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13atoms · 6 months

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Arm in Arm (Count Orlo x tall!female!reader)

Thank you for the people who recommended Orlo for this! Getting back into writing fic after so long off was very difficult and very slow, but this is a first step! Reader is taller than Orlo (>5'8" or something?) and wearing a skirt.

Fluff (very light hurt/comfort) | Oneshot | 1.6k

It was a generous Russian morning, which looked to precede a deeply pleasant day. The whole world was languid and cheery, with a gentle breeze swaying through the summer drapes and sunlight illuminating patches of the rugs which ran through Orlo’s living quarters. The fire was built in its grate, but unlit, and the chaise longues had been moved to let you bathe in the warmth of the sun instead.

There was a great feast being held somewhere which wasn’t the Palace, and the whole place had breathed a sigh of relief as a great convoy of nobles and royals set off to attend it. It was, Orlo decreed, a rare day off. And the two of you were to enjoy it together.

You groaned and stretched out, wary where your legs were draped across Orlo’s lap. There’s a burning behind your eyes as you closed your book over your thumb, and extend both of your arms over your head. Hours of reading had left a tension in every part of you, yet it quickly melted away.

Orlo closed his own book, stretching himself out like a cat with a groan so gratuitous you were sure he’d intended for the sound to make you laugh. He yawned as he set the books aside and hugged your calves to his chest, making you shout out in shock as you were pulled down in your seat.

Laying flat, you looked up at him, felt the gentle stetch through your spine as he kept a hold of your legs. Orlo was smiling lazily, in a way you hadn’t seen him do in months. You flexed your bare feet, felt the muscles of your calves move against his arms, and threw your head back to stare at the ceiling.

It was painted with great skill, depicting a scene you probably ought to distantly recognise from the Bible. You had no inclination to focus on the brushstrokes for that long. Instead, you enjoyed the settling of your back against soft cushions, and the gentle patterns Orlo was tracing on your ankle.

“You’re too long for his sofa,” he mused, finally setting your legs down and letting them hang off the end of the arm.

He was trapped in, slouched under your legs, head lolling against the cushion behind him. Looking down the length of your own body, you only felt contentment. The Count clearly didn’t have anywhere else he’d rather be.

“I’m too tall for the chaise in my apartments too, the furniture-makers ought to be more considerate.”

You had no quarrel with the chaise. Not really. You were enjoying the relaxing, hazy feeling of having your legs above your head.

“I suppose if it just means we have to be closer together.”

“Tragic,” you murmured, looking back at the ceiling.

Orlo snorted a laugh, pulling his glasses from his face and tossing them onto the side table. When you lifted your head to look at him he was rubbing at the indents his glasses left on his nose. You loved seeing him without them, it was something private. Reserved for you. He squirmed with discomfort when you said it, but he was so pretty without them.

“Does it bother you?” he asked suddenly.

You cocked your head, humming a question.

“Height, I mean?”

Entangled together, you had forgotten he was any shorter than you. Now he looked at your legs, side-by-side, as his stretched out in front of him, and you felt a flash of embarrassment.

“I suppose… sometimes I think I’d prefer being shorter. It would be easier.”

Orlo frowned at you for a moment, and then rushed to speak, his words falling over each other.

“No! That’s not what I meant at all!”

His hand was back on your calf. Orlo’s eyes were wide and sincere, flashed with panic where they had been downcast a moment ago.

“I just meant…” he thought for a moment, thumb rubbing across your calf, “I know it’s not… popular to be seen with men shorter than you are.”

You thought for a moment, that uncomfortable sting in your chest completely extinguished by the slight shine of Orlo’s eyes. There’s nothing wrong with you, you wanted to tell him. You saw how Peter looked down at him, how people made jokes. The way being measured for new clothes would put a damper on his whole day. He’s avoided the process entirely for far too long, until he began courting you.

“Do you think there’s anything I’d want to change about you?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer it? For it to be a little more comfortable when we dance? To have someone… more?”

“All we have are the gifts we are given, Orlo. I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

He struggled to articulate what it was he wanted to say, and you waited, not wishing to put ideas in his head or words in his mouth. His hand found your ankle, and stroked over the delicate bone there. He brought his face to your calf, and mumbled against it as he spoke.

“I just want you to feel protected…”

“I do,” you insisted, quiet and sincere.

For a moment there was silence. You stared back at the ceiling, a maze of richly coloured stories merging into one another. Was that Eve above you, tempted by the serpent? Samson, in the next scene? With long cut locks of hair beside his sleeping face, and the glint of Delilah’s knife against the pillow?

“I’m sorry. You should never have to feel inadequate… I try to slouch. To not make it obvious. I can step further away, if you prefer…”

“I hate when you do that,” he told you plainly, no anger or malice in his voice. “You’ll hurt your back.”

The paused for a while, staring at the carpet.

“You don’t have to change yourself for me either.”

“I know I just feel bad sometimes…”

You thought about him in the moment he thought no one was watching, straining to stand up straighter, rocking on the heels of his shoes, staying seated when Peter walked up behind his desk to speak with him.

“Why would you feel bad?”

“It’s not as though you’re short, Orlo. Lots of women would look fine beside you, I’m just tall. I just know… some men don’t like being the shorter one.”

“I love that you’re taller than me.”

You ignored him. The cut on Adam’s rib was a smear of crimson against delicately painted skin, the paint so fresh it might have been real blood pouring from the ceiling.

“Catherine is tall,” he murmured, “and widely considered one of the most beautiful women in Russia.”

You hummed, and he reached for your hand, pulling it into his lap.

“Probably the second most beautiful,” he teased, and you scoffed at him.

“She’s not that tall. Peter is taller.”

“Peter is far too tall. I often think if he were shorter, he couldn’t get away with as much. He’d be too easy to punch.”

You shushed him, the sound broken by a laugh, and Orlo groaned, hiding his smile against your underskirts.

“I don’t want to make you feel bad about yourself. You have to know, that’s the last thing I want.”

“You don’t.”

He thought for a moment, and tapped his fingers on your skin in the pattern his often drummed into his desk. Finally, he spoke again.

“I love to see how tall you are. I love that I can spot you across a room, that you can do things with such ease. I envy it, sometimes. When I have to rush to keep up with you.”

You groaned as you curled yourself towards him, taking another moment to stretch. That horrid pang in your chest was now absent, replaced with something warm. Your guard was down. The palace was so quiet the outside world might as well not have existed. You indulged your insecurities a little longer, knowing Orlo wouldn’t strike if you showed weakness.

“I always worry that eventually you’ll find someone… easier. Someone shorter.”

“Why would I even be thinking about that, when I’ve got you?”

“A good point.”

It took a great amount of shuffling to lie next to him on the chaise, but it was worth it, to be beside his warm body. He pulled one of your legs over him, offered his bicep as a pillow. His dark, warm eyes staring into yours still gave you butterflies.

“If our heights bother other people, that is their problem. I’ve never known someone who understands me so well,” he murmured, “even if you take up far more of the bed than you ought to.”

“You’ve never complained about me being in your bed. You cling to me –”

“Yes, I understand. I’m teasing you, my love. I want you to take up every bed I ever sleep in.”

“I wish you saw yourself how I see you, Orlo. You’d never feel like you needed to be taller again – you’re the only person I pay attention to in any room.”

“How funny, I feel completely the same.”

You would concede, months later, when the bloodshed had ended and Orlo’s quarters grew far too big for one man, that he had been right to have a longer chaise long made. And when he crushed himself into you after long, arduous nights, his face pressed to your neck, you would both be grateful you could shelter him from the world – even for the shortest moment.

“Do you want to go out today?” he asked, when his arm was going numb from cushioning your head and the sun was high in the sky.

“Perhaps just for some air?”

“That would be nice.”

Your elbows didn’t really fit with one another, formally walking arm-in-arm as many other couples did – though you didn’t feel sorry for it. Instead you took a turn of the gardens hand-in-hand, head held high, all the closer for it.

#count orlo #13atoms #count orlo x reader #orlo x reader #the great fic #fic #orlo #ngl this was harder than i thought and im not very secure in it! so likes comments rbs etc.#very very much appreciated #not really got the fic bug atm but we'll see! i enjoyed doing this again

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nintendont2502 · 1 year

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The Hanged Man is the card that suggests ultimate sacrifice, surrender, or being suspended in time.

#homestuck #davesprite #god.#did you know? that im so so so so SO normal about him?#dont even ask how this shit happened i dont know #i probably spent like. 10 hours on this?#so fucking proud its. weird #rbs very much appreciated jesus #milo scribbles #me.txt

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 7 months

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I'm back with another oneshot - this one's about Jon's relationship with Daisy, Martin, and his own humanity in season 4. (And also about Jon having a Terrible haircut experience.) Loosely inspired by this amazing fic by @saintbleeding! Check it out on AO3, or read below:

(content warnings for this fic include: -blood -panic attacks -statement hunger/addiction -mentions of past gun violence -mentions of death -references to suicidality)

Jon didn’t like seeing Daisy with a knife in her hands.

It was his own fault, though. He was the one who’d placed it there, who’d asked her to do this, who had assured her – multiple times – that no, really, he was sure, this was fine, and then turned away to expose all the vulnerable veins and tendons of the back of his neck to her discretion, so he really had no one to blame but himself.

But the fact was, he needed a haircut.

He’d known he would need one since he got out of the Buried. From the second Hell spat him out on the dusty floor of his office with mud clinging to his every pore and several intractable mats in his hair that hadn’t been there when he’d gone in, he knew that this was a problem a hairbrush couldn’t solve. They would have to be cut out. He’d known that, but there hadn’t really been time to think about his hair until now. He’d had to go running off almost immediately to Ny-Ålesund, and then to Oxford, and he’d barely had a chance to catch his breath, let alone cut his hair.

He could have tried to do it himself, but the angle was more than a little awkward, and ever since he’d stopped taking live statements, he’d developed an intermittent tremor in his right hand that reminded him unpleasantly of the first time he’d tried to quit smoking and made him nervous about handling knives around his own neck. And anyway, he didn’t much like looking in the mirror these days. He wasn’t fond of what he saw looking back.

His other options were limited. Melanie wasn’t speaking to him except when strictly necessary, which was more or less to be expected as a consequence of unannounced and unanesthetized workplace surgery. And Jon wasn’t exactly her biggest fan at the moment either. Sympathizing with her reaction did nothing to soften the sting of her knife in his skin.

Martin was… not an option. They hadn’t spoken since Martin had left that tape for Melanie and Basira. He had already been avoiding Jon even before one of Jon’s victims had walked into his office and described to him the worst thing Jon had ever done in all its awful detail, so now Jon considered that bridge well and truly burned.

He was trying not to think about it.

He could have asked Basira. He knew that. She also wasn’t thrilled with him of late, but he could have asked her, and she would have said yes. She would have given him a quick, efficient haircut that didn’t leave him shaking with the memory of perhaps the worst night in his entire grand catastrophe of a life. He would have felt safe. But to ask her, he would have needed to look her in the eye, and he couldn’t do that. Not now that she knew what he was.

Daisy was different. Daisy didn’t judge. She couldn’t, when she’d done as much as he had, and more. And he trusted Daisy. He’d made the decision to trust her months ago, and she hadn’t done anything since to make him reconsider that trust.

He only wished he could convince his nervous system of that fact. His heart was a jackhammer, pounding against the walls of his chest with such force he was surprised Daisy couldn’t see it. He dug his nails into the skin of his arm to try and suppress his shakes, and gritted his teeth against the twinge of phantom pain in the scar on his throat.

“You sure about this?” Daisy asked, once again, and once again Jon nodded.

“I can’t make it pretty.”

Jon laughed. “It can’t look any worse than it does now.”

He would miss his long hair. He’d always liked the way it looked. It seemed to soften his features, and he needed that more than ever now. The dark circles under his eyes were a permanent feature these days, and the one-two punch of his coma followed swiftly by his time in the Buried had left him looking unsettlingly gaunt. He doubted his new haircut was going to suit him.

Daisy’s suited her. She’d chopped it all off as soon as she got out, cutting away the hair she’d grown in the Buried and then some. It was a far from professional cut (and didn’t speak wonders for how Jon’s hair would look) but it set off her sharp, angular face quite nicely.

She took a lock of Jon’s hair in her hands. He heard her hmm quietly to herself, considering her approach, before she tightened her grip and began sawing through the hair just above the largest knot.

She didn’t speak. That was something Jon always liked about Daisy. She didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. They’d been spending a lot of time together since the Buried, and most of the time they preferred to just exist in the same room together, keeping each other sane with proximity alone. Basira had once described Daisy as a rock, the one solid thing she could always count on in a universe of chaos, and Jon was beginning to see why. In spite of everything, Daisy could be a reassuring presence, most of the time.

Jon sat in the silence, and tried to focus on the clumps of grey-streaked hair that were falling in small piles at his feet.

