#Resolution Copper

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Arizona Central:

A federal judge has temporarily blocked the Trump administration from moving ahead with a plan that would allow Resolution Copper to take ownership of Oak Flat and begin extracting copper on land considered sacred to Apache and other Native peoples.

Judge Steven P. Logan issued the order May 9, two days after hearing the case in U.S. District Court in Phoenix. He ruled that the government cannot publish a final environmental review of a land swap between Resolution and the U.S. Forest Service, which manages a campground at the site 60 miles east of Phoenix.

The order would remain in place until the day after the U.S. Supreme Court declines to take the case or, if it accepts it, rules against grassroots group Apache Stronghold, which filed a lawsuit to stop the exchange in 2021 and sought the temporary delay in the Phoenix court.

In his decision, Logan wrote that it was "abundantly clear that the balance of equities 'tips sharply' in Plaintiff’s favor, and that even in the short term, they have established a likelihood of irreparable harm should the transfer proceed." If the government reissued the environmental impact statement, the land swap could occur within 60 days.

The judge also said Apache Stronghold presented serious questions on the merits of the case that warrant the Supreme Court’s careful scrutiny if it takes the case.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

WHERE IT HURTS THE MOST

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: getting shot is bad. bleeding out in your boss-slash-ex’s arms? somehow, worse. based on this request. warnings | an: hurt, some comfort (not too much because i wrote this when i was sad lol) descriptions of getting shot, bleeding out, hospitals, needles, mentions of death, ok maybe there is physical comfort because i couldn't help myself, probably a v unhealthy relationship with ur ex—move on girl! word count: 2.6k

✧ masterlist

fav song & perhaps hotch x ex!reader’s national anthem

You didn’t notice the pain at first—just the strange sensation of heat blooming beneath your skin, like a match pressed to paper, a kiss of flame before the burn. The bullet had slithered into your side, embedding itself as if it were searching for home. Still, the sting didn’t register—not right away. Maybe it was the adrenaline taking its turn, or maybe it was his voice in your ear.

“Talk to me. Are you hit?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes found Prentiss, her expression faltering as her gaze dropped. You followed it down, almost confused by the slow bloom of crimson spreading across your side and belly—like a cruel artist dragging a brush through water, letting the pigment bleed. The soft grey shirt you’d thrown on that morning—chosen with little thought—now looked like it had been made for this exact kind of tragedy. You hadn’t considered how well it would pair with blood.

The fabric clung to your skin now, hot and wet. The bleeding wasn’t fast—it was abiding, resolute, like your body had made peace with the idea of unravelling slowly. There was a pressure building beneath your ribs, sharp and incessant, like something vital had been nicked and was now screaming for your attention.

Your knees gave way first.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement, sounding somewhere far off. Or maybe they were close. It was hard to tell with everything starting to muffle, feeling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears and the world was beginning to fade.

Above you, the sky wavered, as if seen through glass smeared by an unkind hand—smudged and streaked, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or fade with you. Your fingers twitched against the asphalt, seeking something solid to hold onto.

“Move! I’ve got her—move!”

His voice came before the rest of him and you forced your eyes to stay open.

Just a little longer.

Just to see him.

If this was it—if this was the breath before the end—then let it be him you carried into whatever came next. Let his face be the last light seared into the backs of your eyelids, the last shape your body remembered before becoming nothing more than a bloom in soil.

Let it be him.

He dropped beside you like gravity had pulled him down harder than the rest of the world. You felt the absence of his hands for a single, suspended second—like the earth had held its breath with you—and then they were everywhere. One braced behind your head, the other pressing into your side firmly, and oh, God, it burned.

You gasped, a wet, broken sound that cracked from somewhere beneath your ribs and he flinched, just once.

“S’okay,” you managed, your voice thready, ghostlike. “Not as bad as it looks.”

His eyes snapped to yours, overflowing with disbelief, and you tried to offer a smile—something crooked, something brave—but it faltered the moment you tasted copper. A metallic bitterness coating your tongue.

Your lips parted in confusion before the nausea caught up. You turned your head just as a frenzy of coughs clawed their way up your aching chest, wracking your frame.

Warm and slick blood found its way past your teeth, past your lips.

“No—” His voice cracked, low, hoarse, and terrified. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as you shuddered, trying to hold you steady, trying to keep you here. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—just breathe.”

But it was getting harder to do even that.

Air was beginning to feel like smoke in your lungs, thick, stinging, and impossible to hold. Every inhale caught somewhere halfway, like your body was forgetting how to stay alive, or simply beginning to make peace with going.

Your gaze fluttered to his mouth, watching the way his lips moved.

The sound wasn’t reaching you anymore, not clearly. You had to focus, had to summon what was left of your strength just to hear him, just to hold onto his voice.

“…vest…” You watched his mouth shape the word, his hand still pressing against your side. “You didn’t have your vest on…”

Regret twisted in his features—not anger, never that—just devastation carved into bone. Like he was trying to figure out how to bargain with the universe. Like if he could go back, he’d put the damn thing on you himself.

“T-took it off,” you murmured, each syllable slow and splintered, barely more than air. You didn’t know if he could hear you. You weren’t even sure you were making sound anymore. “D-didn’t know…there w-was a second unsub…”

“You should never take it off.” The words sounded like they belonged in of his lectures, but his voice lacked the sternness it usually carried. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He hadn’t called you that in months.

Not through the check-ins he made under the guise of protocol. Not during the late dinners, the endless conversations in half-lit hotel rooms or your apartment where the line between exes and colleagues blurred just enough to hurt.

But now—now—when you were bleeding in his arms and slipping further from him with every breath, the word had tumbled out like muscle memory.

And for a second, it didn’t matter how much time had passed.

You were still his.

“T-tell me something,” you whispered, the words barely forming. Your eyes felt impossibly heavy now, taking more effort to keep them open than to let go. “Something warm,” you breathed. “I feel…so cold…”

You weren’t sure of much anymore—weren’t even certain if he was really there—but then his grip tightened around your hand, grounding you in the space between pain and unconsciousness. Your eyelids fluttered right as he leaned his head closer, his breath a small comfort against your cheek.

“Do you remember that night in Georgia?” he murmured, moving a blood-matted piece of hair from your face. “The motel with the broken heater…and the vending machine that ate your dollar?”

You blinked. Slow. Maybe a nod. Maybe just the way your breath caught a little differently.

“You were freezing,” he went on, the memory spilling out like a lifeline, “wrapped up in that ridiculous blanket you stole from the jet.”

“It was itchy,” you rasped, voice so faint he had to lean in closer to catch it. “The blanket… so itchy…”

“I remember, honey,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your temple. “It was your excuse to steal my sweatshirt… and half the bed.”

You blinked again, slower now—and this time, your eyes didn’t reopen, content to shut with the memory of his face carved into the darkness behind your eyelids.

The soft curve of his mouth. The small, reluctant smile you hadn’t seen in so long. You clung to it, tucking it somewhere safe inside you, wondering if the universe would be kind enough to let you keep it.

“I…I still have it…the sweatshirt…w-wear it every night I miss you.”

You didn’t see the way his face crumpled, how his eyes squeezed shut like he’d just taken a bullet too. But you felt him. The gentle press of his forehead into your own, the way his hand tightened around yours like a vow.

“I never slept better than I did that night,” he murmured, his voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone hear. “You curled into me, and I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. Just to feel you near…. just to hear your heartbeat…”

You gathered what little strength you had left and squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough.

“I used to think,” he whispered, “that if I stayed still enough, breathed quiet enough… you’d never leave.”

“M’sorry,” you managed, two syllables slurred and soft, trailing into silence before everything went dark.

The unforgiving light clawed and seeped into your eyes, prying them open. You winced against it, lashes fluttering. Your tongue dragged over your lips—dry, cracked, and peeling like old paint left too long beneath a scorching sun.

Everything ached.

Not sharply, not suddenly—but deeply, as if your body was punishing you for choosing survival. As if every cell was still mourning the lost promise of eternal rest.

Your fingers twitched. Even the smallest movement stirred something beneath your skin. A needle—an IV, maybe. You hated needles. Hated the way they sat inside you, like splinters in your veins, begging to be torn free.

And lower, at your side, a steady throb pulsed there. Not bleeding anymore. Not fresh. There was no urgency in it now.

You were no longer bleeding.

You were clean.

The dressing gown they’d put you in was pristine white—so white it felt unnatural. Blinding. The colour of surrender. And the brightness of it overwhelmed you, pushed you back into yourself, and made you shut your eyes again.

Until—

“Hey you…”

You turned your head toward the sound instinctively, and pain lanced through your side, cauterizing and immediate. It stole the breath right out of your lungs, made you suck in sharply and squint against the fresh wave of ache as your eyes opened again.

“You’re okay,” the voice soothed, closer now. “Can I get you anything?”

Your vision cleared slowly, and there he was—Hotch—standing rigidly by the bed, one hand braced against the bedrail like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer without breaking something.

You tried to speak, but your throat seized, burning the words before they could form.

He stepped closer, reading the pain on your face like a map he knew by heart. "Water?"

You gave the smallest nod, and he was already moving, reaching for the pitcher near your bed. His hands, usually so sure, fumbled just slightly, the water pouring in a slow, uneven trickle into the cup.

Your vision wavered, but you caught it anyway, the faint smudges under his nails. Dark stains that might have once been red.

Blood.

Your blood.

Even now—even close to death—parts of you had found their way onto him, marking him in ways neither of you would ever be able to wash clean.

Hotch guided the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the back of your head with a tenderness that threatened to undo you. You reached out too, a weak attempt to mask the need—the way your fingers curled around his, under the guise of helping hold the cup up.

The rim pressed against your mouth, trembling slightly between both your hands and his. You took a small sip, the water sliding down your raw throat like broken glass softened only by his touch.

His hand stayed cradling your head, his thumb unconsciously brushing the curve of your skull in grounding strokes. You swallowed, the effort exhausting, and leaned a fraction more into his palm without thinking, without guarding yourself like you usually would.

Your gaze lifted to meet his, blinking heavily, fighting against the pull of sleep. And when you found him—really found him—you sensed it in your chest, that same ache that had never faded, merely rested in the depths of your stomach, anticipating. Anticipating the times when both of you looked at one another for too long, lingered in touch for too long, spoke to each other for too long.

You wanted to reach out, to gentle the line between his brows with your fingertips, to dissolve the way he wore worry as if it were woven into his very skin. He didn’t deserve that weight. You didn’t deserve to be the reason it sat there.

You were not supposed to be his burden anymore. You had made sure of it. And yet—here he was, still looking at you like losing you would have hollowed out the parts of him you used to call home. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more coherently this time, just as he pulled his hands away, setting the cup back down.

“No.” He shook his head immediately—the quickest movement you’d seen from him since you woke. “You don’t apologise. Not for this. Not for surviving.”

You wanted to tell him you weren’t apologising for surviving. You were apologising for still wanting him like this. For still reaching for him in the dark, even when you no longer had the right.

“Rest,” he instructed, his voice softening. “I’m staying.”

His hands found you again, one settling lightly on your shoulder, guiding you down against the bed. You didn’t protest. You let him adjust your pillow, let him fuss over you, knowing you would start scolding him for it tomorrow.

But for today, you let yourself bask in the comfort he was offering without thinking about how much it would cost you later. How much it would set you back. You shut your eyes, listening to the chair scrape as he pulled it nearer to your bedside, then the gentle thump of him settling in.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.

"Do you think things would’ve turned out differently if I’d gone through with the transfer?” The question slipped from your lips before you had a chance to consider the pros and cons of posing it. "Between us, I mean..." you added, voice unsure. "We always said it was the job that got in the way.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

You took the quiet as a chance to glance at him, wondering if he’d even heard you. But when you shifted your head in his direction, you found his eyes already on you.

"Maybe," he answered finally, elbows resting on his knees. "You would’ve still been here. Still at Quantico. Still... close."

You nodded, a minor movement against the pillow.

“But close doesn’t always mean easy,” he continued. “And we were never very good at easy.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, the world barely scraping out. “Guess it always felt easier blaming the job than—”

“Me?”

“Us,” you corrected, shifting weakly against the pillow, the ache in your side feeling like nothing compared to the one rising in your chest. Again.

“You shouldn’t have had to choose between what you wanted to do and…me.”

“Why? Because you’d already made your choice?”

His eyes dropped to his fingers, until he noticed the dried blood under his nails. He quickly concealed his hands, as if he could somehow mask the guilt persistently attached to him.

You sighed, peeling your eyes away from him. “I don’t blame you, Aar,” you whispered. “We both made the same choice. I suppose now we’re both left to question if it was the right one.”

You heard him exhale, followed by the rustle of fabric. A second later, you felt his hand enveloping yours again. “I’ll always be here. In whatever way you need me to be.”

"I don't know if that's a good thing anymore," you admitted, voice cracking right down the middle. You closed your eyes—not just from the exhaustion pulling at you like a riptide, but because the tears behind your lids were so close.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he answered, and it almost broke you, the way he made it sound so simple. So easy. Like healing could be a choice you could make tomorrow instead of something you’d spend years bleeding over.

"Just rest," he murmured, voice dropping even softer. "And if you still feel like this in the morning... if you want me to go... I'll go."

You felt him gently squeeze your hand, like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to ask him.

“But I’m staying tonight.”

You said nothing.

Instead, you tried to will yourself into sleep, knowing full well you wouldn’t have the strength to tell him to leave. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[olympianbutch]

Tonight I attended a march to save Oak Flat.

Oak Flat is apart of the Tonto National Forest in Arizona, and its been used as a sacred site by the San Carlos Apache (and numerous other tribes) since time immemorial.

Right now, Oak Flat is at risk of becoming a 2-mile-wide, 1,000-foot-deep hole all because of Resolution Copper Mining, a subsidiary of two British–Australian mining companies, Rio Tinto and BHP Billiton.

Before 2014, Resolution Copper Mining failed to secure a land transfer over ten times. It wasn't until the aforementioned year that Senators John McCain and Jeff Flake entered the land transfer on page 1,003 of a military spending bill, at precisely 11 pm, a mere hour before the bill was set to pass.

This was done without the consent of the San Carlos Apache, who use the site to gather sacred medicine and perform coming-of-age ceremonies for girls.

As desperately as the San Carlos Apache have tried to appeal the land transfer, they have been struck down time and time again, usually by a single vote in the wrong direction.

Now, the San Carlos Apache are slated to speak against the land transfer tomorrow morning. If their voices are not heeded, they will take it to the Supreme Court, which will ultimately decide the fate of Oak Flat, the dozens of endangered species that call it home, and the continuity of the Apache religion.

If you haven't heard about Oak Flat, now you have. Make it your responsibility to tell everyone you know about this sacred site in peril, and support Apache Stronghold ( @apachestronghold ) in their fight to save Oak Flat.

[amourrs]

sub!ellie who’s addicted to the way you taste. never mind that you’re the more dominant one, because the power is still hers— she’s functionally turned you into a pillow princess with the way she drags your lace underwear down the plush skin of your thighs every time, bite marks indented and ridged into the soft skin as she cruises her tongue across the honeyed junction between your thigh and your hip before you push her head down, rough pad of her tongue circling your clit as you throw your head back and whine at the sensation. it’s not just the knowledge she’s making you feel good that gets her off, it’s the carding of your fingers through her hair, how the pads of them twirl around at her nape and tug until her vision clouds with sweet headiness at the twinge. it’s the way she can stay down there forever— like tonight, where she’s clamping her hands down to hold your thighs in place after your third orgasm. a salty tear traverses a path down the bridge of your nose and ellie takes a second to raise her face to your own, tongue darting out to lick it off you. a mumble of ���such a good girl, love you,” escapes you and it’s got her grinding into the mattress as she ducks her head back down, resting the silken dome on your quivering thigh as she slides two fingers into you. a choked sob escapes your throat as she crooks them towards her— “el, fuck, don’t think i can do any more for you, baby, m’sorry—” but she shakes her head resolutely at your protests. “know you can— you always say i can, right? s’gonna feel sooo good, promise.” the fingers of her other hand come up to twine with yours, rubbing soothingly over your knuckles the same way your palm brushes her face to comfort her when you give her the same treatment, lips pressing sweet kisses over your hipbone until they trail their way back to your clit. you cry out at the sensation of her tongue working in tandem with her slender fingers, thighs tightening in a vice-like grip around her neck as you wind your spare hand into the tangled mane of her hair, catching on knots she doesn’t seem to notice as she continues her mission as if unhindered. it’s only when you’re completely spent and your palm pushes clamming at her forehead that you can finally untense your muscles, allowing blood to flow more freely as you loosen up, head slack on the pillow as ellie winds herself around you, soft kiss pressed to your cheek. “you were so—” she begins, tone teasing and cloying as you snap a glare in her direction. “watch it. or next time something’s getting fucked, it’ll be your ass.” the copper-haired menace recoils at once, hands clasped over the flesh of her backside as she finds her way to the bathroom to run you a hot bath— although you don’t miss the tentative look she throws your way as she takes her fingers away from her body to turn on the tap, the way they linger on her skin for a second as if wondering what the sensation would feel like, how her gaze fills with a rampant curiosity— until she catches you looking and abruptly turns away, busying herself with the bath salts. interesting. you file it away for next time with a grin. “babe! don’t forget the ass— i mean essential oils,” you call, taking delight in the resultant strawberry-red blush of ellie’s cheeks as she reaches to grab them from a higher shelf. next time, indeed.

