much. In this moment, though, he’s just 26. Just a man born with the unluckiest gene that pushed him towards this life. A blessing and a curse.

“You do.” You mouth down to the straining cloth. It’s hot on your tongue, and you lave over the coarse fabric. Mouthing at the bulge, Piers lifts his hips and presses your head down to grind against your mouth. Desperate, desperate. “Simmer down, Piers," is muffled against his pants.

“Stop teasing.” He pulls your hair, and your eyes land on the dog tags once more, or maybe just his chest. You can’t help yourself — you tease. You kiss the dip between his pecs, his dog tags cool over your nose. The laugh that escapes him is music to your ears. He takes advantage of you being off your knees to smoothly unbutton your pants and yank them down your thighs. The chapel air’s cool on your bare ass.

“Mmm, sorry.” You kiss up the column of his throat and find his mouth once more. He eagerly meets you while you shimmy out of everything waist down. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” He asks between two quick pecks. “Not very manly of an adjective.”

“Oh, shut—,” you gasp. A rough hand cups your pussy, and you rock against his palm. Head falling against his shoulder, your nails dig into his back, and the muscle barely gives. “Fuck you.”

“I’m trying here.” Fingers part your folds, and he slowly circles your clit, and it spasms, so much so it pulses through your body. “Jesus, baby. Relax.”

“Been a while.” You pause. “Or maybe it’s the holy spirit.” Lest you forget where you both are. You glance up to the altar, panting slowly. Piers laughs, kisses your shoulder, and sinks a finger into your heat. Tight, but pliant.

“Goddamn.” You’re sure He will, in fact. You snake a hand between you, bypassing his own to pull down his boxers and pants as minimally as possible. His cock jumps when freed, and rests against your stomach. Veiny, like the rest of him, with a red head and a slight curve. You know you love him when the word beautiful crosses your mind.

Piers adds a second and third finger successively, thick and lovely as your pussy molds around them. You fuck yourself on his fingers as much as he fucks you with them. Peppering kisses up and down his neck, your fingers feel up the prickle of hair at the base of his neck. The smell of his soap is strong in your nose — teakwood, you know. He’s very particular.

You lift off his fingers and from his neck. Your hole misses him as much as he seems to miss it. Piers watches you rise with the same eyes of someone fearful of a scolding. You kiss the silly look off his face. His hands find the fat of your hips and drag to your ass. He squeezes before lifting your shirt from you and snapping your bra off with one hand. “My turn, I think.”

He slots his face between your breasts and kisses your sternum. You reach down to the base of his cock and hold it still. You slip it between your folds, and drag yourself up and down the top half of his length, gliding against you, but not in you. Your wetness clings onto the head, and Piers’ moan comes low from his throat and echoes through your chest. He grazes his teeth over the fat of your breast, and then grins up at you, all teeth. You keep eye contact as you bump the head of his cock against your clit, just so he can watch the spark of pleasure sizzle up your spine and spread across your face.

You set your hands on his chest, squeezing just for the hell of it, and push him back against the stairs. You settle in on the knee pad and bend down. Piers holds the hair from your face just in time for you to take him down to the balls. The head touching the back of your throat naturally fills your mouth with saliva, and you suction your lips around his girth and drag your lips upwards. Teakwood, sweat, and a bit of yourself on your tongue, you wet his length and pop off. His moan is strangled. “Baby—.’

Now, there's another face that’s branded into your brain, flushed, breathless, wracked by emotion his body at times cannot handle, but he takes it away when his head falls back. His whines make up for it. A new chorus to the church, you suck the head into your mouth and wrap your hand around the base.

Piers, however, had a taste of heaven, and doesn’t allow anything less. With his grip on your head, he pushes you back down to base with a muffled sound of surprise garbled around him. Not so domineering as he is desperate, he holds you there and pushes up, fucking your throat gently. Gently as he could when he’s rolling his hips into your face. You grip his thighs to remain steady.

“Oh, I love you,” he breathes out. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Piers raises his head to see. He has to see. Has to memorize this. Your hollowed cheeks, the warmth around his cock, your stuttered exhales against his pelvis, and your muffled whimpers filling the church. The sound carries into his cock, and his free hand clasps over his mouth. “Fuck, baby. I’m sorry—feels so good. You’ll let me have this, right? Have e-everything.”

Your scalp throbs when he lets go, and you gasp at the first moment of freedom. Thin, clear lines of spit keep you connected until your tongue breaks them with a lick of your swollen lips. Piers taps his cock against your lips, impatiently. “Just a little more, baby. Want your mouth just a little more.” Your breathing is wet and ragged, throat burning, but you oblige. You’ll always oblige. His hand finds your hair once more, but he doesn’t do anything more.

With a semblance of control back, you mouth at the side of his cock, licking around the base. His thighs are shaking on either side of your head. You ghost your lips back up to the head and sink down once more. In the house of God, you worship. Your slobbering, his whimpers, they serenades the sacred space. You fulfill the wishes of your superior, and how beautiful he sounds as you do.

Lost in their shadows, you think wryly. Yet where would anyone be without you between their legs?

“Fuck— fuck.” He rips you off his cock and drags you forward. You catch yourself on the altar steps, looking down at him and adjusting your knees on either side of his hips, knees planted on the stairs. He doesn’t let you linger. Piers grabs your hips, and you quickly angle his cock so when he shoves you down, you take him to the hilt. You muffle your cry with your hand.

For a few seconds, it's all Piers. Feet planted on the foot of the altar stairs, he fucks up into you. Your breasts and stomach bounce with each rise and fall he forces. "God." His hand's back on your neck, and you're painfully pulled forward to him. It's like kissing during an earthquake - lips dislodging and reconnecting as your body jerks with each thrust. Your hand extends forward, towards the altar, and your nails scratch the old wood, reaching out to nothing. The other is hopelessly clinging to him, wrapped around his neck. When your mouths part, Piers shoves your head to his chest and holds it there. Thank god.

His heart beats erratically in your ear, and the dog tags jingle against each other. Your senses are full of him — you're full of him, but in his moment, you think of Chris. Piers is enough, and you're enough, but you miss him. He'd be praising you gently, coaxing you through the intensity when he's not the instrumentality of it. He'd just be here. A tear lands on his dog tag, and rolls down the crevice of his pecs. You have to move, rein yourself in now. You begin to meet his thrusts, the wet slap of skin echoing, and Piers' moan is strangled, and - and weird. Different. Taking a few moments to gather the will, you lift your head, and his hand allows you to look at him. Oh, Piers. When did he start crying too?

You smile down at him through your own red cheeks and puffy eyes. You cup his face and wipe his tears with your thumbs. Or maybe they're your own that fall onto his cheeks. Mutual sniffles and gasps and pathetically sad laughs sound out. Carefully, Piers sits up, supporting your back, and lets you slowly ride him to orgasm. Forehead to forehead, it's a slow gallop to your high, and Piers is holding himself back, you know. He won't let himself go without you. His hand seeks out your clit to help, working it just as slow as you move. "Piers," is all the signal he gets, gasped out. "Y-yeah, I got ya." When he cums in you, it's familiar. Warm, or maybe that's just how he holds you through it. Your own orgasm has you lax against him. Tucked against his chest, you wind down in tune with his heart. The dog tags catch your eye again, and . . . oh. Oh, Piers. One is his, but the other is engraved with the name Chris Redfield. You hold it in your hand, and Piers' hand joins yours. He nuzzles into your hair and kisses the top of your head. You both stretch the moment for as long as you could, up until the computers set up in the chapel all begin to light up, and you remember where the hell you are. You scramble off his dick and redress on the way to the monitors. Piers logs in and scans the messages coming through. You read along with him.

"Oh my god." Eyewitnesses spotted Chris in a bar in some small down in the neighboring country. It's accompanied with a picture. You know that body, that turtleneck. "Piers—." "I see it, I see it." He stands up straight and smiles. Assuredly. Like someone you'd want to follow and would follow wherever he lead. "Let's go get him."

#resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #reader insert #reader #x reader #piers nivans #piers nivans x reader

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mechezeishe · 1 month ago

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they're just like me fr

#watch me write out a five way in my next fic #careful i will #chris redfield #leon kennedy #albert wesker #piers nivans #resident evil

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mechezeishe · 2 months ago

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can't reach you through the looking glass

chris x bsaa!reader; past chris x reader x piers

Your encounter at the Querétaro Mansion brings back agonizing memories.

Additional Tags: Minor Violence; Past Character Death; Grief/Mourning; Querétaro Mansion Incident; BSAA Reader; Mild Hurt/Comfort; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Not Beta Read Word Count: 2,782

ao3 link

Another mansion – go figure – infested with B.O.W.s, a blonde, evil figurehead pulling the strings, and the grim reaper stalking the halls, just waiting for you to take one wrong step to either take you or watch your skin rot and eyes yellow. The more things change, the more they stay the same. You’re separated from the unit, and the radio’s jammed. There’s muffled steps and gunfire through the walls, far away from this corner of the mansion.

Matter over mind. Your body is trained and fine-tuned for this, even when your mind falters and retreats into either the past or grim futures. You peer into the room before leading with the barrel of your rifle, the light shining across the dusty space. Acrid, it’s an old office with dark wooden furniture and rotted plants. You shine the light into the corners and covered spaces and listen for even the slightest shift in the wood, but it’s empty. Just your breathing in your ears.

More gunfire, closer this time. Your attention snaps towards it, and you take quick steps to the door until you hear glass shattering and a grunt from the outside. You change direction and run to the window facing the courtyard.

“Chris!” You uselessly call and pound on the glass. He's landed on his feet, shards of glass around him. “Fuck.” You pivot, and—

Pain explodes in your skull, and you’re rocked to the ground, rifle clattering out of reach. You cry out and land flat on your back. Dust blooms around you. Two slow footsteps approach with a click of heels accompanying each one. The punch reverberates in your skull and rattles your brain, but you fight through it and the blur in your eyes to glare up at her and crawl back towards the wall.