She worked carefully. Jon wouldn’t have guessed, a year ago, that Daisy was capable of being gentle, but she was. As more and more hair was cut free from the impossible mats, she teased out what tangles could be salvaged with deft fingers, and the knife skills she must have honed through entirely less wholesome means made her very adept at her work.

But not quite adept enough.

The pain only lasted a second. It was only a minor nick – a brief, sharp, spark of pain – but it was enough.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of nausea and fear. He was safe. Daisy wasn’t going to hurt him. She wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to take that knife to his throat (the same dull pocket knife, because it was the only thing Jon had on hand) and finally finish the job she’d started all those months ago. She wasn’t going to do that. He trusted her. He trusted her. He wasn’t going to collapse into a trembling heap just because a friend was doing exactly what he’d asked her to.

He expected Daisy, for her part, to apologize and move on. Maybe grab a bandage if she was feeling fussy. Instead she stood still and silent for a long moment. When Jon turned around to investigate, she was pressing her eyes closed and taking long, deep breaths.

“Don’t listen to the blood, listen to the quiet, don’t listen to the blood–” she murmured to herself. Then she said to Jon, haltingly, “I’m— sorry. I’m still— no good around blood.”

She dropped the knife. “Sorry,” she repeated. “I— need to go.” Then she stumbled out of the room, leaving Jon bleeding and alone, with half his hair cut.

Daisy leaving the room should have eased Jon’s anxieties. Picking up the knife should have eased his anxieties, too, but there was a tiny red smear of his blood on the blade, and that made things worse. He snapped the knife shut and squeezed it in his palm, trying to ground himself. Being trapped in the Buried hadn’t scared him like this. Staring into the Dark Star and nearly dying hadn’t scared him like this. But getting a haircut, apparently, that was where his nerves drew the line.

He stepped into the hallway.

“Daisy?”

There was no sign of her. Jon wanted to find her, to make sure she was alright, but his scalp was still bleeding and his instincts were still screaming at him that she was going to leap out at him from the darkness and slit his throat, and he knew neither of them would be a calming influence on the other at this moment.

His heart was still beating too hard and his breath was still too shallow and too fast. He squeezed the pocket knife in his hand tighter, but it didn’t help. He’d had enough panic attacks in his life to know what one felt like and know that they weren’t actually fatal, but that did nothing to dispel the familiar certainty that he was going to die. He was going to die right here in this hallway, without ever getting any answers, and he wouldn’t be mourned.

He didn’t even notice where he was going until he was already there.

The door to Martin’s office swung open. “Jon, I told y–” Martin started to say when he saw Jon standing there, but he couldn’t finish the sentence before his jaw dropped. “Je–e–sus, what happened?” He pulled him into the office before he had a chance to answer. He steered him into the seat across from the desk and immediately began grazing his fingers in frantic patterns across Jon’s head and neck and shoulders, turning Jon’s face this way and that, looking for injuries.

“Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s only a scratch.” Jon lifted his hand to the wound and was surprised to find it slick with blood. He’d always heard that scalp wounds bled excessively, but he hadn’t realized how true that was. When he drew his hand back, his fingers were covered in the stuff, red and wet and sticky. It dawned on him suddenly how rough he must look – bleeding, half-shorn, and on the edge of a panic attack – and he tried to explain. “I asked Daisy to–”

“Daisy?” Martin asked sharply. For a moment his whole demeanor changed into something prickly and protective and piqued, and then seemed to make a conscious effort to be more calming. “What did she do?” he asked, with an unnatural evenness in his tone.

“I asked her to cut my hair. Her hand slipped.”

Martin relaxed, but only slightly. “And she just let you bleed? She didn’t think to help?”

Jon shook his head. “Can’t really handle blood right now.”

“It never seemed to bother her before,” Martin muttered, and Jon felt the need to stick up for his friend.

“She’s actually been a lot better recently.”

“What? She hasn’t murdered someone in a week?” he asked, then added in a bitter, sarcastic drawl, “Hooray. Let’s throw a parade.”

And that wasn’t fair; Martin hadn’t even been there. He wasn’t the one who’d watched her kill someone. He hadn’t dug the grave. He hadn’t struggled to keep his grip on the shovel, struggled not to look at the corpse, struggled not to think about how he would be lying dead on the ground, too, any minute. And Jon had moved past it. He had, even if he still smelled the gunpowder in his nightmares some nights, so why couldn’t Martin move on, too?

“She’s trying.”

“Yeah, well, she’ll have to try a lot harder if she wants me to forget what she’s done.” He stepped away for a moment and began digging around in the bottom drawer of his desk until he tracked down a first aid kit. He brought it back, pulled out an absorbent bandage and began mopping up the blood on Jon’s scalp. “Do you honestly forgive her?”

Martin caught his eyes, and Jon felt compelled to answer honestly. “No. There are some things you can’t just forgive.” He looked down at his lap. The tears that had been building behind his eyes since he handed Daisy the knife threatened to spill, but he blinked them back down. He looked back up at Martin. “But she is trying.” His voice broke. “What else can she do?”

Martin held his gaze knowingly, mercilessly, and this was exactly what he had been trying to avoid: talking to someone who knew what he was, and having to look them in the eye.

He stood up and made for the door.

“I should go. I-I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, and I– I wasn’t trying to–”

“Jon.” Martin grabbed his arm and held him back. “At least let me bandage it.”

Jon let himself be guided back into the seat and sat still while Martin dabbed carefully at the blood. He could feel the breeze on that side of his head, now that most of the hair had been cut away, and it made him feel uncomfortably exposed.

The pocket knife was still squeezed tight in his fist. He reluctantly unfurled his fingers when he remembered it was there and let it sit, heavy and smooth, in his open palm.

“What are you going to do about your hair?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said. He’d probably have to do it himself in the end, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Martin pressed a bandage onto the cut and smoothed out the edges with his thumb. Then he glanced down at the knife in Jon’s hand, and whispered, “I could cut it, if you want. I mean, I couldn’t do it well, but I could do it.”

“Alright,” Jon replied instantly. He thought they were both a bit shocked at his eagerness.

Martin took the knife from Jon. He stepped behind the chair and ran an exploratory hand over Jon’s hair.

“Do you want me to take all of it off, or should I try to keep it as long as I can?”

“Up to you,” Jon said. “It doesn’t really matter how it looks.”

“I’ll try to leave it long for now,” Martin said, “I can always cut it shorter if we need to.”

Martin’s fingers ghosted through Jon’s hair, sizing up his task. His hands were colder than Jon remembered, but it was still nice to be this close. They hadn’t spoken in so long.

It was awkward. The blade was dull, and Martin wasn’t as skilled as Daisy was with a knife. There were a lot of whispered apologies as Martin tugged painfully at Jon’s scalp by mistake. But it was still nice. Jon’s galloping heart finally started to calm, pulse slowing to match the steady, rhythmic shhhhk, shhhhk, shhhhk of the knife passing through the hair by his ears.

“I miss you,” Jon whispered.

“I’m right here.”

“For now.”

Martin sighed. “Look, Jon, I–”

“Have a very important and very secret plan that relies on avoiding me,” Jon finished for him. “I know. I really wasn’t trying for a guilt trip. I just… miss you.” He cleared his throat. It wasn’t intended to give Martin space to say I miss you, too, but he still noticed that Martin didn’t take it. “I’m, uh.” Another cough. “I’m surprised you’re doing this. You don’t have to, if it’s going to spoil things.”

“I can probably be in a room with you for ten minutes without ending the world,” Martin said, but there was something calculating in his voice, like he was actually weighing the probability.

Well. If this was the last ten minutes Jon was going to get in a long while, he may as well address the elephant in the room. They hadn’t spoken since Martin had left that tape.

He opened his mouth. He needed to say something. But what was there to say? I’m sorry? Martin wasn’t the one who Jon owed an apology, at least not about this. I haven’t compelled anyone in a month? A pathetic thing to brag about, worse than saying nothing at all.

As if reading Jon’s mind, Martin whispered, “Why did you do it, Jon?”

The words stuck in Jon’s throat. What was there to say?

“Was it… was it you?” Martin asked.

Jon knew what he meant. Basira had given him the tape, probably assuming – correctly – that the guilt would help keep him in line, so he’d heard Martin’s reaction.

I mean, it’s not him, is it? Not – not really. It’s – what, addiction, instinct, maybe mind control, something like that?

“I thought it might have been the Web,” Jon replied, voice hoarse. “I think… I think I hoped it was the Web. But… I think this is just who I am now.”

The words trailed off until they were almost inaudible, Jon’s throat closing in a self-protective rebellion about what he was saying, but they were true. Little as he wanted to say it, little as he wanted Martin to hear it, the part of him that at this very moment wanted to pry open Martin’s skull and dig out all of his worst traumas was as real as all the parts of him that were horrified at the prospect.

“But you’re trying. Aren’t you?”

Jon nodded. He didn’t think he was succeeding, most days, but he was trying. He didn’t think a person should have to try so hard simply to not hurt people, but, well, he wasn’t exactly a person anymore.

“Well, there you go. It’s like you said” Martin said. “That’s all you can do.”

He fell silent as he sawed through one of the bigger knots. Salt-and-pepper hair drifted to the floor, curling like so many quotation marks.

“And anyway,” he muttered after a moment, “Trying to be better is a lot more helpful than trying to get yourself killed.”

“I–” Jon stuttered, caught out. “I-I–”

“I know what you’re doing–” Martin said, voice slowly growing high-pitched with indignance. “The Buried, Ny-Ålesund – and that’s – that can’t be how you deal with guilt!”

“If I’d stayed in the Buried,” Jon muttered before he could stop himself, “I never would have compelled Jess Terrell.”

“Don’t.” Martin’s voice was sharp, sharper than Jon had ever heard it, and he dropped his hands from Jon’s hair. Even though Martin’s hands were cold, Jon’s skin felt colder when they were gone. Martin repeated, icily, “Don’t.”

“Martin, I–”

“Don’t you dare think like that, because if you get trapped, or killed, or, or I dunno– shot into space, or whatever you get yourself into next, then everything I’ve done will be a waste. This secret, important plan you hate so much is only worth a damn if you’re safe at the end of it.”

His words stirred an itch under Jon’s skin, a deep and urgent need to know. Martin had more information than he did about this – did he know something Jon didn’t about what The Archivist was meant to be? Was Jon going to be responsible for the fate of the world again?

He wasn’t going to compel Martin – he was still just in control of himself enough to resist that – but he prompted him, lightly. “Because…”

“Because I love you! Obviously.”

Oh. Jon had heard the gossip, of course, and he wasn’t quite so oblivious as to never suspect, but, well… a lot had changed. But Martin knew all that, and he said love anyway.

Love. Present tense.

“Martin, I–” Jon murmured, but Martin cut him off.

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t say it,” he whispered. “That would spoil things.”

“Alright,” Jon said. He could follow instructions for once. But Martin had said nothing about nonverbal communication, so he leaned back until his head came to rest against Martin’s sweater, and nuzzled into his chest. Martin reached a hand up to cup Jon’s cheek, and Jon grabbed it and held it in place, just for a moment.

He hoped his meaning was clear. Even if the stakes were as high Martin said, even if this ruined everything – he needed Martin to know.

Martin pulled away. “Come on,” he huffed affectionately, “Your ten minutes are almost up.”

It had definitely been more than ten minutes, but Jon wasn’t going to correct him.

Martin made quick work of the rest of the knots. He hmm ’ed quietly when they were all out, then took a pass at trying to even out the length of what was left. Judging by the noises he made while he worked, it didn’t go quite smoothly.

“There,” he said eventually, “I think that’s done.” He ruffled the short locks. “There’s a toilet down the hall, if you want to look in the mirror.”

Jon shook his head. “I trust you.”

Martin flashed an apologetic grimace. “You shouldn’t. It looks… Well, you shouldn’t have to deal with knots for a while, I don’t think it’s long enough.”

“Thanks.”

“Any time,” Martin said, and Jon knew it wasn’t true, but it still felt nice to hear.

Jon forced himself to walk away. He wandered back to the Archives, but his mind stayed in the office.

Daisy was in the break room. She looked a lot calmer, standing by the couch doing the stretches her physical therapist had recommended to make up for the muscle atrophy she’d suffered in those long months of entombment.

She nodded approvingly when she saw him. “I like your haircut.”

Jon pushed a self-conscious hair through the startlingly short strands of his newly-shorn hair. “Thanks.”

“Get your head patched up?”

“Yeah.”

Another nod. “Good.”

She didn’t ask who’s done it. Jon had always liked that about Daisy. She didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Jon fingered the edge of his bandage, and remembered the feeling of Martin’s hands on his skin.

She finished her stretches and walked over.

“I was thinking about ducking out and grabbing a drink. It’s been a hell of a day. You coming?”

He hesitated a moment.

“Sure. Just let me grab my coat.”