[beansprean]

happy valentimes day :')

My Familiar’s Ghost part 91

Masterpost Masterpost 2

See the latest pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. High shot of the cage, the back wall casting a long grid shadow across the floor. Guillermo is still sitting on the cot, watching as Nandor mumbles to himself and paces around, agitated. 1b. Waist up of Nandor, facing away from Guillermo with his hands on his hips, eyes closed and face flushed. He psyches himself up, breathing deeply and whispering 'Okay, okay, okay,' to himself. Behind him on the cot, Guillermo is leaning his face on his hand, looking a little bored. 1c. Close up on Nandor as he whips around suddenly with a determined expression, snapping, 'Guillermo!' Offscreen, Guillermo startles, 'Ah! Yes?' 1d. Full body of Nandor standing in front of Guillermo, who is still sitting on the cot and leaning forward in interest. Nandor has one fist pressed to his heart and announces, as if previously rehearsed, 'It was very brave of you to express your feelings of love toward me, even though you had every reason to believe you would disappear and those feelings would not be reciprocated.' 1e. Knees up of Guillermo on the cot, looking at the floor while his hand taps nervously at his knee. He mumbles, 'Not brave enough to let you say anything back...' 1f. Repeat. Guillermo looks up as Nandor takes his tapping hand in his and raises it to guide him. Nandor replies, 'Then allow me to do so now.'

2a. Shoulders up of them both in profile as Nandor leads Guillermo to standing. The cage walls are visible behind them, as well as a ghostly blue version in the background behind the panels. Nandor raises his chin and holds Guillermo's hand up between them, his other gesturing vaguely as he says, 'I am much braver than you generally, so it is only right that I express those words as well. To you.' Guillermo smiles at him encouragingly. 2b. Nandor places his free hand on top of their joined ones and stares resolutely at the ceiling, cheeks flushed. He continues, 'I think you are kind and clever and have an ass that simply will not quit. So. I have many feelings. About you. One in particular.' Guillermo snorts softly, amused but fond. 2c. Repeat. Nandor falls silent, wide eyes meeting Guillermo's nervously as the other waits patiently. 2d. Repeat. Guillermo leans forward with a teasing grin and asks, '...Was that it?' Nandor cringes, face scrunching up in frustration as he snaps back, 'No! Augh!'

3a. Shoulders up of Nandor as he covers his eyes and turns his back on Guillermo, embarrassed. He admits, 'I do not have good experience saying these things.' Behind him, Guillermo shrugs with a sad smile and looks toward the ground, playing with his fingers. He replies, 'I know, it's okay. You don't have to-' Nandor interrupts him, 'No, you deserve to hear it.' 3b. Chest up of Nandor from Guillermo's POV as he turns back around and hesitantly removes his hands from his face, bashful. The ghostly blue image of the cage behind him begins to warp as a golden glow fades in. Nandor looks shyly up at Guillermo from beneath his lashes and says 'It made me very, very happy when you said it to me. Though it was not a very happy moment in general. And I...' 3c. Reverse shot, chest up of Guillermo. Nandor continues from offscreen, '...I want to make you happy. Even more than myself, sometimes.' Guillermo reacts strongly to this, rearing back in surprise. Tears spring suddenly to his eyes. Behind him, the golden glow strengthens and bursts, tearing the ghostly cage to shreds. 3d. Shoulders up of them both in profile, the background now cage-free in mottled copper and gold. Guillermo, smiling, removes his glasses to wipe his sleeve over his eyes. Nandor steps forward and calls his name in concern, one hand hovering uncertainly. 3e. Repeat. Guillermo composes himself and slides his glasses back on, saying, ''Go on, I'm listening.' Nandor smiles fondly at this, shoulders relaxing, and reaches up a hand toward Guillermo's downturned face. 3f. Shoulders up of Guillermo looking upward in surprise as Nandor's hand comes into frame to brush the backs of his fingers against his cheek. The colors are slowly warming. 3g. Repeat. Warmer. Nandor turns his hand to cup his palm against Guillermo's face and Guillermo leans into the contact like a cat, closing his eyes and nuzzling into it with a smile, his opposite hand coming up to clutch at Nandor's sleeve. Offscreen, Nandor murmurs, 'My...most precious Guillermo...' 3h. Repeat. Warmer still. Nandor has both hands on Guillermo's cheeks now, framing his face as Guillermo nestles in with a contented smile, eyes closed, hands gripping Nandor's forearms.

4. Wide shot, waist up, of them both in profile, a warm golden glow erupting behind them and washing away the dingy rusted blue of the dungeon beyond. They are lined with golden-pink light soft, warm colors. Nandor, hands still on Guillermo's cheeks, leans forward and bows his head to press their foreheads lovingly together. Their eyes are closed, cheeks flushed, reverence in their expressions. Nandor says, 'I dream of eternity with no one else. I love you. I am in love with you.' /end ID

[fluffydancer618]

Honorable mentions

I have a bit and I am committed to it

[oristian]

Azriel rests his forehead against Gwyn’s, his fingers threading through the soft strands of her copper hair, gripping the back of her neck with a tenderness that betrays the chaos around them. His eyelids flutter shut, breath shuddering as he pulls her closer. Her skin, warm and steeped in ash, trembles beneath his touch, but her teal eyes—those eyes that never seem to yield—burn with an unwavering determination. The ground beneath their feet is soaked in carnage, and beyond the protective curve of his wings, the battle rages—a symphony of violence, the devastation cast in the silver reflection of the moon.

“You’re my best friend,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, the words thick with emotion. He swallows, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on her skin, as if he is imprinting the feeling of her—her warmth, her softness—into the very marrow of his bones.

Gwyn sighs, a laugh bubbling from her lips, light and unguarded. "And you're mine." Her voice is steady, resolute—like a promise made without hesitation, a truth she has known deep within her heart, as undeniable and effortless as the rise and fall of her breath.

[yourislandgirl]

*:ꔫ:*ₓₒ RAMEN RESOLUTIONS ˚ ༘♡ੈ✩ || 이히승 x fem!reader || drabble

— KISS ME, DON’T SAY NO series

summary: sometimes all you need is someone who tries, because they love you. heeseung was your someone, and he’d move mountains to prove it . or make you some ramen.. rain check on the mountains

genres: fluff, romance, non-idol!heeseung x non-idol!reader, est. relationship

warnings: attempts at humour, pet names, the smallest hint of angst, heeseung’s poor choice in skincare

w.c: 1k

[archive]

You were extremely annoyed.

Last night was… a mess. And you didn’t even have the time to ruminate on it since your day started off late — you missed your bus, you had to take an uber to campus, you made a stupid mistake on your quiz and lost three marks because of it, and to top it all off you had to walk home in the rain because you forgot to check the weather forecast for the afternoon.

You were cold, shivering a little, hair sticking to your forehead, damp and kinda gross. It was an odd feeling to be sweating while the weather was so cold but it couldn’t be helped as you rushed into your apartment, only stopping to finally take a breath when you entered the elevator.

You leaned against the elevator walls, pushing your hair off of your cheeks. There was no way today could get worse.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and as you pulled it out, you took a deep breath in. Heeseung’s bright smile graced your screen, the name ‘Hee-man🧍‍♂️’ at the top.

“Oh god,” you muttered to yourself. It was bracing, those tense three seconds where you wait whilst deciding whether to pick up the phone or let it keep ringing. Truth be told, you loved your boyfriend, you loved him to the ends of the earth, but after such a shitty fight the night before, followed by such a shitty day, well…

You exhaled, and answered the call.

“Hi,” your voice was soft.

“Hey.”

You felt your stomach flip. Two years and you still could not control that reaction every time you heard his voice.

more under cut !!

Heeseung sighed before continuing, “Look, I know you had long classes today, and I know all you wanna do is just relax but… I was hoping we could talk?”

“Um,” you glanced at the number on the elevators monitor, your floor was next. “Okay, yeah, okay.” It was like you were trying to convince yourself that it would be alright. “It’s just that, I only just got home.”

“That’s fine,” Heeseung chuckled, “I’m at your apartment.”

You froze, almost forgetting to get off the elevator as the door opened. “I- what?”

It was like you could see Heeseung shrugging as he went “Mhm, I was hoping you’d say yes.”

“A bit presumptuous, huh?”

“I like to think it’s because I know you so well,” he chuckled.

You slowed down your pace, a few steps away from your door.

It was never fun to fight with him, the few fights you’ve had you’d resolved quickly, but last night was different. It was the first time either of you went to bed without fixing things. But even in the midst of nerves and the buzzing sensation from how overstimulated you were from your day, Heeseung had managed to calm you down in about five seconds.

You really wanted to fix things. And you hoped that’s what he wanted too.

As you stepped through the threshold of your door, you smiled at the warmth that filled your home.

He’d turned the heater on in the living room, he was listening to the playlist you made for him and he was… in the kitchen?

“What are you doing?” You dropped your bag and coat on the dining table chairs, unclipping your hair to start drying it.

Heeseung smirked, glancing up from the cutting board. “Ramyeon,” he said, simply using his thumb to gesture behind him at your stove. A copper pot sat on top with a delicious, spicy scent wafting out. Heeseung carefully added some small squares of fish cakes before turning down the heat to let it simmer.

You leaned against the counter, observing his movements as he let out an awkward cough, shuffling a little closer to you.

“I, uh… I know that there are a few things we need to talk about and, um, I want to sit down and properly explain my side and hear your side and just…”

You held his hand, stopping him from waving them around in a frenzy as he tried to find the words to explain what you already knew. “I get it,” you whispered. “You wanna work this out.”

Heeseung gave your hand a squeeze, a silent confirmation.

The relief that washed over you was worth every nitty gritty annoyance that you went through today.

“It was just some miscommunication, baby.” Heeseung pulled you closer by your waist. “I didn’t like how we left it last night so, I figured I’d do something nice, let you know that I’m sorry for that. And maybe we could just eat some ramyeon together and I can help you relax before we talk about this?”

You fought the smile but it slowly bloomed on your face. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he shrugged. “But just because we had a fight doesn’t mean we don’t love each other, right?”

You nodded, burying your face into his chest. “You’re right,” you whispered, your voice muffled by the material of his shirt.

Heeseung pulled back a little, his eyes darting down and back up, holding himself back from leaning closer.

He settled his gaze on your lips. “I wanna kiss you right now.” The heat of his breath brushed against your cheeks.

You didn’t trust your voice to respond, opting to lean closer, closing your eyes and melting into his touch.

Heeeseung hands slid up your arm, reaching to cup your face, smiling into the kiss. It felt that much more special to know the love you shared wasn’t dependent on good moods and easy going days. Heeseung gave you the freedom to feel and the agency to express every emotion. Willing to slow down and solve the issue together because your love isn’t something finite. Heeseung made you feel worthy of asking for that love, he made you feel worthy of accepting that love, even when you weren’t at your best self.

“We’ll be alright,” he murmured against your hairline.

You giggled under your breath, before screwing your eyes shut. “Oh, babe… Your fingers smell like fish cakes.”

“But you love fish cakes.”

“Not as skin care!”

a.n: first instalment of the ‘kiss me don’t say no’ drabble series !! welcome to the month of love everyone <333

taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey — @rynnest

2025 © yourislandgirl

[misskitxx]

Since y’all like to suffer—mad scientist Jayce that keeps Viktor alive against his will one-shot!

They had been hands apart on a single wrench, fingers grazing, a contact that electrified the sterile air. Viktor’s eyes, haunted even then, had flashed defiance.

Their fingers brush reaching for the same wrench. Viktor jerks back, but Jayce catches his wrist.

“You’re shaking,” Jayce says.

“Irrelevant.” Viktor pulls free, but Jayce crowds him against the workbench.

“Let me care for you. Let me—”

Viktor stills. Jayce’s thumb brushes his jaw. Viktor’s voice cracks. “Finish the calculations. The rest… is a distraction.”

Jayce kisses him anyway—clumsy, desperate. Viktor’s resolve lasts three seconds before he kisses back, wrench clattering to the floor. A first confession, soft and uncertain, and it changes everything.

Their confession—a clumsy, uncertain kiss—had been a secret vow, whispered in the silence between metal and wire.

The lab reeks of fermented rot and ionized sweat. Jayce lights a lavender-scented candle to mask the stench of Viktor’s decaying flesh.

The machine in Viktor’s chest click-click-hums like the countdown of his agony. Viktor’s chest heaves with labored breaths, each one a struggle as the violet Shimmer IV drip courses into his fragile veins. His eyes flutter open, the agony in them a silent plea, soft and ragged.

“Almost time,” Jayce murmurs, adjusting the Shimmer IV drip. The violet fluid slithers into Viktor’s arm, reactivating necrotic nerves. He chokes back a scream as feeling returns—agony in 4K resolution.

“Please…” his voice rasps, barely audible above the relentless hum of machinery. He is vividly aware of his own body betraying him, limbs convulsing in the mirror of his own pain.

Jayce leans in, his lips ghosting over Viktor’s trembling eyelids as if in silent prayer.

His face, smeared with medicinal silver and the iron tang of fresh blood, is a mask of determined tenderness. “You’re colder today,” he murmurs, his voice a mixture of regret and fierce love. "We'll fix that."

His fingers deftly adjust the drip, dialing in new concentrations of violet fluid meant to reawaken the dead spark in Viktor’s nerves, even as the revived tissue screams in agony.

Viktor’s eyes dart around, desperate for an escape that doesn’t come. “I can't—” he croaks, voice thick with suffering. But Jayce’s response is as cold as the metallic instruments arrayed before them.

“Not yet,” he says, more to himself than to Viktor, his tone taut with the promise of restoration—a promise built on fractured dreams and impossible calculations. “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

Memories flash—a moment of tender laughter in a sunlit field, the warmth of shared secrets before... This. It doesn't matter that the laughter became a rasp, that his flesh was decaying. In Jayce's eyes, it was still Viktor. His Viktor.

“Jayce…” Viktor whispers, voice trembling, eyes pleading for mercy. “Stop. I—I can’t endure…” His words are strangled by despair, a soft lamentation that fades into the cold darkness of the lab.

But Jayce does not relent. With a gentle, almost reverent urgency, he presses his lips to the junction where copper wiring merges with decaying flesh beneath Viktor’s collarbone.

“We’ll fix this,” he promises, as though by defying nature’s decree, he might resurrect not just Viktor’s body, but the fragile hope of their intertwined souls.

Furtive smiles in hidden corridors of the council’s halls, the reckless abandon of a love born out of defiance—and then...

Jayce’s hands, trembling with a cocktail of desperation and adoration, trace lines on Viktor’s skin as if reading a sacred text. “I love you,” he whispers over and over, as though the repetition might banish the haunting echoes of guilt and grief.

Viktor’s voice, ragged and fading, is swallowed by the hum of the machine. “Let me sleep,” he begs, his tone soft—a final surrender to the inevitability of his suffering.

Jayce smoothes Viktor's hair. Shushes him, ignores the rigidness of his partner’s lips and the strain in his barely-there raspy voice. His fingers twitch, and his face lights up with a crooked smile. "Shh. I'll make it stop. Just— Hold on there, love. Another dose of the painkillers will do the trick."

They won't.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Inside Climate News:

A federal judge ruled Monday that the U.S. Forest Service cannot transfer land containing Oak Flat, a site sacred to the Western Apache, to a copper mining company until two cases against the project are settled after the Forest Service publishes its final environmental review for the project. The ruling resurrects the legal efforts by the tribe and environmental groups to stop the proposed mine.

The legal battle over Oak Flat, known in Apache as Chi’chil Biłdagoteel, has been one of the most high-profile mining cases in the country over the past decade. Last month, the Supreme Court declined to hear Apache Stronghold v. United States, a religious freedom case brought by an Indigenous nonprofit organization that opposes the mine proposed for the area, which would destroy the sacred site, after the Trump administration signaled it would move ahead with approving the project before the court had ruled. But two more lawsuits against the project are continuing through federal courts in an attempt to prevent the federal government from transferring the land to Resolution Copper. 

In separate lawsuits, the San Carlos Apache Tribe and a coalition of environmental groups sought a preliminary injunction to stall a land swap between the Forest Service and Resolution Copper. 

The tribe argues that the land transfer violates the First Amendment rights guaranteed to them under a treaty with the federal government, and that the project violates the country’s national environmental and historic preservation laws. 

[athenasdragon]

I’m watching a bunch of the Sherlock Holmes series with Jeremy Brett again and I really am obsessed with the way he plays him. I just saw a post about the Copper Beeches but the way he’s like “I am at the LOW POINT OF MY CAREER. Giving young women JOB ADVICE” and then she comes in and is like “I have no parents to ask this :/ I was hoping you could help me” and he just softens completely. And then the resolution of “you’re right, that’s a red flag parade so a telegram will summon me to your aid any time of day or night should danger arise” while opening the door to usher her out of the apartment. Iconic

[velvourne]

This is part 2. Read part 1 here.

Erosion 「Damon Salvatore」

Let me think

(Let you think about what?)

About girls

(And what else?)

Katherine's gone, Elena is Katherine-but-not, and you—you won't give him the one thing he thinks he can still take.

And money, and new clothes

(And what do I get?)

Content Warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, s1 Damon, blood drinking/biting, dubious consent, p in v penetration, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cervix pain/bruising, finger sucking, reader dissociation, namedrop of another woman during sex, compulsion/memory alteration, no emotional resolution, sex as a coping mechanism.

Word Count: 9,464

Read it on AO3.

Dividers by @easytiger-xo 💋

The pleasure didn’t come clean anymore.

It was tangled.

Gritted.

Laced with pain that didn’t feel separate from the ecstasy—it was the ecstasy.

His cock dragged against the sore swell of your g-spot, and you shivered—but then it went too deep, again. Hit your bruised cervix in a way that made your eyes slam shut and your breath catch in your throat.

You whimpered.

A choked sound, high and broken. He heard it.

“Too much?” he murmured.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Another stroke—deep. Smooth. The angle unforgiving.

You shook beneath him, body twitching at the conflicting signals: come again or scream. Your cunt clenched tight, soaked and sore, as he pushed through your body’s refusal.

You didn’t want him to stop. You wanted to be overwhelmed.

You wanted this.

Blood was drying sticky at your throat now, trickling slowly down your collarbone. You could smell it. Copper-sweet.

Mixed with sweat.

Mixed with sex.

Mixed with him.

His scent was everywhere. Bourbon, musk, leather, salt.

It sank into your skin. Coated your tongue.

And then—

He slid a finger into your mouth.

Without asking.

Thick and hot and shaking slightly at the knuckle.

Not rough. Not forceful.

Just there.

Claiming what little you had left to offer.

Your lips parted instinctively. Your tongue curled around the pad of his finger, tasting skin and salt and something else—you.

