A/N:
Sure. I have one hundred stories out there. What's one more? Why not? How can I flip it? What will happen? Who am I ditching and who gets their chance to poke their head in where they don't belong? You know how I roll. Everybody gets flipped around for somebody else. Why not?
I like making things do what I want. Also, I clearly love starting out my stories by setting up the love story. And Terragrigia? It's my stomping ground for that. A great fictional place for so many of my rendezvous. This will build differently than the game. For various reasons.
It's my favorite weirdo ship. Why? Because I love it. So, there ya go.
As always, excuse all out of sync pop culture references, uses of cell phones, potential timeline discrepancies or silliness. Suspend that disbelief and enjoy the tale. We set up right out of the gate with some smut, some bad jokes, and some plot building. We'll get to the weird monster killing soon enough.
Slainte.
Disclaimer: Resident Evil? Not mine. Capcom's. Which saddens me endlessly. But there it is.
PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS
Episode 1: The Terragrigia (Bathroom) Panic
The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004
The name meant Gray Earth.
A fascinating name for something that was a floating aquapolis and hadn't actually, ever, come from the Earth. Suspended in the ocean, miles from anything to take away the fascination of it, the man-made testament to creationism towered high above the skyline. The flawless bowl of blue that was the Mediterranean meandered lazily as it lapped at the shores of the endless beaches covered in fluffy white sand.
The Federal Bioterror Commission building loomed like a goliath of glass and steel above the teeming coves. People cavorted and laugh, loving the carefree nature that came with organic living. The city was entirely solar powered. It operated as the most ecological city in the world – giving those who could afford the skyrocketing rates for rent and housing, the opportunity to rely only on the power of mother nature to meet their needs.
A beautiful concept that had taken greater than a decade to exact.
The end result was brilliant, flawless, and defended staunchly by those gathered in the FBC building to coordinate cooperation efforts for first, second, and last lines of defense against foreign and domestic threats. As the island existed outside of US borders, it was technically a freestanding entity, but – such as Puerto Rico – was a territory within US control.
The luau, given in honor of interagency mingling, offered the chance for each organization invited to canoodle and blend ideals on how to maintain the efficiency, tourist potential, and safety of the adopted paradise.
The beach was lit with torches. The music was ukulele and slack key guitar. The sounds of Waikaloa drifted over the sunset sands as the orange and red spill of the firey horizon hit the misty water off the shore and sparked like copper and gold.
A rather interesting game of Pass the Coconut had started around the imu -the oven dug into the sand to cook the kalua pig. Pass the Coconut, it seemed, was nothing more than a Hawaiian version of Hot Potato. Whoever had the coconut when the music stopped, was out of the game.
Everything at the luau was eaten by hand. There were no utensils. There were no plates or mess. There was, however, plenty of booze. And plenty of red solo cups. The cocktails were flowing, the conversation was rich and exciting. The dancing was hula and happy and carefree.
It was bare feet and bikinis with wraps. It was bare chests beneath lazily buttoned shirts and khakis. It was swimming trunks and dips in the pearly water and laughter.
For what could generally be a stuffed shirt set of boring bureaucrats and officials, it was also the party of the century.
The dancing was full of flying skirts and kicking sand.
In the flickering torch light, the red head and the brunette met beside the game of Pass the Coconut and laughed, embracing.
The laughter was high for them. The red head, in her tasteful one piece in beautiful orange and her green sarong. The brunette in a pretty blue bikini and a shimmering white cover-up. The little gold bracelet on the ankle of the brunette flickered in the torchlight.
The redhead wore her hair loose and long about her slender shoulders. The brunette wore hers in a low ponytail that curled over her chest. They were both so very different – the pale redhead, the sunkissed brunette, both with eyes in competing shades of blue like the ocean behind them.
They were both very beautiful and turned heads as they laughed and hugged, happy to have found each other.
Both had survived Raccoon City and the longest night of their lives. Both had chosen to pick up the sword and fight the bioterror that had been born in the necropolis left behind.
For Claire Redfield, it was the way of the healer. She'd chosen to arm herself with knowledge and her arsenal was legion. She worked for a company who's only purpose was to help those affected by the stain of bioterror. TerraSave mingled amongst the war machines like a breath of fresh air.