She’s quick, whoever she is. Uninfected, you note, but blonde, so she must be evil. And the fact she punched you. Your foot is quicker. Kicking her knee out makes her tumble to the side and gives you the precious seconds to rise to your feet. You slip the combat knife from the holster. The woman catches your wrist. You drop the knife, catch it in your other hand, and slam the hilt into her gut. She reacts, and you kick her with the square of your boot, sending her to the ground. “You with Arias?” She rolls and jumps to her feet before you could even finish the question. “Shit!” You don’t recognize the martial arts she’s trained in — nothing standard across the militant practices you’ve encountered. You manage to graze her cheek before she disarms you, and now comes at you with your own bloodied knife. Through the encounter, she slices through your tendons and muscles, and your blood splatters across the wall and bookshelves. You sink to the ground, catching a glimpse of the reaper in the corner. She's either a B.O.W. herself, or far surpasses your abilities.

The woman yanks you to your feet and pushes you against the window with your blade to your throat. Her other hand keeps your forehead pressed against the pane. Her body keeps yours upright, and your blood drips down the glass, pooling along the thin strips of wood.

Despite metallic-tasting exhales fogging your view, what’s happening is incredibly clear: Chris is injured and crawling away from a descending horde. Not fast enough "Fuck — Chris!” Your heart plummets into the boiling pit of your gut. You jerk, but the press of metal against your jugular and the pain in your limbs keep you still. You shake your head. “No, no, Chris — get the fuck up!” You shout pathetically.

You blink, and you see a different pane of glass. This time, far beneath the ocean. You scream all the same and pound with bloody fists all the same in an attempt to break impenetrable glass. He’s so close, but so far. You can’t reach him. You can only watch as the reaper comes up from behind him and takes him from you. Taking a piece of you with him, physically tearing it from your heart. From your life. Forever.

Warm tears dilute the blood, and your exhales are wetter, more ragged on the glass. This can’t be happening. Not now.

Not again.

"Piers!” You screamed then, and you scream now. You’re blinded — a flash of pure electricity — no, no, it’s lights. The propellers are deafening, cut only by the gunfire reigning down on the horde. But your body doesn’t pick up what your brain does. You feel no relief as images old and new wreak havoc on your brain. Your body is weak and lax, and when she steps back, you fall into a crumpled pile. This time, it’s tears blurring your vision up at her. A warped image of her cleaning off your blade and raising it high cast in your vision.

It’s okay. You can get that piece back. See that stupid face again. Watch a baseball game with him. Never have to look a monster in the eyes again or witness the vile transformation from human to . . . something else. Feel peace again. You close your eyes, the last of your tears slipping through your lashes.

The blade rips through the air, whooshing subtly.

You catch it.

It’s not okay. That stupid face will be awfully mad at you if you gave up, and you don’t even know if there’s baseball in heaven. For the BSAA, he said, but this one’s for him. It’s always for him, little did he ever know.

You open your eyes and glare. Grit teeth reveal under pulled lips. Her hand shakes in your grip, trying to sink the tip into your throat. You growl and force the blade to clatter to the opposite direction of your rifle. Her balance tips that way, and you’re able to tap into the newfound adrenaline to lunge for your lost rifle. Rolling onto your back, you fire wildly, bullets following her path as they embed in the wall. The only sign you graze her is the small stains alongside them. She disappears into the hall, footsteps growing silent in the distance.

Your radio crackles with a desperate call of your name — once, twice.

“Come in — damn it, come in!” His tone, too, is familiar. Echoing through the escape pod once, and now coming through both the radio and the window. “You better be alive.” Wet and shaking fingers press down.

“‘m here,” you rasp out. “S–second floor. West wing.” You cough, and red splatters on your arm. It goes limp across your chest, and you knock your head against the floor. Oh, you didn’t know it was raining. It patters on the roof and windows, and yeah, you’re crying too. “Sorry,” you breathe out, and cough at the dust you inhale. “Almost slipped up, babe.”

Chris’ footsteps are distinctly heavy, purposeful, and fast, but unbalanced. Doors slam, closer and closer to you, until he bears through the open door. Limping and torn up, he sighs when he sees you. He’s soft. Smiling. Perhaps there’s a gleam in his eyes, unless that’s the rain. You smile back, a small twitch of the corners of your mouth. Chris approaches, losing balance and lowering with each step until his knees bang on the ground beside you. Gloved hands move your head back and forth, then he looks down your body, at the torn fabric and Kevlar vest and both the dried and wet splotches and lines of blood. “I‘m okay.”

“Loose use of the word.” Chris shakes his head, and his smile falls. “Come on. Nadia and the rest are here.” He helps you to your feet. Arm around his shoulders and one of his on your waist, he basically drags you out of the mansion. A plain of dead infected lay in the foyer, still smoking and reeking. Reaching the outside, fresh soil and gunpowder in your nose, D.C. supports your other side and helps you into the chopper. You look around, then to Chris with furrowed brows and a wrinkle between them. He meets your eyes and shakes his head. He need not say more. They’re gone. All the men you came with from the Mexican army. Cathy, too, and her son. It’s only you, Chris, D.C., Damian, and Nadia. Once again, only you and Chris make it out. A curse or a blessing, you're not sure.

Damian gets you all back to the US, and right to the clinic. The doctor is a young woman. Around what would be Piers’ age, maybe. She greets you when you come to, detailing the minor surgeries and sutures to your blood vessels and muscles through the EKG’s rhythmic beeping. The first word you say to her is the obligatory thanks when she begins to leave, but she lingers at the door.

“Sorry, this . . . this is going to be so weird for your doctor to ask, but . . . are you . . . are you in – like – an open relationship?”

“What?” You whisper.

“Do you have multiple partners? Um, I ask because I think . . . you might be the reason I’m in one too.” You blink once, twice, and she shakes her head with a small sigh. Setting her hands on her hips, she smiles, more assured. “Do you know Jake Muller? Sherry Birkin?” You clench up, EKG accelerating.

“Y–yeah, but it’s been maybe a year or so."

“Yeah, um, he mentioned he’d learned the concept from people he met in Edonia.” She scoffs at a joke you’re not privy to. “I wasn’t really into it at first, but now—now I’m really happy. So, thank you, I guess.” You move your gaze to the window. It’s bright and cloudless. The warmth doesn’t reach you through the glass.

“Yeah, no problem.” She leaves, and you blink quickly, through the growing sting behind your eyes. You swallow down the frog in your throat and hopefully drown it. Sniffling, the EKG slows back down, and you watch the sway of the trees beyond. Until a few knocks tap at the door. Chris somehow makes the doorframe look narrow. You smile.

“Hey.” You greet. Pain spreads when you try to sit up, and Chris hurries forward to gently push you back onto the bed. He properly presses the button on the remote to raise the bed and sit you up straight.

“How are you feeling?”

“Bad as I look.”

"You look beautiful.”

“Ah, fuck you.” It’s weak and breathed out in a scoff that morphs into a cough. “That beautiful to you?”

“I’ve seen worse.” Out of his BSAA uniform, his t–shirt is tight around the arms and chest and loose around the waist. It’s tucked into pants, and it’s relieving, always, to see him out of uniform. It means he’s safe, or at the very least undercover. He looks lighter too. The burden lifted, even if the dark circles remain under his eyes. There are only small stitches across his body to account for his injuries. Of course. You’ve never seen him in one of these outside of the amnesiac state last year. Indestructible, yet permeable. Your hand crawls across the blanket and rolls palm-up. He tracks the movement, then links your hands. You squeeze, but he doesn’t. “I’m glad you’re okay. The real sense of the word.”

You nod, but after a few seconds, you have to tear your eyes from his. The love in those brown irises could melt you. Goddamn it. Something thick weighs heavily in your stomach. It twists and pulls and sends a jolt to the back of your throat. You gasp it out. “Hey, you’re alright. We’re alive.”

“And no one else is.” You squeeze your eyes. “It’s just us. Again.” Chris doesn’t have an answer to that, and how could he? What weighs on you weighs more on him. He’s supposed to lead, and yet following him seems to lead to certain death. You don’t let him linger on that, nor yourself. “I almost—.” You choke up, and Chris sets his other hand under yours so it's sandwiched between them. Looking over, he’s sat down now and scanning the stressful lines in your skin. Waiting. “I almost gave up, Chris.”

“No,” he whispers your name and leans forward.

“She had me against the glass, Chris.” Your voice breaks. “I couldn’t do anything. I watched — I watched those B.O.W.s inch towards you. Watched you almost die. And–and it was just like—.” Your free hand slaps over your mouth, but Chris has all he needs. He brings your hand to his lips and kisses it. “I miss him. He should be here. God, I miss him so much.” You sob.

Chris hesitates – your wounds inevitably holding him back — but ultimately risks it. For you. For himself. He carefully places his arms no farther down than your lats, supporting mostly your neck. Snot and tears stain his sleeve, each wheeze and wail muffled by the fabric. Fingers rub into the back of your head, skin of your scalp pulling gently. There’s no lessening of the deluge, but you gain control of it. Enough control to pull back and look at him under the accelerated EKG reading.

He’s crying, too. Always permeable. You wipe a tear from his bottom lash, and when he closes his eyes, more replace it. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his lips tremble, a small string of spit between his lips. Chris knocks his forehead against yours, and you inhale his exhales. “Chris—.”

“I know.” You kiss the salty trails to end them at his cheeks. Yours make it to your hospital gown. “I miss him too, but you can’t even think of giving up. You know that.’ He sniffles. “Next time, you might not have the opportunity to change your mind.” He shifts, and holds your face in his hands. “You can’t die with him. You can’t.”