You were in your mouth.

You were between your legs.

You were everywhere.

He groaned.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

His cock hit your cervix again—dead center.

Your back arched, your lips popped off his finger with a slick gasp.

“Fuck,” he hissed, shoving it back in deeper. “That spot—right there. I can feel you squeeze every time I hit it.”

You moaned. Couldn’t help it. Your pussy spasmed around him, a pulsing protest and invitation all at once.

The pain was back. Sharp. Pressure. A dull ache up your spine and down your thighs.

But the pleasure rode it like a wave.

There was no separating them now.

You were bleeding and trembling and stretched so wide you thought you might break—

And still. Still. You wanted more.

He kept fucking you.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

Every thrust dragged through your swollen, aching cunt like he was carving himself into you—inch by inch, deeper every time. You could feel everything. The stretch. The slide. The burn. How slick you were. How tight. How open.

His cock moved with the rhythm of the house—ancient and deliberate. Like he’d been fucking ghosts for a hundred years and only now remembered what real flesh felt like.

You were trembling again. Not from fear. Not from resistance.

From the effort of enduring it.

Because every single movement was both too much and not enough.

When he pulled back, the emptiness made your pussy clench around nothing, trying to hold him in.

When he pushed back in, your bruised cervix protested—deep and dull and raw, flaring pain that only made the slick between your thighs wetter.

And through it all—he groaned. Low, constant, like he couldn’t fucking believe how good it felt.

“So tight,” he breathed. “Still.”

Another slow stroke.

Another whimper torn from your lips.

“You feel that?” he muttered. “How wet you are? Dripping down my fucking balls.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Your mouth was still full of his finger, the taste of sweat and blood and heat bleeding into your tongue. He moved it deeper, curling it against the roof of your mouth like he wanted to fuck you there too.

You moaned around it. Loud. Shattered.

Your entire body pulsed around him, nerves screaming, cervix flinching with every drag of his cock against it. And still—you didn’t ask him to stop.

Still, you took it.

He shifted his grip on your waist.

Pulled you back on him a little harder this time.

Slap.

Your ass met his hips. The sound echoed in the dark.

You nearly collapsed again.

He hissed behind you, like it felt too good. Like he was holding back something dangerous.

You didn’t dare look at him.

You could only feel.

The way he dragged out of you so slowly, so obscenely slow that your pussy ached around the emptiness—

And then filled you again with one long, devastating thrust that made your whole body seize.

“Fuck…”

A breath. A curse. A plea.

He sounded lost.

And you were past lost.

You were wrecked.

Wrecked and open and shaking around him like a song with no chorus, no end. Just verse after verse of heat and pain and need.

He was still inside you. Still moving.

But the rhythm had changed.

It was still deep. Still slow. Still unbearable.

But now his voice came with it—softer.

Quieter. Like prayer. Like regret.

“You’re taking me so good…”

Another long thrust. Dragging out of you so slow you thought it might kill you, then sinking back in until he bottomed out, brushing your cervix with a pressure that made your eyes roll back.

“So warm. So fucking perfect.”

You sobbed. Again.

Not from pain. Not just from pleasure.

From the heat that bloomed inside you every time his cock pressed against that sweet, aching spot. That swollen place inside you that begged to be touched and cried when it was.

He was hitting it now.

Not by accident.

You felt it with every grind of his hips—how he adjusted. How his body curved over yours like he was listening to your breath.

You didn’t know how he could be so deep and still so precise.

You didn’t know how your body could want this again.

But it did.

Your walls fluttered around him, raw and soaking.

Your thighs twitched.

Your nipples scraped against the slip, tight and burning.

“That’s it,” he whispered into your shoulder. “Just let go. You don’t have to fight it.”

His hand curled beneath your stomach again, holding you up, pulling you back just right so his cock hit that same perfect angle.

“Gonna make you come again,” he breathed. “Feel you clench. Feel you break.”

And you would.

You could already feel it—low and liquid, curling in your belly.

Hot pressure between your thighs.

Your clit throbbing from neglect, from friction, from how your body couldn’t help itself anymore.

You wanted to scream. To cry.

But all you could do was moan.

Soft. Hitched. Choked by the finger still pressing past your lips.

You sucked it like it would keep you anchored. Like if you let go of that, you’d come apart completely.

And still—he moved.

Slow.

Perfect.

So fucking deep.

And the pressure climbed.

Tightened.

One more stroke like that and—

He pulled his finger from your mouth.

You gasped, lips slick, breath catching.

And then—his hand moved.

Slid down your belly, slow and certain. Down past your trembling navel, past the throbbing soreness between your legs, until his fingers found your clit.

You sobbed. The sound tore from your throat, sharp and panicked.

It was too much.

You were too sensitive.

Too raw.

But his fingers were gentle there—circling, stroking. Slow and careful, like he was soothing something already screaming. The contrast made it worse.

His cock moved deeper.

His thumb pressed firmer.

His voice hit your ear again, quiet and shaky.

“There she is…”

You didn’t mean to grind against his hand.

You didn’t mean to cry out when his cock bottomed out again, hitting that tender spot inside you like he knew it would make you shake.

But you did.

You did it all.

Your body betrayed you completely.

“Fuck, you’re close,” he whispered. “I can feel it. You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t breathe.

His fingers rubbed tight little circles against your clit, dragging it out of you, working in sync with the slow, deep thrust of his cock still stretching your cunt wide, still filling you like nothing else ever had.

Your legs started to shake again.

Your toes curled.

Your stomach clenched.

And you came.

Harder than before.

Your body snapped—lurching forward, only to be caught by his arm around your middle. Your pussy spasmed around him, muscles locking down tight, milking his cock in rhythmic pulses that made you cry out, loud and wrecked.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let me feel it. Let me—fuck.”

You shook. Violently.

Your thighs spasmed.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

Tears poured from your eyes again, hot and mindless.

You were gone.

Nothing left.

Just raw nerves, slick skin, and the stretch of him still inside you as he—

Kept moving.

You cried out—a helpless, choked noise—as he thrust into your still-pulsing cunt.

You weren’t ready.

Your body was still coming, still trembling from the inside out, muscles locking and spasming, and he was fucking you through it like he didn’t care. Or maybe like he cared too much.

His cock dragged through your wetness, thick and slow, your walls fluttering violently around him with every stroke. It hurt. It burned. And it felt too good.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Your thighs twitched uncontrollably, knees knocking against the floor, hips rocking forward like you could escape—but his hand was still at your clit, still rubbing softly, insistently, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Shh,” he whispered. “One more. You’ve got one more in you.”

You shook your head.

Tried to speak.

Tried to say no.

But your body—traitor that it was—rocked back against him.

Welcomed the friction.

Begged for it.

“So fucking tight,” he rasped. “Still fluttering. Still fucking perfect.”

He was moving deeper now. Slower. Like he liked the way you clenched from overstimulation. Like he wanted you to cry from how it felt.

You did.

Tears spilled again, hot and silent.

Your body jolted with each slow, deep thrust. Your insides so sore, so sensitive, so completely wrecked—but the pleasure hadn’t stopped. It was still there. Still climbing again. Still coiling in your stomach even as your legs refused to hold you.

He was going to do it again.

He was going to break you again.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

His pace was steady now, and deep—not rough, not frantic, but intentional. Like he was chasing something sacred. Like the last edge of him was buried inside you and he didn’t know how to pull it out.

You felt it building again.

It shouldn’t have been possible. Not with how raw you were, not with how much your body ached. But it was there. Curling deep in your belly, tight and unbearable, a heat that wasn’t kind. It felt like breaking.

His hands were on you—one gripping your hip, the other spread wide across your stomach, grounding you, pulling you back into him with every roll of his hips.

You felt his weight behind you. All of him.

Solid. Hot. Shaking slightly.

His chest pressed to your back.

His breath spilling ragged against your shoulder.

His nose brushing the shell of your ear, lips grazing your skin between thrusts.

He was everywhere.

And his voice—low and desperate—poured into your skin like it could brand you.

"God… fuck… you feel—”

“So good. So good for me. You always—”

“Can’t let go. Not yet. Not yet.”

His cock throbbed deep inside you, swelling slightly, the friction turning molten. You could feel his pulse. Feel the restraint wearing thin.

And he kissed you.

Not your lips. Not even your cheek.

He kissed the back of your neck, soft and broken, lips barely touching skin like it was the only place he remembered being alive.

"Almost there,” he whispered. “Come for me. Just one more.”

You did.

You came like you were being torn open.

Your body seized—hips snapping back into his, cunt clenching so hard around him it forced a guttural sound out of his throat. Your walls spasmed, wetness gushing, soaking both of you in a wave that sent him over the edge—

Almost.

His rhythm faltered.

His breath caught.

His grip on you tightened like he was finally letting himself—

“Katherine.”

The name slipped out like a secret.

Like a prayer.

And he stopped.

Everything—everything—froze.

His hands dropped from your waist like they’d been burned. His cock twitched inside you once, still rock-hard, still throbbing—

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t finish.

Didn’t speak.

Just silence.

Except for your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

Except for your pulse still fluttering in your cunt around the cock that no longer moved.

You didn’t breathe.

You couldn’t.

Your body was still trembling.

The aftershocks hadn’t stopped—the soft, involuntary spasms of your cunt around him, the twitch of your thighs, the heat pouring down your spine in waves of pleasure that wouldn’t fade. You’d just come. Hard. Deep. Loud.

And his cock was still inside you.

Still thick. Still warm.

Still holding you open.

But he wasn’t moving anymore.

Because he’d said her name.

Katherine.

It echoed through the silence like something shattering.

Your body froze before your mind did.

Your breath caught mid-exhale.

Your heart stuttered once, twice.

And you felt it all at once:

The dull ache in your cervix where he’d been bruising you.

The raw sting at your throat, blood drying in slow, sticky rivers.

The soreness between your thighs, soaked and shaking and still spread wide around the weight of him.

Your body was wrecked.

Used.

Ruined.

But your chest—your chest hurt the most.

It felt like betrayal.

It felt like worship.

It felt like both at once.

Because everything he’d done—every thrust, every whisper, every kiss to your neck—felt real.

The way he held you. The way he fucked you through your orgasms. The way he touched your clit like it mattered.

It all felt like love.

And now you knew it wasn’t yours.

You blinked, and tears slipped down your cheeks again—but slower this time. Not from overstimulation. Not even from guilt.

From grief.

You didn’t even know what you were grieving.

Just that something had been given, and something else had been taken, and now your body was still wrapped around a man who wasn’t holding you at all.

And yet—you didn’t pull away.

You could still feel his breath on your neck.

Still feel the warmth of his chest against your back.

Still feel his cock, heavy and twitching inside you, like it didn’t know the moment had passed.

And part of you wanted to lean back into him.

To feel it again.

To pretend it was yours.

Because he was so warm.

And you were so empty.

His cock stayed buried inside you—hot, heavy, twitching with the remnants of an orgasm he hadn’t allowed himself to reach. You could feel it. The restraint. The way he held still like the act of finishing would have condemned him completely.

Everything hurt.

Your cunt was sore and swollen, still fluttering weakly from the intensity of the last climax.

Your thighs ached from being spread for too long.

Your ribs hurt from the railing.

Your throat stung from the bite.

You were exhausted.

Overused.

Overflowing.

And he was still there.

Not fucking you. Not touching you.

Just holding you.

Like an apology.

Like he wanted to fix it with stillness.

Like maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, it wouldn’t be what it was.

His arms were around your waist again—one splayed wide across your stomach, the other higher, palm pressed flat between your breasts. You could feel the shake in his hands. Barely. Like he was trying to will them still.

His lips hovered over your shoulder.

Not kissing. Not breathing words.

Just there.

His body was warm—oppressively warm—but you didn’t push him away.

Because there was something in the way he held you now.

Not like possession.

Not even like love.

Like remorse.

Like guilt turned physical.

Like he thought if he stayed soft, if he let his fingers ghost over your skin just right, he could make the moment mean less than it did.

But it was already too late.

And still—he stayed inside you.

Like pulling out would make it real.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Your eyes stung from the tears, but they didn’t fall anymore. They just sat there, heavy on your lashes. Like your body knew not to waste anything else.

The weight of him was everywhere.

His arms around you.

His breath at your shoulder.

His cock—still inside you—still holding you open.

The slick between your thighs. The way it dripped, warm and slow, down the backs of your legs.

The sting between your hips from friction.

The soreness around your entrance from being fucked through orgasms you hadn’t even asked for.

And the worst part—

You were still leaking around him.

His cock.

Still inside you.

Still buried in the mess he made.

You shifted, just slightly, and felt the wet squelch of it—the obscene reminder that your body had welcomed it. Had clenched for it. Had come for him.

A quiet sob cracked in your throat.

Not from pain.

Not from pleasure.

From humiliation.

From the shame of your own body.

From the fact that you’d been used and liked it.

You breathed in—

And then stopped.

The feeling started to fade.

Not the pain. Not the mess. Not the weight of him still inside you.

But you.

You began to drift—your mind pulling back from your body like smoke leaving fire. You stopped feeling the heat.

Stopped feeling your skin.

Stopped noticing the wetness, the burn, the soreness.

Everything just got quiet.

You were still there.

But only just.

And still—he held you.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like he hadn’t said her name.

Like you hadn’t just disappeared in his arms.

He shifted behind you—slowly.

Not speaking. Not sighing. Not asking.

Just…moving.

You felt it first in his chest, the faint inhale against your back, the smallest tension in the arms that still held you like a possession he hadn’t decided to keep.

And then—

He pulled out.

Slow.

So slow you felt every inch.

The drag of him through your swollen, overstimulated cunt.

The stretch pulling back in on itself.

The wet, messy slip of him leaving your body behind.

You gasped, soft and breathless.

Not because it hurt.

But because it left you empty.

His cum didn’t follow—because he never came.

You were slick only with your own pleasure. Your own pain.

And the feeling of it sliding down your thighs as he stepped back—out of you—was too much.

But you didn’t cry again.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

And neither did he.

No apology.

No words.

Just a silence that pressed harder than his hands ever had.

Then—you felt his arms again.

One under your knees.

The other at your back.

And without asking, without a sound, he picked you up.

Bridal style.

Your head lolled back, eyes glassy, breath shallow. Your body too loose to fight him.

Too limp to pretend this was anything other than what it was.

He held you like you mattered.

But he didn’t say a word.

He walked.

Through the long halls. Past the creaking floors and dark corners and too many doors that didn’t matter.

You knew them all.

They all looked the same.

The house that had swallowed you whole now opened for him like it knew the way.

He said nothing as he carried you. No teasing. No venom. No tenderness.

Only silence.

Only guilt worn like ritual.

Until finally—

Your door.

The guest room.

Your room.

He didn’t hesitate at your door. Didn’t knock. Didn’t pause.

Just shouldered it open and stepped inside like he’d been there a thousand times.

Like he belonged.

The room was dim—faint moonlight through cloudy glass, the rain still whispering against the windows. It looked the same as when you left it.

But everything had changed.

He crossed to the bed with slow, even steps.

No rush. No stumble.

And then he lowered you—gently.

Too gently.

Your back touched the mattress like a sigh.

Your head hit the pillow, damp hair fanning out across the case.

His hands lingered only for a second longer than needed.

You didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

You felt him draw back, but not far.

He stood over you, silent, the weight of his stare heavy on your bare throat, your ruined slip, your parted thighs.

You lay there—splayed open, exposed, breathing shallowly.

Not trying to cover yourself. Not able to move.

And still, he said nothing.

No "you were perfect."

No "you’re okay."

No “I’m sorry.”

Just that awful, choking silence.

The kind that follows disaster.

The kind that always comes before the end.

He didn’t speak.

But you felt him move.

Closer.

Down.

His weight shifted the mattress near your hip.

You didn’t flinch.

You couldn’t.

You were still too far away. Floating just above your body like smoke. But the smell of him—the leather, the bourbon, the blood still drying on his skin—anchored you. Dragged you back.

His hand brushed the side of your face.

Just fingertips.

You didn’t close your eyes.

He hovered over you now, expression unreadable in the dimness. Shadows crawled over the sharp cut of his jaw, his parted lips, his eyes—too bright, too dark, too full.

And then, his voice.

Low.

Measured.

Wrecked.

“You won’t remember this.”

Your heart twisted.

Not in fear. Not in resistance. But in something worse.

Because you wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

You’d stopped taking vervain days ago—

Forgotten, maybe. Too exhausted to care. You’d meant to start again. You hadn’t.

And now it was too late.

His fingers slid behind your neck.

Not threatening.

Not rough.

Just steady.

His eyes locked on yours—sharp and endless.

“You’ll remember coming downstairs to make tea. The storm. Nothing else.”

His voice sank lower.

Velvet.

Final.

“You went back to bed. You were tired. You slept through the night.”

And you could feel it already.

The weight lifting.

The ache shifting.

The truth leaving.

Something inside you reached for it, desperate to hold onto even the pain—

But it slipped away.

Quietly.

Completely.

Like it was never yours to keep.

Outside, the rain was still falling. Soft again now.

As if it had never clawed at the windows at all.

[dungeon-strugglers]

✨New item!✨ Charon’s Obol  Wondrous item, rarity varies 

The rarity of this coin is determined by the metal it is made of. A common obol is copper, uncommon is silver, rare is gold, and very rare is platinum. While the coin is in the mouth of a dead creature, it bestows powers upon the corpse, detailed below. Each ascending rarity also grants the properties of the lesser rarities.

Copper. The corpse can’t become undead.

Silver. The corpse can’t be targeted by any necromantic magic.

Gold. The corpse is resistant to all damage and protected from decay. A creature that attempts to remove the coin from the corpse’s mouth must make a DC 15 Constitution saving throw or take 5d10 radiant damage and fail to remove the coin.

Platinum. The corpse is immune to all damage and can't be targeted by any divination magic or perceived through magical scrying sensors. A creature that attempts to remove the coin from the corpse’s mouth must make a DC 16 Constitution saving throw. On a failed save, the creature takes 10d10 radiant damage, fails to remove the coin, and is thrown 20 feet from the corpse. On a successful save, the creature takes half as much damage, removes the coin, and is not thrown.

