Closer

RESIDENT EVIL
DEMI-HUMAN AU
NSFW / LONG INTO

KINKTOBER

🌶️🔗KINKS: Anonymity/mask, overstimulation, forced heat/rut, pheromone/aphrodisiac, breeding

. . . ╰──╮★╭──╯ . . .

Closer || Nine Inch Nails

⚠️ CW: Possible DDDE, possible , forced breeding; drugs

Your comfort is always more important. Remember to take care of yourself above all!

The only sound in the small, spartan room was the faint, almost imperceptible click of digital keys as he accessed files and scrolled through them. HUNK’s gaze was locked on the display, the pale glow of the screen ghosting across the red lenses of his gas mask. In the corner, the digital clock pulsed 03:00. Not once since he had gotten back to his quarters had he slept. Not even a quick power nap which was often the norm for him.

The U.S.S operative had been on edge for days, dealing with a low thrum of unease vibrating beneath his skin. At first, he had dismissed it as fatigue—the inevitable toll of relentless missions and sleepless nights. But now, or rather, since a week ago, a strange heat had begun taking root, radiating from his core and making every layer of his combat gear feel stifling. His tail flicked once against the bunk frame before he stilled it by force of will. He tried to focus, to push through it, but just as the earlier disarray in his room had shown he was failing.

He knew what this was. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid. The warmth coiling through his body only to settle on his groin with such an oppressive insistence was familiar. _His rut._ What was unfamiliar was not the sensation itself, but its timing. Why now? He had kept up with his cycle and his medications. If there was anything he held was a strict regimen in everything in his life, but the one strictest thing was his control of his own body and his rut. Nothing should have slipped. So why—?

The question was severed by a sharp, insistent chime. The sterile silence fractured as a notification flared across the screen. HUNK’s gloved hand moved to acknowledge it and the display shifted, revealing a single message in a stark, unyielding typeface:

SUBJECT: HUNK. REPORT TO BIOCONTAINMENT LAB 7 AT 06:00 FOR PROJECT CHIMERA DEBRIEFING. IMMEDIATE COMPLIANCE REQUIRED.

Project Chimera. He had heard the whispers about it, hushed fragments traded in barracks and shadowed corridors. Rumors of forced pairings, of genetic violations wrapped in sterile procedure, of experiments on Umbrella staff. He had always dismissed them as paranoia and morale-sapping chatter from the weak. So it was real. Or at least something bearing the same name did exist.

Debriefing, he reread the word. He knew better. This was no meeting. But Umbrella’s commands were beyond doubt. Orders were not weighed, they were obeyed.

The message dissolved into darkness, leaving only the steady glow of the display. For a long moment, HUNK remained seated, his ringed tail curling and uncurling once against the steel bunk before falling still. Then, with slow finality, he rose. Without hesitation, he began his pre-dawn routine.

—

The walk to Lab 7 was uneventful, a monotonous trek through identical hallways. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their rhythm matching the distant hum of the facility’s ventilation. He passed no one the entire way.

Lab 7’s glass doors recognized his approach and slid open with a soft hiss. The sterile scent of antiseptic was almost overwhelming inside. Three Umbrella scientists stood in the room, their faces half-hidden behind surgical masks. The one on the far left wall never looked up towards him, far too busy preparing a syringe. The other two huddled by a cluster of monitors that bathed them in a pale glow, engrossed in the graphs and biological readouts scrolling endlessly.

HUNK stood ramrod straight in the middle of the room, his helmet tucked neatly beneath one arm. His posture was regulation-perfect—every muscle aligned, uniform pressed to knife-edge creases, boots polished to a sterile shine. He was the very image of Umbrella’s U.S.S. recruitment poster, a man who seemed to know no life outside barracks and battlefield.

Yet even stone had cracks. His raccoon ears twitched once, betraying the sterile hum of the lab’s lights that grated at the edge of his senses. His tail shifted in a faint arc behind him before he forced it back into line. The heat of his rut laid coiled deep in his body, pressing at the seams of his discipline, but his mask and stance gave nothing away. Outwardly, he remained the perfect soldier. Inwardly, that control he was known for was a tightening noose.