Then he set off, to grab a drink, and to think about Martin, and to sit in comforting silence with the friend he loved but could never forgive.

(view this work on AO3)

#reblogs are very appreciated!#i'm honestly kind of proud of this one so any attention you want to give it - rbs likes kudos comments replies etc - would mean a lot #tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin fic #jmart fic #do not archive #jonmartin fanfic

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sholmeser · 2 years

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this happened after e2 btw (i was there)

#sorry that you can like. so obviously see the pages getting gradually lazier and lazier #i got kind of sick of working on this o7 i haven’t completed comics in a rly long time #it was fun;though and i have more ideas for these 2 #serirei #serizawa katsuya #reigen arataka #mp100 #mob psycho 100 #myart #rbs very appreciated….this took me seven hours….kill me….!!!!!!

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chamoemileclown · 10 months

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saw someone else post about this and i really agree i think it just wasnt the right time for purgatory, the stakes were there but the vibe and the point in roleplay development for individual characters just.. wasnt it for me. I dont know what they have planned for the future so i cant say it shouldve happened later, but i think because of all the trips and vidcon the charas had just gotten to a point where they had started healing from their kids going missing only to be thrown into this, which can be a good point narratively but theres also a couple other things that kinda just didnt let it work out for me tbh

a lot of it was just the rules and events were weird? that probably makes no sense. but like from a viewer pov it felt like the characters were beta testers for this and the rules have been constantly changing, so its hard to get comfortable in. Like when theres a set of consistent rules teams are able to more accurately strategize and such and they couldnt really do that? so it just felt like weird improv the whole time which theyre very good at but it was just.. like idk unbalanced? thats a dif point that contributed

like etoiles pointed this out that they balanced the teams (not really imo) in game but not fandom-wise, like certain teams had a very large fanbase and certain others had a very small one, etc etc. And like for example blue team had much less people on consistently but by the time they realized that it was probably too late to change teams without an event like the one recently splitting green. I feel like the admins tried to mix up the players outside of their usual friend groups but it just kinda cut the ints in half? i know cellbit didnt wanna kill roier, bad was very isolated from all his regular friends and therefore nobody wanted to talk to him (he wasnt on their team), tubbo was kinda suffering because he couldnt use create. Red team was overwhelmingly loud, blue was crushingly quiet, green was... tbh not on a lot of the time. Not good to watch from most POVs

i could be wrong about a couple things but like this is my general feeling on it, odd timing and weird balancing combined with toxic fandoms caused by competitiveness within the streams kinda ruined it for me, you can only curate ur experience so much

I really like how you put the first part because it was also something that I had felt about the event but I couldn’t really pinpoint why? I’m sure that a lot of the planning came down to a lot of stuff we can’t see behind the scenes like trying to be mindful of the ccs/ admins schedules but scheduling purgatory so far out from the disappearance really changed a lot. Like I just got used to not having the eggs and being fine with that and a lot of the ccs did sort of move on/ adapt to it. Obviously most people want the eggs back safe but I think some novelty has worn off after being away from them for so long. I think purgatory would’ve had more of an effect if the wound was more fresh when purgatory took place it would’ve made the stakes higher and I don’t think as many people would be saying “oh I don’t care if the eggs die at this point just end purgatory.”

Also the rules changing I noticed too was really jarring from day to day. I feel like a lot of the qsmp is like this and it’s a product of the admins being quick to respond to complaints in general and changing things accordingly. In my ideal world where the admin team could’ve just run the event with a test group to almost like stress test the rules? but i doubt that’s a very viable option. It would’ve been nice to see teams strategize more than play off the cuff in the limited time frame they have I feel like that only really rewards people with spontaneous playstyles

I think a lot of the problems with balancing fanbases revolves around people not knowing how to act online. The qsmp has long stretches where there isn’t much character conflict so that’s attracted a lot of people who feel really attracted to one pov and just don’t know how to handle conflict. We’ve seen this stuff outside of purgatory like during the entirety of the elections arc and when characters have an insignificant argument in rp. I don’t think you could balance viewers while also balancing skill but its definitely a problem that exists and doesn’t really have a clean solution. Also I do think the division of teams was to encourage different people to interact or possibly drive more in rp angst but it did fall flat in ways that were unintended.

Overall I think a lot of purgatory was trying to cater to a lot of people at once but thats just not working. I enjoyed the event from the standpoint that no matter what the admins want a good audience experience and they wouldn’t intentionally let us down. This seems more like a fundamental flaw in the server maybe? That it’s just not structured to be doing competitive game in this format at the very least.

#i deleted the og post asking people for feedback bc i was worried id get ate alive in the rbs #i think i covered everything i agree with most of this a lot does need to be adjust at the very least.#i also think my enjoyment came from the competiton so i understand why you wouldn’t like it for that anon #thank you for having rhis discussion with me btw i appreciate it i found it interesting to see it from the other side.#qsmp discourse #qsmp discussion #qsmp purgatory

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ruvviks · 1 year

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Chapter >> 18 [x] Characters >> Lauren Dimas (oc), Matvey Dobrynin (oc), Mikhail Koshechkin (oc), Rogue Amendiares, Viktor Vektor, Vincent Mayer (oc), Vitali Dobrynin (oc) Total >> 8.0k words Warnings >> Alcohol mention, blood, brainwashing mention, brief transphobia mention, death, descriptions of dying (don't even worry about it), dissociation (sort of), injuries, violence

Vitali was dying.

He could see the sky from where he sat, the ink black void above Night City, turned all hues of blue from advertisement projections and the city lights down below. Could barely hear the alarm blasting through the building anymore, a comfortable ringing filling the space between his ears, low humming wrapping itself around him like a protective blanket as he felt himself slipping away.

Part of him had already known, in a way. Living on borrowed time- the bullet had killed him, and if it hadn’t been for Arasaka forcing a heartbeat back into him only minutes later he would never have opened his eyes anymore at all. Had happened nearly a year ago by then; yet somehow Vitali could remember it as if it had only been a few hours at most, as if all that had taken place since had been nothing but a fever dream and his brain keeping him trapped in a delusion in the final moments before his lungs would give out.

He struggled to keep his eyes open, the familiar voice nearby urging him to stay awake- bitter taste of blood in his mouth and his side burning up, pain gnawing its way through flesh and muscle and bone until it was so constant he could barely even feel it anymore.

‘The sky looks…different, here.’

Vincent chuckled and dropped his head on Vitali’s shoulder who immediately scoffed in return, surprised by his boyfriend’s reaction, and quickly took another sip from his beer.

‘You are- such a fuckin’ city boy,’ Vincent said, looking up and pressing a kiss on Vitali’s cheek. ‘No offense, ‘course.’

‘None taken.’

Neither of them spoke as they both looked up again, eyes trailing over the stars shimmering above the camp of the Aldecaldos stationed a few miles outside of Tucson. Vincent was right- Vitali had never left Night City far enough to be able to see the night sky in all its glory, and he had never known there was so much up there to see.

Oh, how Vitali longed to see the stars one last time.

At least the end was more gentle for him, now. No one hovering over him, hurting him, choking him out; no one crying beside him, failing to save him- tears spilled, wasted, over Vitali’s own shortcomings, his alone and no one else's.

‘We should come back here, sometime,’ Vincent quietly said, reaching out to take Vitali’s hand in his own and he gave it a little squeeze. ‘After- you know. We finish up business in Night City. Take a break for a while.’

‘That sounds lovely,’ Vitali replied and smiled at him; a smile that widened when Vincent smiled back and gently bumped their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed in deep, his lips brushing past Vitali’s skin.

He had not even gotten the chance to say goodbye.

A tear rolled down Vitali’s cheek, eyelids heavy as he felt himself sinking; no current pulling him down this time but his arms and legs were no longer strong enough to keep his head above the water, and he sucked in a final, shaky breath before the cold river swallowed him whole.

He knew what dying felt like.

Vitali had very limited childhood memories.

Early ones, at least; shrouded in a strange sense of alienation, a name that did not belong to him and a body turning into something he did not want it to be. Siblings, who got a better treatment than he had ever received; a mother who did not love him, who thought her oldest daughter was merely a doll for her to play with, to dress up and order around until she would grow tired and throw him out; and a father, who-

Who-

Well, Vitali was not sure anymore.

‘You’re bleeding, мое солнышко. What happened?’

Vitali refused to look his father in the eyes- not out of shame, but out of pure anger- still shaking on his legs as he stomped through the living room and dropped himself on the couch. He was a little out of breath, still; had run all the way upstairs rather than use the elevator in hopes to get rid of the adrenaline running through his system, but it had not helped him in the slightest.

‘Stupid fucking shit kids,’ he simply answered Matvey, who had put his work down and walked over to him to join him, sitting down in the armchair on his left.

‘Oy- Language.’

‘What? I’m right.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Called me names. Said I dress ugly.’

‘And then they punched you on the nose?’

Vitali huffed and looked away, crossing his arms in front of his chest and he pouted as he stared out of the window, eyes slowly trailing over the ocean next to the pier of Wellsprings.

Alright, perhaps he had landed the first punch this time- but could you blame him? All the little fuckers ever did was harass anyone younger and shorter than them, and Vitali with his ten years of age was no exception to that.

One too many times and he had simply snapped.

Matvey reached out and gently took Vitali’s jaw, tilting his head back to get a better look at his face; and Vitali merely stared back, counting the few freckles covering his father’s forehead and cheekbones as his heartbeat finally settled down.

‘It hurts,’ he mumbled, slapping his father’s hand away.

‘It looks broken,’ he replied.

‘Next time I see them I’m pushing them off pier. All of them.’

‘Hm. Good luck explaining that to NCPD. Davay- let’s clean that blood off your face before your mother gets home.’

‘HEY-! Fucking watch it!’

Vitali clenched his jaw and flipped the other driver off as he quickly maneuvered around the car, switching lanes and accelerating while ignoring the loud honking from behind. His other hand was tightly wrapped around the steering wheel, white-knuckled to stop it from shaking too much.

Not as if it helped.

The city lights flashing by were blinding- street light after street light and billboards and neon signs and Vitali struggled to keep his eyes open, the almost hypnotic pattern lulling him to sleep despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He accelerated more, nearly subconsciously so, heart rapidly beating in his chest and breathing high up in his throat- a feeling he was all too familiar with, a near constant state of being in combat situations or right before an important meeting with some rich and influential client.

This was different, though.

‘Turn right here, getting close.’

Mikhail spoke softly, just loud enough for Vitali to hear, his usually calming voice only slightly soothing his nerves this time. He was sat shotgun- Eddie on the backseat with Rogue, Cato and Vincent with Panam in the car following suit- leg nervously bouncing up and down and hands clasped around his rifle to keep his tics at bay.

‘I understand. Listen, I- Yes, I understand.’

Rogue’s voice was starting to sound increasingly more annoyed with every interruption from the fixer on the other end of the line. Her gaze met Vitali’s in the rearview mirror; and she made a gun with her free hand and pretended to shoot herself in the head, rolling her eyes while moving her phone a little bit further away from her ear when the fixer raised their voice at her.

‘I get your frustration and I get that the Council is starting to lose their patience, but just give us this last fucking night, goddamnit!’ she replied, every last ounce of friendliness she’d previously feigned entirely gone now. ‘Vitali is here with me, we’re on our way to the location- gonna deal with it once and for all. One night, please.’

Once and for all.

The reality of the situation they had found themselves in had yet to kick in for Vitali, his brain lagging behind and struggling to catch up. But it was better that way; he did not want to, did not need to think about what that statement meant- despite already being fully aware of it.

Going to drink myself into a coma after this.

Charter Hill, Westbrook.

Vitali clenched his jaw as he entered the subdistrict and passed its university grounds, memories flooding back into his brain- memories of attempting to break in, memories of nearly getting shot by security while trying to reach Mikhail in their years apart. Perhaps that’s why his father had chosen to seek shelter there of all places; perhaps he knew Vitali still avoided it like the plague, heart suffocating under the weight of all the sleepless nights he had spent there looking for his friend.

Hiding in plain sight. Smart.

High risk, high reward.

Vitali had an intimate relationship with the concept, from his years in college with the fine line between his personal and his school life, to the operations he led at Arasaka Counterintel, to the gigs he took from clients and divided under his mercenaries.

His own office in Wellsprings handled a similar strategic approach. Of course Arasaka knew of him- of course they knew where he could be found, and of course they could strike at any given moment in time without any warning and of course they could level the whole building with the ground with a single press of a button if they so desired.

But with his front and enough finesse practiced by both clientele and employees- and most importantly, Vitali’s intimate knowledge of the APEX program- even Arasaka stood powerless in the situation, knowing there was nothing they could do without raising suspicion, without drawing attention to themselves among other megacorporations, especially after the fiasco with Grant Armitage.

As long as Matvey’s mercs had behaved, no one would have expected their hideout to be in the midst of busy Charter Hill.

Not even Vitali.

‘Fucking imbecile.’