In lands where necromancers roam and the dead are restless, it is a common burial rite to place an obol in the mouth of the deceased. - 🖌🎨 Like our work? Consider supporting us on Patreon and gain access to the hi-resolution art for over 180 magic items, item cards and card packs, beautiful creature art and stat blocks, and setting pdfs with narrative hooks and unique lore!🧙‍♂️ Thank you so much for your support! 💖

📜 Credit. Art and design by us: the Dungeon Strugglers. Please credit us if you repost elsewhere.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Aemond listening to the reader? Testing her knowledge and conflict resolution skills? Testing her intelligence and ability to help ? OOF, pussy purring. Hehe, here's another chapter, Enjoy <3

Chapter 95: An Offering 

The intimate Dining Hall was full of the Small Council, but instead of the usual calm and relaxed chatter amongst each other, there was tension and unease that spread like wildfire across the table.

It was something you had not quite seen before.

“The rising rebellions can be seen as just an act of the small folk fighting amongst each other.” Ser Otto Hightower argued, looking at Lord Jasper Wylde across the table with something that couldn’t be described as anything else but exacerbation. 

They had been going at it for quite some time, back and forth, all the while, Aemond and yourself watched on silently with the King. 

“And what could be said for the tradesmen who travelled up the Red Fork, only to be commandeered by a small fleet of fishing boats ‘by order of the King’.” Lord Jasper Wylde snapped, cutlery crossed over his half eaten meal.

“Rhaenyra and her council will have to see reason, and know that there were no orders for such an attack.” Otto replied stiffly, eyes flitting over to you, then back to the Master of Law.

Jasper Wylde gave a mirthless laugh, “You expect her and her rabid husband to accept such a thing? They will see this as an act of war. There will be retaliation!”

You frowned, hands twisting against your cutlery at the insult thrown at your father.

“Then let us go to war.” Aegon said boredly, twirling the goblet of ale in his hand, “We have the largest dragon. It is not as if we aren’t waging a silent one with my half-sister and her bastards. We already have her prized daughter here as a bartering piece.”

The taste of copper filled your mouth as you bit your tongue.

“We cannot afford another war.” Otto sneered at his grandson, “To expect that we can would be a farce.”

Aegon sighed loudly, and leant back in his chair, “Then hang the men responsible.”

Lord Wylde all but spluttered into his cup, “And show our men that we see their loyalty as a crime? Your Grace, we must treat this with the utmost delicacy. We already stand on razors edge, one false dip could send us careening over a side that we cannot come back from. Rhaenyra has more support from noble Houses and the common folk than we do. And as it stands, they have the numbers.”

A throbbing headache began to bloom behind your eyes at the constant bickering of men who, for reasons unknown but the cock between their legs, had more power than you. You rested your elbows on the table and rubbed your face with you hands, sighing.

“And we have Aemond.” Aegon mused, sipping his ale, “Brother, I think it is time you see to the rebellions in Riverrun.”

“Your Grace-“ Aemond began, your eyes snapping up to him as your heart began to thump in your chest.

He was going to be sent away again.

“You will treat with the common people and the Lords of the noble Houses at Riverrun who are loyal to me. See to it that you ease their concerns and answer their questions.”

Aemond's jaw ticked.

Aegon smiled at the table, clapping his hands together, “Right, that settles it then. The Prince will go speak with the people.”

Lord Jasper leant forward on the table, “A great bloody war dragon seen flying atop Rhaenyra’s lands could be seen as a threat or act of defiance. Sending Aemond and having him be seen to be treating-“

“- Hasn't stopped him from flying to Harrenhal to fuck his whore. Dead whore, sorry.” Aegon turned to face Aemond, who was still beside you, “We have trade boats go up the Red Fork, do we not?”

“Yes.” Aemond spat.

“Then make it seem as though you are doing business. Talk about taxes or whatever you spoke to me of the other day.” The King's hand fluttered in the air in irritation and dismissal.

Arrogant Cunt.

Aemond’s jaw clicked audibly, and you did not move to console him with his hand as you usually would. You left him to sit in his anger whilst you sat with yours, hands pressed together in a tight ball atop the table.

“This could take some time to find the men responsible and speak with them.” Aemond began, tone clipped, “If they have travelled back down the Red Fork, who is to know where they may be.”

“Then you best hurry and find them.” Aegon snipped, patience dwindling, and cup of ale empty.

“It may take more than a moons time.” Aemond’s voice came out as a growl.

“Then make quick work of it so it is not.”

Aemond sucked in a sharp breath, adams apple bobbing with the heavy swallow he took, “Might I take my Lady Wife with me for the journey. It would be good for the people to see-“

“-No.” Aegon smiled sweetly, “She is to stay in the Keep.”

“Your Grace-“ Lord Jasper Wylde began, but Aegon’s quick snap of his head to the Master of Law soon silenced him completely.

Your breaths came in short and broken stutters, panic rising inside of you. 

Aegon had been quiet too long. 

Far too long. 

And now, he had shown his hand.

Your palms began to sweat, and so you dropped them into your lap, wiping them against the skirts of your gown nervously.

Aemond was going again.

Perhaps, for a long time.

And although there was no whore to greet him, his absence would come at a cost.

Your safety.

You blinked angrily at the King before standing slowly, holding your smiling uncle’s gaze for a beat more before you turned on your heel, and left the chambers without so much as a word of goodbye.

The walk back to your chambers was a daze, and you did not even register that Aemond was following after you with quick and angry steps.

You moved into the chambers, moving to slam the doors shut, which Aemond caught with his fist, closing it behind him. Your heart raced in your chest as you breathed.

Panic.

Anger.

Fear.

“Don’t go.” You turned to face him, watching as he moved across the chambers angrily, chest rising and falling shallowly.

“Don’t go.” You repeated, voice steady.

Aemond watched you.

“He’s going to have me again. You know this, don’t you?” You breathed, trying to keep your composure, and swallow down the fear that climbed up your throat.

Aemond didn’t respond.

“Don’t you?” You sneered.

Aemond blinked, “I won’t let him.”

You shook your head agitatedly, “And how will you do that? You are leaving for more than a moons time! How in the Seven Hells do you expect to be able to keep him from me.”

"Mother knows-"

"Fuck your mother." You sneered, "She let him have me in the first place. She knew and she let him. Just like she has let him with all the other girls before me. With Helaena. With the maids. The young girls in Flea Bottom. Like how you are to let him."

"You think I want to fucking leave you here with that cunt?"

"You do naught else but obey his command like a fucking dog! You are his pet that he throws a bone to, and you wag your tail and thank him. Will you do jumps for him next?"

Aemond shot across the room, hand grabbing your chin roughly as his fingers pinched your skin, breath fanning across your face, "Do you enjoy pushing me to this? Pushing me to anger? Do you have any idea of what I could do to you?" His voice lowered.

"I know all too well of what you are capable of, and I also know what you are incapable of. Namely, keeping your wife safe from your brother. Standing up to the King who doesn't even do his fucking job. You are a slave to your family, and the only thing of value you have to them is your anger."

Aemond jerked your head away roughly, pain striking in the back of your neck as he sneered in your face, "And what of you? Clever remarks and snarky words with no real power? Do you expect me to kill him?"

"Yes. For I would have for you." You snapped, and Aemond's eye twitched, anger simmering dangerously, "I expect you to fucking do something. Anything! If he comes to me, Aemond, my blood is on your hands."

The One-Eyed Prince stood in the centre of your shared chambers, staring at you with a look you could not decipher. 

"Do you hear me?" You spat.

"Do you realise if I refuse his command, he will lock me away as a traitor, and then you will be left to him. Alone. And no one will be there to help you, or tell him no, or keep his depravity away. You do not know him as I do. You have not seen what he has done to others. His attack on you was nothing in comparison to what Helaena had faced. Do you know he watches his bastards in the fighting pits? Watching as he is pleasured by others. I am doing all I can to protect you."

You swallowed thickly, feeling fear prickle across your skin and in the back of your skull.

"You are not doing enough!"

"It will never be enough."

“Take me with you.” You stepped towards him, knee knocking against his, desperation on your lips, “Take me with you. I will ride with you. Do not leave me here.”

Aemond looked away, jaw tensed, “You know I cannot.”

You moved swiftly, grasping his hand to bring his gaze back to you, “Then let us run away together.”

Aemond’s violet eye locked onto your face, the iris alight with fire.

Your hand gripped his tightly, “Give me Vermithor. We can go where we want. Anywhere. Be who we want to be. Fuck duty. Fuck the Crown. Fuck it all. I only need you. Just you and me. We could go anywhere. Dorne. Essos. We could explore the world that has not yet been discovered. Start a new life together.” 

The Prince looked shocked. 

Shocked by your desperation. 

Shocked by your proposition. 

And shocked that you wished to take him with you.

“What holds us here but pain and misery? We could go anywhere we wanted. We ride the largest dragons in the world. Who could stop us? We could start anew. Start a family that isn’t threatened at every moment. No more war. No more Aegon. Just us.” The words kept tumbling from your lips before you could hold them back, like sand slipping between the cracks of your fingers.

“I promise you, he will not touch you.”

Scoffing you stepped back and away from him, snatching your hands away from his, eyes searching his face.

Anger rose above the fear. 

“And what are you going to do? Lock me in these chambers so that no one can come in nor out? Are my days to be spent in the walls? There is no preventing him from getting me. He is the King! The only way for him to not have me is if he was dead. And he’s not. You’re leaving me to be raped by him once more.”

You spun on your heel, feeling the betrayal of tears begin to prick at your eyes, “What if I become pregnant with his child? I cannot go through that again. My heart feels as though it is going to burst forth from my ribs. I am at the end of my rope, kepus. My blood is already on your hands.” 

You walked towards the bed sensing finalisation of what was to come, the cruelty, the abandonment, all of it. And it was too much to bear. You needed to be away. You needed to feel safe. You needed to breathe, and the gown around your body restricted you from doing so.

You ripped at the laces of your gown, letting it fall to the floor at your feet before climbing into the sheets in a desperate attempt to cover yourself and hide.

"You are condemning me to his will." You whispered, memories of his body atop yours flickering behind your eyelids, the sound of his grunts, the smell of his wine laced breath.

The tide overflowed, and tears began to fall, small broken sobs being ripped from your chest. You curled onto your side, hugging your arms to yourself as you thought of what was to come. 

The inevitable. 

And there was nothing you could do. 

Nothing that he would do.

The bed dipped beneath Aemond’s weight as you cried, and the warmth of his arms surrounded you as he pulled you against him, tucking your head beneath his chin to let you cry. 

“This will be our undoing.” You cried, “It will ruin us.”

Aemond stayed quiet, and held you closer, the steady beat of his heart calming you only just.

Soon, you drifted to sleep, tears staining your cheeks in the arms of the man who would leave you to the cruelty of his brother come the morning.

And when the sun rose, and your eyes blinked open, you felt the grip around you tighten further, and the mumbling of your husbands voice atop your head. 

“…Se vīlībāzmio…Tepagon nyke kustikāne…Tepagon zirȳla… Kustikāne… Kepa… Dohaeragon…” The warrior... Give me strength.... Give her.... strength... Father... help...  

Aemond was praying.

“They won’t listen.” You murmured, “No matter how hard I pray, they won’t listen.”

Aemond’s chest rose beneath you, stilling, before he let out the rough breath.

You turned in his arms, face looking up to his, “Valzȳrys,” Husband, You whispered, “Kostilus.” Please.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the corners pulling down into a subtle frown. 

His answer.

I can't.

The lump you had swallowed in your sleep formed in the back of your throat again, and your eyes began to sting, "Jorrāelagon nyke istin tolī pār.” Love me once more then.

Once more before Aegon.

Once more before I die.

Once more before I throw myself from Maegor's Holdfast.

Once more to feel your love.

Aemond rolled you onto your back, climbing on top, not wasting a single moment after your request. It was rushed, it was raw, and he gripped your chemise and ripped it up and off your body to dive his fingers between your legs. 

And yet, you weren’t wet enough for him, fear and sorrow taking your mind elsewhere, so he took his fingers away and spat into his palm, rubbing his saliva over your cunt before pulling his cock out with the other hand.

You tilted your hips up to meet him, and Aemond slid inside of you in one quick movement. 

The stretch stung, but you revelled in the pain as he began to fuck into you quickly, frustration and anger wound tightly in the movement of his hips. You let the tip of his cock beat against the end of your walls and you clenched around him tightly, gasping in the sheets beneath.

His lips met your neck, kissing and sucking against the skin as he marked you, teeth nipping your throat as he continued to thrust against your walls. 

Aemond sped up, one hand snaking down your body to hike your leg up on his hip to piston himself deeper within you, low whines falling from your lips as you arched up into him, the familiar blooming of warmth settling in your gut.

The chambers were filled with the desperate slapping of his hips meeting yours, the soft slick sounds of your cunt squelching between you. 

“Fuck.” Aemond growled, pushing to the limit, his release coming on suddenly as he filled you up with his seed. 

You panted below him, your own release unattended to, and dwindling as he stilled within. You blinked up at the ceiling, Aemond’s head tucked into your shoulder as he breathed before he slowly slid out of your walls. 

You whimpered beneath him, feeling each ridge of his cock catch against the sensitive walls of your cunt. But instead of Aemond pulling out completely, he stilled, leaving the head of his cock within you before thrusting back inside, slower this time.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he shuddered above you, pushing into your wet heat, his seed leaking down out of you and onto the bed below with each thrust.

His hips were pressed snug against you as he rolled, pelvis snagging your pearl with each roll, building your release inside.

“Avy jorrāelan.” I love you, He breathed into your neck, pressing wet kisses into the crux of your shoulder, “Shijetra nyke.” Forgive me.

You whined, tilting your hips to meet his with every thrust, feeling your release mount.

“Iksan vaoreznuni.” I’m sorry, "Shijetra nyke. Shijetra nyke.” Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you held him tightly against you, and soon the coil within you snapped, your body pressing up into him as you writhed beneath, his second peak being pulled from him by your fluttering walls.

You lay beneath him, quivering from your release, and feeling the warm glow seep from your body slowly, and coldness seep into your bones.

He was going.

The first tear fell, and then the next. 

They fell until you could not stop them, and they rolled down your cheeks fatly as you blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving. 

Aemond pulled his neck and looked down at you from above, wiping the tears that fell from your eyes, “Nyke kivio.” I promise, The Prince cooed, letting you sob beneath him, still pressed inside of you,  “Nyke kivio, kesan sagon arlī aderī. Nyke kivio ao. Nyke kivigon naejot ao. Daorys kessa ōdrikagon ao hae bōsa hae iksā ñuhon.” 

I promise, I will be back soon. I promise you. I swear to you. No one shall harm you as long as you are mine.

You shifted beneath him, his softening cock sliding out from inside of you as you turned your head away from him, covering your face. His heat stayed above you for a moment, and then disappeared, the bed dipping as he moved out of it. 

This was it.

Aemond was leaving.

And Aegon would have you again. 

There was no escaping it. 

The sobs that fell from your lips were not hidden, or quiet, but filled the chambers loudly. It was the sorrow of being alone. The sorrow of what was to come. The inability to avoid it. The yearning for him to stay.

Shuffling moved about the chambers, and footsteps came to the side of the bed quickly. A hand pulled yours away from your face, and you blinked up at your husband who sat on the edge of the bed looking at you. 

He was dressed, and looked a blur of black leather from behind your tears. 

He was going to leave. 

He was leaving. 

Aemond whispered your name, twice, waiting for you to truly see him, and see what he was holding out to you. You blinked your eyes, clearing them of the tears as your vision cleared.

There, in the open palm of his wide and pale hand, skin raised beneath by the scar of your union, was a dagger.

Your eyebrows were drawn as you sat up in the bed, looking to your husbands impassive face and then back down to his palm.

“It's yours. Take it.” He whispered to you, “Please.”

The blade itself had the clear markings of Valyrian steel, its metal having its own distinct and cloud like pattern along the blade, a dark silver mottled with even darker flecks.

The handle however, was gold. 

Two dragons curled around each other on the hilt of the blade, their necks and tails almost chasing each other, never quite in reach. And in each claw was a stone.

One of onyx.

One of emerald.

The dragons mouths were opened, sharp pointed teeth bared to the world. 

You looked back up at Aemond.

“Perzys Ānogār.” He whispered.

Fire and Blood.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[tenderwatches]

“It would have been so much easier if…” Viktor trails off, taking a deep breath. For a moment, that surprises him. He hasn’t been able to do that in such a long time; he relishes in the clarity. Maybe there is something to unravelling this cat’s cradle they’ve woven. “If what?” Jayce prompts, barely leaning into the light press of Viktor’s hand on his face. Viktor startles as if just remembering Jayce there, his eyes falling to the man’s face, gaze fixed upon him, rapt with attention. In what fleeting time they have left, Jayce seems resolute in devoting it all to him. His body is already crumbling—why not let his heart follow suit? Why not reach for what he wants in these final moments, even if it tears him to pieces? “If you’d been just like everyone else.”

Chapter 17: If Gravity Yields

All around him, the world is the colour of oxblood. Dull, deep red. Heartbeats sound at his eardrums, rattling against his skull. He grimaces, trying to lift a hand as if he can swat the noise away, but his body feels detached from his brain, lagging behind. It’s so hard to catch up. He breaks into a run.

The sea around him is dark. When he opens his mouth to breathe, neither water nor air rushes through. Instead, there is nothing but the taste of copper, the scent of metal somewhere high in his nostrils. He wants to rub the feeling away, but he cannot lift his hands. He cannot lift his head.

Viktor is reeling. He’s tipping over, backwards over his heels, over his heart, shoulders, and feet. The sensation of water entering his airways overcomes him, coursing over his head, over his face, dislodging his soul from his body. It keeps closing in. He’s being baptised, again and again. He’s falling. He’s in water. Can’t catch up.

Someone is choking him.

His throat hurts, like someone is reaching down it, grabbing his lungs, and turning them inside out. Someone is doing this—doing this to him, and he can’t do anything to stop it. They keep reaching and reaching, and he retches.