“A piece of me did. Didn’t a part of you?”

“Of course,” he says. “But a part of him survives. In me. In you.” He lays a hand on your chest. “We keep him alive in the parts of us that died.” You look away and breathe out through your mouth, quick and lung-emptying, but there’s a ghost of a smile there. You place a hand atop his.

“Will it get easier?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I hope so. All we can do is keep going.”

“Seems it’s all we do anymore.” You sniffle one last time – short and dry. You lay back, and he does the same, planting back in the chair. His hand glides down your arm to hold your hand again. The EKG’s settled down then, and he rubs his thumb in tune with it.

You’re discharged hours later, and Chris drives not home, but to HQ. He didn’t even need to ask this time. Side by side, you walk to the large metallic statue in the courtyard. A nondescript, agender soldier stands with the globe of the BSAA logo embedded in the chest and a rifle facing downwards. Hands on the stock, they look down at the ground. Plaques encircle and make up the statue. More are carved into the cement, or into the fountain, or into the benches, and all over the memorial.

Some fallen soldiers have busts. Metallic faces attached to stone pedestals that line a separate path in the green. That’s where you and Chris go, and stop at the most recent edition.

Piers Nivans.

July 1st, 2013. Lanshiang, China.

Defeated HAOS. Saved the World.

“He’d hate this.” You say. It’s a conscious fight to not burst into tears again, but you manage to hold them back. After all, Piers wouldn’t have it. He’s a soldier. He’d sacrifice himself again, if he had to do it all over again, if you didn’t beat him to the punch.

“He’d hate his nose.” Chris traces the replica. “Got the hook all wrong.”

“I just mean in general, but now that you’re saying so,” you tilt your head. You miss that nose. It's harder to fight back tears the third time around, but you do. “He wouldn’t want to be commemorated, I mean. This is the job,” you poorly imitate. “I don’t do it for fame—.”

“I do it for the ones we save. Cheesy bastard, wasn’t he?” Chris sneaks a hand on your back. You lean into his side. The metal Piers stares. Proud, maybe. Hopefully.

“Where to next?”

“UChicago. Rebecca’s working on research into this new virus.” You look up at him, and he’s already looking at you. His skin is still slightly blotchy, and his eyes are puffy. He smiles anyway. “You ready?”

“Always.”

#resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #reader insert #x reader #chris redfield #reader #chris redfield x reader

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mechezeishe · 2 months ago

Text

masterlist

a place for my fics on here <3 smut (s) ahead. read tags or bust. all cross-posted on ao3. getting back into creative projects bc fuck ai!!!! we love 100% human made mediocre ass writing.

resident evil 6

why is this thing in my house pt. 1; pt. 2 (s) || sherry x f!reader x jake

god watches pt. 1 (s) || piers x reader (past chris x reader x piers)

resident evil: vendetta

can't reach you through the looking glass pt. 1 || chris x reader (past chris x reader x piers)

#mech's masterlist

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mechezeishe · 2 months ago

Text

why is this thing in my house pt. 2

Your girlfriend finally returns home after her 6 month disappearance with a boyfriend.

Wait . . . what?

a 2 shot Sherry/Jake/F!Reader; pt 2

Tags: Established Relationship; Open Relationships; Lesbian Sex; Cunnilingus; Vaginal Fingering; Threesome - F/F/M; Vaginal Sex; Anal Sex; Anal Fingering; Mild Misandry; Post-Resident Evil 6; Not Beta Read; Ass to Mouth; Female Reader; Shameless Smut; Dubiously Consensual Nude Sharing

ao3 link

pt. 1

It’s baiting you.

Now, you know it is for sure. Something shifted in it ever since you allowed Sherry and it to pursue an independent relationship. The hints were subtle, at first. So subtle that you only picked up on them retroactively — polite, but tight hands on your waist when passing by, joining you and Sherry on the couch but sitting next to you, and lingering too long in the bedroom when you’re home and it’s banished to the couch. It’s clever about it all, too. Faux innocence and hiding right being the line of plausible deniability.

Not anymore. It is still subtle, sure, but Sherry is the farthest thing from subtle. The moment she joined in, the pieces put themselves together.

She talks about it more. About the mission and how it was able to fist fight a fifteen foot hulking abomination over a pit of lava, how, like her, has blood tainted by biotechnology and record-breaking daddy issues, and how it’s far more than the hotshot it presents itself as. Naturally, she tacks on her appreciation for its body — and yeah, you noticed, admittedly.

On house arrest, it has to do everything in your apartment, so the corner where plants once grew is now a small workout area. It’s always exercising, too, and it doesn’t have too many clothes to go through, so it opts to keep it minimal. But in only boxers is a bit too minimal, and—wait a damn second. You bet it waits until you’re home to exercise, now that you’re thinking about it. Son of a bitch. It must have realized your eyes tend to drift over and watch his quads and glutes flex during squats and latissimus dorsi and erector spinae press when he—it lowers itself in a push up and biceps bulge during curls.

Goddamn.

You have a consistent on-call schedule — which is all the fucking time basically, so they know the rare times you’re set to be home. Sherry shifts from being with it to being with you, and any affection between them is chilled until you’re at the hospital once more. Your sigh breaks through the apartment first before you take the keys from the door, slip off your shoes, and pad to the living room to relieve your burdens by sinking into the couch.

However, the couch is occupied. Very occupied—”Jesus Christ!” You shield your eyes, but the image is burned in your brain and the wet schlick of Sherry riding it's cock like the wild fucking west still carries. You peek between your fingers to find Sherry’s head thrown back in carnal pleasure, small tits bouncing in rhythm, and It looks over its shoulder, right at you, cocky and proud. Its hands rest on her hips, guiding her movements, and it slightly thrusts up to meet her. “H-hey, you’re – fuck — early.” It speaks through a toothy smile. “Some leftover’s in t-the fridge.” Sherry falls forward, arms around its neck and chin perched on her forearm. She looks at you too, through blissed out eyes and a slack jaw that morphs into her own smile. Not as predatory at its, but conniving all the same. Its hands move to the tight globs of her ass, letting her ride him more slowly, more shallowly, but the new angle has her eyes rolling back.

“Missed you—.”

“Looks like it.” You don’t know what to do. Feet rooted to the floorboards, you watch them and they watch you. It looks all too cheeky while Sherry stifles her moans by biting her bottom lip. It’s a matter of willpower to not clench your thighs together when it turns her head to bring her into a wet kiss, a flash of tongue before it disappears between them.

It peeks an eye open just in time to catch you biting the hinge of your thumb. You quickly fix your expression to glare at him, but it’s too late. They separate with a gasp to give it the focus to thrust harder into her, and she cries out. It's proud of the reaction, eyes alight and focused on the subtle sway of your hips, the only outside sign of the pulse between your legs. Sherry’s a bit too out of it to notice.

With quick steps, you retreat to the kitchen, still believing there’s a chance to play this off. You open the fridge, door blocking your view of them temporarily as you search for the tupperware. God, the noise. The wet slapping and strangled whines and creaking of the couch. When you close the door, they’ve shifted. They now lay across the couch, and notably, face the kitchen now.

Sherry holds desperately to the arm of the couch, pushed forward by how it plows into her from behind. Hand square on her back, it pushes her down to keep you in its sight. Her back curves in then flares out in a beautiful and shallow hourglass. Sherry peeks over from the arm with teary eyes. The couch squeaks with each thrust, the base of his cock disappearing into her under a small patch of hair. More than it’s got on its buzzed head.

You’re strong when walking to the counter, but you nearly stumble when Sherry moans your name. You dare to turn around, tempting fate. “How was-s work?” It laughs behind her, and you think its rubbing off on her. Though that’s the least of your troubles right now. “Proud of you—u,” she loses the last syllable as he enters her with particularly hard force.

Behind the cover of the counter, you can freely grind your cunt the best you can against the handle of one of the cabinets, hands tight on the granite. The sharp corner brushes your clit, and you fail to stop the sharp inhale. Fucking Christ, you’re soaked, panty fabric thin and likely transparent. Drooling and losing your grip on reality, you watch its abs flex and the way its strength forces her forward and down into the couch.

And they keep fucking staring at you. Pupils blown out and skin flushed, they both pant wet, heaving breaths and let their eyes rake what they can of you. You know, now, they can both see the way your hips move against the counter, the lusty glaze over your eyes, the lidding of your eyelids. No one’s subtle anymore.

Sherry uses one arm to lift herself over the arm, and then reaches out with the other.

A moment after, its hand sets itself right by hers, and it leers at you from right above her, thrusts slowing to accommodate the new angle. It's smiling — always smiling, and its muscles strain to hold itself up over her. Deliciously. Jesus.

Warily, you glance between the two of them, and they catch the hesitation. Sherry acts on it. Retracting her hand, she shifts, and it pulls out of her and rests back on its haunches to allow her to get up, cock wet and gleaming and still painfully hard. On shaking legs, your girlfriend approaches, using the counter as support. You think she makes a grab for your hand, but she misses it and cups your clothed pussy. You hiss. Yes, it is rubbing off on her, for sure. “Want you to join.” You glance over at it, pecs rising and falling, just watching.

“I don’t like that . . . thing,” you whisper, and her hand squeezes. You whimper weakly, embarrassingly so. Sherry’s grin tells you she feels the wet spot as much as you do. “I don’t.”

“Mhm,” and you hate the way she hums. Knowingly. “We can finish in the bedroom, if you want. While you eat.” Sherry lets go, pads of her fingers rubbing together smoothly from the wetness she gathered. It’s getting off the couch now, too, dick hard and as proud as he is as it walks over and drapes an arm over her collarbone. It grinds into her ass, pushing her into you, exacting a small gasp from her. It smiles from over her shoulder.