Rogue’s phone call had finally ended and she exhaled sharply, exchanging another look with Vitali when he glanced in her direction and she shook her head at him.

‘They want you dead,’ she plainly said. ‘Think everything will solve itself when you’re six feet under.’

‘Are you going to kill me?’ Vitali calmly asked in return.

‘Gimme a good reason not to.’

‘I’m driving.’

‘Eh, that works.’

As stupid as the Council was acting, Vitali understood; grasping at straws, similar to him, except focusing on the one thing he had thus far been trying so desperately to avoid. As if it would matter- as if it would make any fucking difference- the insignificance of a single man in Night City had become overly apparent to him in the past few months and if anything, his death would probably cause more problems than it would solve.

Another right turn and Vitali slowed the car, steering to the side of the road and coming to a stop behind a traffic jam, cars long abandoned for obvious reasons- a road block, heavily armored trucks and SUVs surrounding the main entrance of the building Vitali needed to be at and mercs patrolling the streets.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, slowly getting out of the car as his eyes trailed the entire building. It stood detached from surrounding facilities, enough space between to prevent any collateral damage; if anything, an explosion would perhaps cause some of the windows to rattle, but Vitali doubted it’d get worse than that.

He glanced behind him and gave Panam, Cato and Vincent a nod, all three of them readying themselves as they joined the rest- and a hushed but urgent ‘there you are!’ drew his attention into the other direction, a surge of adrenaline nearly causing him to reach for his weapon before he realized it was merely Huxley jogging over to them.

The group followed her into an alley just outside of view of the roadblock up ahead. An already crowded place- Vitali counted six other mercs, five whose faces he only semi-recognized- and Viktor of all people, dressed in similar combat gear as everyone else.

The defeated, somewhat exasperated look in Vitali’s eyes merely made the ripperdoc smile.

‘What’s the plan?’ one of the mercs asked, and right at the same time Rogue placed three bags with explosives on the dumpster beside the group.

‘Some sort of fucked up déjà vu cycle I seem to be stuck in,’ she said, gesturing at Vincent and Vitali- but her gaze lingered on him specifically. ‘Thought our good friend the rockerboy used to be stuck in your boyfriend’s head, not yours.’

‘What can I say?’ he simply replied. ‘Suppose the parasite infected me.’

The plan was straightforward, essentially the same as the last two times- get inside, plant the explosives, activate them, and then get out of there before the place would blow. They didn’t have blueprints to work with, nor did they know where any of the supplies were stashed exactly; but Vitali did not worry about it too much, knowing all would be lost either way once fire would break out following detonation.

All easy enough.

That part of it was, at least.

‘Small teams,’ he said, ‘three or four people max. Rogue, V- you’re with me. These are all rigged to activate at once from a single explosive so planting them is enough- just get out of there fast, once they’re activated we have about ten minutes to leave and there is no way to stop timer from going.’

‘Can’t Lauren control ‘em?’ Cato asked.

‘Unfortunately not. Older models- specifically made for field use, keep runners at bay.’

‘Balls.’

‘We’ll be fine.’

Vitali stood back as the- for now harmless- explosives were split between everyone present, eyes slowly trailing over faces and mostly steady hands gathering supplies and reloading weapons. He wandered around the group- paused to place his hand on Vincent’s arm and give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze- and closed the distance between himself and Viktor, who conveniently turned his head when Vitali tried to catch his gaze.

‘What are you doing here?’ he quietly asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest. ‘This is no job for you, Vitya. Please just go back to office.’

‘And leave Mikhail as the only available field medic here? Didn’t think so.’ Viktor paused, inhaling deeply before placing his hand on Vitali’s back. ‘Wasn’t planning on letting you do this all by yourself, kid.’

Vitali wasn’t alone there. But he understood what Viktor meant.

‘Are you sure about this?’

Vitali scoffed and took a few steps back, accidentally bumping into some medical equipment behind him in the small interior of Viktor’s shop. He straightened his back again- but swayed on his feet, the alcohol in his system not mixing too well with his medication, and he couldn’t keep his eyes focused on the other man in the room.

‘There is nothing else left for me out there,’ he answered in Russian, widely smiling and spreading his arms. ‘You thought I was studying to end up as someone’s secretary? Become some- some random exec for a starter company in Watson? Hell, a fucking politician?’

‘Arasaka isn’t going to solve anything for you, Vito,’ Viktor interrupted him, slightly raising his voice. ‘What are you hoping to find? Mikhail? Your parents?’

He tightly clenched his jaw and closed his eyes when Viktor moved his hand to his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, the gesture somehow enough to make his heartbeat settle down again.

‘Maybe, yes.’

A delayed answer, the two words violently cutting through the heavy silence lingering between them. Vitali dropped his arms and scoffed again- though it sounded more like a sob- and turned on his heels to walk away, nearly falling over the same medical equipment a second time that night.

Curious how that worked. Being so trapped inside one’s own head that it would feel like loneliness even when surrounded by people, swallowed by the Night City crowds. Vitali was intimately familiar with it- and even in that overcrowded alley he could feel it pressing down on his chest, choking the oxygen out of his lungs.

At least Viktor is still here.

Vitali could not remember much from the last time they blew up a building.

To be fair, it had been less about the explosives that time, and more about getting Vincent’s cure- and Vitali had only been barely present for it, mind still a little hazy from the remnants of Arasaka’s brainwashing attempt while he’d simultaneously had to run around and try not to get himself- or others- killed.

What he did remember, however, was the adrenaline; the pressure and the gravity of the situation pressing down heavily on his shoulders and his chest, his heart nearly beating itself free from within his ribcage, and the slight tremble of his hands while he had fought his way back into the secret laboratories where they had kept him in their captivity, mere days earlier.

Oh, how history loved to repeat itself.

The same pressure weighing down on him, the same tension in his spine- the same clammy feeling on the palms of his hands and the same shallow breathing as he left the safety of the alley with the rest of the group and they split up to move around the building in different directions, to try and cover as much ground as possible.

‘What’s the plan, jefe?’ Lauren asked, her voice a bit crackled through Vitali’s earpiece as a result of the static produced by what he could only assume was attempted enemy netrunner interference.

‘Rogue, V and I- we’re taking the lower floors,’ he answered, staying low to the ground as he moved around some vehicles. ‘Hold out there while everyone else moves up to plant explosives. I can see at least nine, ten- wait, thirteen hostile mercs outside currently. Can you take them down?’

‘I can try. Stay still.’

A cold shiver ran down Vitali’s spine when Lauren took over his vision and he shakily exhaled, clenching his fists in an attempt to calm down. It’s just Lauren, no one else- kept repeating it over and over in his head as he straightened his back and peered over the car he was sat behind again to give her a clear visual on the entrance of the building.

The sudden zoom of his Kiroshis caused his eyes to water and he swallowed heavily, nausea bubbling up in his stomach as a sudden rush of panic washed over him- panic that vanished almost instantly the second he noticed the enemy mercs dropping to the floor one by one, Lauren’s enhanced quickhack rapidly spreading until the entrance was clear and Vitali could finally stop digging his nails in the palms of his hands.

It’s just Lauren, no one else.

‘Sick,’ Vincent said from beside him, very much unaware of the uneasy feeling nested deep within Vitali’s stomach and he glanced at Vitali with a dangerous shimmer in his eyes.

‘Let’s move in.’

The entrance hall was a large, open space, similar to Vitali's own office but significantly less inviting; if anything it reminded him more of the entrance back at Arasaka, front desk blocking most of the path to the back of the building where two wide stairs led up then curved around against the back wall, meeting each other in the middle.

The plain white walls and asymmetric tiles on the floor had a medical feel to them, clearly a remnant of whatever the place used to be before Matvey and his mercenaries had moved in- but with the blood pooling at Vitali's feet and splattered across walls and ceiling and corpses scattered about it felt more like a slaughterhouse than anything else.

His stomach turned as he entered after Rogue and Vincent, several mercs inside instantly directing their attention to them- but they moved quickly, using the front desk as cover as gunfire started and the deafening noise echoed through the building and bounced around between Vitali's ears, the ringing putting a near painful pressure on his eardrums.

He steadied himself on the counter, relaxing his muscles before pulling the trigger and firing a couple of shots in the direction of their attackers. Just gotta keep them busy- everyone else had by then surely already entered through the back entrance or the fire escape and surely they were already nearly done with planting all the explosives they carried with them.

He just wanted to get it over with.

They locked him up.

The thought creeped into his head without warning.

Matvey was still somewhere inside, trapped- and Vitali's aim was starting to get worse with every passing second, his heart nearly beating out of his chest from stress. A shaky exhale left his body and he pulled back, wincing when a bullet bounced off the counter right where he'd just been, and he made direct eye contact with Vincent-

And suddenly they were kissing, Vincent's hands tightly holding his face, teeth clacking together from the force with which he had leaned in and Vitali gasped for air in his mouth, stealing the oxygen from his lungs.

'Stay focused, alright?' Vincent said, his voice only barely audible over the noise surrounding the two of them but Vitali could hear him clear as day, as if they were alone, as if they were completely elsewhere.

'It's almost over.'

And Vincent was gone again, moving around the counter on Vitali's other side to close in on their enemies. Vitali exhaled sharply and moved into the other direction instead- moved around Rogue, gave her a quick nod- trailed along the side of the room, using the large planters and benches as partial cover while taking more shots at the mercenaries.

'Lauren, security details!' he said, reloading his gun; he was on his last twelve bullets, and had forgotten to bring any spare.

'Their runner's been isolated, got them in a corner,' Lauren replied. 'Security protocols shut down- automated turret system entirely offline, seems like they can't get access to the codes.'

'Any automated doors?'

'Oh, yeah, most of 'em.'

'Can you open them for me?'

'Sure thing, jefe.'

One thing less to worry about.

Of course Vitali didn't know if he was even still alive. There was no way for him to find out- had no idea where his father was being held, and wasn't about to abandon Rogue and Vincent when they had more important things to worry about.

But he could not let it go.

And of course his body betrayed him; vision going blurry to the point he had to lower himself to the floor behind a planter and rub his eyes, but that only seemed to make it worse. Could feel himself slipping again, just like back in that Arasaka facility- time and time again, each and every direct reminder of the megacorporation causing his body to lock up and revert back to autopilot, to rely on the carefully programmed killer instinct planted inside his head.

'Please, not now,' he pleaded to no one in particular, voice a little shaky as his eyes tried to find something- anything- to focus on. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, behind his eyes; could feel himself losing control of the muscles in his arms, in his legs-

'Please, not now.'

Vitali's voice was absent, distant. Even to himself; had not meant it that way, but it had happened almost automatically so, as if he was too tired to make an effort to make himself sound nice.

'I know you're busy,' Vincent quietly replied, shuffling a little closer to the couch. 'I just- I'm worried about you. You've been doin' nothing other than this paperwork for several days now. And it's getting really late.'

He did not even need to glance at the clock to know it was far past midnight.

Vincent sat down next to him and gently brushed a strand of hair out of his face, finally managing to get Vitali to put down his work and slowly take off his reading glasses. He turned to look at his boyfriend; who smiled at him in return and gave him a soft kiss on his cheek, arms sneaking their way around Vitali's waist to pull him a little closer.

Vitali opened his eyes and breathed in, shaking hand finding his left forearm- and without hesitation he pressed down his fingers, hard, a sharp and searing pain rushing through his nerves and he screamed, clarity once more washing over him until he could finally feel his legs again.

Focus, V. Focus.

He reached for his gun again and turned around- fired once, fired twice, three times and he was out- noticed someone running in his direction and hurled the empty gun directly at their head before whipping out a knife and pulling up the sleeve of his right arm.

A split second of hesitation-

Before he deployed his mantis blade, the only one he had left, and he jumped over the planter to close the distance between himself and another mercenary and slit their throat with both the blade as well as his knife at once.

A risky move, but Vitali did not care.

High risk, high reward- the adrenaline surging through his veins was enough to keep him going, the energy enough to keep his head on his shoulders and not lose his cool. Completely in control of each and every of his movements, using his enemies as cover as he rapidly worked his way through them, staining his blades and clothes with blood.

'Most explosives are in place, Vitali,' Lauren said, right when he dragged his mantis blade out of the chest of one of the last mercs in the entrance hall. 'Just the ones you're carrying. Whenever you're ready.'

'Time to move!' he yelled, acknowledging Lauren's comment simply by shifting his focus back to Vincent and Rogue. The latter held up the bag with explosives she had taken inside; and then vanished into a side hallway on the left of the building, and Vincent and Vitali followed suit.

But the second Vitali entered the hallway, he knew something was wrong.

'It's nothing I can't handle, Vik.' Vitali's voice was quiet, a mere mumble, as if he knew it was of no use to argue with the man. 'I've had it for all my life, now.'

