Resident Evil: The Dead Must Breed (Zombie/Monster Evolutions Fanfic)

Chapter 33: Chapter 33: Compromising Deals II

A/N: Its kinda twice the length of usual Chapters so I hope you guys don’t get the idea that its usual length lol

Tbh I don’t know why but I do feel that my writing is slow through when I read the scenes myself, I find myself enjoying them. I write just couple of dialogues and bam, reached 2k words.

What do you guys think of pacing or writing style?

On side note, My laptop is back in one piece without any damage. I am so happy >_<

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[Rebecca’s POV]

Rebecca was not having a good time.

She was standing in the middle of the corridor, shotgun hanging forgotten at her side, both hands frantically picking at the dozens of tiny dark bristles embedded in her bare thighs. Her torn tactical pants had been completely useless as protection. The barbed hairs had buried themselves deep into her soft, exposed skin, each one surrounded by a rapidly expanding ring of angry red welts.

"These are—ow—these are barbed," she hissed, pinching one of the thicker bristles between her thumb and forefinger and yanking it out. A tiny bead of blood welled up immediately, and the surrounding skin was already puffing into an inflamed, irritated lump. "Oh, that’s just great. That’s wonderful. Thank you, Umbrella, for breeding spiders with caltrops for body hair."

She pulled out another, then another, working quickly but wincing every time the microscopic barbs scraped against her nerve endings on the way out.

The problem was the coverage.

The bristle cloud had hit her legs completely randomly, but the concentration was heaviest exactly where her pants were already shredded. From mid-thigh all the way up to her hip, her pale skin looked like a pincushion. Dark hairs bristled from her flesh in random clusters, surrounded by spreading patches of inflamed, swollen skin that were already turning an angry shade of pinkish-red.

And several bristles had gotten past her underwear entirely.

"Son of a—there’s one—right on my—" She was trying to extract a particularly stubborn bristle from the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, just inches from the edge of her panties, and the angle was clearly impossible. She kept contorting her body, balancing on one leg, trying to reach the spot with her fingers. "I can’t—I can’t reach this one. It’s right in the—ugh."

She finally managed to pinch it out with a sharp, practiced yelp and immediately moved on to the next cluster.

The itching was getting worse. The inflamed skin was radiating heat, spreading outward from each puncture site. Her entire right thigh felt like it was on fire, burning and prickling under the surface.

Ghosty was sitting a few feet away, calmly licking spider viscera off his front claws like he’d just finished a particularly satisfying meal. He looked completely unbothered by the fact that she was currently being dissolved alive by biological needles.

"This is all your fault, you know!" she snapped, yanking out another bristle and flicking it angrily against the wall. "If you hadn’t ripped my pants to shreds, maybe I’d have had some actual protection! But no, you had to go and turn my uniform into Swiss cheese, and now I’m getting attacked by weaponized spider pubes while you sit there preening yourself like a cat!"

He glanced up at her, those milky white eyes utterly unreadable, and went right back to grooming his paw.

Useless. Absolutely useless.

She managed to extract most of the visible bristles from her outer thigh, leaving behind a field of angry red welts that were rapidly swelling into proper hives. The itching was unbearable. She had to physically stop herself from scratching because she knew that would just make the irritation ten times worse.

Her medical training was screaming at her to find antihistamines. Or corticosteroid cream. Or literally anything designed to counteract an allergic reaction to foreign proteins being injected directly into soft tissue.

But they were in the basement of a bioweapon research facility. The nearest medical supply room was at least three floors up, and she’d have to backtrack through zombie-infested hallways to even get there.

And that was assuming the hives were just hives.

What if the bristles carried T-virus? What if those spiders were specifically engineered to spread infection through physical contact? What if she was already—

Stop. Don’t spiral. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine.

She took a shaky breath and turned her attention back to the bristles still embedded in her inner thigh.

That’s when Ghosty stood up.

He stretched lazily, his heavy chitin plates shifting with a series of soft clicks, and then he padded over to where she was standing.