“Piss or get off the pot,” it says, and it pisses you off immediately. Mouth set in a scowl, you close the distance and kiss her, and at the same time shove its shoulder. It doesn’t budge, but presses closer to her to in turn sandwich her between you. While your tongue curls in her mouth, dipping into her maw, one of its calloused hands comes around you to grab at your ass. You’re quick to push its wrist away, and it chuckles. The hand comes back. This time, it swats you right on the cheek with a resounding smack.

“Don’t,” you warn from over Sherry’s shoulder, lips wet with her spit. “Don’t fucking touch me.” Its brows raise happily, almost. Thrilled. Excited at the challenge. Again, it just sets you off, and not even the warmth of Sherry’s mouth on you calms you down, tongue slipping out to lave up your neck.

“Sure, I’ll just touch our girlfriend instead, if you don’t mind.” Her breath hitches over a wet splotch on your neck, and its arm has slithered down her front to slip into her already sensitive and wet folds. Chin perched on her shoulder, he leers a bit too closely. Her back arches, pushing her breasts into you, soft and squished. She uses you to stabilize herself. “Mm, like that, baby? Good, right?” Sherry stutters into your neck, and you don’t give her the time to answer more than that before your tearing his hand away and replace it with yours.

Your fingers are harsh and forceful where his were tender and playful. Your fingers slip in easily, and her cunt greedily takes one, then two, tight around your digits and sucking them in. Its grin widens, and you feel two coarse, thick fingers join you. Sherry bites down on your shoulder to silence the scream. You grit your teeth, eyes locked on the thing’s. Like Sherry’s, they’re blue, but the similarities end there. Dark and stormy as opposed to the transparent and brightness of Sherry’s.

Your fingers work in tandem, but always offbeat. When he’s fast, you slow up, and when he curls them, you twist your digit around his to pull them back. Sherry writhes under the warfare occurring inside her, walls pushing against the aggressive movement. Her arms are tightly wound around your shoulders, her warm breath billows over your skin, and there's wetness that can be tears or drool or something. Your girlfriend is thrown to the wayside in the moment, because its fingers are thicker and longer, but you’re in front. You have the angle to flick your thumb over her clit to send a shockwave down her body.

“It’s alright, love,” you whisper in her ear, right where its got its head at, so half your breath lands on its cheek. “You can take it, right? Just for me. I got you.” Where you have her clit, it has its dick, and you feel the hotness of the head gliding against her lower lips, poking your wrists. Her nails dig into your back, too painful to not have pierced your shirt.

“Your girlfriend’s so greedy, baby,” it turns its head to also breathe into her ear, lips so close to your own. “Wants you all to herself, even when she said we could share. Tch, tch, you never told me that when you were telling me how well she uses her mouth on you.” Sherry’s not even on earth to answer. Your fingers have yet to stop plunging against the other ones, corkscrewing and turning. It slowly glides its cock back and forth along her folds.

You doubt it’s talking to her.

“W-what?”

“Ah, you didn’t tell her, supergirl? Didn’t tell your girlfriend how much you told me about her? How her mouth is sharp, but you can always shut her up by putting something in there. How she creams all over the plastic dick and pretends she doesn’t crave the real one. You didn’t mention that little detail?” Its teeth graze over the shell of her ear.

“N-no,” Sherry’s able to stammer out, voice tight and high. Strained. Your fingers still in your shock, and now its fingers twirl around yours, almost holding your hand in her pussy.

“How I had to fight with a fuckin’ boner after you showed me the photo she sent you? God, so hot, baby.” You jolt your head back to avoid its tongue, and what the fuck? Were you in your right mind, you’d be blazing in anger, but your cunt just throbs at its words. Ashamedly, because your nudes are your nudes. Private and trusted with Sherry. “Showing off your girlfriend like that. Don’t you have any shame?”

“‘M sorry,” is what Sherry offers before she pick her head up from her shoulder to look at you. You don’t know whether the tears are from the guilt of her error or from your paired fingers. “‘M so sorry. Wanted him to want you too, babe.” Gleaming lips find yours, mildly salty and full of tongue, licking along your lips until you open. It takes your unmoving fingers from her and slips its own out. “Wanted him to fuck you too.”

She gasps against your mouth, and—it’s not about to fuck her while she’s against you, is it? Your hand finds the answer, hot and thick and seeking out her entrance with a drag down her lips. It’s Sherry smiling this time, so fucking elated and fucked out. Her hands find your neck, and she kisses you with renewed vigor, moan caught in her throat as she takes his cock once more.

“See? You should be like Sherry — generous.” The veins in its thick neck protrude, and the smile is nearly deranged, all gritted teeth and uneven. “Open-minded.” It's slow in its initial trust in, though Sherry sobs as if her pussy wasn’t taking it not even ten minutes ago. You don’t wince when it reaches out to your shoulder, rough skin scratching against yours. Sweat beads along its hairline. “Fucking tight.”

“She is,” Sherry miraculously finds her voice to inform, and she turns her heavy head to face him. “Feels so good, Jake.” They kiss not even an inch from your nose, the smack of lips audible and the heat of their mouths seeping into you. “You’d love it.”

“Too bad she’s a prude. Ain't that right?” It holds her hip with one hand, and your shoulder with the other. Each drive into her forces her into you. “Too righteous for the likes of me. For a little it in her eyes. A thing.” Ah, so she told it that little part, or it heard you before. They both turn to face you, once again watching you as it fucks her, but from the same breathing space, now. “You know, I’m alright with being a thing. An it, if it means I get to be used by the likes of you.”

You’re speechless — brain and libido and body all molded together to create a non thinking, horny mess. A thing, as it were. “Would you like me, then? If I was just a dick for you to take? Shut my eyes and close my mouth, and let you take what you wanted?” Lidded eyes glance down to your lips, then back up. God, it looks fucking drunk, but Sherry does that to people. She leans in and peppers kisses on your cheek, nuzzling the side of your face.

“You have no self-respect.” It laughs.

“Sure as hell don’t. Soldier of f-f-fortune, remember? I can be bought.” Its hand glides up to the hinge of your jaw. “Not always with money. Pussy’s just the same.” Sherry’s getting close. Muffled by your cheek, the telltale sputtering and curses leave her mouth, small strands of spit landing on your face that she licks up with the point of her tongue. It is still right in front of you, so two hot breaths billow on your face. Its breaths pick up, uneven and rushed to meet her where she’s at.

Leaning against you, they come together. Sherry surges to your mouth to kiss you through it, her shakes reverberating into you. She licks her way out and smiles in flushed relief. A splash of cum spurts onto your thigh as it pulls out, and it steps back to give her room too, to.

You’re fucking disgusting. Sweaty from the proximity, wet from your arousal, and you reek with a matching mix of the two. Breathing through your mouth, your eyes take in their bare bodies, and you’re all too aware of how much clothes you have on and just how much of your own agitation has leaked through your panties. Sherry’s leaning against the stove, out for the count by the way she shakes and can barely stand.

Your instincts override your primal brain, and you help her to the couch and hurry to grab some wipes from the bathroom. You kneel over her and gently wipe through her folds, and grab new ones for some of the sweat. Sherry smiles up at you, mildly delirious.

“Thanks, doc.”

“Make sure to pee and drink water,” is the sexiest statement you can come up with. You lean down to steal a gentle kiss from her lips, until you feel an unwelcome presence behind you. You turn to look over your shoulder.

“Gonna leave me out to dry?”

“Yes.” You glance down to some drops of cum left on the head of its softening cock. “Outside, preferably.” You glare once more, but it’s not so effective, and not as strong as before. The look feels as fake as it is. Just instinct at this point, one that it sees right through.

“And scare the little old lady next door? I’m no monster.” You stand up straight and walk around him, but a hand to your sternum stops you. You’re shoulder to shoulder with it, looking ahead, tongue pressed to your gums above your front teeth. You can feel Sherry’s eyes on your back, anticipatory. “Need help?”

“With?”

“The jerk session you’re about to go do in the bedroom.” Its hand trails up the center of your chest and stops under your jaw to turn your head towards it. It . . . he’s fucking pretty, to your utter misery. It knows it, too. Your lips roll in your mouth, suffering in your unfulfilled state. You save your pride with a small smirk.

“Don’t want to wear you out.” It raises an eyebrow, and its eyes slowly descend down to its cock—what the hell? Your eyes widen, taking his dick in as it fills out slowly, evidence of Sherry still gleaming on its skin. B-but, he was just . . . ?

“What was that?” It asks, innocently, and the saliva is dried from your mouth. You haven’t touched a penis in . . . god, who knows how long? It brings your hand down to it, and as soon as you feel the heat coming off it, you wrench your hand back and step away, shaking your head.

“N-not gonna happen.” It shrugs.

“That’s fine.” Slowly, deliberately, it looks back down to Sherry, gently stroking its dick back to attention. “You can just watch again.” It takes two steps forward before your hand wraps around the base, sudden and tight that it hisses before it smiles in glee. “I’m honored you’re willing to—fuck.” Your grip is tight up his length, and you lift your hand to lick from palm to fingertips before stroking it once more. Hot and throbbing, you use a mix of your saliva and Sherry’s essence to help your hand move from head to base.

“I don’t fucking like you.”

“I know.”

“You’re ugly as fuck.”

“Ouch—.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“This is kind of turning me on.” You grimace and reply with an aggressive pump of its cock, to which it inhales sharply, partly from how sensitive it is from the prior fuck. Its fingers tighten on your hair and yank you to knock his forehead into yours, exhales wafting over your mouth and nose. “Kiss me.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Fuck you and kiss me, sweetheart.”