Viktor is cold. The world of oxblood is silent. He can’t even hear the wheezing of his own troubled breathing, the telltale sign he’s still alive.

Is he dead?

—·—

Waking is like pulling himself out of the depths of the sump, freeing each part of his brittle body from the pollution. He can’t see but a few centimetres in front of his face, but even then, all he makes out are hazy lights and blurry figures moving across them. He thinks he hears voices, muffled as if they’re speaking to him from beneath that endless sea. Viktor longs to sleep again, but there is an urgency in the back of his awareness, insistently tugging him to the surface. Experimentally, he allows it to move a finger. His body obeys, like a puppet on strings. He decides to move a hand, and it twitches against his side. There’s a long tube extending from the crook of his elbow, where can feel the acute sharpness of a needle taped down against his skin.

He extracts himself from the oxblood-coloured tar. Each passing second makes it faintly easier to resist the siren song of sleep. His eyes are tied down with heavy weights, and they protest when he blinks, hard, to convince them open. A groan frees itself from his throat with outsized effort. He coughs, razor blades slicing through him, seizing him with pain. It’s then that the blurry white figure to his side rushes in. Warmth envelopes his hand, enclosing it in calloused palms.

“Viktor?”

It’s Jayce’s voice, tentative and small. He’s never heard it like that before.

The sight of Jayce standing over him resolves in his vision first, followed by… not much. Jayce is a splash of dull red on white; his tanned skin looks pale, and behind him is only a grey expanse with gold borders where the ceiling meets the walls. Viktor really needs to stop waking up in Piltover hospital rooms.

He looks down when he feels a squeeze of his hand; Jayce is still holding on with both of his, like he’s trying to pull Viktor out of the oxblood. Viktor takes in the sight of him, tracking eyes up his arms; the white sleeves of his coat are stiff with rust-coloured blood splatters, and there’s a large, dark red stain at his shoulder.

Concern rises as a tiny wavelength, like sirens from a long way away. He feels a little drunk. “You look terrible.” The words tumble out of him practically on top of one another. Is he drunk?

“I—?” Jayce laughs, squeezing Viktor’s hand again. “I look terrible?” he repeats, lowering himself to a chair he’s pulled up beside the bed. He rests both elbows on the mattress, still not yet releasing Viktor’s hand from his. “Viktor, you—I—” He breaks off and looks away before taking a deep breath, clearly trying to ready himself for a difficult task. “The doctors, they said you’re…” He can’t look at Viktor as he says it, and Viktor understands.

Dying is not a surprise to him.

That death should come soon is less a revelation than it is mere confirmation. He’s known since he came back to Piltover, since he began tasting copper when he woke up in the morning. Every time his breath stopped shorter than it used to, every time breathing felt like trying to inflate a balloon inside of a vice. Each problem, each failure, a step closer to the death he’s seen awaiting him since he was twelve years old.

The inevitability of it should be comforting, but he’s only resentful.

‘Don’t think you have to be worthy of him first.’

He’s spent his entire life believing he had to earn every pitiful scrap of regard—through brilliance, through innovation, through sheer, stubborn persistence. Now that he’s finally beginning to accept that he doesn’t have to prove himself to be deserving of… anything. Of being alive. Of having a place. Of having Jayce look at him with stars burning in his eyes simply because he exists.

Truly accepting this and facing his mortality is more difficult now than it might have been months ago, when they had yet to find wisps of their old partnership. Now, their silences are less laden with unspoken accusations and rather simply cautious, like they’re testing out a surface frozen over; and here is his ever-traitorous body, insisting that some things can’t be fixed with careful calibration and shared understanding.

“How much time do I have?”

He feels, rather than sees, Jayce’s shock at the question. “You knew?”

“Jayce. It’s my body. Of course I knew.” The hospital blanket is rough under his fingers as he smooths it under his free hand. The movement pulls at the IV in his arm, a tether to reality. Each carefully measured breath still cuts like glass, and the copper he’s tasted on the back of his tongue since waking persists still.

The other man’s face is contorted with pain. “They…” Jayce still can’t look at him. This, more than anything else, frustrates Viktor. He wants to reach over, grab Jayce by the jaw, and turn those eyes onto his, make him face this. He wants to hold him so closely that they exchange air. “They think it’s… ’probable’ you’ll see this year’s Snowdown.” The words are virulent. “And there’s a chance you’ll see the next Progress Day.”

Despite Jayce’s blistering tone, a calm breaks over Viktor as he calculates the time until first, winter and the celebration of the new year and then, summer’s celebration of Piltover’s successes and the Undercity’s remembrance of a time when the price of that success had been half a city, paid to the bottom of the sea.

Five to ten months.

Not nearly as much time as he’d like, but hopefully, it’s enough.

That’s between twenty-two and forty-three weeks—or 152 to 305 days. They certainly had accomplished more with Hextech in less. His throat tightens in a way that has him reaching for the cannula at his nose. Just as he opens his mouth to interrogate Jayce about the Hexcore, two short raps sound from outside the door to the room before it opens.

A dark-haired woman steps through the threshold, clipboard in hand. A bronze stethoscope hangs around her neck, draped alongside a thin golden chain that connects to the horn-rimmed glasses perched over eyes sharpened by years of study and practice. “It’s good to see you awake, Mr… Viktor.” Despite the slightly awkward pause she takes to check his charts, she gives him a reassuring smile.

She minds her expression carefully, keeping it pleasant but neutral. Mild concern passes a shadow over her face as she turns to Jayce. He supposes this is sensible, given Jayce’s rumpled and bloodied state. “Mr. Talis, I’d like to speak to Mr. Viktor,” she begins, and the way Jayce catches Viktor’s eye makes him gently interrupt.

“He can stay.”

“Oh—yes.” The second too long that she looks at him gives away her surprise, which she underscores with the rest of her statement. “He is your primary medical contact.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to be caught off-guard—he’d forgotten entirely. All those years ago, in the early days of their partnership, when Jayce had learnt he didn’t have family to speak of back in the Undercity, and had insisted. He looks at Jayce, who mouths, ‘I was going to tell you,’ pleading wide eyes conveying something other than what Viktor previously assumed to be unease at the thought of being sent away.

Viktor looks back to the doctor, who stands waiting for his attention with such patience that he begins to feel foolish. “Right. Of course.” He shifts against the pillows, acutely aware of how quickly he had jumped to defend against a threat that wasn’t there.

She introduces herself as Dr. Granet and goes on to fill him in on everything that transpired over the morning and early afternoon. “You experienced a severe haemoptysis episode, or bleeding in your lungs. When Mr. Talis brought you in, you were already showing signs of shock.”

Dr. Granet lists the necessary interventions: bronchoscopy, medications, and suctioning when he’d failed to continue coughing out the blood on his own. That explains why swallowing feels like trying to choke down a handful of screws. Viktor half-listens with clinical detachment, as if she’s describing procedures performed on someone else. His mind is still caught on the simple fact that—after everything, their bitter falling out, two years apart—Jayce is still listed as the person to call, the person to advise on his care, should he be incapable of doing so himself.

Instead of being revolted by this idea, he’s only a bit taken aback. Though he feels he ought to be aghast, he can only summon a light chastisement of himself for not having a clearer plan in place for Jayce to follow.

“… Which brings us to our current concerns about your heart function.” Dr. Granet’s voice pulls him out of his ludicrous train of thought. “Your chronic respiratory issues, combined with environmental factors, have accelerated the progression of your underlying condition.”

“His heart?” Jayce interjects, his grip tightening on Viktor’s hand. “I thought this was a lung condition—” He breaks off, looking to Viktor with soft apology for his outburst. Viktor merely offers a one-shouldered shrug; it’s easier, he thinks, if Jayce hears the doctor explain. These details are not new to him, but they fall short of being familiar. He hasn’t thought about the particulars of his mortality in such a long time.

Dr. Granet nods, still patient. “Damaged lungs oxygenate blood poorly—which is why the oxygen treatments help—but over time, the strain of pumping oxygen-poor blood throughout the body can lead to heart failure,” she explains, pausing to let them take in the information. Viktor feels numb to the news that, in yet another way, his body is determined to fail him. “Continued exposure to the Gray only compounds these effects.” Her face softens as she looks between them, and Viktor has the distinct impression neither of them is going to like what she’s about to say. “I believe it’s time we discuss palliative care options.”

Jayce’s hand tightens on his again. Viktor blinks down at their joined fingers, having forgotten that Jayce had never let go. The urge to pull away thrashes to life inside him—this isn’t Jayce’s burden to bear anymore; it hasn’t been for years—but Jayce hangs onto the doctor’s every word. His thumb worries over the tendons of his own hand, the way he usually does with the rune he wears. Maybe this connection is as much for Jayce as it is for him. He’s too tired to fight with himself over this, and Jayce’s grip is warm, steady. He closes his eyes.

So much has transpired in a single day. He still feels like he might be in a time outside of time, like the blue-grey walls of this room aren’t real, like if he steps outside it will all fade away, leaving only him, Jayce, and their work. Their work—his work—the Hexcore, undulating unobtrusively in the lab, as if it weren’t a bomb apt to self-annihilate with the power of a small sun.

“I see,” he says at last, opening his eyes again to address the doctor. He doesn’t look at Jayce, not yet. “Thank you, Dr. Granet. May we speak of it later? I’d… I’d like some time to process.”

Dr. Granet nods, acknowledging them both with a smile that feels genuinely compassionate. “Of course. Take your time.” She reaches to the side of his bed, procuring a small remote with a single button. “This controls the pain medication in your IV,” she explains. “In case you need it. We can discuss your treatment and management plan tomorrow.” Viktor thanks her again, and she excuses herself with another smile that he makes some effort to return. He’s uncertain of how successful he is, but he’s grateful when the door clicks shut behind her.

He waits only a moment before turning to Jayce. “What decisions did you make for me?” The question comes out softer than he intends, the edge of accusation dulled by exhaustion. Judging by the way Jayce looks at him, however, what remains is still sharp enough to maim.

“I—Viktor, I only… did what I thought you would want,” Jayce croaks, fingers tightening again on Viktor’s.

He holds back the words that almost lash out, ‘How would you know?’, recognising that perhaps, in his recent weeks of temperamental health, he has been harsher than he’s intended, quicker to anger, and harder to calm. He breathes a long sigh, his attention falling again to their joined hands. Whilst he’s noted, repeatedly, that Jayce has not let go—neither has he. He turns his hand, almost experimentally, within the cocoon of Jayce’s palm, fingers curling in the cavern of it. “What happened?” He doesn’t look up when he asks the question; instead, he traces the heart line of Jayce’s hand with the tip of his index finger.

“We—well, we were arguing,” Jayce grates out, words resistant, “and you—”

“No,” Viktor interjects with a shake of his head. “Not that. Tell me what you were doing with the Hexcore. And… everything that came before.”

Jayce seems hesitant to speak, but Viktor fixes him with a steady look.

“Would you… believe me if I said I was trying to protect you?”

Viktor’s blood prickles in his veins at the mention of, yet again, being protected.

“Not—not like that. Not like you’re incapable.” Jayce’s hands tighten around Viktor’s as if he can physically hold onto this moment in which Viktor is willing to listen. “I made a mistake.” His admission echoes words he said this morning that Viktor only hazily remembers. “I’m so, so sorry, V. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

He sounds broken, so much like the first day they’d met, when he’d lamented to Viktor that no one believed in the extraordinary work he was doing. Recalling that night renders Viktor silent, and Jayce continues with momentum building behind his words. “You were… killing yourself. It—it scared me. You scared me, Viktor. I know you don’t have a lot of people. I—I know I am your people. And I was watching you die faster because of the things you were doing to yourself—and I felt responsible because you didn’t have anyone else.”

“I don’t need your pity.” Viktor moves to rise with this protest but encounters the limits of the cannula snaking from under his nose to the oxygen hooked up somewhere behind him. He huffs a short breath and levels Jayce with a glower, but it lacks heat. The anger he wants to summon feels distant, muted by the doctor’s words and their recent enlightening.

“… There’s a chance you’ll see next Progress Day.”

“… Can lead to heart failure…”

Five to ten months.

The familiar weight of resentment sits in his chest alongside the perpetual ache of his failing lungs, but as he looks at Jayce—still stained with Viktor’s own blood, still holding his hand like it’s the only reason he can stand to be in his body—Viktor finds he’s too tired to bear it even if he doesn’t know how to release it. “You are not responsible for me, Jayce Talis.”

“I know I’m not.” Jayce sounds like Viktor’s rebuttal causes him physical pain. “It’s not that I think you can’t—”

“I understand that.” Viktor cuts in to spare Jayce any further trampling of words, his hand curling into a fist between the other man’s palms. The warmth of them makes his skin hum with an uncomfortable awareness. Jayce acted out of love and ignorance, not judgment or malice, and yet his concern resulted in such catastrophe. Viktor’s shoulders slump slightly as he exhales. “But Jayce, I am not your burden—”

“You’re not a burden.” Jayce’s grasp on his hands tightens again when Viktor almost jerks away. The desperate press of his fingers seems to say, ‘Please, don’t go.’ “You saved my life, Viktor.”

Viktor’s lips twist into a bitter grimace. He’d thought himself free of the Undercity’s chokehold on debts. Piltover operates on political social laws; favours speak to strategy, not transaction. And yet, it seems this one act has forever bound Jayce to him, dragging his brilliance down with Viktor’s inevitable gravity. “That does not mean you have some contractual obligation to show me gratitude—”

“It’s not like that!” Jayce is flustered, eyes darting down to the red stains on his coat sleeves. Viktor can practically feel his hands itching to pick at them, to move, to run back through his hair in frustration. Instead, those hands simply hold onto him, as if letting go will be the end of everything. As if, by letting go, Jayce will let them come apart at the seams. “I say it because it’s the only thing that compares to the… the depth of our relationship.” He pauses here, as though weighing the faithfulness of his words against his intent. Jayce sighs, eyes falling to Viktor’s hand where his thumb has begun drifting over the finely boned knuckles. For one wild second of delusion, Viktor thinks he might kiss them. “At what point are you going to realise I would do anything to keep you safe?”

There’s a note of distress in his voice that makes Viktor break apart and come together in that single second. Pity, he knows how to reject; he’s spent his entire life spitting in its face, proving he isn’t helpless. But this—Jayce speaking as if to do for him is to satiate a need—begs him for his blessing. When he speaks, it’s almost a plea in return, but he doesn’t know what for. “I didn’t ask you to keep me safe.”

“You didn’t have to. I want to.” Jayce is breathless now. “I want to,” he repeats, pulling himself closer by their conjoined hands. He moves from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed. Their hands part for only the brief moment it takes for Jayce to turn Viktor’s over, then Jayce is seeking out the centre of his palm, gently spreading his clenched fist open until he can interlace their fingers. His other hand reaches up to Viktor’s face, and Viktor flinches away from the gesture. It feels too tender, too intimate, like all the things he’s imagined he can never have. Jayce looks wounded, but brushes back a stray lock of Viktor’s hair, gently nudging the loop of the cannula back over his ear when it momentarily comes free with the movement. “I’m your people, whether you like it or not. And you’re mine too.”

Viktor’s eyes soften; he swallows, and though his throat still hurts, the pain is almost grounding.

“I’m sorry, V.” Jayce is looking just to the side of him instead of at his face. His soft, honeyed eyes blink unseeing at the hospital bedsheets. He seems one foot in another world, perhaps the past, thinking of all the things he should have said and done differently. “I didn’t realise that someone like Holloran would be on the committee.” He settles his hand back down over their interlocked fingers. “When I filed that complaint, I figured they’d review the timeline, maybe make you revise the methodology. A bureaucratic slap on the wrist at worst.”

“Holloran?” Viktor raises an eyebrow, recalling Caitlyn Kiramman’s story about Jayce causing a scene at one of her mother’s functions. “Is that why you threw him through a champagne tower?”

Jayce grimaces, his countenance going sheepish as he looks down at his lap. “One of*…* many reasons.” His thumb traces absent patterns on Viktor’s knuckles. “I knew there was prejudice in Piltover, but I never imagined—” He swallows hard. “He had these… ‘newsletters’, you know? About… I don’t know, what he thinks ‘progress’ and ‘equality’ mean, about how some people ‘work for what they have’, as if other people don’t.”

Viktor’s breath condenses into a thin exhale; he sees the way Jayce’s face twists, going ashen with the bitterness of grappling that hypocrisy. This sort of thinking is not new information to him; it’s a recurring wound, a barely covert infection that lurks within Piltover’s gleaming infrastructure. The voices Jayce references are not isolated incidents—a case of one man and his bulletin—but of him, his readers, and their networks, a monolithic architecture constructed of rigid beliefs that sort people into categories of who is deserving and who is not.

“It seemed so… outlandish. So contrary to what Piltover is supposed to stand for—we’re the City of Progress!” Jayce shakes his head at the words, seeming to recognise a fraction of the gilt lies his city is built upon. “We’re supposed to reward innovation and merit. The idea that someone would want to destroy your career, even after everything you’ve contributed, just because you came from the Undercity… I couldn’t fathom it. I thought they’d treat you like anyone else. I was wrong—and that—” His breath catches, and in that moment, it seems a single breath might shatter him. “That cost you… so much.”

What must it feel like to find such prejudice not only unexpected, but even impossible? How painful to watch that innocence shatter against reality’s sharp edges. Jayce’s remorse is palpable, but if only he could truly know how much returning to the Undercity had cost Viktor. If only Jayce could live in his body, feel the way the Gray crawled under his skin, wrapping its greedy fingers around his lungs with unchallenged satisfaction.

It says, ‘You’ve always belonged to me.’

Creeping down his throat, ‘Like I would ever let you go.’

But Jayce doesn’t know this—he only knows his own guilt. Viktor burns for the furious indignation of this morning, but his heat is a dying ember, and each word from Jayce extinguishes a bit more of its spark. The fight to hold onto his wretched feelings of injustice—of betrayal—dims with it until it flickers out completely. Viktor wants to believe him. To lie in the solace of Jayce’s words, of his soul-spent apologies, is to be freed. To bathe in his soft, arduous promises is to be home.