"What?" she asked warily, tracking his approach with narrowed eyes. "What do you want now?"

He lowered his massive head and shoved his wet, leathery nose directly against the cluster of bristles on her outer thigh.

"Hey! Don’t—that’s not helping, that’s just—"

His tongue flopped out of his skinless mouth.

Before she could protest further, he dragged the thick, textured muscle directly over the inflamed patch of skin.

The sensation was weird. Hot. Wet. Slimy. And weirdly soothing.

The burning itch that had been radiating from the puncture sites immediately dulled to a low, manageable tingle. The swollen red welts seemed to deflate slightly under the pressure of his tongue.

"Wait," she breathed, staring down at him. "Did that actually—"

He licked the same spot again, slower this time, his massive tongue dragging across her bare thigh with deliberate, methodical strokes.

The relief was instant. The prickling heat faded even further, replaced by a cool, almost pleasant numbness.

Oh.

Oh, that’s... that’s actually working.

She stood there, frozen, her brain trying to catch up with what was happening. His saliva was reducing the inflammation. Actively counteracting the allergic reaction.

That made sense, right? Lots of animals had antiseptic properties in their saliva. Dogs licked their wounds to promote healing. Cats groomed themselves to prevent infection. It was a documented biological function.

Except Ghosty wasn’t a normal dog.

He was a mutant bioweapon created in an underground pharmaceutical nightmare lab.

But he also wasn’t trying to eat her. Or infect her. Or do anything besides casually groom the spider venom out of her system like she was an injured member of his pack.

She looked down at the spot he’d licked. The swelling had visibly reduced. The angry red color had faded to a dull pink. The itching was almost completely gone.

Before she could process that information, Ghosty pulled his head back, gave her one long, unreadable look, and then turned around and trotted over to the far corner of the corridor.

The beast flopped down on the concrete floor, rested his massive head on his front paws, and closed his eyes.

"Wait," she called after him, her voice cracking with sheer indignation. "Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just leave me like this! I’ve still got like twenty more of these things!"

He let out a loud, dismissive huff and settled deeper into his lounging position on the dirty metal grates.

She stared at him, her mouth hanging slightly open in pure disbelief.

She looked down at her thighs again. Most of the outer bristles were gone, but the remaining welts were actively swelling into massive, angry hives. Her inner thigh was a complete disaster zone of inflamed, itching puncture wounds that she absolutely could not reach without pulling a hamstring. And there were definitely a few stray bristles still deeply embedded right near the edge of her black uniform panties. The itch was spreading outward, crawling aggressively under her skin like a swarm of angry fire ants.

She needed relief right this second.

But the only source of relief was currently napping in the corner like a giant armored cat who couldn’t be bothered to care about her impending allergic meltdown.

This is completely absurd. I am not going to beg a perverted zombie mutant to lick my bare thighs.

She was a top-tier medical student. She possessed critical problem-solving skills. If the active healing ingredient was simply his weird, syrupy saliva, she could bypass the highly inappropriate tongue application entirely. She just needed a physical sample of the biological agent to apply topically.

"Fine," she muttered, marching over to where he was lazily resting his heavy armored chin. "If you won’t do your job, I will do it myself. Give me your spit."

Ghosty cracked one milky eye open and stared at her, radiating pure, unfiltered judgment.

"I’m serious," Rebecca huffed, aggressively shoving her bare right hand directly in front of his terrifying snout. "Just drool on my hand. No funny business. Think of it like a saliva sample at the vet. Just give me a puddle of it and I’ll handle the rest."

The beast stared at her palm for a long moment.

Then he slowly opened his massive jaws, extended his thick, muscular tongue, and dragged it directly from the heel of her palm all the way up to the tips of her fingers in one long, agonizingly slow, incredibly wet slurp. He made absolutely sure to curl the textured muscle completely around her thumb, leaving her entire hand thoroughly coated in a thick, hot layer of sweet-smelling mutant drool.

Rebecca’s entire face folded in absolute disgust.