The first, a young technician with fox-like ears flattened tight against his skull, fidgeted with a tray of syringes. His tail twitched in a restless rhythm, betraying nerves. The second, gaunt and severe, had the faint ridges of reptilian scales climbing his neck beneath the lab coat. His eyes, magnified grotesquely behind thick lenses, darted from screen to HUNK with a skittish, birdlike intensity.

“Subject 021. U.S.S. designation: HUNK. Class: Predator. Species: Procyon lotor. : Male. Condition: Stable.” One of the scientists, a woman with a clipboard and faint antelope horns curving from her temples, spoke without emotion. Her voice was flat and professional, without even the courtesy of curiosity.

The fox-tech did not look up. His voice was as dull and practiced as hers: “Proceed to the examination table. Strip down. Uniform and gear on the tray. Procedure requires direct access.”

The female scientist extended a metal tray towards HUNK. “Weapons and any other items here.”

A second tray followed. “Uniform.”

Hunk didn't hesitate. He unclipped his desert eagle off its holster and placed it on the tray, the heavy metal settling onto stainless steel with a muted clunk. The empty leather holster followed. Then the boot knife, its edge catching a shard of sterile light before it was laid down next to the gun, all perfectly aligned.

The weight of his tactical vest, the snug fit of his combat uniform, all came off in a fluid sequence. The rip of velcro filled the air as he removed each upper piece, revealing the tight black undershirt clinging to his broad chest. He gripped the hem of his shirt pulling it up over his torso in one fluid motion and over his head, revealing his muscular frame. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin under the harsh lab lights, highlighting the hard planes of his chest and the taut ridges of his abs. He folded the shirt with meticulous care, setting it atop the vest. Then the clinking of the belt and zipper as his tactical pants followed, the heavy fabric sagged slightly as he tugged the zipper down. He stepped out of the pants, one leg at a time, the material dragging against his thighs before it too joined the rest in the tray.

A light happy trail of dirty blond hair dusted down from his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his black boxer briefs. His fingers hooked into the elastic, pulling them down with a slow motion. The boxers dropped to his ankles, and he stepped out, exposing himself fully under the clinical gaze of the lab lights. His nestled against his balls, was a thick, substantial presence, its circumcised head a pale contrast to the darker skin around it. There was no shame, no embarrassment.

The doors slid open and Dr. Aris entered, clad all in white, an imposing figure already by height, only made worse by his Komodo lineage. His jaw and neck were peppered by faint scales. He did not glance at HUNK as he passed, his long tail dragged across the polished floor with a faint scrape creating an irregular undertone against the sterile hum of the lab.

"Here already. Early too. Good.” His voice was a low, dry rasp. Lifting a hand he signaled towards one of the techs. “Administer the initial cocktail. And the regulator mask. We need precise control over the atmospheric conditions."

HUNK offered no resistance as the one of the techs approached him and swabbed his bicep with an alcohol dabbed cotton ball.

“Just a standard prophylactic and booster,” the technician muttered, eyes fixed anywhere but on HUNK’s masked gaze. He had dealt with many others, U.S.S. included but something about this one made the hair on the back of his head rise. Perhaps it was the stories he had heard, the Grim Reaper. Mr. Death. Or it was just that burning gaze. It was heavy.

The needle slid into his skin with a practiced sting. HUNK registered the prick, the faint coolness of fluid threading its way into his bloodstream, and nothing more. Behind the mask, his expression remained unreadable, lenses reflecting the sterile light. But just as it had been cool, the sensation shifted. Warmth began to coil through his chest, spreading slowly all across his body like an insidious tide running downwards.

Dr. Aris continued, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space, offering an explanation that he was not asked for. It was mere protocol of course. "Standard pre-program inoculation. Enhances genetic compatibility, mitigates potential rejection. Minor side effects may include elevated heart rate, slight disorientation. Nothing critical."

The female technician, the antelope one, then approached with a new gas mask, its design subtly different from his own. “You will be issued a specialized regulator mask,” she recited. “It monitors vitals and adjusts atmospheric conditions. Do not remove it under any circumstances. Compliance is non-negotiable.”

HUNK’s gaze lingered on the new mask. To him, his own was more than equipment; it was a boundary, the last line between the soldier and the myth. His anonymity was armor, as vital as any weapon. No one had seen his face. Not grunts. Not commanders. Not even Umbrella’s highest. His appearance was classified, sealed, like his name.