In the still air, the hiss of Viktor’s oxygen supply cuts through the tension in periodic puffs. When Viktor parts his lips, he feels his mouth working in slow motion. “And my work?”

A grimace twists Jayce’s features into something guilt-torn and piteous. “It… became everything to me. Every time I looked at it, at your handwriting…” Jayce shakes his head, squeezing Viktor’s hand as if to reassure himself that they are both still here. With strength enough to continue, he forges on, words beginning to spill like water as he lays himself open. “I saw a bit of how you think—of your mind. I saw you—and how much a part of myself was missing without you.” Jayce chokes on the confession and has to take another deep, steadying breath. “I’m sorry if that sounds selfish. I couldn’t… bear the thought of you coming back and confronting some stagnant thing when you could have made so much more progress if I hadn’t—”

“What made you so sure I’d come back?”

The words slip out before Viktor can think to stop them. Jayce’s shoulders tense until he forces out a long exhale, bidding them to relax as he releases the breath. It’s a habit he’s carried since Viktor has known him, something he’s seen every time Jayce has had to weather another delay or derailment of their dream. It’s always his instinct to try and shield others from his pain.

“I mean, I tried to get them to overturn it as soon as it happened.”

The words are simple, delivered with a characteristic directness he’s come to know well. Viktor searches Jayce’s face for a hint of his thoughts, but there’s only raw, unguarded honesty there. No grandstanding, no excuses or rationalisations—just one man, trying desperately to bring back someone he cared about. As if individual action could overcome the reach of such deeply ingrained prejudice. As if caring enough could change everything.

The underlying exhaustion in Jayce’s features speaks not to fatigue from the day’s events, but to the bone-deep weariness of carrying an emotional weight for a very long time. “I… I didn’t have my influence as a councillor anymore, but… I could lean on my connections.” Jayce falters over the words, brows furrowed.

His tense posture suggests he’s bracing for rejection—and yet the way he leans into the space between them ever so slightly betrays his hope for acceptance.

“I’m sorry, I knew you’d probably hate it, but… It’d been more than a year at that point, and after you collapsed in that factory, I thought—I mean, even before everything happened, you were getting sicker, so—I thought—” His voice breaks, goes small. “I thought you might die hating me.”

A tightness coils inside of Viktor, a pull he has to almost physically push back against to avoid being crushed into a tiny, dense ball of mass. The heaviness is all-consuming, like the centre of a black hole, bleeding all his energy towards an event horizon. He’s poured so much of himself into the vast, gaping pit of his anger—he has nothing left he wishes to sacrifice to it. Each breath draws attention to the weight in his chest, the way his body betrays him more with each passing day. Perhaps it’s why they’ve made it here, to this moment when they both wear nothing but their shameful truths.

“I never hated you, Jayce,” he breathes. Now he’s the one reaching up to touch Jayce’s jaw, noting how it trembles—or maybe that’s this hand quivering. “I wanted to. It would have been easier.” The words twine between them, complex and fragile as spider silk, as he measures each word against the cost of speaking it. “But I could not.”

Even when he’d thought the most uncharitable things of the other man, when he had been convinced that Jayce had condemned him to die the lonely death of a forgotten man, Viktor hadn’t hated him. How could he hate the person he loved so much that his very bones were riddled with the need to be near him? That the pain of leaving Piltover was not the pain of being cast out, but of separation? In the end, what had inspired such vitriol in him was not Jayce’s betrayal, but his own stubborn refusal to stop loving him.

Viktor’s life is full of traps he’s never been able to free himself from. His body, society, Jayce—all endless loops he can’t exit. There’s an overwhelming fear that this will be just like the last time. He’ll trust Jayce, give him the bird-fragile bones of his life, and Jayce, whether he means to or not, will crush him.

Losing himself in the lie that Jayce was just like all the others offered him a measure of protection. He’d thought if he could file this man away with the rest of the Piltover elite, he would be free of the longing, the guilt, and the humiliation of loving him.

“It would have been so much easier if…” Viktor trails off, taking a deep breath. For a moment, that surprises him. He hasn’t been able to do that in such a long time; he relishes in the clarity. Maybe there is something to unravelling this cat’s cradle they’ve woven.

“If what?” Jayce prompts, barely leaning into the light press of Viktor’s hand on his face. Viktor startles as if just remembering Jayce there, his eyes falling to the man’s face, gaze fixed upon him, rapt with attention. In what fleeting time they have left, Jayce seems resolute in devoting it all to him. His body is already crumbling—why not let his heart follow suit? Why not reach for what he wants in these final moments, even if it tears him to pieces?

“If you’d been just like everyone else.” The admission costs him something he’s been holding onto for far too long—the protective shell of his embittered pain. The loss of it exposes him in a way that makes his chest tight, but continuing is easier than he thought possible. “I told myself so many stories about why you did it. About what you must have seen in me to make you turn against me.” That he was just another Undercity wretch after all, incurable of the blight that had turned them vile. That perhaps Jayce had finally seen through his carefully constructed facade of belonging, had recognised what others did: Viktor’s origins were tainted; they would always hold fast and steer him. “I believed… or made myself believe,” he honestly isn’t sure which, “that you really… thought of me that way. Jealous, selfish, immoral.”

Jayce makes a pained sound. “Viktor, no—”

“I know.” His hand falls to where Jayce’s is still clasped around his other, this nucleus of their tangled fingers resting against the muscle of his thigh. In this configuration, Viktor’s limbs look like tissue paper and bones. “I know it’s not true. But it was easier, too, than admitting how much power you had to hurt me.” He withdraws both his hands from Jayce’s. Saying all this exhausts him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. “And… easier than knowing that I gave that power to you freely.”

“I would never.” Jayce leans ever closer, heedless of Viktor’s retreat. His warmth radiates concern and covenant, like a moth drawn to the beacon of Viktor’s wanting, beckoned to touch, to soothe. He doesn’t. Viktor’s breaths break against the walls of his lungs, his insides hollow like the sound of the sea.

Viktor nods, unable to help but feel small. He’d thought the worst of Jayce in the time they were apart, even when it was a struggle to do so. He knew this man all too well, knew his heart, knew his furious devotion to being just and doing good. But in the early days of their parting, he would have gouged out his eyes if they threatened to show him the truth. “Jayce?”

His former partner turns to look at him, warm eyes weary but attentive. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Surprise overtakes his features. Before the man can form a question, Viktor continues, lest he lose his nerve.

“To have thought you capable of… such deceit. I—there are things I have come to expect in life. Deceit is one of them. But I should have… Our many years together should have been testament enough against that.”

“Viktor,” Jayce murmurs, and Viktor has never heard his name carry so much. The name comes out as a soft acknowledgement and a gentle protest against the blame Viktor has laid against his need for self-preservation. “I didn’t tell you all this so you’d forgive me, and—”

“I know you did not,” Viktor interrupts, voice firm, but there’s a tenderness that lingers around the edges. “But, I do.” The words hang between them, delicate as spun glass. “I am… still a bit angry. But I forgive you.”

Then, strong arms are sliding around his body, leaning down to pull him close without disrupting the tubes trailing off of him.

Jayce holds him like that long enough to convey all his stronger feelings and what remains unsaid between them. There still must be truths to shed, questions he hasn’t thought to ask, answers he’d long since thought lost to him. Viktor feels his limbs going slack, the allure of dissolving into this embrace defeating his resolve. This comfort and reassurance long to heal the rift between them, even whilst acutely aware of the pain that caused it. Jayce says nothing else, and there is no need to.

Finally, Viktor leans back against the pillows, and silence settles in the room. Jayce is a celestial body, his weight on the mattress tipping Viktor’s body towards him. He’s Jayce’s moon, trapped in his orbit, but never wanting to leave it.

The moment stretches between them before Jayce draws in a deep breath to finally speak again. “Can… can you—I don’t know, V. Can you just tell me how you’re feeling? I need to know you’re all right.” Even now, his voice has that restrained, pleading quality to it. “Or when you’re not all right. I can’t—” He swallows. “I can’t lose you again.”

His words are almost lost in the curve of his body. He curls into himself, childlike, as the weight of these past hours drags him down into the folds of Viktor’s hospital sheets. Viktor is watchful, lost halfway between thought and lassitude. Then, Jayce’s head comes to a rest against Viktor’s thigh, hands planted to either side as if bowing in supplication. The weight of him is grounding, but it’s an inapposite ache against the sense he’s been there all along. His hand hovers with trepidation before settling in Jayce’s dark hair, thin fingers disappearing into unusually dishevelled locks.

“I cannot promise to satisfy everything you wish to know,” Viktor finally states. “But I will… try to be more forthcoming.” His fingers card through the dark strands. The touch is butterfly-light, but it’s as much as he dares. “But you must promise to stop hovering like an anxious mother hen.”

Jayce releases a huff that might be a laugh. “Deal,” he confirms, his eyes still closed. “But since you can’t ‘promise to satisfy’ me, all bets are off if you collapse on me again.”

“This is acceptable.” Viktor’s lips quirk upwards despite himself.

The steady rise and fall of Jayce’s breathing begins to slow, and Viktor realises he’s falling asleep right there, head pillowed on Viktor’s good leg. He thinks of sending him home to wash and rest properly; he must surely be a health hazard, blood-splattered as he is… but this moment feels too precious to break.

Viktor lets his own eyes close as sleep lulls him ever closer, his hand, protective and possessive, resting in Jayce’s dark hair. His body is still heavy. Every breath feels like hurricanes of glass in his chest, but a sense of novelty has begun to wash over him. It’s a strange feeling. Not lighter, but it’s as though by allowing the truth to reveal itself from shadows cast by fear and mistrust, he has lessened his burden.

There’s still so much to talk about, and even when he considers his dwindling days, he can’t bring himself to surface it. The Hexcore, Jayce’s progress, his own grim prognosis, and its implications for their work—all of it disperses, falling away as easily as the universe tends towards entropy.

Though it had sustained him, in a way, Viktor feels the fight drain from him, not in defeat but in a conscious choice to release it from their mutual embrace. His body is still leaden against the crisp hospital sheets, and there remains a hot, stabbing pain somewhere in his chest, but something deeper still feels light enough to be carried on a breeze. The irony doesn’t escape him—that here, pinned between Jayce and his mortality, he finally feels free to simply exist. Lulled in by the beckoning comfort of Jayce’s presence, Viktor relinquishes himself to suspension.

“Like he’s the world. Like you’re his moon, pulled in by his gravity.”

[first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3]

[roseglazedlens]

⦑ THE FUCKING DEAD ⦒ RESOLUTION [PART 5]

➠ series masterlist | ⏪part 4 | ⏩part 6 |

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓┇𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑┇𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐅𝐈𝐂┇𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 LEON S. KENNEDY / CARLOS OLIVEIRA / JILL VALENTINE / ADA WONG X AFAB GN! READER As the rescue team retraces footsteps of their MIA agents, they find out the virus is more than what it appears. Waiting to be opened like a pandora's box inside this eerie mansion. NOTES: 🔞18+ READERS ONLY - NO MINORS🔞 descriptions of blood, zombies, injuries, death, realistic dolls, virus, fire weapons, rotten food, and mould. mentioned pegging. many action elements, a little closer to the plot reveal. includes two minor oc's in the unit. written in chris and rebecca's pov (reader is mentioned, not present). 8.7 k words | reblogs appreciated!

EMPLOYEE QUARTERS – 3:02 AM.

Who knows since when, the front door entered by the last squad is bolted shut, windows on the first and second floor barred. Inspection around the perimeter reports none of the side doors can be budged. Except one, secretly veiled away through a narrow, overgrown path only accessible from the backstreet.

An inconspicuous door can be found at the end of the passage, made of the same stone brick wall attached onto the thick mahogany door, vines enshrouding the exterior.

Presumably, this is the employee’s entrance. Much less glorious than the fountain driveway view where an imaginary doorman invites you into the residence by the ten-feet-tall double doors. This entry desperately needs weeding; the door is worn, rusted metal handles and weak hinges signal negligence in maintenance for years.

Chris, leading in first with his impromptu rescue squad of six, pushes down the copper handle, and lets it swing out. Wood squeaks slowly until the hinges fully extend, thudding serenely to a stop.

From within, a hollow void. Not a sound, nor a creak to be heard from the blackness of the echo chamber besides the six footsteps. A cold chill like a woman’s breath blows onto their necks from the outside, slowly swallowed by the thick odour of mildew and mould.

Someone rummages for a light switch, clicks it, and clicks it the other way again. Power’s out, of course. Chris presses on his earpiece, and just as he thought, communication to the outside is already fizzing into distortions. There will be no one from the outside to rescue them once they venture into the thick of this freak house.

They turn on the flashlight attachment on their rifles for convenience. It’s going to be difficult navigating through the dark, and vital for the unit to err on the side of caution. Who knows what ambushes Arias had conjured for an unwelcomed surprise, knowing his guarded nature.

“Agent Chambers. Do we have location?” Chris asks.

“I can’t track our exact location until the GPS is fixed. But I can tell you that the unit should be around south-east of the mansion according to their last known coordinates, which is approximately… that way.” Rebecca draws out an old-school compass from her pouch and points towards the left side of the hallway according to her device.

“Thank you, Chambers.” Chris states blankly. Rebecca taps her head down to acknowledge once. The air is damp with bitterness, only felt between them.

The front of the entrance invites them to a mudroom with a wide nook sweeping along the broads of the wall. The inner wood panel is enveloped by speckles of mould; more than half of the hangers are still occupied. Chris traces a thin sheet of dust along a puffer jacket.

“Captain, take a look at this.” A thick Hispanic accent gravels out. The figure behind Chris is almost as tall as himself. His face concealed but his personality undeniable focused and direct. Chris vaguely remembers the man’s name through a rushed introduction, Gabriel, sent by B.S.A.A.’s South American branch as a gesture of goodwill.

Gabriel points to the vague darkness behind himself. Chris turns away from the racks, directed into the lounge room around the corner. It is adorned with modest furniture: a few couches, a television, openly connected to the kitchen, and long dining table.

Above the table, there lies a bitten sandwich with splotches of green mould, mugs drank only halfway and meals abandoned before they were done. Leaving the uncut vegetables, dairy, raw beef, as they were for the inhabitation of fungi.

Everyone in the room right now is grateful for Rebecca’s last-minute idea for the masks to give them some coverage for the stench.

“November 19. Tch, all the food had expired five months ago. What a waste, tch.” This voice is deeper in timbre than Gabriel’s with a tendency to click his tongue at any inconvenience. He must be the other assigned unit, Miguel.

“That week was the first A-Virus attack in the world.” Rebecca comments solemnly. Can there be such a coincidence?

“Whatever they had to do, they left in a hurry.” Chris glances around the room once more. What business could they have to evacuate so suddenly?

“A-Are they going to be o-okay?” Nerves are getting a hold of the rookie; the flashlight circle from Johnny’s rifle is visibly shuddering. “What if those m-m-monsters got to them?”

“Can’t be since there’s no struggle. Like they’d blipped in time.” Mike suggests the possibility by recreating the events with his free hand, even uttering a fainted pooof! drifting into the silence for sound effect.

“Nothing had been in and out of this place for a week. Whoever’s left might be starving.” Unless all the employees had left way earlier. But there is an aching dread in Chris’ gut that fears this may not be the case. Just like the other MIA agents who are somewhere in this lodging. There must be more to this story.

“Search for any survivors in the area and stay in line of sight. Don’t ever split up.” Chris orders, looking directly into the darkness of the narrow hallway beyond.

“Yes, Captain!” Five voices bark in response.

- - -

It feels like they had walked for an eternity, through a series of sharp turns, with no visual signs of the end, only mould growing thicker and thicker the further they venture. It was the same portrait, same console table, decorated by the same damned tablecloth over and over again.

On top of the white laced cloth, there is always a baby, barely three months old.

It shook Rebecca in the beginning until she notices the infant is completely still. It’s only a doll. A very realistic one at that, dressed from head to toe in pink and frills.

After what seems like the tenth doll, the discomfort in her brews whenever Rebecca passes by. She can’t help but notice how glassy their eyes, how those irises and pupils look too damn realistic. Like real human eyes, staring. Like it can cry. Every time light hits those pearly beads, whatever light the darkness can spare anyway, Rebecca swears the doll is looking directly at her each time. She wonders if she had gone crazy.

Perhaps it was one of Arias’ secret hobbies… like Arias’ pegging fetish she unfortunately discovered in the depths of a gossip forum. Hey, it’s not her place to say what a billionaire can or can’t do for recreation if it isn’t harming anyone… besides his own crack, maybe.

That took her mind off the creepy temporarily. Nobody else seem to mind, or if they did, they didn’t say a thing. Chris in particular—his mind never left the objective.

“Anyone home? This is B.S.A.A. We’re looking for survivors. Any survivors? Survivors, please show yourself.” Chris announces their presence at every door that meets him along the corridor, bellowing out to make survivors known of their rescue.

But only the echo of himself returns his call, corridor after corridor, room after room, in the humble living quarters that is nothing more than a bunk bed and two desks. Not a soul nor a zombie in sight. But they haven’t given up yet. There is still plenty of the mansion unexplored.

The next door they encounter is different, standing out prominently against the rest with its steel surface, while the rest mahogany wood. And despite this whole area already zoned off from general access, a sinister sign on top warns that this place is off limits to even most employees.

The six of them look at each other and decide silently in unison to investigate inside.

LABORATORY – 3:17 AM

Chris is the first to enter the laboratory, stepping inside the darkness without hesitation to encourage his subordinates to follow suit without fear. Some sticky sensation is caught between their soles, leaving their every footstep. Mike notices first, and he aims his flashlight onto the ground.

Blood red pools, splattered across the bleached tiles in trails like spider lilies, painted across white coats of motionless bodies only several feet away from them… fifty of them. Beyond that, a daring splash of struggle across the mighty propane tank hulking over the centre of the laboratory.

Rebecca winces at the sight; her first time witnessing such a bloodshed. Chris notices, bringing a step forward to shield her from the sight.