“I only kiss people, not men.” It's quick, and it pushes you off to turn you around and shove you into the wall. You catch yourself with your palms only to be shoved once more, sandwiched far less comfortably than Sherry was, who watches wordlessly. Its cock rests on the split between your cheeks, head poking your lower back. Your cheek against the plaster, you seethe and glare over your shoulder, breathing through clenched teeth and flared nostrils.

“But you jerk men off? That’s a bit hypocritical.” It shakes its head. “You’re such a bitch. Maybe I should be the one to treat you like a thing. See if you like it.” You moan, and it pauses, eyes flashing wide before the biggest, shit-eating grin splits its face. “Oh-ho, I think you do. Goddamn,” it shakes its head. “I should have known.” You push from the wall suddenly, with all the force you can muster, but it’s for naught as it easily keeps you in place, chest hot on your back.

“Fuck you.”

“I thought you didn’t fuck men?” It clicks its tongue. “Can’t get a read on you, sweetheart.” Its lips are at your jaw as he speaks into your skin, cock sluggishly drifting between your cheeks. “So fuckin’ arrogant, but you’re dripping right now, right? From watching me fuck our girlfriend, from this, from me.” Its lips drag up the line of your jaw to your ear. “Throw me a bone here. I’ll make you feel good.”

“Please?” Sherry chimes in, and you can’t see her, but she’s got the strength in her voice back.

“Please?” It copies.

“...Fine, but I—.” He doesn’t let you finish. Jake kisses like fire, burning and catastrophic and loud. Was he this loud kissing Sherry? It’s all spit and tongue, careless and sloppy in his first taste of you. He gives you the space to turn, but only as a way to allow his hands to cup your ass and pull you close to him. Jake’s hips rise to drag his cock along your pants and the bottom of your shirt, a painful reminder of how dressed you are.

“You’re so fucking hot, sweetheart,” he pants into you. “Can’t wait to see the real thing.” With a grip on each shoulder, he tears you from the wall and puts you in the middle of the room. Sherry, with that DSO stamina and remnant G-virus regeneration, is wet again. She’s slouched with her legs spread and lithe fingers running down her folds. “Wanna do the honors?”

“How kind.” Sherry rises, and you’re painfully pliant when letting her bring your shirt over your head. She kisses her way down your stomach, and her fingers dip under your waistband. Jake’s at your back, large hands sneaking across your bra and to your tits, palming them through the fabric. Your head falls back into his shoulder, and he meets you in a lazy kiss until you step out of your pants. “Babe, you’re drenched down here.”

“Was raining outside,” is mumbled into Jake’s lips before you lick your way back into his mouth.

“Inside too,” she chuckles and kisses the cotton before coming to her feet, gleeful seeing her boyfriend and girlfriend making out. “You're both so beautiful.”

“She likes me more than you,” you say, and he cuts you off with a chaste kiss. “In case,” another kiss, “you thought you somehow jumped ahead.”

“I wouldn’t even like me more than you, sweetheart.” He uses a grip under your jaw to tilt your head up, and the angle allows him to lick down to your chin and neck. Sherry deftly moves Jake’s hands to get your bra off, and he takes full advantage of their freedom, fat dimpling between his fingers. “Goddamn. Sher, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Maybe I’m a little selfish. Can you blame me?” Sherry pulls you into a kiss of her own, which is starkly cool compared to Jake’s, but ice has its own burn too. “I am sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have.” Shouldn’t have . . .? Oh, the picture. She’s very fucking right, and she’ll feel your anger later. But right now, Jake also feels very fucking right. The end doesn't justify the means, but goddamn.

“Talk about it . . . later.” Jake frees one tit, and Sherry dives in with quick laps on your nipple. Jakes tweaks the other one, and you’re leaning against him heavily. You lay a hand on the back of Sherry’s head, sinking into the blonde locks. She looks up at you with your tit gently between her teeth, and she’s still smiling. You finally smile back. It quickly goes away with Jake’s nip to your shoulder. You glare, and with all the derisiveness in the world he licks the minor wound.

“This is about me, Sher,” he warns and she pops off your boob with a last, small lick. “Wait your turn.” She rolls her eyes.

“You’re taking a mile, Jake.” He snorts.

“Hell yes I am.” If you forgot about the searing penis behind you, Jake is kind enough to remind you of it by humping against your rear. “Let me have this, baby.” Hands back on your tits, he pulls you backward, into him and away from Sherry, and she huffs and falls back to the couch. “Just enjoy the show? It’s only fair.”

“And you get to star in both? How’s that fair?”

“Because I had to wait two fucking months to have you, so fucking deal with it.” He ends the statement with a pinch to each nipple before fondling them once more. Jake drags his hands down your sides and settles them on your panties. Hooking a finger on each side, he drags it down your legs, and as he bends to get it off, he kisses a line down your back that stops at the crack of your ass. Your eyes are on Sherry, sharing a matching grin with her before Jake stands once more. “You’ll understand if I’m a bit impatient.”

You’re walked forward with his toes on your heels until you’re kneeling on the couch beside Sherry. Jake yanks your thighs open and pushes you forward to lean over the back of the couch. Cool air is replaced with hot breath that’s staggered by the chuckle he lets out. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re so pent up.” He’s on the ground, his finger slipping easily into you, and you push your ass back on instinct. “And I was so excited to taste you, but looks like I don’t even need to.” A second finger sinks into you followed by a few discrete kisses on your cunt until he pauses. “Unless . . . “

Jake’s fingers and mouth abandons your pussy and trails up the dark path to your ass.

“W-woah!” You jolt when he starts to spread your cheeks. “You’re kidding. I thought you wanted pussy? Fuckin’ I take money or pussy shit.” Incredulous, you look over your shoulder and down to his all too innocent grin. His lips purse, and he plants a wet kiss on each cheek.

“Let me take something different from you.” Sherry’s wrong. Jake’s taking far more than a mile, and she knows it. “Just say no if you want, sweetheart, but I’ll make it real fucking special for you.” Oh, yeah, you’re a damn goner if you let him in your ass the first time. Jake’s waiting patiently back there, scattering brief pecks across the expanse of your rear. Sherry waits alongside you. He pulls at your cheeks, letting them smack as they fall back together.

Oh, fuck me. “Fine, but the minute I say stop—.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he flicks his wrist. “Baby, do me a favor and open ‘er up.” The couch shifts under you, and Sherry pulls your cheeks apart. You can’t bear to look. Your head falls behind the couch, looking down at the dust on the floor as the first flick of his tongue laves over the wrinkled skin, and you yelp. Jake’s laugh echoes through you and he repeats the lick until the skin’s wet enough to let him in. The point of his tongue pierces the tight skin first, foreign and scorching at first.

Sherry leans her head on the couch next to you, and you turn to face her. You good? Her face seems to ask, and you nod your head, breathless. The corner of her lips twitch up, and she softly fits her mouth to yours until you’re forced to part to let out the proper whimper from his tongue pushing deeper. Worming through, it’s so fucking tight, but the rigidity fades with Jake’s work within. Sherry’s hands are steady, kneading the fat softly. “Can take a little more.”

Your moan is strangled and gets caught in your throat. His finger didn’t feel this thick when you were with Sherry, but god does it now. Sherry soothes down your hair and coos in your ear throughout the time Jake stretches you out, but her whispers do little to stay the burning. He leaves momentarily, running with a rock hard boner shaking with each stride, and comes back with a small, unopened bottle of lube. You didn’t even know you had that, to be honest.

Since you’re a bit worked open, when he slides in lubed up, it’s a lot fucking easier, daresay enjoyable. The burning subsides into pleasure, and you bounce back into his fingers until it’s smooth in accommodating the girth. It’s not enough to counter the slight panic when you feel the lubed cockhead prodding the ring of muscle. You stiffen, and the pair react instantly. Sherry kisses your temple, and Jake massages your lower back. “Don’t tense up on me now. You’re nice and loose, sweetheart.”

“Fuckin’ get it in, then!” It comes off more aggressive than it ought to, and Sherry, ever brilliant, comes to a new solution, and the flick on your clit is far more effective than a measly kiss on your head. She slowly rounds the bud, and Jake pushes the head in. Your head falls, and you breathe to keep yourself calm.

“Ah, that’s it. Goddamn, you’re a dream.” Jake eases himself slowly, and he may as well be five feet long for as long as it takes to feel the coarse hairs on him against your ass. Bottomed out, he rests there, leaning over to kiss your shoulder blade. “Feel good?” You nod quickly. “Told you.”

“Fuck—,” cursing out the man inches into your asshole has the exact effect you ought to expect. He quickly retracts in a short burst, dick dragging against the restrictive walls. The surprise is worse than the actual feeling, and Sherry cuts in.

“Jake!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, meaninglessly. Sherry keeps her thumb on your clit, and gingerly brings two fingers to your pussy. As Jake begins to move, she moves in kind, like a seesaw, in when the other’s out, so you’re riding a constant high. “Shit. Fuckin’ hell. You’re a natural.”

“At anal?” He meets your skeptical eyes with a grin. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Or fuck in,” it’s Sherry who chimes in.

“N-not funny. Too much time with Leon—ugh,” Jake harshly plunges into you, balls slapping in one harsh smack against you. You’re pushed roughly into the cushions, and the couch legs raise briefly before slamming back onto the ground.

“Jesus Christ — can we maybe not talk about Leon right now?” Jake motions down to the sloppy connection between the two of you. Sherry laughs, and silences any other protest from him with a deep kiss, and Jake loses himself in the distraction. Not so mindful of your adjustment, he fucks into you at a more brutal pace, and he brings his hands to the line between your thighs and hips to manually push you back onto him when you no longer can.

You’re losing yourself, and from how turned on you were from the get-go and from the newness and from being with a man, you’re fucking ashamed with how quickly you cum, but Jake revels in it. He brushes by Sherry to kiss you through your orgasm, and Sherry’s at your other side, fingers fast and fucking you along with him. You spasm and buck helpless into them both, mouth now splitting attention between both people on either side of you.