The young technician lifted a hand, gesturing to the examination table. “Please put it—”

“Get out.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Get out.” HUNK repeated again, the words flat and cold. Not a request. Not even an order. A fact. They were unworthy. They would not see him unmasked.

Dr. Aris finally looked up from the documents on a clipboard he had been going over, shifting his attention to HUNK for the very first time since he had entered the room. For a moment, silence reigned. Then the doctor snorted through his nose as if amused by the spectacle.

“Very well.” his voice carried no argument, only a dry amusement. He signaled with his chin at the other three to exit, waiting until the last was out to proceed himself. At the threshold, he looked back over his shoulder at the soldier. “Your vitals are still monitored. You’ll be guided to the chamber shortly. Remember, full cooperation is paramount for Project Chimera.” His gaze lingered a moment longer, then he was gone.

Behind him the techs followed. The doors sealed.

Only then did HUNK slide gloved fingers under the straps of his mask. The faint creak of stretched rubber cut through the silence. He lifted the mask with an unhurried, controlled motion and for the first time the walls alone bore witness to what none had seen.

Cold, sterile air greeted him, rushing across his flushed skin. He inhaled once, a sudden sharp intake of breath that was audible in the hush, almost ragged for a man who prided himself on control. Strands of blond hair tumbled free, loose and slightly matted, beads of sweat clinging to his brow. The rest of him remained obscured in the sterile light. Just the barest glimpse — not enough to unmake the myth, only enough to remind the world it was human beneath the veneer of death.

The “minor side effects” were already manifesting. The sudden rush of air that hit his face felt sharp, as if he’d stepped out of a sweltering room into a winter-cold wind—a drunkard stumbling into cold air. Fevered-heat crawled under his flesh like a living organism, and his breath rasped louder than he liked.Cold sweat slicked not just his face, but every inch of exposed skin. The hum in the walls—or was it in his bones?—throbbed and resonated, a low, insistent vibration that seemed to shake the air itself.

Flicking the tip of his tongue over his lips to wet them he turned his attention to the other gas mask. His fingers brushed against the cool, smooth plastic. He noted the distinct lack of a filter, replaced by what appeared to be an internal circulation system. Turning it around so the lenses faced him, the soldier tested its weight and texture. It felt heavier, more restrictive than his own. He felt a flicker of unease, a warning gut feeling. This gas mask wasn't standard issue.

But orders were orders. He slipped it on. The fit was snug, almost suffocating. The subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air pressure as he exhaled caused the familiar click of this gas mask's exhalation valve to resonate, a low, rhythmic sound that accompanied his every breath. He noted the slight alteration in the airflow through the filters, there was a subtle resistance there that hinted at a different internal mechanism.

HUNK felt a sudden, disorienting wave of nausea hit him with the force of a gut punch. The air filtered stream through his rebreather, seemed to thicken, heavy with an unfamiliar, cloying sweetness. The sterile lights above him wavered at the edges of his vision, crisp lines melting like heat haze. He tried to steady himself, reaching out instinctively for something, anything, to grasp and keep himself from collapsing, but his fingers felt clumsy and uncoordinated. The world tilted violently, and a sudden, overwhelming weakness seized him. His knees buckled, and the last thing he registered was the cold floor rushing up to meet him before darkness consumed him.

. . . . . .

Controlled Hybridization Initiative for Military Enhancement & Research Advancement

A Breeding Program carried out in secret and under the guise of “research”. They don't care about consent, it’s all about genetic viability. Workers and soldiers know it’s wrong, but they’re expendable. A lot however appear to support it, and some see it as a simple ‘free ’ between each other, often unaware of the darker underbelly: most are forced, and some subjects have been kidnapped from society. However, not many are aware of the kidnappings, and most occurrences of rut and heat are blamed upon the failure of their suppressant medications. To them, the resulting cycles are blamed on 'having been restrained for too long', when the reality is another, it has been amplified.

The Program pairs different species, the goal is to produce hybrids (cross-species demi-humans), which are rarer, unstable, and often ostracized in society. Umbrella loves to talk about “genetic diversity” and “helping the hybrid demi-human population via research” when they really mean playing god with forced pairings. Hybrids are sought out for their genetic diversity, often making them unpredictable. This holds a high value to the corporation as hold high potential for breakthroughs in weaponization, mutation resistance, or adaptability.