"Ew! Ew, ew, ew—why are you tasting me like a soup?!" she shrieked, aggressively shaking her wrist to fling a heavy glob of excess saliva onto the floor. "I said drool! I didn’t say deep-clean my cuticles!"

Ghosty simply closed his mouth and let out a highly amused snort.

She shuddered violently, fighting the overwhelming urge to wipe her hand on her vest. She gritted her teeth, marched back over to the wall, and carefully smeared the warm, vanilla-scented slime directly over the cluster of angry red hives on her inner thigh.

She waited for the miraculous, soothing numbness to kick in.

The result was entirely disappointing.

The intense burning itch barely dulled. The inflamed welts completely refused to deflate. The saliva just sat there on top of her skin, feeling sticky and gross and entirely unhelpful.

"What the hell," she whispered, frantically rubbing the fluid deeper into her pores. "Come on, work. You literally just worked two minutes ago."

She scooped another glob of spit off the back of her knuckles and aggressively massaged it into a particularly nasty welt near her knee. The swelling stubbornly remained exactly the same size. The infuriating prickle of spider venom continued to radiate outward, making her want to claw her own skin off.

"Come on come on come on," she hissed through gritted teeth, smearing more of the warm fluid across the inflamed patch. "You’re healing saliva! Heal! That’s your one job!"

Nothing. The welts just sat there, angry and swollen and completely unimpressed by her DIY medical treatment.

Before she could loudly voice her mounting frustrations, Ghosty suddenly stood up, padded casually over to her side, and lowered his massive armored head.

He bypassed her messy handiwork entirely and dragged his thick, textured tongue directly over a completely untouched hive on her outer thigh.

The relief was instantaneous and absolute.

The burning heat completely vanished, immediately replaced by a cool, spreading numbness that sank deep into the muscle. The angry red swelling visibly deflated right before her eyes, leaving the pale skin perfectly smooth and completely blemish-free.

He pulled his head back, gave her a thoroughly smug look, and promptly turned around to go lay back down in his corner.

Rebecca stared at the freshly healed patch of skin, completely dumbfounded by the sheer biological sorcery of it all.

"Are you kidding me?!" she yelled at his retreating back. "Does it need the direct application or what?!"

Ghosty didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. He just gave his heavy scorpion tail a lazy, arrogant swish.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, letting out a long, ragged groan of pure despair.

This was a complete nightmare. She couldn’t just leave the venom inside her tissue. The allergic reaction was already making her dizzy, and the itching was driving her entirely insane. But getting the venom out meant giving a highly aggressive, constantly horny biological weapon unrestricted access to her upper thighs and panty line.

A creature that had actively tried to use her as a personal masturbation pole on multiple occasions.

A mutant dog that literally smelled like a bakery and possessed an erection the size of a traffic cone.

But as she stared down at the massive, gaping tear in her tactical pants, a highly practical, incredibly stubborn thought managed to pierce through her rising panic.

She had swallowed an absolutely massive quantity of his weird saliva back in the animal pen. He had practically French-kissed her, forcing his fluids directly into her mucous membranes. By all established corporate literature regarding the T-virus, she should currently be rotting from the inside out and craving human flesh.

But she felt completely fine. She wasn’t running a fever. She wasn’t craving brains.

If his spit was somehow miraculously sterile, or even possessed some kind of bizarre antiviral mutation that actually protected her, then letting him lick a few spider bites wasn’t a death sentence. It was just profoundly, incredibly embarrassing.

Okay. Think, Rebecca. You’re a problem solver. You got into S.T.A.R.S. at eighteen. You can figure out how to motivate one oversized, horny, armored mutt.

"Come on, boy," she called out, trying her best cheerful, dog-owner voice. She crouched down slightly, patting her thighs in the universal "come here" gesture. "Come here! Good boy! You want to help your favorite medic, don’t you? Come on!"

One milky eye cracked open, stared at her with profound, withering judgment, then closed again.