“What the fuck happened here…” Chris growls. Before he can take another bloodied step, he hears someone making a retched groan.

It was Johnny, tightening his vocals to hold back a scream, but instead, it erupts into a high pitch shriek of fear instead.

The bodies react to the sound, starting to move. At first, only slight like the trick of an eye. Then, the torsos rise in isolation, head turning slow almost 180 degrees, eyes affixed on the intruders. Their skin ashen grey, veins and arteries pop out freshly, where the stench is the most putrid here.

All six soldiers ready their rifles. Avoiding big movements, slowing their limbs backwards to the way out. The zombie hoard of many dozens in front of them matches their pace, unsure whether friend or enemy.

Something falls. Slipping away from Rebecca’s back pocket, a metallic cylinder case—long and thin, that a ballpoint pen will fit perfectly inside. It crashes onto the floor, a light thud. But in the quiet room with nothing but hostile hisses and crackling of bones, the zombies pounce at the same time at the sign of confirmation.

Gunshots fire, without restraint, bullets whizzing across the room, taking aim. Shots pierce into the desaturated skin, but no blood manifests from those wounds. The water source that pumps into their hearts had dried up a long time ago. Even bullets hitting directly into the skull merely stuns them temporarily, and they rise back onto their feet in no time.

The unit is very effective and spares little ammunition for the unnecessary—but they are solely six humans in an army of undead. They can’t hold them off forever. If they are cornered, that’s it.

Rebecca, however, has her eyes set on something else instead of the massacre in front of her.

My case…. Where is my case! She thinks as her eyes dart around the ground in desperation, between legs and fallen bodies. Something shiny under a chair peeks out in the corner of her eye.

There it is! Despite every fibre of her gut opposing her, Rebecca advances further inside to retrieve it at all costs. She doesn’t dare to stray her eyes away from the container, fearing it will escape her again. Someone kicks it; the metal leaps and rolls near the lab console next to the large cylinder tank.

She makes her way over and tries to lay her rifle on top of the console. It slides due to its slanted surface, so she leans her rifle against the tank for support.

Some of Rebecca’s right palm brushes the metal sheet, and immediately, a stinging heat like a million thorns set her hand ablaze. She flings her arm away, winces, and notes the parts of skin that contacted the tank is patched red with small cysts forming.

The propane tank can easily fit 200 gallons inside. With closer observation, she can hear the flow of water bubbling, churning in its mechanism, pushing out steaming sounds. Rebecca notes that the tank is connected by ductwork.

“What’re you doing, Rebecca!?” Chris explodes, and Rebecca jolts in place, bringing her consciousness back to the present where she remembers they are amid a zombie attack.

She plants her entire body flat onto the ground, detecting the cylinder stuck under the console through a thin gap. The console isn’t secured to the floor, so Rebecca tries budging it to no avail. It’s too heavy.

Rebecca shoves her arm into the gap; her fingers slid in successfully, but it’s stuck on the protruding bone of her wrist. She outstretches her fingers, the tip of it almost reaching the roundness she is seeking. She just needs a bit more distance.

“Rebecca! Out, now!” She can hear Chris warn from afar. “This is an order!”

“One second!” Rebecca thrusts in a bit harder, and a bit more of her wrist enters at the cost of rough friction scratching her wrist bone. Her nail catches it, and she rolls it underneath the pads of her fingers. Now she just needs to lea…

……Wait. Wait, wait, wait. She can’t leave. Her wrist is jammed. Rebecca can’t take it out even if she uses her entire body weight to lean against the pull. Her face is still planted and vulnerable.

Danger is advancing ever the closer. She can hear it even if she can’t see it. The irregular beats of staggering footsteps increase in volume, snarls getting curious. It won’t be long before she is discovered. But what other choice does Rebecca have now?

As if a sign from above, dim light starts to creep under the table as it lifts, freeing her wrist. Rebecca grabs the case securely into her hand and pulls it back.

Right behind her is Chris, forearm muscles pulsing in tension as he hoists the entire console, slamming it face first onto the two zombies eyeing at them both. They tumble backwards and groans.

Chris’ face darkens with rage, grabbing Rebecca’s shoulder around his arm as if to caution her reckless behaviours, and commands: “You. With me. Now.”

Rebecca, simply glad that she is still alive, nods and lets Chris pull her up in one forceful motion. As soon as Rebecca’s weight is back on her feet, he pushes her along with both arms, propping the rifle under his right arm, tunnelling his vision to the exit. But zombies are visible from all four corners. They are surrounded.

Abruptly, a cold arm wraps Chris from behind, ensnaring the captain in place to serve him on a platter to its zombie friends. Chris squeezes the rifle closer to his sides, and with the strength of his entire triceps, thrust the blunt edge of his bump stock into his assaulter’s torso. He can hear bones cracking, weakening, enough to free Chris of its tight grasp.

With practised ease, Chris adjusts his finger swiftly to the trigger; other hand over the handle in under a full second and fires at the next target leaping his way.

Rebecca wants to help Chris too. She presses down an empty space on her back. She had left her rifle next to the tank still. And now, the HK416 is idly resting behind five limping enemies with no intentions of letting her pass by.

That rifle is practically gone as far as she knows, so she unholsters her back-up pistol, her trusty Samurai’s Edge, tailored to her own needs and got her through thick and thin.

Rebecca knows she isn’t as much of a good shot as Chris is, lacking in almost a decade of combat experience behind Chris, but she kept up a fair deal of gun training and hand to hand combat during her research years for emergency purposes. And now, those skills are coming in handy.

Her shots are careful, only decisive ones of enemies that come between her way to the exit. Always looking over her blind spots in wariness because Rebecca knows one bite from a zombie is all it needs to take her out. She can’t be messing around here.

A zombie leaps directly into Rebecca as she heads checks, baring its fangs and curling its squirming fingers. Too close for a shot, she raises her arms to a block, tossing them aside when the pale hands advance closer to her neck. The nails are sharp, clawing into Rebecca’s skin as she shoves them away. Rebecca front kicks the thing away, and while it stumbles, gave her the perfect opportunity to take out its head in a burst shot.

But no matter how many enemies the two fended off, the path becomes more and more obscured by zombie heads and limbs, leaving no room for breath besides defending their own.

Gunshots other than their own starts firing around them. The other four comrades are clearing the way while guarding the exits.

“Captain! Rebecca!” Mike cries out.  

For a brief second, a window of opportunity surfaces, and their eyes catch sight of the clear line of exit between them and the zombies.

“Run! Just run!” Chris’ voice thunders over the gnarly crew of zombies.

But Rebecca didn’t need instructions for this one. They dash straight for the door, and when they passed, they didn’t stop either.

The others did a head start, already racing away; Chris and Rebecca eventually joining them at the end of the line, with Chris slamming the steel door in their enemies’ faces before he leaves. It will slow them briefly, but that won’t last forever.

The six of them sprint along the corridor, and a loud clang penetrates the air. Zombies had destroyed the entire metal door itself, following right behind, trying to overtake each other, despite the narrow width of the hallway that fits only two people side by side.

The hoard collides and tramples on each other, but their chase is relentless, showing no mercy until each and every one of their prey is devoured. Closing in distance, an inch at a time, but slowly and surely catching up to inevitable fatigued limbs of humans.

“W-We’re not going to make it, Ca-” Johnny, coming first in the sprint, sobs, but he isn’t allowed to slow down no matter even if his heavy backpack weighs him down, no matter how deep his leg sores. The sudden brake will trip everyone behind him, toppling his captain and colleagues together. And it will be all because of him. He can’t stop.

Chris can hear the stomping footsteps grow louder; he can feel it on the floor too, the wooden boards quaking in fury from withholding such strength and speed in the tight path. He turns his head, and the outreached arms of the zombies are within a few feet away from his own neck.

Chris had to think fast—no, don’t think. More time thinking means less action. They’re quickly approaching the end of the hallway several yards away, and beyond that darkness. It can be a dead end too, what then?

Till he hears a chime.

Tick, tick, tick.

He sees it. A grandfather clock propping up on the side of the wall, right before the cloud of darkness. Chris can use that.

First, it was Johnny who made it to the other side of the clock. Then Miguel, Gabriel. Then Rebecca. Then Mike. And when it was Chris turn, he spins his body 180 degrees, meeting the hoard eye to eye.

He claws all ten of his fingernails onto the intricate engravings into the heavy wood. With a heavy shove, pulls the entire seven feet tall clock sideways to barricade the corridor.

All can hear the break of the bell when it crashes and the mechanism within fails. The hourly melody starts playing abruptly in malfunction, failing its fundamental ability to read the current time. Only the crooked and solemn tone resonates throughout the hollow vicinity.

That won’t be enough. They can still crawl underneath, between and over the gaps of the wood. Chris readies aim between the gaps, waiting for the zombies to peek through.

But Chris can’t see any heads. Or any movement, matter of fact. They freeze at the call of the chimes, and after a few seconds, their bodies retreat. Over the gap, Chris can see zombies with their backs turned, returning into the darkness of the hallway once more like they were never there in the first place.

There is a moment of silence, first. A moment to catch their breath. But this moment doesn’t last when Chris storms towards Rebecca, grabbing her forearm, forcing her to take a backwards a step.

“What the fuck were you thinking? You coulda died!” Chris seethes with a face of pure rage; everyone clenches their fists in fear.

“C’mon now, Capt. Go easy on her.” Mike tries to stand between Chris and Rebecca, a valiant attempt to diffuse Chris’ temper, but is unsuccessful.

“No. There’s no need.” Rebecca assures him. This is something between her and her captain. Her own accountability she had decided to take on herself.

“Would you like to explain yourself?” Chris asks, his tone abrasive.

“It was important.” She tries to brush aside the issue. Rebecca can’t tell her about the metal case, not yet. He will be too protective about it.

Chris takes one big step to close the gap, she can feel the heat from his eyes scorching her.

“Chris! I need you to trust me on this!” Rebecca pleads, though it doesn’t provide the clarification Chris wanted at all.

“That’s Captain Redfield to you!” Chris roars, and all sounds turn still.

He pauses, immediately regretting his words and tone. Once again, Chris gazes directly into her eyes that displayed only sincerity. This isn’t like the open book personality Chris knows of her. Something is up. Something Rebecca doesn’t want to share. He can’t push her—what kind of person will that make him?

Only his final thought reaches her ears. “More important than your own life?”

The room turns silent. Rebecca’s answer says a lot without saying anything at all.

The grip tightens on her arm, and Rebecca flinches. This is when Chris sees the state of the arm he is grabbing—secondary burns, bruised wrist, and strips of fresh blood free-flowing from both arms.

“…Get her fixed up.” Chris releases the arm gently, so it doesn’t fall too hard, releasing out a heavy sigh that sounds older than his years.

“Roger, Captain.” Johnny lets down the backpack of supplies with relief.

“Anyone else injured?” Chris queries the group, significantly calmer since his reflection. He casts his eyes over everyone, deliberately avoiding Rebecca’s.

“I think I broke my foot.” Gabriel was running fine before, but after the adrenaline had died down, he begins to feel every pain on his leg. He now staggers and the injured foot is hovered slightly.

“Let me have a look.” Rebecca gets down onto her knees to examine the foot. She advises him to roll up his pant leg. The spot is swollen red and soft, and it flinches when touched. Rebecca asks him to move his ankle: he can’t.

“It’s a fracture. You might not be able to move your leg for a while.” Rebecca pats herself up. “Ice would be ideal here but nothing we can do now. There are some bandages in the first aid. That should help with the swelling.”

“Alrighty, I needa resupply anyway! Those zombies took quite a few mags.” Mike is already three magazines down in his front pouch.

Rebecca needs a resupply too; there should be spare rifle in there for emergencies. Her Samurai’s Edge is reliable, but she needs something stronger if she wants to survive the rest of this journey. She can’t risk turning back and aggravating the zombie hoard once more.

The fresh face unzips the backpack, reaching in. Initially, puzzled, then slowly morphs into the face of horror. His calm searching turns into frustrated shuffling, emptying out the contents of the bag one by one.

Lying on the ground are bags after bags of military rations, counting to fifty bags. After a while, he gives up. Everyone is fully aware now of his royal fuck up. Johnny had picked up the wrong backpack on his way in.

“Come on, rookie! You had one job!” Gabriel starts yelling, losing whatever composure he had just a moment ago.

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, sir!” repeats Johnny’s brittle apologies, fists trembling.

“Qué pinche pendejo eres… tch.” Miguel grumbles to himself, and as an act of self-comfort, massages his hand with each other and feeling the wedding ring on his hand.

“You motherfucker!” Gabriel tries to rise, and almost trips over his broken ankle when he finds it unsteady. Johnny rushes in to support him.

“Mind ya business!” Gabriel flails his arms at the poor child, before lowering himself down slowly through a strained grunt. “I’ve got a fucking broken leg here ‘cause of you! You shoulda be glad I can’t whoop your ass right now! Once this foot is working again, you’ll be sorry!”

“It’s not that bad, really…” Mike tries to console, but this time, it’s more a desperate attempt for self-reassurance.

“Stay out of this, American.” Gabriel snaps back.

“Enough. Both of you. We’ll find a way out of this.” Chris interrupts before things escalate too far.

“Tch. And what do you suggest, Captain?” Miguel scoffs.

There’s no point in changing what can’t be changed. They can only adapt to what they have not. Be it without supplies or ammo. There is always a way around, if it means taking things slow or conserving ammo for their future fights. However…

Chris peeks at Rebecca’s arm. Her skin is turning white from blood loss. She needs first aid, ASAP.

“Let’s look around. Maybe there are supplies.” Chris says.

“There better be. This leg’s not gonna fix itself.”

KITCHEN / LAUNDRY – 3:39 AM.

Johnny had offered to carry Gabriel, but he refused without sparing a glance at the rookie’s face. But he didn’t complain when Miguel haul him instead, all whilst announcing their passive aggression about incompetent American soldiers and how they can only trust each other.

Meanwhile, Chris is focused on getting problems solved than whining about them. There must be a weaponry, maybe medical supplies somewhere in this damn fancy house. If only he can figure out how this foreign layout works.

The end of the corridor spreads out into a large open space, giving them much needed room to explore and not bump into each other shoulder to shoulder. There is a kitchen if they continue straight, enough to fit an army of private chefs with a glass room of wine display proudly to the side.

And towards the right, there is a laundry room. Beside it, a door that hangs a sign: [STORAGE AREA]

Hopefully they will find what they need here.

STORAGE ROOM – 3:41 AM.

For a storage room, it is quite spacious. Cardboard boxes stack high to the ceiling around the room, labelled with its contained items: [CLEANING], [MEDICAL], [AMMUNITION]. They look around potential hiding spots for zombies: there is none. It seems like they are safe for now. And for that, the unit is relieved.

“Alright. Let’s get you fixed up.” Rebecca immediately starts rummaging through the medical drawer. Miguel carries and rests the injured onto a large cardboard box for his treatment, then finds himself in the ammunition box.

This detour is much welcomed by everyone. After restocking what they need, hope has returned—whatever they can afford in the present state of things—uncoiling the tension brewing inside each of the soldiers. Chris can even hear Mike’s good-humoured banter ripples a warm laugh through Gabriel and Miguel. And Johnny is chattering next to them.

Chris relaxes his guard too, finally, for the first time today. As captain, he is always expected to be one to straighten his subordinates. And he does. Sometimes even at the cost of having his emotions get to him. Like just now, with Rebecca.

Sometimes, what the team needs is not just a guy yelling at their faces, but rather someone with Mike’s charm, or Rebecca’s friendliness to light up the room and boost squad morale.

Which Chris appreciated them for—doing the things he can’t do as captain. As captain, he must always remain a respectful distance from his team. He is the most senior member of the squad and must act that way even when situations are dire.

That got him thinking about his old team, still nowhere to be found, where their long history of acquaintance allows the lines of authority to blur. Many of those missions with them are often exchanged with laughs…

Chris bumps his arm onto a table beside him. Atop lays a vintage typewriter, a piece of paper is stuck to it.

It has been an unspoken protocol between S.T.A.R.S to document their adventures on the go, in case an accident occurs, so their stories are remembered and not forgotten. That ritual followed Chris and his team into B.S.A.A. He picks up the note; the ink is still very faintly lukewarm.

To whoever is reading this,

There is something really creepy about this mansion. It’s just too dang quiet. Where on earth is everyone? I know that Arias should be on a plane to a different continent now, so nobody’s home but—

“…Ch-.” A voice can be heard in the air while he reads; he pushes the sound out to focus.

…But I feel a chill down my back. If you’re in this room now, ge—

A heavy hand slams onto the table, winces, then goes back on the table again. The entire forearm is bandaged, and the palm is wrapped in some translucent cling film.

“Chris! I’m talking to you.” Rebecca taps her foot impatiently.

“And I heard you. You don’t have to say my name twice.” Chris looks at her for a second and brings his eyes down back to paper, reading between the blurred lines. “I saw you were tending to Gabriel when you were in a much worse state. You should prioritise yourself first.”

“I actually called you three times!” Rebecca clicks her tongue, crossing her arms now.

Chris shrugs. Rebecca continues when she realises he isn’t going to say anything else.

“I can take care of myself, don’t worry, captain.” She utters the word captain with much disdain that it irks his eyebrow slightly.

“Suit yourself.” Chris pretends to read, but Rebecca is still staring intently, so he asks: “How can I help you, Chambers?”

She picks the paper out of his hands, and declares: “Maybe we should address the elephant in the room.”

“There is nothing to discuss.” Chrisfolds his arms to match hers.

“Clearly there is. Or you wouldn’t be ignoring me.” Rebecca’s voice comes out a little louder than it should, sounding throughout the room as everyone peeks at the duo. Chris doesn’t need an audience for their petty drama, lest appearing unprofessional to his own personnel.

“Let’s talk outside.”

The two promptly walk to the exit, with Rebecca behind Chris so he can’t escape. They leave the room, facing the wet laundry, as Chris closes the door behind him to avoid prying ears.