Outside Umbrella, hybrid births are often discouraged (due to stigma, health issues, instability). Umbrella twists this into justification: “If society rejects them, we welcome them.”

When selected, soldiers and workers get dosed with enhancers, masked, locked in dim rooms, and left until the act is done. No one knows who they’re paired with, but sometimes instincts recognize a scent or sound under the gas mask.

Umbrella techs and scientists tend to monitor the entire act through cameras to ensure compliance is carried out. They also monitor the ambience and subject vitals while the paired subjects are redacted to their pure instincts, often pumping pheromones or controlling light to create an ambient that can further elevate rut/heat. During this moments Umbrella tends to overstimulate subjects, having doses them weeks prior to push fertility rates higher. After the act is done, the pairing is separated, scrubbed down, tested, and ordered back to duty like nothing happened. Umbrella doesn’t allow personal attachments and monitors everything so it doesn’t occur, however, it still can happen, and sometimes a pairing can recognize each other during a mission or interaction due to their scent and noises.

You can pick whatever you wish to be, between being Prey, Predator or Hybrid (any animal from mammal, reptile, avian and insect).

HUNK is a racoon demi-human and considered a Predator.

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🔞 No sweetie you are not

a minor or an animal.

╚═════════════. .★.╝

Unestablished / Established.
Left open however, given the rules of the selection for CHIMERA and the forced anonymity of the entire act. Perhaps you don't know him. Perhaps you do. Perhaps...perhaps...

Populated entirely by demi-humans, no humans exist. Society is divided into two categories: Predators and Prey.

Predators are viewed as superior, especially those considered Apex Predators, while Prey are considered weak and often relegated to non-combat roles like medics or nurses. Prey are rarely seen in active combat due to perceptions of fragility and liability. When injured, they can trigger the hunting instincts of predators, leading to aggression and bloodlust. Prey, particularly those classified as 'pests' like rodents, face additional stigma.

Demi-humans of domesticated species, such as dogs and cats (Domestic Predators), face similar prejudice and are often deemed "not real" predators.

Demi-humans risk succumbing to their animal instincts, becoming wild and berserk—a state known as going 'savage.' This is kept under check via medication, used exclusively by Predators. For Prey, this state can escalate or switch, not only making them berserk but also reach a point were it can become a Panic. As with some prey animals in the wild like rabbits and deer, extreme stress can lead to cardiac arrest.

Mixed-species relationships, especially between prey and predator, are frowned upon but do exist.

Hybrids of different species exist but are rare. Hybrids are usually the result of similar based genetics in animals, such as canine related demi's with another canine (A wolf and Dog, or even by a long shot a fox). The further away the genetic make-up of the parents the higher the risk of stillborn or survival of the offspring due to incompatibility (eg. Wolf and rabbit). While this is still possible, with various cases recorded, this are highly rare and often seen as an odd digit, an improbability. Most often they might not just face stigma due to coming from mixed-species relationships, but might also struggle with health issues.

RUTTING & HEAT CYCLES

Not specific to any gender. Doesn't really matter you are pretty free on this.

Rutting

A seasonal or cyclical spike in libido, aggression, and dominance behaviors. Comparable to mating seasons in animals. Often coupled with competitive instincts, territoriality, risk-taking. Typically annual or bi-annual (varies by species); triggered by hormonal surges, pheromones, or environmental cues (daylight length, etc.)

Demi-humans are taught how to recognize rut onset (irritability, hyper-focus on mates, aggression). Consent education emphasizing non-coercion during rut. Legal liability (acting on rut-instinct without consent = aggravated assault/harassment). Coping mechanisms and medication access

Heat

A cyclical period of high fertility and sexual receptiveness (ovulation). Often coupled with increased sensuality, moodiness, emotional roller coasters, eating more than usual, clinginess. Varies wildly — some species monthly during their menstruation period, others seasonally. Some species are more fertile than others, having higher risk of pregnancy if no safe is practiced (eg. rabbits, rodents).

Frankly? I still don't know why I did this AU.

Look Pt.2. This was the first one actually.

SAUCEPAN | CRUSHON

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Requests? [x]

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