For Jill Valentine, it was the way of the warrior. The girl who's chosen to arm herself with skills in which to beat back the dark. She worked for a company who's only purpose was to fight the blight of disease that blanketed the world around them. She went into the fray with the purpose of protection and destruction. The BSAA was her brainchild, carefully crafted with Claire's brother Chris, and a dozen other people who'd had enough of dirty corporations dealing dirty behind the backs of the unsuspecting public.
Intermingled in the madness, the FBC hobnobbed with the additional support of the US Strategic Command whose primary purpose was to deflect and combat mass terror attacks, weapons of mass destruction, cyber, and bioterror threats.
Jill was sans Chris, as she often was, at these sorts of events. Chris was a fighter. Chris was not, ever, a diplomat. He was as likely to offend someone with his bland sense of humor and no bullshit view on world politics as he was to punch them in the face for being stupid. He was the best in his field in the field, he was the last person on Earth you wanted to go to bat for you in a room surrounded by donors or corporate stooges.
He was charmingly inept at manipulation. He had as much finesse as a fart at a funeral and as little interest in changing as a rock on a mountainside. So, for the sake of propriety, Jill was often the voice and the face of the BSAA when it came to drumming up donations or seeking out patrons.
The laughter on the little landing that was lit by torches and low twinkling lights drew the focus of both women. The raised dais was three deep with women, which, really was the first indicator that something was going on that required immediate attention. Claire looped an arm over Jill and sighed, dramatically, "Naturally."
"What's naturally?"
"Wait for it."
The sounds of pretty music filled the air. The crowd quieted in anticipation. Jill tried to see among the surge of bodies and failed.
A congenial heckler called, "Get on with it already."
And had laughter spreading among the large crowd. Pretty rude way to treat the band, Jill mused, seriously.
Jill lifted a brow and Claire mused, "Keep waiting."
The song brought the crowd closer. The clink of ice in glasses. The rustle sarongs and sandals and sand. And the voice in the dark.
Well, you done done me and you bet I felt it
I tried to be chill, but you're so hot that I melted
I fell right through the cracks
Now I'm trying to get back
Jill glanced at Claire who pursed her lips, "Yep. Heard it."
"He's incredible. Who is it?"
"The song or the singer?"
It didn't matter. The crowd parted enough she could finally see through them.
There was a stool. There was a ukulele. There was a man perched on the stool with bare feet and deconstructed jeans and a cranberry colored ring neck t-shirt happily selling Volcom to the curious viewer. The shirt didn't matter. The chest under it?
Dynamite.
So I won't hesitate
No more, no more.
It cannot wait,
I'm sure.
There's no need to complicate.
Our time is short.
This is our fate,
I'm yours.
The first impression was sheer talent. He was good. Better than, he had an ability to scat with the song that had people laughing and loving him. He was good-natured, charming, engaging and entertaining.
He lifted his head, winking at someone in the crowd, and the other part of the picture was clear here and explained the women lined up like groupies around him.
He was painfully gorgeous.
Jill lifted her brows and Claire said, "Yep. True story."
Claire lifted her cocktail in a salute and the firelight flickered over him as he caught her eye and winked back.
Which, was fine, clearly, they were friends. Claire turned to speak to someone beside her.
All normal. Perfectly, utterly normal. Nothing strange or unusual in any of it.
Save for the staring.
Which sounded odd, and totally was. Someone was staring. Jill, clearly, was staring. But she wasn't alone. He was staring back.
Someone shifted in her way, breaking the eye contact.
She lifted a hand to her chest and found it trembling.
Amused with herself, she sipped her vodka tonic. She turned to answer a question from a gaggle of FBC agents beside her. She wasn't entirely sure why, but she could feel the second the bodies shifted out of her way again.
She turned her head.
Well, open up your mind and see like me,
Open up your plans and damn you're free.
Look into your heart and you'll find that the sky is yours.
So please don't, please don't, please don't...
There's no need to complicate.
'Cause our time is short.
This oh, this oh, this is our fate.
I'm yours.
Still staring. She wondered who was staring harder. It was a good feeling in her belly. And a long time since she'd felt it.
There wasn't a whole lot of time to stop and smell the staring when one was ass deep in bad guys.
The arms were all muscle. The tattoo on his inner forearm was something. Guitar neck? Something. He was only missing a damn earring to look like a pirate turned rock star.
