#this happened with reload too. this keeps happening with me.

[mymp3]

call me the answer the way i keep having these prophetic visions

[ironraven]

psychopomp goes for a quick swim

[gravityqueen]

in pathologic 2 i tell the giant bird to fuck off, then i immediately contend with the fact half the list of people will probably die

[kumakuma-circus]

just randomly remembered that during my like 10+ attempts at the shadow yukiko fight i more or less consistently ran out of revival beads so yosuke was just dead (well unconscious but whatever) on the ground for like half the fight gfhfjvhfhfhd-

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

The iktr thread has it out for me specifically. Slash silly slash please let me in I want people to see my dragons

[sanguineterrain]

restroom attendant | jason todd

Summary: Tonight is the worst night ever--you just got dumped on your birthday, and all you want to do is cry in the restaurant bathroom in peace. That is, until, the Red Hood bursts in. This city just won't cut you a break.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader 

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings/tags: humor, mild angst, reader's ex-bf cheats and dumps her, jason is such a silly goose, flirting, meet ugly, canon-typical violence, awkward jason, comic relief dick grayson.

A/N: this is probably the silliest fic i've ever written LOL! i hope you guys enjoy it. please support your local jason todd enthusiast and reblog :)

the divider

Tonight sucks. 

With a shaky hand, you attempt to soothe your swollen eyes. You’ve probably been in here for about twenty minutes. Your Uber has definitely left, as has your now ex-boyfriend of three years. 

Yoga instructor. It’s always the yoga instructor. They’re always fucking the yoga instructor.

You swallow a mouthful of tears and phlegm and try not to let the wet sink touch your dress. All you’d wanted was a little class on your birthday, maybe have some wine and play footsie under the table with your boyfriend. But no. That would’ve been too easy for you. 

You’re starting to think this city is cursed.

The door slams open. The force of it shakes the bathroom, rattles the mirrors. You spin around.

A man slides across the floor and smacks his head on the opposite wall. Red Hood appears in the doorway, the eyes of his helmet glowing eerily. 

Yep. Definitely cursed.

"Let's try this again," Hood says pleasantly, reloading his gun with a fresh magazine. "And in the interest of making myself transparent: when I ask you a question, Jerry, I expect a truthful answer."

He stalks over to Jerry and heaves him up by the lapels of his suit jacket. Hood's biceps bulge as he holds Jerry against the wall. You squish yourself against the sink. Water soaks the back of your dress. 

"You're crazy, I didn't do anything!" Jerry shouts, feet barely scraping the floor. 

"Volume, Jerry. People are trying to enjoy their meals.”

“Let go of me, Hood! I wasn’t anywhere near the Iceberg Lounge!”

“Yeah, see, words are coming outta your mouth, but they don't match the fact that I have three people who put you at the scene. How can we remedy this inconsistency? Any ideas?"

Jerry squirms, but he's no match for Hood's strength. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Don't give me to the cops!" Jerry begs. 

"Cops are the least of your worries right now," Hood snarls. "You're damn lucky Nightwing wants to talk to you, Jerry, or your head would hurt a lot more."

Slowly, you reach for your purse, trying to pull out your phone. Instead, you knock it to the floor. Tears gather in your eyes because this night just can’t cut you a break.

“Motherfucker,” you whisper. 

Hood turns, those frightening white eyes now on you. Jerry also looks at you, legs still dangling.

“Hey,” Hood says without a sign of struggle. “Shit. Y'alright? Did I swipe ya?”

“No,” you say, voice shaky.

His posture softens. “Okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

“I believe you. But, um… you're in the women's bathroom.”

Red Hood gives the room a onceover. 

“Huh. So we are. Dunno how that happened.” He shakes Jerry by the collar. “Why’d you run into the women’s bathroom, asshole?”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't kill me!” Jerry wails. 

“Shut it, Jesus. I'm not gonna kill you. Not yet, anyway.” 

“It's fine, I was just leaving,” you say, bending down to get your purse. 

“Hey, no, don't let me push you out,” Hood says. “Sorry. I'll be gone in a couple minutes.”

Hood adjusts his grip so Jerry's face is against the wall, arms and legs restrained. Then he zipties Jerry and sits him down hard on the floor. Hood presses a button on his helmet. 

“Yo, N, I'm at Prescott's. Yeah, with Jerry. No, I didn't tell him to run in here, he did that all on his own! Well, I chased him for ten blocks, so I’d prefer if you’d keep your bitching to yourself. Thank you… Okay, we're in the women's bathroom, so—well, I didn't do it on purpose! No, I’m—will you just come here? There’s a side window.” Hood presses the button again with a grunt. “Dickhead.”

“Are you gonna erase my memory?” you ask. 

Hood jerks, turning back to you.

“What? Hell no, I'm not gonna erase your memory. I don't do that shit, I promise.”