Jake pulls out to cum on your back, warm spurts splattering up your spine. Sherry pulls out of you too, and you sag immediately, lifelessly leaned over the couch. In the haze, there’s movement, and you’re wiped down and moved to the bathroom. Sat helplessly on the toilet for a bit, you let them both deal with the shower, and you find out your shower can fit three people in the same fashion a tin fits sardines, but said sardines all are fucked out and sensative to every touch.

You’re the last one out of the bathroom, and you find them clothed and cuddled on the bed. There’s space on either side, so you clamber to climb behind Sherry, but she stops you. With a knowing gaze, she rolls to create a gap between the two of them to which you fill without question. Jake lays with one hand behind his head, and the other around your neck so you rest in the crook of his elbow. Sherry is on her stomach, arm draped over your middle and head on Jake’s arm.

The silence is peaceful. It’s just breaths and decelerating heartbeats and matching smells from the soap, but you decide there can be no peace.

“So . . . which nude did you show him?”

#resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #x reader #jake muller x sherry birkin x reader #sherry birkin x reader #jake muller #jake muller x reader #sherry birkin #reader insert #smut

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mechezeishe · 2 months ago

Text

why is this thing in my house

Your girlfriend finally returns home after her 6 month disappearance with a boyfriend.

Wait . . . what?

a 2 shot Sherry/Jake/F!Reader; pt 1 Tags: Established Relationship; Open Relationships; Lesbian Sex; Cunnilingus; Vaginal Fingering; Threesome - F/F/M; Vaginal Sex; Anal Sex; Anal Fingering; Mild Misandry; Post-Resident Evil 6; Not Beta Read; Ass to Mouth; Female Reader; Shameless Smut

ao3 link

pt. 2

You can’t find the words. You tilt your head slightly to maybe jostle your brain and get it functioning once more. Pulling Sherry off to the side, you eye the stranger standing in your apartment. “Um, are you breaking up with me?”

For six months, you thought she was dead. You pictured how countless times — doing some heroic bullshit with her regenerative qualities in the forefront of her mind as she threw herself in the way of danger for some kitten or something. And said kitten is now in your living room. You grieved, went through waves of indescribable anger, and navigated the pain of losing a part of yourself, and all for nothing.

Doesn’t matter how much death you witness — rounds upon rounds of chest compressions leading to just broken ribs and asystole, profuse internal hemorrhaging you fail to arrest, multiple organ failure the exlap confirms to be intra-abdominal sepsis — it’s horrible, and it was all the more horrible when it was someone you love, and you couldn’t even do anything about it for months besides see her face in every patient and try not to allow your emotions to take over.

Didn't always work. There was one patient in particular that forced your attending physician to reprimand you. He was infected with the C-virus through a parenteral injection resulting in a forequarter amputation and enucleation of the right eye. He was so young. Maybe your age. Maybe Sherry’s age. Handsome to boot, which was a bit inappropriate to note since you were the one controlling the oscillating saw that broke his bones and watched his eye be removed. He was angry upon waking up, ungrateful, and you couldn't help yourself. The verbal lashing was brutal and echoed down the hall until you were pulled out.

She came back to life when you flew home from that placement in China. Trudging into your apartment, you thought the blonde was an apparition, borne out of how much death you failed to prevent there, but she was real, and she was sorry. Sorry it was classified. Sorry that you had to grieve and mourn for nothing, and you were angry again because she had nothing to be sorry for. After your tears had dried and the accompanying deluge of every emotion your body has stored for months left you empty, you saw him. A man.

Hence—

“No!” Sherry’s hands are strong on your biceps, and she shakes her head assuringly. “No, I love you more than anything. That hasn’t changed. Won’t change. It’s just . . . I didn’t—,” guilt floods over her face, and she dips her head down. Oddly enough, she looks more stressed over this than whatever she went through during her disappearance, “I didn’t mean to. He was my objective, but at some point, he was more.” When she looks back up, her eyes are glistening. “We didn’t kiss. We didn’t do anything. I couldn’t do that to you, but the feeling . . . it’s there. I’m so sorry.”

“I . . . okay. I’m . . . lost here.” Even if your brain hadn't just gone through loss and then an impossible resurrection, you still wouldn’t comprehend what’s going on. Your eyes feel sunken in and heavy, and you step out of her grip to cross your arms over your chest. “You love him,” you nod to the stranger who’s standing with his hands on his hips and head tilted towards the ceiling, taking it all in a bit . . . lackadaisically, “but you’re not breaking up with me.”

“The only person here who could end things is you,” she assures. “I talked to Jake—,” Jake , that’s it’s name, “—about it. About you and us and everything. How it could never be real with me and him. How the feelings were wrong, and you come first.”

“Then why the hell is he in our living room, Sher?” You cut her off, more exasperated than anything else. She inhales, and you know immediately she’s about to say something she thinks you’re not going to like. And she’s correct.

“Jake suggested . . . I don’t even know how to put this.” Jake, now, is very obviously trying to listen to your hushed voices. “That we open our relationship.” Your jaw drops, and not even the tentative—and delusional—hope on her face subsidizes the shock. Sherry, staunchly loyal and forthright, wants to, what? Create a harem for herself? Or is she trying to set you up with him too? Or is she just asking your permission to fuck him? Are you the cuck?

You’d say no immediately were it anyone else, but it’s her. For Sherry to want this either means it’s authentic, or this Jake is the biggest manipulator the world has ever seen. The latter seems unlikely, as Sherry is smarter than that, surely, and generally not so trusting of many people from her experimentation and government control as a child. Meaning she must want this. Want him . And you.

“A man ?” You whisper, lips pulled into a distasteful frown. “Really?”

“He’s a good man.” Doubtful. You glance over, and, yeah, doubtful. The way he pretends to look at your potted plant, fingers stroking his chin with his ear perfectly in line with your conversation. “Look, if you aren’t the least bit open to it or interested, then he’s . . . he’s gone.” She struggles with those words, which further supports your hypothesis. “I won’t sacrifice us for him.”

But, nonetheless, you feel as though you’d be asking her to sacrifice a part of her for yourself.

“You really like him.” She nods, and you watch her look over to him now. The corners of her lips lift in a ghost of a smile, and she looks . . . warm. Secure. When she looks at you, there’s more heat behind it. More certitude — hard lines and ferocity. Someone who protects her versus someone she protects. One isn’t worse than the other, but it certainly makes you feel a bit worse. “And, just to be sure, it doesn’t have anything to do with something I did, or could be doing—.”

“God, no,” she looks back at you, and there it is. The conviction. As authentic as the look she gave Jake, but different. “ No . I love you, first and foremost, and if you don’t want this, it won’t happen. No hard feelings. No grudges.” Just a giant what if , you finish for her. “And if you say yes and change your mind, same thing.”

“And if he’s just doing this with the motivation to win you over for himself?”

"Wouldn’t he have tried before coming here, to our place?” Humor laces her tone. Perhaps she's more comfortable now that the request is out there, and you hadn’t flat out rejected it. It's always a sign of hope if there’s questions and inquiries. “And he didn’t, for the record.”

“Thank god. I could never beat him in a fight.” You don’t look at men closely. Not really. A man is a man, in the end, but this man's strength pulls at the threads of his shirt and pants. In the broadness of his shoulders and the thickness of his chest. You tear your eyes away. “What are you expecting here? Do you want to date him and me? Or we, like, date each other?”

“No expectations. Not yet, at least.” She shakes her head. “Admittedly, I didn’t like the sound of it at first, either, but . . . there’s no one way it has to look. It could be whatever works, if it works at all. But it won’t happen at all if you say no right now.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. What a nice coming home/being alive gift you could give her — permission to sleep with a man. A man . “And you don’t have to decide right now, except if you want to say no.” Sherry bites her lip. “...Do you want to say no?”

“I think,” you sigh. Maybe she knew what she was doing posing to you the question moments after coming back to life, or you were just a sucker, “I think that I like you too much, and I’m going to think about it.” You don’t miss the grin he gives the potted plant – yes, he’s been staring at it the entire time. Enthralled by it, surely.

“That’s all I can ask,” a pause, “except for one more thing. I kinda need him to stay with us.”

“What?”

“He’s sort of wanted—.”

“ What?! Doesn’t the DSO have, like, a witness protection program? Or is it the DSO that wants him? Is Leon coming to our door?”

“Okay, okay, no, the DSO is protecting him, but . . .” Oh, good, another you’re not about to like what I have to say look, “the BSAA is looking for him.”

"Oh, so my employer. Good. Great. The guy about to steal my girlfriend is also a conflict of interest for a reason — I presume — you can’t tell me.” Sherry smiles, and you have to roll your eyes. “Anything else? Pregnancies? A fourth person? Perhaps Jesus himself?” “No, just this,” her hand is cold on your neck, and she pulls yoy to her lips, soft as you remember, and the sucker you are relaxes immediately just at the touch of her tongue on yours. You sigh into her mouth, chasing her lips as she pulls away. Sherry gifts you with a consolidation peck. “I love you.”

“Yeah, don’t I know.” You breathe out, but follow up with an “I love you too.” Breathless, you peer over to Jake who's now all of a sudden lost interest in the plant and gained a lot more interest over here. You scowl, and you make sure he sees it, and that Sherry doesn’t.

—

“Hey, roomie .” Life is better than when you thought Sherry was dead, but worse than it was before her mission. Your hours, fortunately, keep you away for the first few weeks. When not at a BSAA MTF abroad, you’re still with your attending physician at an MTF here in D.C., and you can’t think of anything outside medicine and the human body when you’re working. So you’re free while in scrubs and carving open one body part or another.