The song ended. He set down the ukulele. He rose from the stool.
The panic hit like a wave. Why? No clue. Jill kinda yelled it, "I'll see ya later, Claire!"
Jill shifted away from the conversation. Claire turned back to see her gone and lifted her brows. She watched the former thief ease through the crowd of bodies and shrugged.
Jill wasn't sure what she was doing. Running? What was she doing here?
She stood toe to toe with hunters and didn't run. She'd faced a tyrant and stuck like glue. She'd been ass deep, literally, in the living dead and she'd hardly flinched.
What was she doing here?
Running from a guy with a ukulele?
Was he going to stare her to death?
Was he going to scat her into a coma? What?
She slipped into the bathroom on the main floor of the FBC building. It was done in shades of blue and steel. She liked it, clearly, as she and the color blue were best friends. A small bench in pretty blue paisley offered you the chance to sit and enjoy yourself.
Alone in the industrial space, she stared at her face over the sink. Pink. Her face was pink. It was warm.
It was the fire clearly and the sun and the heat and the cocktail. She'd had too many. She was lightheaded.
It wasn't the drink. She knew that. She knew it wasn't. She was making excuses.
It wasn't the drink.
It was the staring.
The bathroom door opened and Jill splashed water on her face to cool it down. She leaned up, taking a deep breath.
She wasn't alone in the bathroom anymore.
It wasn't Claire.
And he didn't have his ukulele.
She turned, leaning on the sink until it bit into her back.
She squeaked when she talked and amused him, "This is the girl's bathroom."
"Yeah? Gonna run screaming?"
"….maybe."
He shifted toward her. She considered running.
But that was stupid. He was tall. He was blonde. He was hurt-your-head-gorgeous. He wasn't scary. He wasn't even dangerous. What was she afraid of?
He closed the distance. He pinned her against the sink. She tilted her head back to meet the seafoam swirl of his eyes and she thought, "That. That's what there is to be afraid of."
Her hands unclenched. They lifted and fisted in his shirt.
He ducked and picked her up, easy, effortless. She spilled back on the wide vanity and opened her legs. Just like that.
He stepped into between, she tugged him down to her, and the pleasure of it nearly made her groan into his mouth.
Their tongues swirled, slick and hungry. And there was no more worrying about anything.
She let go of anything but him.
Her hands jerked, whipping at the leather of his belt. His tugged at the ties of her bikini bottoms. She wanted the shirt gone and jerked on it. His hands shifted, reached over his back and ripped it off. He threw it away and dragged her back to him.
His skin was smooth, fevered, muscled and lean. He was all muscle, all refined pecs and abs, and perfection. It was almost ridiculous.
Their mouths popped apart. "You kidding me?"
He tilted his head, panting a little, "What?"
"This?" She gestured to him, "Really?"
She rubbed his belly like she'd smear off the make-up that made it look like Ryan Gosling.
She put her mouth all over him to see if it tasted as good as it looked.
Yep. Taste and touch test approved.
Just to be sure, she tongued his nipple and sucked hard enough to watch his eyes hood.
He dragged her face up to take her mouth. His hands found her slick and wet between her legs. Ready.
The sexiest fucking thing he'd ever put his hands on. She was just ready for it. Just from touching him.
Laughing, he pulled off her cover-up and threw it away. Her bikini came free with a tug of fingers and cloth. Her hands got the zipper of his jeans to give with a metallic scream.
They tumbled, he kicked them free and filled his mouth and hands with her breasts.
The world tilted, fractured, and sort of made no sense. It was insanity or stupidity or single-minded madness that had her in the bathroom at a work function ripping off the clothes of the cover band. But there she was, about to go tits to toes with a musician.
Jill Valentine: Risk Taker.
She wasn't.
Ever.
Among the right people, she was funny and endearing. She was uninterested. She didn't bother with men. She didn't bother with women. She didn't bother with anyone. She and Chris worked in tandem with each other to be professional and keep things from being personal.
This? Not professional. Nope.
Dirty.
Dirty dirty dirty.
One night stands – the staple of the bioterror world. You didn't have time for anything else.
Nothing wrong with banging a musician and getting her world rocked. Nope. Nothing.
Her hands skimmed his hips. His gripped her to angle her to him. She leaned back on the sink and looped her ankles behind his fantastic ass.