You slump against the sink. “That's too bad. I would prefer it.”

He looks up from Jerry’s last ziptie and pulls it extra tight. Jerry whimpers. 

“How come?” Hood asks.

You shake your head. “It's nothing.”

“Hm. Doesn't look like nothing. If you're in danger—”

“I'm not in danger. I…”

You glance at Hood. You can't see his face, but his body language seems genuine. From what you've heard, Hood isn't known for mincing words or doing things he doesn't want to. And he’s good to Gothamites. Well, the law-abiding ones, anyway. He’s even been endorsed by Batman.

What's the harm in telling him about your disastrous night? Not like you'll see him again. Or Jerry. 

“I got dumped,” you say. 

“Ah.” Hood nods. “Been there.”

Somehow, the idea of Red Hood getting dumped is weirder than him beating up a guy in the women’s bathroom of Prescott’s.

You sniffle, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. 

“Yeah, um. It was our three year anniversary today. He took me here, told me he was in love with his yoga instructor, and then left.”

You tear up thinking about it. Hood makes a quiet noise.

“Shit. Well, I haven't been there,” he says. “But I know infidelity. I'm sorry. Dudes are trash.”

“And it's my birthday today,” you blurt, sniffling. 

“Happy birthday,” Jerry says, clutching his stomach. 

“What a fucking asshole!” Hood snarls, and lets go of Jerry, who crumples like a sack of potatoes. He’s out cold in a second, frozen on the floor.

Your brows rise. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. It’s his first time in Gotham.” Hood shrugs. “Anyway, where was I? Right, your asshole ex. Like it's not enough to publicly dump you, and then he goes and does it on your birthday? Who is this guy? I'll go talk to him right now.”

You laugh a loud, snorting laugh. It bounces off the tiles. 

Hood tilts his head. “What’d I say?”

You catch your breath and wave your hand. 

“No, nothing, I’m sorry. I’ve just had a crappy night and that’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever offered to me.”

“I mean it,” Hood says. “I’ll scare him if you want.”

“As tempting as that is, I don’t want to be an accessory to a crime.”

You also don’t want to put your ex in the ICU, no matter how much he might deserve it. Best to let the universe do its thing.

“You’d be acquitted, don’t worry.” Hood leans against the stall. “I’d never letcha go to jail.”

You smile, your ears growing warm. “You don’t even know me. What if I deserve it?”

“Nah. I got a good sense about people. I can tell you’re sweet. Probably don’t even run through red lights.”

“I try not to,” you say, heat spreading to your face. 

“Yeah, a good girl. I figured as much.”

Your eyes widen. Hood coughs and rubs his neck. Even his coughs sound intimidating through the helmet, but that’s negated by his scrunched-up posture.

“Fuck. Sorry. That wasn’t a come-on,” he says. “I mean, it sounded like one, but I’m realizing what a creep I am, flirting with you in a bathroom with a zip-tied criminal. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I hate myself.”

You grin. “It’s okay. You made my night better, actually. Thanks.”

“That’s a testament to how terrible your night’s been if I made it better.”

You shrug. “Could always be worse. I bet Jerry had an even shittier night than me.”

“You’d win that bet. But I—”

The window swings open with a clunk. Nightwing pops his head in. He looks at Hood, then you. 

“Uh,” he says. “Evening. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is it took you almost ten minutes to get here,” Hood says, back in Vigilante Mode. “Did you get lost?”

Nightwing smiles with all his teeth. “I was actually cleaning up your mess at the Bowery, Hood. You’re welcome.” 

He looks at you. “Hi. Sorry about this. I hope we didn’t ruin your night. If there’s anything we can reimburse you for…”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. My night was already sunk. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for keeping Gotham safe.”

Nightwing laughs. “The pleasure is ours.”

“Alright, enough chattering, Dickwing,” Hood says. “Take him.”

He lifts the unconscious Jerry, pushing him up to the window. He does so effortlessly, his jacket riding up to reveal his skin-tight jumpsuit. 

You look away before he catches you staring. There’s definitely something wrong with you. 

Nightwing takes Jerry and waves at you. Then he disappears.

“So, uh,” Hood says. “I gotta go.”

“Oh! Right, of course. Sorry to keep you.”

“Now what’re you apologizing for?” he asks, and it almost sounds like a tease. You wonder what his smile looks like. What color his eyes are.

“Well, I really didn’t mean to keep you…”

“You didn’t keep me,” Hood says, and you can hear the warmth even through his decoder. “This is probably the best arrest I’ve ever made.”

He starts to climb through the window, then stops. He digs into one of the pockets of his belt and pulls out a scrap of paper. 

“This is my number,” he says. “Well, it’s kind of the vigilante hotline. But you can reach me here, in case you ever need help.”