Until you get home. Besides brief acknowledgments of its existence, such as moving around it when it's in your way, you've barely spoken to it since it moved in. You wish it had a life, so you didn’t need to. “I’m starting to get used to the place. Could use a bit more–uh–modernizng. I mean, no dishwasher? Aren’t you a doctor? You should be raking it in.” You don’t know why it’s speaking to you when you don’t even have your jacket off yet.

“I’m only a resident. Where’s Sherry?” You ask.

“Called in for some . . . bullshit. I don’t know. Just me and you tonight.” Good. You like a night of silence. “Some roommate bonding.” The look you shoot him is a mix of confusion, doubt, and disgust, but it’s undeterred. He watches you dig into the fridge for the last of your meal prepped — where is it?

“Did Sherry take the last of the steak tips?”

"Oh, no. That was me.” You move the fridge door out of the way to watch it shrug. “Guy got hungry. What do you want me to do – starve?”

“Yes.” You shut the refrigerator fully and move to the pantry to see what — where the hell did everything go? “Did you eat everything? ”

“No, definitely not.” It hops off the counter and stands behind you. Your eyes scan the shelves, and there’s not enough ingredients for anything substantive. “No, here, come on,” it brushes by you to grab a loaf of bread, a too hard avocado, beef jerky, and ranch seasoning—what the hell? “Perfect sandwich.” It can’t be serious, but it actually goes to the counter.

Two pieces of white bread — three, you guess, if you count the chef — three strips of beef jerky, and it struggles with the avocado. It rears the knife back and pierces the skin with a strong impact that makes you jump a bit. The vegetable fights against the knife, and you hear it grumble as it cuts around the circumference. “Goddamn it.” Still, the avocado doesn’t split. It forsakes the knife, grabs both halves and pulls . His arms bulge— its arms bulge, and the avocado breaks.

Jesus Christ. “Ah, easy peasy,” it holds both halves triumphantly and smiles at you. You grimace and look away.

“You know what — just save yourself the trouble. I’ll go out to the store.”

“After all this work?”

“I wouldn’t want to steal the chance to eat the perfect sandwich from you,” You’re dead on your feet. You’re still reeling from Sherry’s disappearance and the amount of classified information around it and it next to you, but you’re not going to eat that. The grocery store will also offer you a bit more peace from—.

“Sure, let’s go.”

“No.”

“Ah, come on. I’m getting cabin fever here.”

“Aren’t you wanted?” You notice it leaves the ingredients on the counter. It shrugs.

“I don’t think they’ll be looking in – what? – Trader Joe’s?” You hate it that it always looks a bit smug. A bit too easy about everything. This is your life. This is Sherry’s life. This . . . thing is a clear danger. The disregard is in its eyes, beneath the lazy confidence. It’d bury you and her and move on, but Sherry is so convinced of his worth, and maybe the 6 months on their mission proved otherwise. But not to you. “Need to stretch my legs anyway.”

“You cannot,” you say. “You cannot .”

“Yeah, you said that. Come on. I’ll wear a hood, so I’ll be basically unrecognizable.”

“Sure, Tony Montana. Unrecognizable.” It follows you anyway. It throws apples around and causes an avalanche of potatoes and successfully sneaks junk into the cart. You don’t speak to it – a silent communication to the other shoppers that you don’t know it. It’s just following you, stretching its legs as it were. It drums its fingers on the dash along with the beat of the radio and comments on the area on the drive back. God , it doesn’t shut up.

At least it helps put the groceries away. In the wrong places that you fix, but it tries. It tries to talk to you while you cook and peers over your shoulder. You don’t trust it with a knife, so it watches the salmon cook and flips it when you command it to. The dinner is silent, and it’s talking about something or other when eventually the noise becomes too much for your brain.

“Why are you here?” You cut it off.

“Need a place to duck down—.”

“You know what I fucking mean.” It glances away with a small scoff. You bristle and lean over the table. “You can’t date my girlfriend.”

“Clearly, I can, or else you would have kicked my ass out already, right?” He smiles with teeth. A challenge. “And I’ve been a good boy since I got here, and she’s asking for your permission. I think you’re being a bit ungrateful.” Your eyes twitches. Twitches . “I think I’ll grow on you.”

“Like a cancer, perhaps. A tapeworm.”

“Gross – I’m eating,” it lifts the fork and plastic knife in the air to motion to his plate.

“My food. On our dollar.”

“You wouldn’t believe how tough the job market is for a wanted merc. Walmart, American Eagle, Salvation Army, they all said no.” Again, that fucking smile splits its face. It knows what it’s doing. Slowly, it takes a bite of the food you made. Sherry will be mad if it starves, even if you want it to.

“You suggested the idea of an open relationship to her.”

“Yeah, why not? More the merrier.” It’s looking down now, using its fork to scoop up the sauce and broccoli. “I’m not trying to be the other man here. You two got a good thing going. She talked about you all the time in Edonia and China. I won’t fuck that up.” When it looks up, you expect the grin, but there’s none there. “But I care about Sherry.” “So do I.” It opens its palms to you as if to say see? “We have a common goal, and Sherry’s ambitious like that. Hot doctor. Hot merc. Can’t say I blame her for wanting the best of both worlds.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Shocking. I had no idea.” It rests its cheek in its palm. “You don’t have to like me, sweetheart. Your girlfriend does enough for the both of you.”

“I can end you two right now.”

“She loves me.” It reminds you. “And she loves you. Do you think that she’d be okay without one or the other?” You dearly wish you knew what happened on their mission, but you don’t want Sherry to have to recite it, and it’s classified anyway. You just want to get a read on what attracted your girlfriend to him besides fucking shared trauma. “Do you really want to be the one to have to tell her no?” You reasonably can. It’s well within your rights to do so, but would it be the end of your relationship? If not then and there, then later? It knows it has the right of it. The silence subdues you, but empowers it. You set your utensils down with your plate still full. It sighs. “Look, I get—.”

“I’m home!” Sherry’s cheer cuts through the heavy air. The slam echoes, and her footsteps are quick and light. “Smells good in here. Don’t tell me you cooked.” You look up just in time for her to bend down and kiss your cheek. “You’ve been working two days straight.”

“It’s fine,” you assure and watch her round the table towards it, and she almost bends. You catch it, and so does she. Sherry clears her throat, smiling.

“Save some for me?” She’s not smooth in playing it off. It isn’t smooth in pretending not to care. It sends a knowing look your way you shrug off by standing. The chair’s legs screech across the ground.

“You can have mine. I’m heading to bed.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” It’s watching from the chair, unreadable. Sherry’s concern is etched all over her. She knows something’s up, but she needn’t even be around to know something is up. Something' s been up since they came home. Since you’ve had to grapple with everything that came with it. You smile. “Long shift.”

“Yeah . . . right. Of course. Thank you for cooking.” Sherry doesn’t know where to go, or if to go at all. The hesitation isn’t common, but nothing is common right now. She shifts on her feet, and before she can make the decision, you do for her with a swift good night and a swifter walk to the bedroom.

“What the hell did you do?” You catch her asking before the door closes. The shower doesn’t wash off the unease, and you can’t hide under the blanket from it. Of course, the man was just voicing what you already suspected. Secure only in the fact she hasn’t communicated any desire to break up with you or pursue him without your okay, you wonder what the hell you’re going to do. It’s fair you have this power, but you hate having to decide what to do with it.

Once again, you’re thankful for your job, and the exhaustion takes over before any more thoughts can. But once again, your peace ends.

“—on. Wake up!” You’re jostled and shaken. It’s dark, and the jump from REM to awake is jarring. Everything’s blurry and moving and — okay, Sherry’s on top of you, knees on either side of your hips and hands on your shoulders. You grumble and groan and blink through the blur. “You up?”

“Jesus Christ – am now.” Brows furrowed, the moon streaming through the window and the hallway light filtering in through the crack in the door casts long shadows on her, but you can make out the urgency. Obviously . You prop yourself up by your elbows as she sits back and rests her weight on your thighs.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m asleep .”

“No, you’re upset.” Her hands are gentle and light. They move to the slopes of your neck and rest under your jaw to angle your weary head up. “Tell me right now and Jake will leave. I’ll put him in a secure DSO location, and it’ll be me and you.” Sherry leans down and captures you in a kiss you don’t have the alertness to meet, but she doesn’t mind. She can eat a cold meal. “Not gonna lose you over this.” She speaks between wet kisses. “Not this.”

“Hng—Sherry,” you tilt your head back, but she only uses the angle to kiss down your neck, hands moving to your back. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I know it’s not. Don’t lie to me, please,” she looks back up, and the moon catches her eyes. Crystalline blue and near transparent. They reveal the distress below. The fear. “Asking this of you. Being away. I . . . this is turning into something that would be too much for anyone. Please, tell me what you need—what you want .” She swallows. “So long as it’s me. So long as it’s us.”

“It is, love. It is. I’m just . . . god, you were dead , Sherry. You were dead, and I was—I was,” you choke up, and her hands are back on your face. Sherry nods and the kiss is searing. She clambers up your lap, and you sit up entirely to press her to you — one hand on her back, the other gripping the top of the headboard. Your inhale is wet and greedy when you part. “I never . . . want to go through that again.’

“You won’t.” You’d believe anybody if they’re peeling your pajama shirt off and looking at you like you’re everything there is to look at. “You won’t – I swear.” Blackness overtakes your vision before you’re free, bare, and kissed once more. Your breasts press against the fabric of her work shirt, rough on your nipples.

“You’re reckless,” you breathe out. “You can’t—regenerate forever,” she may be listening, but it’s more likely she’s just watching your lips move and waiting for the next opportunity to slip her tongue in your mouth. It softly curls and dips behind your teeth and over your tongue. Fingertips light on your tits, they circle the fat then squeeze, eliciting a moan into her mouth. She swallows it and gently surges forward, so you’re forced to tilt your head back more. Sherry rocks down into you, catching friction on your pelvis. “Then you come back—and bring a man into our house.”