He was thick enough he had to work for it. And that worked like a charm. She scrambled and grabbed him, making small sounds in her throat.
Rough, eager, desperate – they surged together wetly. She bucked, gasping and grabbing. He tugged her in to put his tongue in her mouth. And when that wasn't enough for either of them?
He flipped her over on the sink with a clatter of bottles and threw her on her belly. Her hands scrambled, they flattened on the mirror and smeared there. She watched herself, him, them, in the mirror as he jerked her up and mounted her from behind.
All those muscles, that hair, those eyes – she came apart watching him fuck her. It was that simple. She rode back on his body, shouting and slapping. She was uncaged, wild, desperate and drowning in it. His eyes shifted from the shaggy spill of his sweaty hair to watch her face while he filled her up.
Beautiful, he thought wildly, he'd been wrong picturing it. He'd sat there watching her on that stool and knew she'd look like a goddess on his dick.
He'd underestimated her.
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen with her eyes hooded and her mouth open and her face flushed with want. Her perfect breasts bounced, her tight little ass slapped back against him as he claimed her.
A goddess, definitely. Holy. She was holy. He was having a revelation being inside of her.
Fisting her ponytail, he turned her face to the side and curled over her back to kiss her.
Good, lots of tongue. She sucked him hungrily, moaning.
And she gave it back like she took it, harder and faster and louder than he'd had it in a long time.
It was the wildest thing she'd ever done. Hands down.
She had never, in her entire life, gone deep dicking with a man she'd never met. Who was he? She had no idea.
And she didn't care.
Which was totally unlike her.
And since it was just sex. Since it was just fantasy. Since it was just this one time? She commanded him.
"Harder."
Yep. Beautiful. Holy.
His arm caught her waist and flipped her over. He threw her to the little bench against the wall and came down atop her. Her legs braced on the floor, her arms flew over her head to hold on to the bench and he tried to plow her until she was blood and guts on the floor.
The bench jerked, it slid, it hit the wall and slapped. Jill twisted her fingers in his hair to rape his mouth. Merciless. She bit him and had him laughing, anchoring his muscled arms around hers to hold her down and slam into her harder, harder, until she screamed – once- high and loud and came so wetly that it soaked them both.
Jesus Christ, he thought desperately, she was lava. She burned him everywhere she touched. He hammered her through it, jerked her up into his arms and spilled her over his lap on the bench. She whipped, boneless, and landed on him to ride him like she'd kill him.
Her hands grabbed his and threw them over his head against the wall. She bound him there, slapping, slipping, snapping her hips and rolling. She rode, she rocked, she whipped him into a frenzy that brought his mouth up for the flavor of hers in a kiss as wet as they were.
Her breasts bounced, they begged, and he covered them with his eager mouth as she went wild atop him.
Perfect, Jill thought again, the bunch of his stomach muscles and all those exquisitely hard curves of him. Lats and delts and biceps and hips. He was amazing. Lean and honed and hungry for it.
So she gave it to him. She fucked him so madly that he'd never forget her. Ever.
He could go a hundred years and fuck a hundred chics and he'd never forget this one.
He gasped, watching her, wanting her, feeling like he'd waited half his life to fuck her. "Harder."
Shit.
She craved him. She let go of his hand with one of hers and slapped him, bringing his breath in a heavy, excited pant. "That it? I said harder."
Her hand curled around his throat, nails digging. He laughed and opened his mouth for her tongue.
She dropped, she ground on him so hard it had her bucking and tossing like the sea beyond the tower where they took each other, and his hands jerked out of hers. He grabbed her throat, thrilling her, and grabbed her hip to hold her there.
Her eyes locked with his. She saw the question on him.
Dangerous and stupid to let him do it. Dangerous and stupid to let him do any of it.
He grunted, rolling his hips and hissed, "You want it?"
And Jill grabbed his face and jerked him to her to fill his mouth with her tongue. "Give it to me."
Yep. BEAUTIFUL.
He gave it to her. All of it. Stupid. And usually how you ended up on an MTV reality show with a brood of brats and a pissed off witch of a woman after your paycheck. But whatever.
He simply did not care.
He ground her down on him and came in her, cursing, while she wetly tongued his mouth.
Smooth now, sexy, and slick. The cavern of her amorous little mouth waited for him to please it. So, he did, rolling his tongue with hers as his hands kneaded her little butt to swirl her on top of him.