'That doesn't mean it can't get worse.' Viktor paused and put some pressure on the side of Vitali's leg, right next to a muscle- and it instantly cramped up, causing a pained involuntary whimper to leave Vitali's lips and he kicked his leg to shake Viktor's hand away.

It was so easy to push himself too far. So tempting even; Vitali knew he could handle it and if he wanted to get results, he sometimes simply needed to make the effort whether he liked it or not.

It's exactly how his leg had gotten worse over the years, just like Viktor had warned him.

And it's exactly how he was starting to lose control again the second they were out of the entrance hall, his brain suddenly catching up with him to the point he could barely walk straight and his head felt like it was going to explode.

'Honey, are you alright?'

Vincent's voice sounded miles away, as if there were at least four thick walls standing between them despite the fact he was right there. Vitali tried looking up at him but his eyes found no one, as if he was suddenly all by himself; but with a blink of his eyes Vincent was right there again, holding his face, hands ever so careful and gentle and Vitali closed his eyes, wishing they could stay like that forever-

'I suppose I'm scared.'

'Scared? You? Please.'

A scoff left Mikhail's lips and he gave Vitali a playful nudge before taking another sip of his beer. Vitali mocked the scoff and snatched the bottle out of his friend's hands, downing the rest of it in a single go.

'You'll be fine, V,' Mikhail simply continued. 'Being away from your parents will do you good, and- I mean, they won't go anywhere. Give it a week or two, then reach out again. And you will always have me as well, you know that.'

'In another district,' Vitali mumbled in response. 'Where I can't reach you.'

'Once I'm settled in I'll give you call. You can come visit. We have plenty of time between classes.'

Vitali opened his eyes, and he was alone.

Again.

A sharp exhale left his chest as he returned to reality, body bouncing back to catch him but he hadn't even been falling in the first place.

Where am I?

He frantically looked around, back finding the wall behind him- it was sticky and a quiet whimper left his lips as he moved away as quick as he had dropped himself against it, jaw clenching tightly upon noticing the large amount of blood splattered onto the faded green and white wallpaper of the storage room he found himself in.

His eyes trailed down the wall to the floor- two corpses, mercs, dressed in heavy armor similar to that of Arasaka guards, and beside them stood the bag they had carried the explosives in, only one of the packages still inside, waiting to be installed.

Vitali blinked, hearing static on the line through his earpiece; though he was unsure if it was merely regular interference or an actual problem he should be worried about. The familiar thrumming in his head was still there, endlessly putting pressure on his skull- as if it could snap at any given moment, as if he could fall back into the darkness of his own mind with a single wrong move.

Not the time to feel sorry for yourself.

Far from it, even.

Vitali bent forward and grabbed the final explosive from the bag, quickly unwrapping the small device from its protective wraps and he placed it on one of the empty shelves of the storage room, turning the centerpiece to click it in place and snap it to the metal.

'Last explosive installed, ready for activation,' he absently said, unsure if anyone could even hear him. Exhaustion was washing over him now; body pushed far over its limits once more and he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up again, knowing if he would pass out now it would be over for him.

He turned back around, straightening his back and getting ready to leave-

No.

Not now.

A figure stood in the door opening, wearing a suit; no jacket, sleeves of his shirt rolled up and gun in his hand, and Vitali unwillingly took a small step back when his gaze met that of his father.

Now or never.

Something was different.

Something had been different for a while, now.

And as much as it hurt him he charged forward without hesitation, ramming Matvey against the wall of the hallway and reaching for his gun to try and get a hold of it- but Matvey was fast and smashed the butt of the gun down onto Vitali's elbow, making him cry out in pain and loose his footing.

He was kicked back, the force of it startling him but not enough to knock him off his feet and he regained his balance, balling his fists and readying them in front of his face. Matvey scoffed in return, corner of his mouth slightly pulling up- then dropped his gun and in that same movement threw a punch aimed at Vitali's side, which Vitali blocked with the inside of his forearm and countered with a solid punch straight in Matvey's stomach.

He grabbed the man's shoulder, digging his nails into his shirt and flesh and baring his gritted teeth as he kicked his knee up with all the strength left in him- once, twice, three times as Matvey coughed and his hands clawed at Vitali's clothes to try and get a hold of him.

This is it.

Vitali's heart was racing wildly in his chest and he saw nothing but red- though not from anger, but out of fear, shallow breathing making him light-headed and causing him to lose control of the muscles in his legs. He pushed Matvey back, balled his fist- swung at him and hit his cheek, knuckles colliding with bone and only partially healed scabbed wounds tearing open, leaving his own blood on his father's face.

You can just leave.

He could.

He could just walk away now, no one had to know- no one had to know he couldn't do it, no one had to know he’d even seen Matvey there. It would be so simple; so fucking simple, yet there he was, bending over to grab his father's gun from the floor to then raise it and point it at his head, steadying himself with his other hand.

'Vitali,' Matvey said, slowly raising both his hands in defense as he struggled to catch his breath.

'Shut up,' Vitali sneered back. 'Just- shut up.'

Oh, how his voice betrayed him.

The slight tremble as he spoke, the sob mixed with the words he tried oh so desperately to spit out as violently as he could. No amount of anger, no amount of hatred could mask how scared he was-

And the amount of anger inside him was not even close to being enough to be able to pull the fucking trigger.

A door opened behind Matvey- the stairway, several mercs coming out and Vitali readjusted his aim and fired at them, walking backwards to create more distance between himself and everyone else in the hallway.

But suddenly he was no longer on his feet, tackled into one of the rooms on his side onto the floor by yet another merc, appearing out of nowhere from the side when he had least expected it and the gun was no longer in his hand, skidding over the floor entirely out of reach.

Vitali grunted and swung his arm blindly, hitting the merc's head and effectively pushing them off himself. He grabbed their hair and held them in position as he turned himself around- readying himself and pushing them into the ground to smash their head repeatedly against the floor until their cries of pain faltered and their attempts to escape from his grip stopped.

He jumped back on his feet, well aware of the danger closing in; turned, and froze, the merc in the doorway aiming their gun at him-

But before they could shoot, Matvey grabbed their arm and pulled it down, shoving them into the side of the doorway as he pushed himself a way inside and smashed their head against the frame before letting them drop to the floor.

Two more mercenaries entered and Vitali charged forward, using himself as a battering ram to separate the two to get one cornered in the room and push the other toward Matvey. He deployed his mantis blade and slashed the merc across the chest, once, twice-

And then heard a struggle behind him, jaw clenching tightly as he quickly turned around to assess the situation, breath caught in his throat as he feared for the worst-

Matvey was fine. Snapped the merc’s neck like it was nothing, and the fight was over.

But Vitali hadn't-

BANG!

He swiftly turned back around, mantis blade moving up- slashing the merc’s throat as quick as he could, and he retracted the blade in the same movement, sharp and short exhale leaving his body together with the sudden adrenaline that had arisen the second he had realized what he had done.

But something felt wrong.

Very, very wrong.

And Vitali fell to the ground.

He was light-headed again; and confused, too, shaking hand reaching for his side as a tingling sensation rapidly spread through his body. Cold fingertips found his shirt- it was soaked, like on his first day at Counterintelligence when one of his colleagues ran into him and accidentally spilled their poor excuse of a coffee all over his suit.

He had never been able to wash the stain out.

Which is why Vitali had mostly worn black button-ups under his suit jacket ever since, with the exception here and there- which is why at first glance it looked like someone had simply just spilled their drink on him again and he wasn’t bleeding heavily from a deep gunshot wound a little bit below his ribcage.

The red liquid on his hand would taste nothing like a lukewarm latte macchiato.

The thought caused Vitali’s lips to curl up in a smile as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold wall behind him. The initial confusion had washed away and pain had taken its place, burning and eating its way through his body and locking up his muscles, rendering him unable to get up.

Fuck, I’m tired.

‘You’re bleeding, мое солнышко. What happened?’

Vitali’s eyes fluttered open and he saw his father, standing in the doorway- on the other end of the dark hallway, slowly walking closer, reaching out to pluck a cigarette end out of Vitali’s hair- gun once more in his hand, eyes fixed solidly on the dark, wet stain in Vitali’s shirt right below his armor.

‘Stupid fucking shit kids,’ Vitali simply mumbled in return.

Though he was not sure if his father had even said anything to begin with.

‘Explosives locked and loaded. Ten minutes until detonation- everyone get the fuck out of here while you still can.’

A soft sigh left Vitali’s lips, Rogue’s voice barely audible to him through his earpiece though he did not need to hear her to know what she was talking about. They succeeded; the explosives would rid the place of all resources and would leave the mercs defenseless and they’d have nothing left to continue their onslaught with.

Though with Vitali bleeding out on the cold, laminated floor right in the lion’s den- exactly what they had wanted from the beginning- he was starting to wonder if everything could have been prevented had someone just fatally shot him a little earlier.

He grunted and pushed himself up on his elbows a little more, using what little strength he had left in his legs to shove himself further up against the wall. He opened his mouth to speak- had no idea what even to say, but felt like he had to say something- perhaps to get someone to look for him, even though that was the last thing he wanted.

Enough people had died and gotten injured because of him.

And as much as he tried, not a single sound left his lips, words caught in his throat and only blood dripping down his lips. He closed his eyes again and dropped his head back against the wall, exhaustion washing over him; and it felt like a relief, for some reason, feeling himself slowly drift off into that dark void that had become all too familiar to him in the past year.

Sudden pressure on his wound caused Vitali to cry out- mostly in surprise, less so in pain- and his eyes shot open again, back lifting slightly from the wall as he reached for the hands that attempted to stop the bleeding-

‘Don’t struggle. Save your energy.’

What?

One chance to set things right.

A little late, in the bigger picture of things; Matvey knew he’d had plenty of opportunities to give up, to just walk away for good. He was no longer sure why he hadn’t- did not know what he’d been trying to achieve, what he’d been trying to prove, but it was far too late for that now.

‘What are you doing?’ Vitali quietly asked, his voice barely audible above the alarm that had started blasting through the building only a minute ago. His bloodied hands tried to get a grip on Matvey’s wrists, but he kept slipping, and a choked sob left his throat when Matvey lifted one hand to take Vitali’s earpiece out and put it in his own ear instead.

‘Does anyone have eyes on Vitali?’

‘Vito, respond-! T-minus eight minutes until detonation, I can’t control them from here!’

‘Vitali, are you still inside?’

Matvey slowly lowered his hand, time seemingly slowing down around him as his eyes found Vitali’s- one of them a little bloodshot, both a little hazy from tears and pain, each and every blink lasting longer than the one before.

‘Second floor,’ he finally spoke, reaching up to gently cup his son’s cheek with his hand and leaning forward to kiss his forehead before moving his hand back to the wound.

‘Third door from the stairs. He’s bleeding out. Hurry.’

Why?

Vitali could not force the question out of his mouth, tears rolling down his cheeks as his gaze wandered off to the window next to him. He could see the sky from where he sat, the ink black void above Night City, turned all hues of blue from advertisement projections and the city lights down below. Could barely hear the alarm blasting through the building anymore, a comfortable ringing filling the space between his ears, low humming wrapping itself around him like a protective blanket as he felt himself slipping away.

‘You got what you wanted, no?’ he softly said, turning his head back to look at his father, using the last bit of strength in his body to lift his head from the wall.

‘I was wrong,’ Matvey simply answered, unable to look his son in the eyes as he glanced at the closed door of the room, some gunfire nearby causing the hairs on Vitali’s arms to stand up straight.

‘Wrong.’

Mockery dripped from Vitali’s voice and he scoffed- and coughed, blood spraying out of his mouth as he struggled to find a moment to breathe, spots dancing in front of his eyes.

It all felt so stupid now. The grand finale, everything had led up to this- but his father had been wrong, and none of it had mattered one single fucking bit and now Vitali was bleeding out and dying in a building set to explode in less than seven- six- minutes.

‘Wrong about what?’ he spat, letting his head collide with the wall with a bit more force than he had meant for.

And Matvey hesitated, visibly thinking as his gaze finally met Vitali’s again; cold, gray eyes staring right back at him, almost as if he was looking in a mirror, and Vitali finally realized- and Matvey could not help but notice- just how much he had started to look like his father over the years.

‘All of it.’

In a way, Vitali understood.

From the moment it had first been brought up, Vitali had known he would not be able to kill his father if it had to come down to it. A weakness, and he knew that; the one family member who had always complicated everything for him, the only one who had not rejected him in the way the others had- and even with everything else that had happened since, Vitali had not been able to stop seeing Matvey as his father.

Another choked sob left his lips as he tried to move, pain burning through all of his muscles with every single movement and panic was starting to take over, breathing shallow and barely enough to provide him with the oxygen he needed and he knew he was starting to pass out.

‘What changed?’ he blurted out, grabbing Matvey’s wrist again to force him to look back at him- but the move caused him to collapse, body sinking forward until his father caught him and instinctively pulled him closer, one hand still on his wound and the other holding his head which rested steadily on his shoulder.