“Hmm, I know. I know.” Sherry pinches your nipples and smiles when you gasp. “Let me make it up to you, babe.” She trails her hand down your stomach and to the waistband of your shorts. “Let me show you how much you mean to me.” The corner of your lips quirk up, and you turn towards the door, but she catches your jaw and forces you to look at her. All the learned ferocity from her life and her job in her eyes enraptures you. “Will you let me?”

You nod. “Yeah.” The next kiss is sweet and all lips. A distraction from your shorts being dragged down your stomach until you have to lift to allow her to bring them to your thighs. Ugh, you smell yourself immediately. Feel the arousal pooling in the crevices between your thighs and crotch — or maybe that’s sweat. Sherry doesn’t seem to care. She shuffles back and pulls you to lie down, head propped on the pillow. “I missed you.”

“Convenient you say that when I’m about to be between your legs.” You scoff, and before she can spread your legs, you bend your knees and lock them together. Sherry pouts from atop your knees, and her chin rests on the bone.

“I can’t be the only one naked,” you say. “It’s unfair.”

“And I’ve been very unfair to you.” She places a soft kiss on your kneecap, then kneels to unbutton her shirt. Slowly, you notice, but not teasing. You don’t deserve to be teased right now. Your breathing echoes in the silent expanse of your bedroom. Her breasts drop with the displacement of her bra. Pert and pale, you have to drag your eyes away to meet her knowing gaze.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything, babe.” Her work pants and panties discarded, she’s on par with your own nudity. “Can you open up for me now?” Bending down, warm kisses dot up the front of your calf and are accompanied by a cold hand up the backs of them. “Want to make you feel good. Feel loved.”

“I do feel loved,” you assure her, but it’s weak in the presence of everything else, you know, despite how much you mean it. Sherry rolls her eyes and yanks your knees apart, and you’re susceptible to her strength. Yeah , she could have done that the whole time for sure. “I swear — I do!”

“No, you don’t, but you will.” Her mouth skips down the inside of your thigh and leaves cool, wet patched in its wake. Every other, her teeth sink into your cellulite, and your moans catch in your throat. There’s a man here, after all. It can’t hear you. It doesn’t have the privilege. Sherry allows you to stifle them — too focused on reaching the apex of your thighs. Her breath is warm over your pubes, shifting the hairs. She looks up your body, over the fat of your tummy and the heave of your chest, to look into your eyes. “You’re breathtaking.”

“You’re looking from the absolute worst angle, love.”

“But my favorite one.” The ferocity melts into admiration. Soft and doe-eyed, Sherry places a kiss on the crest above your clit, but your nerves pick it up. Your inhale is sharp, and the jolt scatters all up and down your body. Just from that — are you touch starved? She keeps your thighs and labia open with her hands. “I’m sorry.” Her lips touch your clit, and they’re warm and wet. “I love you.” Sherry’s breath wafts down the rest of your cunt. “More than anything.”

“More than Jake?” The question slips out before you could think, and you expect her to react automatically – to flinch back so you can see the hurt and the contemplation. But she doesn’t. Instead, she flattens her tongue and slowly drags it from bottom to top. When she reaches your clit, she swipes over it quickly and nods her head away from your crotch to look at you over the mound.

“Yes.” The bed moves under her weight with her calculated crawl up your body. “I’d give him to the BSAA if you wanted.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I’d think about it, though.” Her hands sink into the pillow on either side of your head, and her blonde fringe hangs over her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about him when my gorgeous girlfriend is underneath me.” Still, its presence lingers. Sherry lowers herself so her boobs rest on yours, and she uses a grip on the back of your neck to pull you up to her lips. She licks her way into your mouth, and the moan reverberates between both of you, rumbling down into your chest.

“He’s ugly.” You immediately break her request. “Mhm,” her lips brush over your chin.

“He’s an asshole.”

“Yeah,” she licks a spot on your jaw.

“He doesn’t shut the hell up.”

“Sounds familiar.” She grins up from between your breasts and kisses your sternum. Meandering hands coast down to your tits to gently grope them.

“He’s a man .”

“You love to conveniently forget you like men, too.” Her tongue dips into your belly button briefly on her slow descent back down.

“I pray the straight away,” and she reminds you why. A multitude of pecks land on your clit while she spreads you open once more, but with only one hand. The other pulls your clitoral hood up. “Oh, f-fuck, Sher.” Exposed, she licks the exposed nub repeatedly with the point of her tongue, and you writhe, but she keeps her face fixed to your pussy. Your back arches from the bed, heels planted in the mattress. “Feels good.”

“I know, baby.” Dipping lower, her nose brushes by the already blazing clit, and she spreads your lips with her thumb and forefinger. Sherry is careful in her love making. Tender and loving. She laves her tongue over your opening, and you mewl, back falling back to the bed. “You’re so stupid, babe. How can you think I’d ever let you go?” Her words are met with a moan, borne from her worming her tongue into your opening. You reach above your head for nothing, jaw slack.

“S-sherry, please . It’s been a-awhile.”

“I kept you waiting,” she’s breathless, and her exhales are hot on you. “My fault you’re so pent up.” Sherry adjusts and wraps her arms around your thighs. They settle on your hips, so that her shoulders bear the weight of your thighs and lifted hips instead. “I have to make up for it.” Her inhale is akin to one you’d hear before someone plunges underwater, and then she comes down forcefully. You forget to suppress the whine and every moan thereafter. They oscillate in tandem with the rhythm her tongue fucks into you. One hand creeps over your stomach, so she can rub circles on your clit, and when she makes contact, you yell . It’s quick and sharp and rises above the wet noises of her saliva mixing with your slick.

“You—you gotta,” you can’t get the words out. Her tongue rolls and flattens within you and flutters on its way back out, and her thumb taps your clit. “Jesus Christ .” You extend your reach to the sides and grip the sheets and grind your hips into her face. The burning in your glutes is nothing compared to the pleasure overriding you.

“Hm, missed your taste. Missed your beautiful pussy, babe.” The moonlight gleams on her wet lips, and she smiles. There’s a slow rise and fall while she catches her breath, but just because she takes a break, doesn’t mean you can. Her thumb is still slowly rubbing your clit, altering the pace and force. Your hips circle and push in search for more friction. Heat blooms under your skin, and sweat beads along your forehead. “I’m so sorry—.”

“ I know ,” you grit out. “Just — fuck, please. Just help me cum, love.” Sherry giggles, and the long lick up your cunt is playful and quick.

“Yes, ma’am.” When she dives in, she’s vexingly loving. She meets your urgency with patience. Her thumb is basically unmoving on your clit, and she abandons your hole to suck on it every so often — a swift, strong suction before licking back down. She controls the pace of your pleasure. A skill borne from time, she knows when to thrust her tongue quickly and curl it into your walls, and when to kiss your labia and tease your clit, and you can’t do anything. When you reach down to put a hand in her hair, she takes it off. When you grind down, she pulls back with an innocent grin. When you cry and beg for more, she laughs into your cunt. You can do nothing but take . Curling your toes into the sheets and squirming in desperation, you’re captured in ecstasy. You’re deaf to the noises leaving your lips and ignorant to the ways they bounce off the walls. Your brain’s melted and is solidifying with a singular purpose.

“Need to cum, Sher. G-goddamn please .” The relief is robust when her hand abandons your clit to slip two fingers easily into you. Your hips drop when her other arm moves, and your back lifts, power coming from your heels. Her glistening fingers, lithe and fast, pump and curl into the soaked hole, and it greedily takes them in. Sherry’s cheek rests on your inner thigh, and she watches with an airy, blissed-out look. Accompanied by the occasional kiss or lick, she speeds up and uses her shoulder to power each thrust. The rhythmic schlick is drowned out by your moans.

“That’s it, babe. Let me take you there.” Suddenly, she lifts her head and adjusts her body so her ass is raised in the air, back sloped, and chest pressed to the mattress. Sherry’s entire body powers her last descent onto you, and you lift your hips to meet her. What her tongue can’t reach, her fingers do. Your clit is sore and burning, but she doesn’t relent. Hands above your head, you grip the headboard, and as your body is pushed with Sherry’s drives forward, it bangs against the wall. You feel the beginnings of your orgasm, fleeting, but steadily growing. Sherry knows too, perceptive girl. Palm towards the ceiling, she frantically fucks her fingers into you. Paired with her mouth, you see stars, and your orgasm wracks through you.

You fall flat, and Sherry finally lets you go. Your pussy spasms, and your heart is beating through your ribs. Sherry lays on her side next to you, and wipes the sweat from your forehead with her thumb to clear the way for a long kiss there. The backs of her fingers rest on your cheek. “Are you okay?”

“After the best head of my life? Y-yeah, think so.” You pull her down for a real kiss, and you taste yourself on her lips. “I love you.”

"I love you too.” Her arm stretches across your stomach, breath fanning over your neck. It’s silent as the fog clears, and when it does, you turn your hea d.

“You can date Jake, too.”

“W-what?”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re just saying that because I ate you out—.”

“No,” you assure and smile. “ I’m not fucking dating him, but I trust you, and I’m willing navigate this with you. You know, about my comfort with it, but feel free to, you know, kiss him and shit. I know you’ve wanted to.” Her lips roll into her mouth in a failed attempt to suppress her grin. “But I’m sure as shit not going to be nice to it.”

“It?”

“Hasn’t earned the privilege yet of being a human.” She scoffs and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Please don’t.”

#resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #reader insert #x reader #jake muller #sherry birkin #jake muller x reader #sherry birkin x reader #jake muller x sherry birkin x reader #wlw smut #smut

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