Like what? She thought. Like he was mixing his juices inside of her?
Holy hell. Why was that kind of disgusting thing so hot?
Her fingers twisted in his hair, rolling their mouths over each other.
There was a knock on the door that went unanswered.
She leaned back, shaking, and saw the tremor answered on him.
Breathlessly, Jill whispered, "Who are you?"
And he laughed, soft and tremulous. His hands softened, smoothed, soothed and brought her back to him to kiss her slow and hungry. It went on forever – all gliding and stroking now. All gentle and sweet somehow.
His fingers slid against their bodies and mingled where they were joined, stroking her, feeling himself inside of her.
Again, she thought, what the fuck was it that made it so hot!?
Her hand slipped down to join his, feeling the smooth press and retreat of him into her.
She opened her eyes and was caught, like that, in his. He watched her face while he slid out and in again, still half hard, still hungry.
Their fingers twined to feel the mating of it. She gasped, against his mouth, transfixed, "Oh, god."
Yep. Holy.
His pants started jingling. The knock on the door was more insistent now.
And the voice called, "Jill? You alive in there?"
She was more alive than she'd ever been.
He tilted his head, stroking her. She didn't get off him. She quaked atop him. Jill leaned him back against the wall, pinning him, licking his mouth.
He breathed, "Are you, Jill?"
Was she Jill? Or was she alive? She was both.
And she laughed. She just laughed.
Because they were enraptured without a clue who the other one was. He leaned forward and she clasped his face to her chest and watched him tongue her breasts while he slid in and out of her.
"I swear to god, Jill, I'm not playing. What the fuck are you doing in there?"
The better question was who the fuck was she doing in there. But that was beyond the point.
He bit down on her breast and stole her breath, "Send her away."
Jill trembled. He lifted his head to her mouth. She put his arms over his head again to stroke slide up and down on him. She kept their mouths together, eyes open, entranced.
"Jill...I'm getting someone to open the door if you don't answer me."
After a long, tongue swirling moment, she slid off his lap.
She was shaking like a leaf. "I..I'm fine. Hold on ok? I'm not decent."
She hurried now, moving to slip back on her bikini. He was something. He kept on sitting there, naked, fucking gorgeous, used, and careless about it.
"Jill?" Beyond the door again.
Jill hurried, slipping on her cover-up. She tossed his clothes to him. "You gonna keep sitting there until I let her in?"
"Maybe. You afraid she'll find me in here and figure it out?"
"Maybe." Amused, she pulled him up and pushed him into a stall.
He let her. He was simply too delighted with her to care. She shoved his clothes into his hands and put a finger to her lips, "SHHHHH."
Oh, she was something alright.
He bit her finger. She started to close the door, hesitated, and hooked an arm around his waist to drag him to her. They petted and kissed and played wetly with each other until another knock had her jumping and shoving him away.
"No! SHH! Stay...right there! I mean it!"
Entertained, he let her close him in and stood there listening as she ran to the door to let in the other girl.
There were two pairs of pretty feet now he could see under the stall door.
He slipped on his jeans and waited, listening to them talk.
The one named Jill, potentially, laughed, "Sorry. I was..uh…dropping a deuce."
Yep. She was something.
Grinning, he leaped onto the back of the toilet and perched, listening to them unabashedly.
"Umm….gross? And definitely TMI."
"Ha. Right. It's the taba root. Gets me every time. You ready to get back to the party?"
"Sure. What happened to your neck!?"
He peeped in the crack of the door, watching them. The brunette glanced at herself in the mirror and slapped a hand over the ring of hickeys forming there. "Oh…lord…hah…I must've…uh…"
The back of the redhead was all he could see. She started laughing, high and delighted, "You WHORE! What did you do!?"
"Nothing!" Squeaked maybe, Jill.
"Liar! Better question: WHO did you do!?"
"Nobody!" Jill grabbed her arm, shot a look at the stall, and likely saw his eye peeping at them. She shook her head and tugged, shoving her toward the door. "Let's go! Now now now. Not a word. Not a word. Not a word. I mean it."
The bathroom opened. The bathroom closed.
He leaned on the toilet seat, tapping his foot where he was perched…and he just started laughing.
It was the best time he'd ever had, hands down, in a bathroom.