Oh, how Vitali wanted to push him away- how he wanted to punch him, to scream at him, to tell him how much he hated him for putting him through hell most of his life and for never being there for him and for never standing up for him or picking his side when he needed it, and when everyone knew that Vitali was right and Nadya was wrong.

‘You did,’ Matvey finally answered, his voice barely audible and Vitali pushed his face into his father’s shirt in return, staining it with blood and sweat and tears- balled his shaky hand into a fist and dropped his knuckles against his father’s shoulder, wondering how it would feel to knock it out of place but knowing it wouldn’t solve anything and wouldn’t even make him feel better.

‘Suppose I did, too.’

Vitali could only see flashes.

A door opening- people charging in, enemies perhaps-? Mikhail appearing in his view, though Vitali could barely recognize his face as if he was looking at his friend years after they had last seen each other- six, if I remember correctly- forced apart by unforeseen and unfortunate circumstances that could probably have been prevented but it was too late to change any of it now.

The pressure on his wound vanished and he opened his mouth to scream, sudden sharp pain immobilizing his entire body and causing his vision to go dark. He felt a hand in his neck- someone plugging into the port below his ear, checking his vitals- and another on his chest, moments before plunging a Bounce Back directly between the two halves of his tattoo, a mere inch above the long faded gunshot wound the bullet of the Arasaka guard had left him with.

It hurt.

All of it hurt, and the brief rush of adrenaline caused by the medication made him nearly bolt up, several sets of hands gently pushing him back against the wall. He saw Mikhail again- and Vincent too now, reloading his gun moments before turning back toward the still open door of the room and firing at something that Vitali couldn’t see.

He was scared.

Reached out for Vincent, but he was too far away; reached out for Mikhail, but he was preoccupied, hands steadily working on something Vitali could no longer feel, wound numbed by-

By pain? Medication? Fear?

Vitali’s hands were gently pulled aside, held tightly by his father who was still there- still right beside him, despite everything, as if all their years apart and everything that had happened since did not matter anymore and in that moment it genuinely did not matter to Vitali, a strange sense of comfort washing over him and slowing the rapid, panicked beating of his heart.

Time to go.

Vitali was lifted on his feet, supported by Matvey and Mikhail- and suddenly they were no longer in the room, the blinding lights of the hallways disorienting and making it even harder for him to see. He no longer heard gunfire, the alarm blaring through the building swallowing each and every other noise whole- though the humming in his head was getting louder and louder, canceling everything else out.

More familiar faces- Cato, Huxley, Eddie- and Viktor, hurrying himself over to them but pausing upon spotting Matvey, cautious look in his eyes before giving him a barely visible nod and taking Mikhail’s place at Vitali’s side.

Two minutes.

They were almost at the exit now. At least, Vitali assumed- although he could not remember going down any stairs, and he could also not remember where the exit was in the first place. His head felt heavy and he could barely keep his eyes open now, exhaustion once more washing over him like waves rolling in on the shore.

‘Just hold on, Vitali. Almost there.’

He couldn’t even tell who was talking to him.

One of his legs gave out and he sank through his knees, held up by the two men by his sides alone, each and every blink becoming more and more difficult to recover from as his eyes wanted nothing more than to stay shut. Another voice urging him to stay awake, and his feet were lifted from the floor, and he could feel a cool breeze on h

#nuclearwriting #rbs much appreciated :) <3 #the chapter is supposed to end like that yes. sorry about that. giggles #do you want to kill me yet. :) do you #you'll have to read between the lines a little bit to see like. the similarities between vitali's and matvey's points of view #i didn't feel like spelling it all out but like. if you read a few of these paragraphs and switch the perspective it'd still read the same #vitali is a fucking beast in combat by the way he is so sexy #also the clear lack of a cane / the brace he usually wears is also making me insane. yes i initially fogor about it BUT.#it fits. it fits very nicely with the rest of the everything that's going on here #anyway as always lmk what you think!!! send me asks. yell at me in dms. kill me if you must. very excited to get some feedback :D #ch:the broker

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kylos-starlight · 2 months

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Untagged vague post about someone I'm not even following having a crush that was rbd. now brain is in paranoia mode. Cool. I will say it again

IF WE ARE MUTUALS TAG ALL VAGUE POSTS PLEASE

Vague isn't just shit talking other people yknow.

Its getting a new crush on a fictional character.

Big life changes without going into detail .

Talking about your day without explaining fully

it really fucks with me in a bad way, my brain automatically assumes and get paranoid even when it 9/10 has nothing to do with me I cannot help this, it's been like this for a very very long time. (we can thank past traumas for this)

so please please for the love of everything tag your posts.

Its been on my byf since forever...I get people forget but this is just a reminder so yall don't forget. I'm not trying to be a dick but if I slip into this paranoid mindset it starts to heavily affect me. I'm not asking you not to make your posts but to simply tag it I have "vague" "cw: vague" "tw: vague" blacklisted

If you can't be bothered let me know so I can soft block.

I'm not being bitchy for the sake of being bitchy, I struggle irl and online with this. I'm just keeping myself safe and hey, if you don't want to add tags like that, its okay— but I'd rather not follow if thats the case. Doesn't mean I don't like you, doesn't mean we still can't be friends, I just can't have it on my dash.

#to those friends who take time to msg me like 'hey if you see the blacklist don't worry it's about x thing or isn't about any of your fo'#(if its a new crush) Just want to say thank you so much. you don't have to msg me. you don't have to go above and beyond but you do #i cannot state how appreciative I am of you #its very early so i may rb this again in the afternoon

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caruliaa · 1 year

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why the hell do people think the acknowledgement tht islam is sometimes used to justify homophobia = islamaphobia when it objectively doesnt. and why do ppl also wanna say its racist when theyre the ones who r refusing to let brown queer ppl speak out abt the religious trauma they have and the homophobia theyve faced in the name of islam when the same doesnt apply to white queer people speaking out about religious trauma they have and the homophobia theyve faced in the name of christianity. and why the hell do u think making queer people who were hurt in the name of islam feel isolated and as though our experiences dont matter in a community that was supposed to be there after we were rejected for our queerness often by our own families is worth it for an "islam is a fully pure religion that has never been used to hurt anyone ever" attitude that doesnt do anything to actually stop islamaphobia and creates the idea that islamaphobia is wrong because islam has never been used to hurt people which falls apart the second you breath near it because yes it fucking has instead of the real reason islamaphobia is wrong which is muslims are fucking human people who shouldnt be treated with discrimination and bigotry for their faith (which is distinctly different from having to hear that your faith that has been used to justify homophobia sometimes is used to justified homophobia sometimes btw since you people think theyre the same apparently). genuinely asking because for the love of god as a queer ex muslim im so fucking tired .

#sorry for kinda snapping but ihad to fucking say it bc. im fucking tired #also rbs are very appreciated pls go ahead if i dont want them later ill turn them off #also to be fucking clear idcc abt the ao3 whatever bs blah blah not fucking abt tht so dont bring tht shit up on this post #im just so fucking tired of in general how u all act. ik u think its ur being suchh a good ally but this is dumb white person behaviour btw #acting like islam is perfect and never used to hurt anyone but allowing nuanced discussions around xtianty and religious trauma #from being raised within it. sorry but the only major difference between me and someone who faced the same homophobia being raised xtian #is that that person is pretty damm likely to be white. and you guys fucking know tht okay #flappy rambles

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arklay · 1 year

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seeing stars.

pairing: diana x albert wesker words: 7.0k warnings: migraine, nausea and vertigo, brief mentions of food and alcohol, internalised ableism [read on ao3] — [part one]

A long exhale sounded from the en suite bathroom. It wasn’t one of relief. No, it was strained, wavering as it left parted lips – the evidence of a day riddled with nothing but stress.

Wesker slowly opened his eyes and looked up at the mirror from how he had hung his head, his hands resting on either side of the basin. The figure behind his reflection caught his eye instantly – dark hair a stark contrast to the white doorframe its lovely owner was leaning against. She was simply watching him with this faint, barely-there frown strewn about her features.

Despite being rather annoyed at Diana for sneaking up on him, or more so at himself for not noticing she had done so, he was glad she had kicked off her heels under the dining table. The last thing he needed right now was the shrill clicking of those awful things on the tile floor.

His head already felt like it had been put in a vise and someone was turning the handle; he didn’t need more noise to aggravate it.

“Where are your glasses?” Diana asked, and Wesker could only wonder if he’d imagined the worry clinging to the edge of her voice.

Could she tell he was in pain? That his sunglasses weren’t just some fashion statement people liked to tease him for? Had she put two and two together so easily when most were too dense to?

Wesker’s eyes darted up to lock on to hers in the mirror, though for only a split second, before he looked down again with a small huff. “I don’t know.”

He’d truly had a shocking day. It had been one thing after another, and at some point he had taken his glasses off to rub his eyes then forgot to put them back on. It wasn’t like him to misplace his belongings, and certainly not his shades, of all things, but the stressors piling up ensured the whereabouts of where he’d set them down slipped his mind faster than he thought possible.

It had all started with that pig, Brian Irons. The initial cause of his foul mood. That poor excuse of a man had proven himself to be a thorn in Wesker’s side time and time again; the police chief thought he could undermine those ensuring his unsavoury past was kept under wraps, but Wesker wasn’t going to stand for such insolent behaviour. He made sure to discuss the issue with William during his visit to the NEST around lunchtime, calling for a shorter leash.

However, the day only seemed to continue to go downhill once he’d returned to the station.

The problem wasn’t simply the piles of reports taking up space on his desk; the image of Diana wouldn’t leave his mind. He shouldn’t have stopped by her lab with coffee and spoken to her at all. He needed his focus to be solely on his work. The way she could capture his attention was quite bothersome, really. And that prompted a rather foolish decision on his part – a phone call with plans for dinner.

It didn’t end there. The newest S.T.A.R.S. recruits were a headache in and of themselves, yet getting a call from Sherry’s school the moment he left work had been the icing on the cake. She hadn’t been picked up hours beforehand, and being the next emergency contact, Wesker was informed of such incompetence.

William’s obsession with the G-Virus was getting out of hand. He’d always been more preoccupied with his work than the people around him, but forgetting to pick Sherry up from school was something else. Something Wesker didn’t quite like.

Not to mention it completely ruined his plans for the night.

With a suppressed clearing of her throat, Diana pulled him back to the present. She pushed herself off of the doorframe and made her way closer towards him. “Would you like me to look for them?”

Wesker shook his head and immediately regretted it; the sudden movement made him wince as a short wave of splitting pain made itself known right behind his left eye, causing him to grip the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. The pain wasn’t unbearable yet, and he was glad his typical nausea seemed to be at bay, but he had no clue how long that would last. Not long, if he had to guess, given his luck with the rest of the day’s events.

Taking a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth, he steadied himself. With each count, he found it easier to tolerate the ache, though it didn’t subside in the slightest. It would have to do though; he needed to get through his nighttime routine.

He reached over and slowly pulled his toothbrush out of its holder, making sure to not move more than what was necessary.

“No.”

Wesker glanced up at the mirror again with one of his brows quirked in genuine confusion, and he watched as Diana’s reflection inched closer. Then her hands were covering his. Why he found himself frozen at her touch was beyond him, but her soft fingers pressing against his skin was a welcome sensation.

She only pried the toothbrush and paste out of his grasp, far more gently than she needed to, then she placed them back to where they belonged.

“You are obviously unwell. You don’t need to brush your teeth when you feel like this,” she said, voice soft and oddly soothing, as opposed to the hammering against his skull.

Diana took Wesker’s hands in her own again, and her thumbs brushed along the raised veins on the backs of them in slow circles. It wasn’t just comforting to him, it was familiar, intimate, and the point at which he’d begun to embrace her touch rather than shun his craving for it was lost on him.

Her eyes finally landed on his own and she directed a small nod towards the door, making him aware of what she was about to do next. Then she took a step back. Then another. And she carefully pulled him along with her, guiding him towards his bedroom without so much as a word from him. Wesker couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, and with how tired he was, he could only let her take the lead. She seemed to have her mind set on making sure he would rest, and that made his chest feel much too tight.

It was almost as if she cared.

The trip to the foot of his bed felt much longer than usual. Diana’s cautious approach made sure of that. He was not intoxicated; she didn’t need to hold his hands and ensure he put one foot in front of the other. And yet she did. He felt like an absolute fool, but he still let her pull him along, regardless.

Once there, Diana sat him down on the edge before she quickly knelt down in front of him, tucking her legs beneath herself as she did so. Her attention went straight towards his boots and deft hands worked to untie their laces.

Wesker couldn’t quite wrap his head around her behaviour. He wasn't sure what to think. On any other day, he would’ve thought her kneeling between his legs quite amusing, especially with how she kept roughly pushing her stubborn tresses that kept falling in front of her face back behind her ears. But his head hurt far too much, and there was just this horrible warmth searing through his chest and up his neck, settling across his cheeks and threatening to join the burning at his temple.