She dug around in her tactical vest, pulling out a slightly crushed energy bar. "Look! I’ve got treats! You want a snack? Come help me out and this whole bar is yours. Strawberry flavor. Your favorite. Well, I don’t actually know if it’s your favorite, but it’s all I’ve got, so—"

She tore open the wrapper and waved it in his direction. The smell of artificial strawberry and protein powder wafted through the stale basement air.

Ghosty lifted his head slightly, sniffed once, and then deliberately turned away from her to face the wall.

"Seriously?!" she huffed, shoving the energy bar back into her vest. "What kind of dog turns down food? You’re supposed to be motivated by simple things! Belly rubs! Playing fetch! Basic canine instincts! You ate a twenty-foot centipede without blinking but a protein bar is beneath you?!"

She tried a different angle. "Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier, okay? About the pants thing. I know you were just trying to protect me from those leeches. You were being a very good boy. A hero, even. The bravest, most handsome mutant guard dog in this entire facility."

Ghosty’s ear nub twitched slightly. His tail shifted against the concrete.

He’s listening. Keep going.

"And I know it wasn’t your fault the bristles got me. Those spiders were disgusting and horrible and you ripped them apart like the absolute champion you are." She clasped her hands together, putting on her most pathetic, pleading expression. "So could you please, please, pretty please help your girl out? Just a few licks. That’s all. I’m really, really suffering here."

She even managed to squeeze out a single, glistening tear that rolled down her flushed cheek.

Ghosty opened both eyes. He stared at her for a long, contemplative moment.

Then he slowly stood up, stretched, and padded over to where she was kneeling.

Oh my god, it worked. The guilt trip actually worked.

His cold, wet nose pressed gently against her cheek, nuzzling away the tear she’d just manufactured. His massive armored body leaned into her, the warmth of his chitin plates radiating against her skin.

She reached up tentatively and scratched behind his nub-ears. "Good boy. Such a good boy. Now just—"

Ghosty flopped over onto his back.

Completely over.

Exposing his entire underside.

Including his massive, semi-inflated, purple-veined member that was currently resting heavily against his lower abdomen like a thick, pulsing club.

His hind legs kicked open slightly, giving her an absolutely unobstructed view of the entire display. His tail thumped twice against the concrete, and he let out a soft, expectant whine.

Rebecca’s brain blue-screened.

Oh god. Oh no. Oh no no no.

"Um... you want belly rubs?" she stammered, her face immediately catching fire. "That’s... that’s what this is about? You just want belly rubs?"

She kept her eyes firmly fixed on his armored chest plates and reached down, rubbing the chitin around his ribcage with both hands. Determinedly ignoring the massive, throbbing elephant in the room. Or rather, the massive, throbbing something considerably more disturbing than an elephant.

"See? This is nice, right? Good boy. Such a good boy. Just some friendly, totally normal pet bonding time between a girl and her... her very large, very scary guard dog."

Ghosty let out a soft, pathetic whimper. The sound was clearly, unmistakably disappointed, like she was spectacularly missing the point of an incredibly obvious exam question.

Her hands froze mid-rub.

He doesn’t want belly rubs.

Her eyes betrayed her. Despite every screaming instinct in her brain begging her not to, they flicked downward.

The shaft was definitely bigger than it had been a minute ago. Definitely more inflated. The thick, purple-veined meat was slowly stiffening against his abdomen, twitching slightly with his heartbeat, a bead of clear fluid forming at the tip.

He couldn’t be possibly...

He’s a dog. He’s a DOG.

Since when did dogs start asking for sexual favors?!

"You... you don’t want..." She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Her throat had completely closed up with mortification.

She made a vague, jerky hand motion in the direction of his crotch, her face burning with the heat of a thousand suns. "You don’t want me to... to, um... jerk jerk... do you?"

Ghosty’s entire body perked up. His tail started wagging furiously, thumping against the concrete floor like a heavy drumbeat. He let out a sharp, enthusiastic bark that echoed off the basement walls.

WOOF!