“Alright, talk then.” He begins, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.For a man like Chris, he can be cold when he is upset. Even among his close ones. But there is still a bit of warmth in his voice, a bit of unspoken openness to listen. But for Chris to be convinced, it is still highly dependent on what Rebecca says next.

“Hey- I just want to say.” All of a sudden not knowing where to start, or when. After trying to get Chris to make peace with her all day, she finally has his attention. But when the moment comes, Rebecca is lost for words. Stuck behind her throat and tongue ice frozen.

“I know you don’t want me here. Putting my life in danger.” says Rebecca quietly.

“Like I said, you are free to do what you want.” Chris deadpans. “…And you did. What’s done is done.”

“Hey, don’t give me that. C’mon, Chris. You know it would be better if I was here. I know this virus better than you do. I’ve been researching this for months, and- and- you know my radio won’t reach you in here with the signal jammed.”

“Everything beyond these doors are unknown territory. Did you forget five of our best agents went MIA here?” Chris releases one long, arduous breath.

Rebecca is silent. She hasn’t forgotten, will never forget if the agents are dead—but doing anything is better than doing nothing. She will rather put her life at risk than the waiting game just to be told her friends are dead. “Yes. I know that. But you need me here.”

“And what I need most, is for you to be safe.” Chris places both hands firmly on her shoulders, sighs, and lets go.

Chris admits; there is truth in her words. The virus is alive, a living subject. They must tread carefully. And who else knows about this virus better than Rebecca? She may be the means of life or death.

“We are still a team. We watch each other’s back. We trust each other.” Rebecca hesitates for a moment, then continues. “…Just like S.T.A.R.S, the good old days.”

Chris tries to push away the betrayal from the back of his mind and focus only on the good parts of the memories. But it didn’t work. The clockwork of life kept running, wondering if the same fate will happen to him once more.

Trust? How long has Chris trusted someone? Put his life on the line of other people’s desires, capabilities? How many people have died trying? When has that ever worked out for Chris? He knows that the only person he can rely on saving himself and others is his own self.

Abruptly, his thought process is interrupted by cheers cascading from the other side of the door. Chris opens the door, and Rebecca’s curiosity peeks inside.

The crowd is cheering at Miguel, passing around bottled water around the circle. In this house trapped with years’ worth of heat, rotted smell preserved in humidity, water is a found treasure to these men. Especially after the laborious sprint earlier, they can feel half of their bodies’ liquid lost, throat turning dry and lips crackling.

Rebecca recalls her discovery about the water supply. She remembers warning the crew about this. Yet through the corner of her eyes, she sees Gabriel cracking open the bottle seal, shimmying his mask out the way, his lips touching the lip of the plastic bottle.

“DON’T DRINK THAT!” She yelps, as loud as she can possibly muster.

And everything happened all at once.

STORAGE ROOM – 3:57 AM

Gas starts to sizzle into the room through tightened air pressure, escaping rapidly into the space. Engulfed in smoke, Rebecca clutches onto her mask, hoping that the cheap material will be sufficient. At the minimum providing a bit of resistance before they remove themselves from the smoke-filled room.  

“Squad! Make your way to the exit!” Chris orders.

Chris and Rebecca guide the team out one by one. Individuals start shuffling out of the mist from within. Johnny comes through first, then Mike, Miguel, and Johnny.

“Captain!” Johnny cries, pointing a wobbly finger into the puffs of smoke. “He’s still…”

Faintly from the haze, a figure manifests, sprawling on the floor. It grunts in fear, choking and coughing with arms extended.

“I… I can’t move! My… my leg…” His facial features slowly uncover from the smoke, and there is Gabriel desperately dragging along his broken foot towards the door. The injured had completely slipped Chris’ mind. He needs to get him out of there, now.

Chris pushes himself inside, but Mike grabs him before his foot makes its way in. Mike utters in grave realisation: “He’s unmasked.”

“I swear to god I’m alright! I swear on my life!” Gabriel cries even louder, swallowing a lump of smoke into his chest, and he chokes. “I didn’t drink the water!”

“Captain… what do we do?” asks Miguel, voice softening in desperation. He knows the answer to that question, but Miguel refutes that option, denying it like a child in the face of loss. “Captain! What do I do?”

Chris does not say a thing, nor it is his place. This farewell is reserved between him and his friend. Then afterwards, Chris must do what must be done.

“Miguel… ¡No me dejes aquí!” They can barely hear Gabriel’s sobs over the continuous hissing, louder through time, breaking free of the closed room to contaminate the air outside too.

That is, until Rebecca cuts in: “It’s not too late. The gas is useless by itself, as long as he didn’t drink the water. He’s going to be fine. But we shouldn’t risk it… Just in case.”

“Fuck this, I’m not leaving him there.” Miguel sprints past Chris and Mike into the white without looking back. They try to grab hold of him before he does anything reckless, but Miguel flings them away. “I’m not leaving him behind. We grew up in the same town. Enlisted together. Same squad for years. I’m not letting him go now.”  

Miguel searches inside the fog, and finding the lightly conscioused Gabriel quivering with his chest on the floor. Miguel hauls Gabriel’s body weight onto his own.

“We’re getting out of here alive, Gabito.” Miguel swings an arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling Gabriel’s feeble foot upwards and lets his torso limp over himself.

“Tch c’mon, haven’t we been through everything already? I’ve seen you worse when you broke your arm and ribs.”

“I remember that. You carried me all the way back to camp just like this.” Gabriel speaks with a mellow voice in reminiscence. Miguel can hear something clicking its throat, sinisterly gargling the air. Miguel pauses to look around, there is no other presence. Right, he already checked the room. It’s safe. So, he continues forward.

“And we will get through this one too. Your abuelita will be heartbroken if you’re gone. I can’t do that to her.” They are approaching closer to the ray of light at the end of the door. Gabriel falls to his side.  

“Hang on, man! I’ll get you out of here. You can trus—”

Rebecca hears a clack, the sound she recognises to be bones snapping in half. She can’t see where Gabriel and Miguel are, with the fog blurring her sight. The vague silhouettes that can be seen before are now gone.

She leans in, peeking into fuzziness, but Chris’ arm moves in front of her, blocking her from getting any closer. He, too, is cautious of the sound.

“What’s taking them so long?” Mike calls out their names but there is no response from the other end. “That’s it, I’m heading in.”

“Mike, wait!” cries Chris.

Mike steps inside, warily inspecting. When he lifts the other foot, he almost trips. “What the—?” He shifts his leg around some more.

“I can’t move my foot!!” Mike’s shrieks are like little girl squeals throwing a tantrum. He wiggles back and forth to readjust balance with all his might. “Eek! Some slimy shit’s holding me down!!”

“Get it off me, get it off me!” The three of them attempt to pull Mike out and the foot lifts into the air. As if noticing the traction, the mist yanks Mike’s leg backwards. “Fuck shit fuck fuck!! Lord have mercy!!”

What is this power? How can it be this strong? There shouldn’t be anyone else in the room, Chris had already done all the check spots. The only people still in the room are just Gabriel and Miguel. What happened to the two of them anyway?

Mike had enough; he pulls out his handgun and shoots at the general direction of the force. The strength loosens, and they can see the whole foot now and the mysterious force dragging him back.

A bloody hand fastens around Mike’s ankle, fingers tightening sturdily around the soft skin. Another hand appears abruptly and secures right above the other hand. It has a different complexion, a silver coated wedding band over its ring finger. This is Miguel’s ring.

Something can be heard from within the fog, distinctly Gabriel’s voice.

“Mike… we’re having a party in here. Come join us!” The cheerful tone sends goosebumps rushing down Mike’s back.

“Shit! It can talk!?” Chris tries to pull the leg again, but it’s planted to the floor.

“It’s okay, Mike. Let’s have a lot of fun!” This doesn’t even sound like Miguel, but it is his voice.

There’s a bullet hole through its palm from Mike’s shot. It bleeds all over the other hand, still able to grab persistently despite suffering from such a wound.

“No, no, no! This… This isn’t supposed to happen!!” It shouldn’t be possible for the virus to activate only on gas alone, Rebecca was confident about this. It was one of the key implementations of this virus for its remote activation.  

Yet the impossible is right there in front of her, the evidence of the vein-popping, skin-crackling bloody hand lay bare contradicting her every hypothesis.

Mike’s foot stumble further backwards, his hamstring swallowed now. The shrieks are turning into despair, losing his childish tone, becoming more pleading, demanding.

Chris draws his dagger from his holster and stabs straight down into the mist, briefly missing Mike’s foot and directly into both palms, skewering the two hands together. Both hands let go simultaneously, withdrawing into the white once more.

“Now!” Chris orders, and the four of them backs away from the entrance, with Chris slamming the door shut behind. He secures the door with his entire back, feeling the full force of banging. He growls out: “Barricade!”

Rebecca, Mike and Johnny shuffle around, dragging a table, cabinets, chairs—anything heavy to prop in front of the door. Chris stuffs the tiny door gap with vintage draperies to confine the poisonous air, taken directly from the curtain racks itself.

Whatever that is left of Gabriel and Miguel can still be heard snarling, clicking their throats, gargling air beyond the closed door. Occasionally muttering to themselves, pleading the rest on the other side to open the door ever so slightly with their gentle persuasion.

LAUNDRY – 4:06 AM

“I thought I was dead meat for sure.” Mike leans against the other side of the wall, checking his own foot. There is a purple bruise on his skin, but his ankle moves freely. All his joints are fine; nothing is twisted. “Thanks, you guys.”

Rebecca and Chris nods.

“So we lost two, huh…” Mike dry laughs at the situation, even when there is nothing funny going on right now.

There is another moment of silence as each of them thinks about their own fate in this mansion. With their numbers dropped by a third, their chance of survival is looking rather slim.

“Hey, if it helps, I never like those two anyway.” Mike tries to break the suffocating atmosphere with some humour, before a voice that had been quiet for a while suddenly speaks up.

“Gabriel and Miguel wouldn’t have died if he didn’t get false info.” utters Johnny.

“You, rookie?” Mike stops to eye Johnny up and down, who is currently sitting right next to him, with his hands and definitely his ass clenched too. “Defending the guys who yelled at your face?”

“It was ‘cause of my own fuck-up.” Johnny clenches his own fist, guilt dripping through every word. “They shouldn’t have died regardless.”

“In this line of work, people die.” Chris states. It’s a matter of fact. They all knew what they signed up for. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Even so… If they did know about the gas, they would have been alive. At least, Miguel would have been!” Johnny stares directly at Rebecca for responsibility.

When confronted directly, Rebecca hesitates, she knows the blood is in her hands. “This… This is also news to me too… I have read the reports multiple times, there is no mention that A-Virus is capable of such transmission. It doesn’t match up to the research.”

“What if the report was a plant?” Johnny asks. “Arias sent fake data to your email.”

“It can’t be. Each transaction requires a single use security token to grant access to my private cloud storage. This token can only be authenticated via fingerprint recognition. So Leon must have sent the files himself.” Rebecca clarifies. In her mind, her system is impenetrable, mostly…

“And what if he’s dead? Or held hostage? Arias could force his thumb to send whatever he wants.”

Rebecca pauses, then she speaks: “That is a possibility.”

“Clearly, you have not thought of everything.” Johnny leans back.

If Johnny’s theories are right... Rebecca instinctually pats down her back pocket, feeling the cylinder case she tried so hard to save in the laboratory room... then this would have been a waste.

“You—” Chris grabs Johnny on the arm in an uncomfortable angle, squeezing it hard for a lesson. “Enough, kid. I don’t need you going around insulting the best B.O.W. tech I know. She’s doing everything she can. So zip it, focus on your own shit, and follow my orders as I tell you. And I’m ordering you to be quiet.”

“Fine, fine. I got it.” Johnny shrugs off Chris’ hand and rises. “Where’s that same energy to the doctor, huh?” He walks towards a pillar far from the three of them but still within sight.

Chris considered raising his voice, but he drops the idea. Instead, he plops down onto the ground next to Rebecca, patting on her head like he would to his own sister. “Never mind that guy. He’ll lose that attitude real soon. I remember I used to be the same rookie who would talk back to my captain too. Got my ass whooped. Never did that again. At least, not in front of their faces. Maybe I’m going too easy on these fresh ones, who knows…”

A rare moment of gratitude flashes across Rebecca’s eyes; Chris simply dismisses it with a wave. It’s his job to ensure they focus on the present of objective. Not their past, nor their failures. Moreover, B.O.W. techs are more valuable than brawny field soldiers like himself by the hundreds.

Rebecca reaches for something in her bag, and a paper floats to the floor, crumpled from action.

“It’s the letter I took from you.” She should give this back.

He refuses, instead says: “Let’s read it together.”

Trust is rebuilding again, brick by brick.

Chris whistles at the other two and Mike carries himself towards them. Johnny does not move, hand on cheek looking at everything but them even if he did hear the captain. Mike and Rebecca exchange a ‘just let him be’ glance with Chris.

So, Chris unfolds the paper, and reads it out loud, from the part he left off in the storage room.

Get out of there this instant. We think the storage room is booby trapped. I thought the gas was going to turn all of us, but I feel fine. Carlos and Jill though…are off. I accidentally brushed against them, and they felt… cold. When I try talking to them, they seem distracted for a split second. Far off.

Or it could be a false alarm. We don’t know yet. We decided to split into teams for efficiency: Jill and Ada to retrieve the sample while Leon, Carlos shall investigate the pipes. And for me… we’ll see. Once we’re done, we will meet up and get the fuck out of here. I trust Rebecca and the team; we would get through this. We always find a way.

If this is you reading, Arias, get shit on, sucker! The sample will be ours, good riddance to your little game! Justice prevails once more!

There is a hand drawn winky face next to it. Chris and Rebecca scoffs, that optimistic trusting behaviour. So typical of you. And oh, so wrong you were about everything.

“So, the lab, huh? That’s the one by the corridor?” asks Mike.

“Most likely. I know three people was last seen on the ground floor, the others on the top floor. And it’s likely Carlos and Jill to be turned first, according to Leon.” answers Rebecca.

“Could they have split up to divide numbers so they can infect them?” asks Chris.

“That explains why they went MIA. Either infected, or worse, dead.” Mike comments, but none of this is looking too favourable on their side right now.

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll be so easy. I know these guys. They’re not the kind to give up without a fight. And these guys are some great fighters.”

Rebecca nods reluctantly. “True—That is, if they know a zombie is among them. These zombies can fucking talk. They wouldn’t have seen it coming. And from what we saw today, they can blend in and entice with their human speech. We have to be very careful.”

What’s to say one of them is not between them now? But she seals her tongue from making such bold statement. Rebecca eyes over a suspicious glance at everyone, including Johnny, checking for any irregularities. None she can notice from a fair distance away.

“But how does the infection work then? Was Gabriel bitten?” Mike asks.

“No, it was only a fracture. The bite marks would be distinct. He only made contact with the ga—” Rebecca pauses.

Her brain starts chugging, like a cogwheel in a complicated mechanism with fragments of facts. Neither of the boys dare to interrupt Rebecca from her thoughts. When she is in the zone, nothing anyone say will get into her head. And it clicks.

“Arias, you sneaky bastard…” She grins. She would kiss her brain right now if she could.

Chris and Mike look at each other in confusion.

“The poisoned water is all around us. It’s the air.” Rebecca elaborates, smiling wide the entire time after her newfound discovery. 

“The air?” Chris and Mike gasps in unison.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that when you stepped inside the house, it’s musty?” She pauses to let the boys think. “But the outside, it’s cool.”  

“Well, there must have been residual heat from the day still trapped in the house.” Mike comments. It seems abandoned for a long time after all.

“What residual heat during April? It should still be dry season in Querétaro. It’s the humidity! Arias had been pumping up the humidity in the house, that’s why mould is everywhere.”

“And how does that tie to—” Halfway through Mike’s sentence, he snaps his fingers. “Oh.”

“The water supply in the humidifier, of course.” Chris grins, nodding his head in approval.

“The bottled water in the storage is bait. It never had anything to do with the virus.” Rebecca points at Chris and does an a-ha! sound. “The tank in the laboratory is actually just a large-scale humidifier, sending the virus through water vapours in the air. All around us. That’s what those employees were guarding.”

“Gabriel was the only one who took off his mask.” Mike hits his palm with a fist. “And Miguel was infected by being bitten. Then why was Carlos and Jill the ones infected?”

“They had all been infected since the beginning.” Rebecca says, which is the scariest part about this whole operation. What would have happened if Rebecca never suggested the masks?

She continues: “How it activates, I have no clue. The speed of activation drastically varies from person to person so far. The A-Virus attacks always happen either immediately, or up to an hour. I wonder if it’s individual resistance to the virus.”

“Regardless! That’s a major discovery!” Mike launches himself up in joy. “My lord, you’re a genius, Rebecca!”

“As long as we keep our masks on, we should be fine.” Rebecca states, for real this time.

“I’ll let Johnny know the good news.” Mike scoots off. It’s just Rebecca and Chris alone now.

Rebecca takes in a nervous gulp now they are alone. She had forgotten to tell him the most important thing. Rebecca owes him that at least. “Hey, Chris… About the metal case…”

“It’s okay, Becca.” Chris shakes his head understandingly. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Only if you want to. Only when you’re ready. Because we’re going to see this to the end.”

“The both of us?” Rebecca suggests with much confidence.

“With everyone. I’ll make sure we all get back home.” Chris reassures, and this time, he can see clearly what lies at the end of the rainbow.

But what they didn’t know, is that during their heartfelt revelation, Johnny had let a tear fall in private, lifting his mask ever so slightly to wipe the wateriness from his cheek.

TFD SERIES MASTERLIST // RESIDENT EVIL MASTERLIST

MY BELOVED BETAS: @scar-crossedlvrs @jellybonbons the plot really boggle my brain i made so many changes last min. my first longfic so forgive me. on the bright side, we're so close to the finale omg!! the next chapter will take me a while, just a heads up! whoever is still reading this, i appreciate you guys for still staying tuned and from the bottom of my heart, thank you for still believing in me. i love you all sm.

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@jellybonbons @ovaryacted @daydreamrot @madcap-riflette @access--granted

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