The question in her eyes whenever she’d glance up at him certainly wasn’t helping either. It was almost wary, as though looking for permission to continue. Or perhaps assurance.

Her fingers wrapped around his ankle, carefully grasping it as she pulled off his boot. That made him feel far too odd, but she only repeated the action with its counterpart. He was thankful for the way she placed them next to one another by his bed though, all nice and neat, instead of simply tossing them to the side like anyone else would.

Diana pushed herself up off of the floor using her palms and moved to stand between his legs. Soft hands reached forward to cradle his face, the cool pads of her thumbs brushing along the high points of his cheeks. But she was only looking into his eyes, searching for… something.

He wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, to be completely honest. However, the repetitive movement along his cheekbones was calming, almost strangely so, and he hated that his eyes threatened to flutter shut and his hands itched to reach out and hold onto her sides – perhaps even pull her closer, if he dared.

How could she draw such a reaction from him? Especially given the circumstances.

The last thing Wesker needed was for her to look at him like he was some injured animal; he didn’t want her pity. It was enough that he let her drag him out of the bathroom when he was in the middle of carrying out his routines, as though he was caught in some sort of trance. But to look at him in such a way, to help him undress… It was ridiculous. He didn’t need to be fussed over.

Wesker reached up and closed his hands around her wrists. His grip was tight, though not enough to hurt her – merely cautionary, much like the glare he sent her way. Astute as she was, he had no doubt she would get the message.

Diana’s fingers fell away from his cheeks, curling in on themselves, but she didn’t move to break the distance between them. She only continued to hold his gaze, eyes still scanning his own in search of some answers, even as he loosened his hold on her wrists.

It had been wishful thinking, anyhow; he should’ve known she’d remain defiant.

Wesker pulled her hands further away from his face while he slowly rose to his feet. Then he let go, making them drop to her sides in a rather lifeless fashion. He didn’t miss the question in her eyes, or the way a crease formed between her brows, but he simply focused on manoeuvring around her towards his dresser – unsuccessfully at that, as his side brushed against hers with how he staggered.

Movement made the pain behind his eye considerably worse. The familiar sensation of tiny knives stabbing, leaving puncture wounds in their wake to obscure his vision, made it incredibly hard to keep his eyes open any longer. Wesker took a deep breath to try and steady himself, keeping as still as could be so as to not cause himself more pain. If only for a moment of relief.

One of his hands settled on the surface of the dresser while the other moved to open a drawer. He hoped Diana didn’t see how he fumbled with the pull handle. He wasn’t even sure why that bothered him. But he moved to correct his error far too quickly, causing him to lose balance slightly.

The sight of plain black, white and grey t-shirts folded up and sorted by tone brought some level of structure back to the chaos that had been Wesker’s day, and it pleased him more than it probably should have. The shirts were simply for when he was too cold to sleep shirtless – he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them casually, otherwise – and he removed one from its designated place for himself, and one for Diana.

The next drawer he opened contained his pyjama pants, all monochromatic and devoid of patterns, akin to his shirts. Just the way he liked. There were a couple of blue pairs though. Not like that mattered; he chose black, as usual.

A tired sigh left him then.

“Diana.” The sound of her footsteps crossing the distance between them seemed to reach him later than when they’d occurred, because she was already standing at his side. Wesker simply handed her the t-shirt he’d chosen for her, then he spoke again without looking her way, “Would you like pants?”

Diana chuckled at that, and the corner of his lips twitched. He treasured that sound. Well and truly treasured it.

“I doubt anything will fit me,” she whispered, the smile in her voice telling him she was trying to subdue her laugh.

“You have long legs.”

She let out a low, sweet hum at his dry response and positioned herself behind him, lifting her chin to rest it on his shoulder as she watched his hands comb through the pairs of pants in the drawer below. It was clear to Diana that he wouldn’t find anything that would fit her, considering she was barely two thirds the width of him, but she let him figure that out for himself. Instead, her hands ran down his sides and towards his hips. She stood on tiptoe to press a lingering kiss to his cheek while one of her hands travelled between them.

“Doesn’t change that you have more hips than I do,” Diana said between another kiss, tone playful, while her hand squeezed a handful of his firm backside.

Wesker reached behind himself and swatted her hand away, but he couldn’t stop the slight chuckle that bubbled up in his throat before it escaped him – one that mirrored her own. Her arms changing position, wrapping around his waist with her chin settling against his shoulder once more, was not what he expected in response, however. The feeling that brought up inside of him was not something he wished to confront tonight.

He needed to place more distance between them.

“Drawstrings.” Wesker held up a pair of pants that could be tightened at the waist, negating her claims that there couldn’t possibly be anything of his that may stay up for her.

Diana held back another sigh as she loosened her arms and plucked the pants from his grasp. Their short moment of joking around certainly didn’t last long, but she wasn’t sure why she even expected it to. It wasn’t the time or place, but she simply didn’t know how to deal with the situation at hand; it was always difficult for her to navigate when someone wasn’t feeling well.

On the other hand, Wesker was none the wiser to Diana’s inner turmoil. He only withdrew from her slack embrace and returned to where he’d been sitting at the end of the bed earlier, entirely focused on ridding himself of the rest of his work clothes. Without her interference.

Nothing seemed to be in his favour today though, because the moment his hips met the bed the entire room began to spin. It wasn’t like he had sat down too fast – or maybe he had finally lost his bearings – but the way the room was warping around him with stars dancing across his vision caused him to squeeze his eyes shut. His teeth ground together of their own accord and he cursed himself for it as that only amplified the pain at his temple.

All Wesker could do was turn his attention towards the buttons of his shirt, trying to ground himself as best he could by focusing on the feeling of one beneath his fingertips. The way the edges pressed against his skin as he pushed the button through its assigned opening felt so much sharper than usual. And it didn’t help that he fumbled on the first go.

“Let me help you.”

The almost desperate plea from the voice across the room couldn’t have come from Diana. Surely. Not even the distinct accent and low, gravelly quality of it could convince him; she had never done such a thing, never sounded like that, even when he’d reduced her to ruins in bed.

The Diana he knew wasn’t so willing to offer assistance.

Wesker scoffed, perhaps a bit too harsh judging by the frown he received, and only roughly unfastened the next button on his shirt. “I do not need your help.”

Oh, how he wished that were true.

The bile burning the back of his throat begged to differ. And it was getting increasingly difficult to just keep his eyes open, like his lids were being weighed down by some invisible force.

The soft sound of a zipper made Wesker glance over to where Diana stood, only to watch as her skirt pooled around her feet. His hands paused what they were doing as his eyes lazily wandered over her, mesmerised by the way she was carefully rolling her tights down her long legs. It wasn’t until she moved on to her shirt and made quick work of the overpriced garment that he shook himself free of her spell. To say she was stunning was frustratingly accurate.

She stripped down to nothing but her panties before pulling his massive t-shirt over her tiny frame, adjusting her hair the minute it was over her head. That shouldn’t have made him smile to himself. The thought that she was cute shouldn’t have even crossed his mind in the first place.

It wasn’t that long ago when he’d considered her vain for constantly worrying about her appearance, and the first time she had worn one of his shirts he had thought she looked absolutely ridiculous – comical, even. It was only endearing now. He chose not to look too close into that change, convincing himself that the pain he was in was simply making him delirious.

Fuck, he just wanted to go to sleep. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to close this day and reset in the morning.

Despite struggling with each one, Wesker managed to finish undoing the buttons of his shirt and he weakly shrugged it off of his shoulders. It went no further than that, however, even with another attempt. The motion only made his stomach lurch, like waves roiling at sea.

A defeated sigh left him at that, but he was too tired to fight it. He must have made for a pathetic sight, one he wished there was no one present to witness.

That would’ve been grand, if he was so fortunate. Diana was standing in front of him again after dropping the pants in her grasp and crossing the distance in only a few quick strides. Before he could protest once more, she reached forward and laid her hands flat against his shoulders; cold fingers dipped beneath material, causing a shiver to run through his entire body, before she gently pushed the sleeves down his arms. It was unnecessary, but Diana held his forearm as she pulled the sleeve off by grasping the cuff, making sure to not turn his shirt inside-out.

He’d kiss her for that if his head didn’t feel like it was going to explode at any minute.

As soon as she freed him of his undershirt with the same meticulous care, Diana returned to what she had started earlier, before Wesker had stopped her. This time around he wasn’t nearly as tense when she took his face in her hands. In fact, it was the most at ease he had felt all day.

The chill of her palms provided some relief to the burning beneath his skin and the stabbing behind his eye. Even if it was only for a moment – until his cheeks warmed her hands and ripped that pleasant sensation away from him.

The only difference from when they’d found themselves in this position earlier was that Diana now leaned down to place a brief kiss on his lips. Wesker expected some level of warmth in her gaze once she pulled away, but he was only met with the look someone would have when scolding a child who had just hurt themselves on the playground.

If she was insinuating that he was being childish, they’d have a whole other problem on their hands.

Diana readjusted her hold to cradle his face in a more secure manner, fingers pressing firm against his skin. “I know you don’t want my help, but I will not see you make yourself sick because you are too stubborn to let someone look after you.”

Wesker glared up at her. Well, he hoped it was a glare, because whatever left him was all that he could muster in his state. From the way one of Diana’s brows raised, he sure did something, even if he had no idea if it was what he had intended.

They simply looked into one another’s eyes, holding the steady gaze for far too long – a familiar occurrence that usually took place when she challenged him. He supposed it was the other way around this time. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her help, it was that he didn’t want anyone’s. He thought himself above that, and he had managed being in this position countless times before. Even if on some of those days he had gone to sleep without being able to change his clothes.

Perhaps he needed some help.

“Fine.” Wesker relented with a long blink, and allowed himself to settle against her touch and relax some more.

That earned him a faint smile from Diana before she leaned in again. His eyes fluttered shut out of habit, but her lips didn’t connect with his own. Instead, they landed on his forehead, and his moment of ease faded away instantly, his hands balling into fists at his sides the longer she lingered there.

The pit in his stomach seemed to lessen when she withdrew and dropped to her knees again. But his head felt absurdly heavy without her hands holding it up. There was too much running through his mind, it was getting overwhelming. And it wasn’t just the hammering at the side of his skull. He wanted her but he tensed up at her touch, he needed her but he hated her assistance, he… He shouldn’t have invited her over tonight.

What had he been thinking?

Slender fingers curling into the waistband of his pants pulled Wesker from his thoughts, and he looked down at Diana, who had glanced up at the same time with that question in her eyes once more, asking if it was alright to continue. He simply nodded and she focused her attention back to what she was doing; he even lifted his hips to allow her to pull his pants off. Whenever she had dealt with the button and zipper eluded him.

He despised that – the feeling that he was no longer in control, losing his vigilance as the pain distracted him too much. It wasn’t just that though, the woman before him also played a part in causing his dazed state.

It was strange. Wesker couldn’t recall ever having a lover treat him like this. She wasn’t telling him that he was going to be okay, that she was there for him, or any of that superficial nonsense. She was just assisting him, doing whatever needed to be done so that he would be comfortable enough to hopefully get some sleep. It brought about another dreadful sensation to the mix already pestering him.

He lifted a hand and placed it over Diana’s when she reached for the t-shirt he had haphazardly dropped on the bed when the vertigo had hit him. She only looked down at his large hand enveloping hers for a moment, seeming to be the one stunned now. Then her eyes finally darted up to his face, and the steely determination in them from before melted away into that look that unsettled him far more.

“I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?” she asked, a slight trace of a chuckle clinging to the edge of it, as though she was almost embarrassed by her behaviour.

Wesker let out what was probably supposed to be a laugh in response, but little more than an exhale came out. “No.”

He paused as his next words died on his tongue. Or more accurately, they didn’t seem to want to leave his throat and even get that far. Diana was none the wiser and just rose to her feet, hand slipping free of his own and taking the t-shirt with it. Wesker chewed on the inside of his cheek for but a fraction of a second before he swallowed his pride.

A sharp inhale, then he lifted his head to look up at her. “Thank you.”

The genuine smile that crossed Diana’s face made him feel far too warm, like the sun was bearing down on his skin and reaching the deepest parts of him; it wasn’t quite a grin, teeth staying hidden, but the corners of her eyes crinkled and the indents on her cheeks deepened somewhat. She didn’t give him much of a chance to admire it though, too preoccupied with making sure she didn’t move him around too much as she carefully pulled the shirt over his head and helped each of his arms into the sleeves.

“I take it you have photophobia,” she said matter-of-factly. It was almost too clinical-sounding for Wesker’s liking, odd as that may seem. The term alone just left a bad taste in his mouth.