Rebecca’s jaw dropped open.

He understood. He understood exactly what I meant.

And he’s saying yes.

The nearly smartest dog in the world just enthusiastically agreed to me jerking him off.

What is my life.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" she shrieked, scrambling backward away from his prone form so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. "No way! No how! Not happening! I don’t care if you’re some kind of genius super-mutant who can solve calculus and file taxes! You are still a dog! A DOG!"

She pressed her back against the concrete wall, hugging her knees to her chest and glaring at him from across the corridor. Her face was so red it looked like she’d been sunbathing on the surface of Mars.

Ghosty just rolled back onto his stomach, rested his chin on his front paws, and stared at her with those unnervingly patient, intelligent eyes.

The standoff lasted exactly thirty seconds.

That’s when the next wave of spider venom really kicked in.

The burning sensation in her thighs intensified tenfold, spreading upward toward her hips and downward toward her knees. The inflamed welts felt like someone was holding lit cigarettes against her skin. The itching was so intense she could barely think straight, her legs involuntarily twitching against each other as her nervous system screamed for relief.

She pressed her palms against the angry red patches, trying to apply pressure, trying to do anything to make it stop.

It didn’t help.

I can’t... I can’t deal with this. It’s too much.

Memories started flooding back without her permission. The animal pen. His massive tongue shoving its way down her throat. The feeling of his thick, hot shaft grinding between her breasts. The volcanic eruption of fluid across her chest and face. The shameful, overwhelming sensation of climaxing from a creature that wasn’t even the same species.

Her stomach clenched with shame and self-loathing, but underneath it all was an undeniable truth.

She had survived it. She had survived direct, intimate contact with a bioweapon’s bodily fluids and come out completely uninfected. If anything, she felt stronger than before.

And right now, that same bioweapon was the only thing standing between her and a complete allergic meltdown in the basement of a zombie-infested research facility.

It’s just... touching it. With my hand. I’ve already done that. I did that in the pen. This is just... a repeat performance. For medical purposes.

It’s not... it’s not because I want to.

It’s because I have to.

And besides, we’re in a disgusting basement full of spider corpses and chemical runoff. The floor is covered in venom and dead bug juice. There is absolutely nothing romantic or sexy about this environment. It’s purely clinical. A medical transaction between a patient and her... her therapeutic service animal.

That’s all it is.

That’s all it will ever be.

She took a shuddering breath, pressing her forehead against her knees.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of ancient ventilation systems. "Alright. You win."

She lifted her head and looked across the corridor at Ghosty, who was watching her with patient, knowing eyes.

"But not here," she added quickly, holding up both hands. "Not on this floor. Have you seen what’s down here? There’s spider guts literally everywhere. Chemical residue. Venom puddles. I am not doing... whatever this is... in a biohazard zone."

She stood up on shaking legs, adjusting her tactical vest and trying very hard to project an aura of professional composure that she absolutely did not feel.

"We’ll find somewhere... clean. Or at least somewhere that doesn’t smell like a chemical plant exploded inside an arachnid zoo." She swallowed hard, her throat clicking dryly. "And I swear—I absolutely swear on my S.T.A.R.S. badge—that I will... follow through. On my end of the deal. I won’t go back on my word."

She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly.

"I am Rebecca Chambers. I keep my promises. Even the horrible, soul-destroying, dignity-annihilating ones."

Her voice cracked on the last word. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears forming in the corners of her eyes actually fall.

"So just... just help me with this stupid venom situation for now, and I will... handle your... thing... later. Deal?"

Ghosty stared at her for a long, measured moment.

Then he rose to his full, heavily armored height, gave his massive body a vigorous shake that rattled every chitin plate on his frame, and trotted over to where she was standing.

He lowered his head and pressed his cold, wet nose gently against the back of her hand.

Deal accepted?

Rebecca let out a long, shaky exhale that she didn’t realize she’d been holding unaware of the human-canine ethical violations that were going to occur.

[To Be Gooned]

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