It was sort of his own fault, which he didn’t like owning up to. He’d always had trouble with his sensitivity to bright lights, but he was only meant to wear the tinted glasses Umbrella prescribed him when in the lab or outside. It had been the relief he felt without a migraine clawing at his senses that made him forget he was wearing them at all, and in turn, that developed into a habit of leaving them on for nearly all waking hours. His eyes adjusted to the conditions and it only worsened his sensitivity when he was without his sunglasses.

What he wouldn’t give to have his youthful eyes back.

When Wesker didn’t respond to her, Diana gently cupped his cheek. He tried to meet her gaze, but her eyes were focused just below, where her thumb was brushing across the dark circle marring his skin. Another thing he wished he could reverse time to prevent.

As useful as her help was, Wesker couldn’t understand why she was doing this, why she was being so… kind. So tender. She wasn’t a nurturer, or the type to worry about others. Maybe she did actually care for him, more than she let on. That didn’t feel right though – it just left him profoundly uncomfortable. His mind had to be playing tricks on him with how exhausted he was. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Diana’s thumb paused its repetitive motion and she simply held her hand in place. It was just for another second or two, but her touch lingered well after she departed, leaving a pleasant tingle across his skin.

The last obstacle in the way of Wesker being able to just collapse into bed and hope that his migraine was gone by the morning was the pair of pyjama pants Diana was bunching up so she could help him change into them easily. His tired limbs seemed to move on their own, slipping into each pant leg with little input from him, but the moment he lifted his hips as she tugged the fabric over them, another surge of intense pain hit him, causing him to keel over.

It felt as though his head was being split in two, torn apart from the inside out. He could have sworn the eye taking the brunt of the pressure was going to pop out of its socket at any minute. The only thing he could do was rest his head in his hands and endure it, pressing his thumbs down on the innermost part of his brows in hopes to alleviate some of the pain.

Diana shuffled closer and reached forward to place her hands on his thighs. They only ran up and down the sides of them in a gentle, reassuring motion while her mind scrambled to recall the locations of where she’d seen every thing that could possibly aid him in his house.

Her brain was being just as helpful as his was, because she drew a blank, too taken aback by the sight in front of her. The intimidating Albert Wesker slumped over in pain – that was something she thought she’d never see. He always seemed so… invincible. Nothing could tear down his powerful image and break through his composed demeanour this easily, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

“Albert?” Diana’s voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear it, but his name always sounded so much nicer spilling from her lips compared to anyone else’s. “Do you need a bucket? Or…” She paused for a second then let out a frustrated huff. “Where do you keep your painkillers?”

“They don’t work,” Wesker grumbled.

Of course they don’t, she thought. That would’ve been too easy.

Or he was being overdramatic. So, she pressed on. “Not even a little bit?”

The crease between his brows only deepened, and he squeezed his eyes shut. So, that was a definitive no.

Diana pursed her lips as she tried to think of what else she could do for him. She wasn’t familiar with actually dealing with a migraine, even if she knew all of the treatments on paper; she was fortunate enough to never get them, and she couldn’t remember the last time someone around her had. She could list off every over-the-counter painkiller and triptan that was used to specifically target a migraine, but that would do her no good. She didn’t know what worked for him.

There had to be something though. Diana moved to stand and go take a look at what was in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, but Wesker fumbled to take her hand in his own.

That made her freeze on the spot.

She had no doubt he was cursing himself for doing such a thing, for how it almost seemed to be a reflex more than a conscious decision. Or perhaps he just needed something solid to hold on to. Whichever it was, Diana didn’t care, so long as it helped. Even if the way he was gripping her hand hurt like hell; she’d been through far worse, so the possibility of a broken bone was something she would simply bear.

“Here,” she whispered while carefully pulling Wesker up to stand a moment after she did so herself. He stumbled on his feet when upright, but Diana was there – the pillar to hold him up and save him from toppling over.

The arm not reaching for his – right hand clasping his own – was wrapped around his back. It served to keep him stable as she slowly guided him over to what she had long since been acquainted with as his preferred side of the bed. This whole ordeal would’ve been much easier if he wasn’t leaning his entire body weight against her, but at least the trip wasn’t too lengthy.

Their hands only parted when Diana let go to lean forward and pull back the covers for him. Wesker really hoped she didn’t see how his fingers extended on instinct, as if to chase her touch. It was utterly pathetic. The urge to hold her was getting increasingly annoying, and he wished his body would just try to not embarrass him for once.

He couldn’t exactly exert much control over his innate reactions in his condition, but if Diana noticed, she didn’t say anything. That was one positive, he supposed.

And the fact that he managed to sit on the bed on his own without dragging her down with him. That probably would’ve earned him a bony shoulder digging into his chest, and that would just make matters worse.

Diana didn’t have to, but she went so far as to help him lie down as well. In a way that wouldn’t make his head feel as though someone had taken a hammer to it, that is. All slow movements and firm but gentle touches, manipulating his limbs for him as they felt too heavy for him to move on his own. And when she was done, one of her hands reached up to smooth back his hair.

That brought about that dreadful flutter in the pit of Wesker’s stomach. Or maybe that was the nausea. He couldn’t tell at this point.

Weary eyes tried their hardest to stay trained on the figure lingering in front of them. But they were unsuccessful. Wesker couldn’t keep them open any longer, not when everything was spinning around like this. He couldn’t even make out what the expression strewn about Diana’s features was.

It didn’t even matter, because her comforting touch left him before the sound of her feet padding across the floor reached his ears – quickly, like she was in some rush. Unnecessary, Wesker thought. He wasn’t exactly going anywhere, lying there in agony.

He didn’t think it would get this bad. It had been so long since he’d had a migraine like this. The nausea, visual disturbances, and all of that nonsense was typical for him, but the vertigo would come and go. Every time it showed itself he was caught off guard; there was no getting used to the feeling of his body swaying back and forth when he was lying perfectly still.

That wasn’t even the worst of his problems.

His mind decided it wanted to be louder than the rhythmic pulse behind his eye, yelling at him to the point where his thoughts felt like they were what was causing his pain by bouncing around and colliding with his skull.

Weak. Pitiful. Unacceptable. Over and over again.

How could he let someone see him like this?

Not just someone, but her, of all people. The woman who would roll her eyes when one of the researchers called off work, the one who boasted about never getting sick, the one who carried herself like nothing could strike her down. Just like he did. And yet here he was, reduced to rubble by a bit of pain.

That’s what was confusing Wesker. Why was Diana being so considerate of his plight? He had no doubt she’d rather be at the lab, or really anywhere else, doing something worthwhile instead of this. She should just leave, honestly. There was no reason for her to stick around; it wasn’t like she felt anything more for him beyond fellowship. Sherry was wrong in her assumption; Diana wasn’t his partner.

She may have been his, but he certainly wasn’t hers. No, she just enjoyed toying with him.

Now was not the time to fall into thinking about that rubbish again. He should’ve never asked her if she wished to stay the night. Or invited her over for dinner in the first place, for that matter.

“Alright.”

That pulled Wesker out of his head. It may have only been low, simply a hurried mumble under one’s breath, but that entrancing voice was unmistakable to him. His little pity party hadn’t lasted long – privacy breached once more as Diana returned from whatever she had been doing. He really did despise that she was witnessing him in this state; this wasn’t how he wished for her to find out he suffered from migraines.

With her hands full, Diana crossed his room with the stride of someone on a mission – full of purpose. First, she placed a glass of water down on his nightstand, then she used her now free hand to pull the bucket she’d found in the laundry out from under her other arm, where it was sitting awkwardly and digging into her side.

Once she set it down beside the bed, she crouched in front of Wesker and placed the ice pack she’d wrapped in a tea towel in one of his hands, which he lifted to his forehead immediately. Diana had no idea if that would help him or not, actually. She preferred heat for pain relief; being sensitive to the cold always made her recovery with injuries from ballet growing up a horrid experience. Maybe she should have looked to see if he had a heat pack instead. That would help alleviate the tension in his neck and shoulders.

No. She had what she needed, she wasn’t going to run around and make an even bigger fuss. It would probably make him feel worse, anyhow.

The only thing left to do was close the curtains and block out any light that threatened to seep into his room, whether that be from the street lamps illuminating the suburb or the bright moon itself. The significance of his blackout curtains now made much more sense to her.

When she stood to round the bed, Diana had no idea why she took the hand by his hip in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her thumb even brushed across the back of it for a second. There was just this odd need to show him that she was there, that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Even as she pulled the curtains shut, the thought didn’t leave her mind.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Taking care to not make the mattress dip too much, Diana climbed into bed next to Wesker. The last thing she wished was for her getting comfortable to cause him any undue pain because it jostled him about. It was only then, when the covers brushed across her bare legs, that she realised she was only wearing his shirt – the pyjama pants he’d chosen for her long forgotten somewhere to the darkness.

Wesker decided to be rather ungrateful for her cautious approach, as he moved on his own. Diana couldn’t help how her eyes wandered over him, taking in every detail she could as he began to slowly roll over; his brows were knit together, deepening the lines between them, his lips were pulled down in a frown, and his eyes were screwed shut. It was rather obvious to her that he was trying to not bring up all of his dinner, and that sent her heart plummeting down into her stomach. What he was going through really sunk in then.

She wished she could just take the pain away, make it all disappear and guarantee it would never return.

It was an awful feeling, watching the man who had only ever given her these tiny glimpses of vulnerability do what looked to be such a practised motion, as though he had a tried-and-true method for dealing with his nausea for so long.

She felt helpless. But why did she even care? Countless lovers had come and gone, not ever leaving an imprint on her heart, but he seemed to tug at every string.

A loud thump, immediately followed by a rather feeble sound, pulled Diana from her thoughts. It wasn’t quite a groan, but not nearly a whimper either, and she never thought she’d hear such a sound come from Wesker.

While turning, the ice pack had fallen free of his weak grasp and landed on the floor, causing the disturbance. Diana opened her mouth to speak, to ask him if he wanted her to pick it up for him, but she didn’t get a chance; he curled up against her side all of a sudden, resting his head on her chest. That was something she wasn’t prepared for. He had never done that before, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he heard the way her heart sped up at the act.

Diana kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, not daring to look down at him while her arm hesitated to wrap around his back. What was she even supposed to do? This was all new territory for her, for them, and… it was overwhelming. She didn’t know what to think; there was just this massive weight that had been dropped onto her chest. And it wasn’t Wesker, or the way he slung his arm over her waist.

It was that somehow, despite everything, he had managed to worm his way past all of her defences and make her actually care for him.

But friends do care for one another, yes? That is a fact. And it’s not like their dates meant anything; she had gone on many with casual partners in the past, and they were merely a formality. The longing she felt for him was nothing beyond physical.

The arm around her tightened its hold on her side, pulling her closer, and Diana looked down just in time to see a grimace twist Wesker’s features before he turned his head to rest his brow against her breastbone. Whatever he grumbled as he did so, Diana couldn’t quite make out what it was.

She chewed on her lip while bringing a hand up to the back of his head, gently cradling it and holding him close. She found herself hesitating again, unsure of the implications of her touch – how it could be perceived. But the urge grew too strong soon enough. Whatever was going on between them was just that, and she wasn’t going to complicate matters by overanalysing it.

Her fingers ran through his hair, pressing firm against his scalp in somewhat of a massage. Diana absolutely hated the feeling of pomade residue on her fingers, but seeing the way his shoulders relaxed eased her disgust, if only slightly. She’d just have to deal with the waxy feeling on her skin, she supposed. It was a selfish thought but she wished he’d at least managed to rinse out his hair. She knew he hated it as well, though; his routines were always so important to him.

Wesker let out a long exhale and Diana paused the motion, unsure if what she was doing was actually making matters worse. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held her closer while his legs tangled with her own made her stomach flip, as though she was the one who was going to be sick.

The arm around his back held him firm as she leaned in to press a kiss to the top of his head. She never wanted him to go through this again, and she would find a way to ensure that.

For now though, she made a note to have a look for his glasses first thing tomorrow, before he woke.

#writing.#pair: ewskers #oc: diana #setting: early october 1996. same as part one as it's a continuation of that night // i think i said this all in the tags of the first part #already but i wrote these two fics back in march last year and decided to rewrite them for myself cause my writing has changed and i wanted #them to flow a bit better even though nothing has actually changed in them !! very special fics for me as it shows another side of diana #that i don't really talk much about. i mean all my fics are special to me otherwise i wouldn't write them but you know what i'm saying !!#i wasn't sure if i was going to post this or not cause i'm not feeling great about sharing my writing much but i'm just doing so for myself #if you do read it i would love to hear thoughts for either chapter and of course rbs and kudos are always appreciate but no pressure ever ♡#i'll stop rambling cause i talked about it all in last post in my talk tag but i haven't been on here a lot due to a lot of health reasons #and feeling very disconnected and overwhelmed from here so i'm still around on twitter and such but things have been really bad recently #and i thought it best to not vent on here a lot like i used to and just kind of take time for me. i miss interacting with everyone on here #though and i hope everyone is doing well !!

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