Hood walks over to give it to you. He smells like gunpowder and oranges. He’s even larger this close, the width of his shoulders dwarfing you. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He nods and backs up, clapping his hands.

“Right. So I’ll go… Bye.”

Hood looks at you for a moment more. Then he hops up onto the window sill and slides out, somehow graceful despite his bulk. The window closes. 

Your dress has dried, which is nice. You walk out of the bathroom. It’s a miracle no one else has come in. 

You get your coat and this time, when you see the empty seat across from yours, you don’t burst into tears, which is progress. You call another Uber and go to wait for it at the front. The hostess approaches you.

“Ma’am?” she says, and holds out a small, plastic container. In it is a slice of tiramisu. 

“I didn’t order this,” you say.

“It was called in and paid for by a Mr. R.H. He wishes you a happy birthday.” 

“Oh. Thank you.”

You’re definitely leaving a five-star review on Yelp.

[haikyu-mp4]

Non-public relations

Suggestive workplace romance at the JVA in a secret relationship with Kuroo for my workplace romance event <3

requested anonymously. word count; 699 – f!reader

No one would be surprised to find out you and Kuroo had a thing going on. You were known as charismatic members of the JVA’s public relations department. You were both incredibly good-looking and carrying around this palpable energy that made everyone else feel like they were interrupting something when sharing a space with you two.

However, your contracts were clear: No dating your coworkers.

You loved this job, no less than Kuroo loved his, and there was no way you would risk your reputation or change jobs for something as simple as an attractive coworker.

“Kuroo. How’s that difficult new account?” you asked, tweaking one eyebrow with a challenging smirk.

“You will be happy to know it’s working out perfectly fine. I’m currently making a presentation with an offer they simply cannot deny,” he answered cheekily, resting a hand on his hip and leaning towards you as if emphasising his towering height.

“I recommended you for it after they,” You sighed for effect. “-asked me to handle it first. But as you know, I’m terribly busy.” You shook your head as if it was such a pity, not moving an inch from your spot.

“Are you really?” The sound of the printer started up, seeming to breathe heavily at the number of documents you and Kuroo just so happened to be printing at the same time. “I had no idea.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking him up and down. “Maybe you should pay closer attention, Tetsu.”

It was silent for a moment as you both listened for any passing steps out in the hallway, any voices chatting on the way to the lunch room who might stop by. When there was nothing, you both sprung into action.

Kuroo’s arms snuck around your waist, hands working their way over your hips to your ass like you were a sentient stress ball. You twisted his tie around one hand, the other arm slung over his back to keep his lips against yours, not that you needed to. He seemed just as hungry as you were, kissing you messily as ever.

A loud beep made you push him away, clearing your throat awkwardly when you realised it was just the printer begging for a reload of paper. Your cheeks were flushed and Kuroo chuckled breathily before running a thumb over his bottom lip and looking sideways at you where you smoothed out your clothing. “Staying late today?”

“Of course,” you said, back to competitive as you got another pack of paper and handed it to Kuroo so he could fix it. You picked up your completed documents, sitting them on your hip and turning towards the door. While he looked at you, chest heaving and eyes travelling downwards, you snuck your free hand to tease the hem of his suit pants in passing. “I’m expecting you will, too.”

The last time you stayed late, you waited until the last person left before dragging your chair over to Kuroo’s desk, leaning on his shoulder and continuing your work until it was done. You were professionals, after all, no fun until the work is done.

But after finishing off the last reports, the work would be shoved aside so Kuroo could hoist you up on the desk and slot himself between your legs, lips going ham on your neck as the buttons came undone one by one. Sure you could do this in the privacy of either of your apartments, but there was something so enticing about sneaking around like this.

“I heard Hanta’s staying late as well,” he told you, tone suggesting that could be a problem.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” you assured confidently, giving him a genuine smile as you stood by the door to the printer room. “Let’s get pizza tonight?”

“Yeah, if you help me work off the calories when we’re done.”

You made sure your hips swayed while walking away, knowing he was looking over his shoulder at you, salivating over the mental image of how you looked underneath those tailored work clothes. Not that it would be a mental image for long, you’d be begging him for more in just a few sweet hours.

masterlist

[withonly-sweetheart]

Missin' You

A bad history makes for a wonderful future, right? You're willing to forgive and forget for the man you've always been down bad for.

a/n: OK THIS IS A REALLY OLD FIC... i haven't edited it too much or anything i just added some things here and there yk yada yada did stuff

first smut fic like explicit... ish... whatever. honestly this is just to address the allegations of me being a minor (UNTRUE.) and just for me to see it put out on something official !!

anyways @bunnivievve SHE MADE THE BANNER ART GO CHECK IT OUT ITS ACTUALLY WHAT INSPIRED ME TO DIG THIS FROM THE GRAVE AND REVISE IT!! LYSM GIRL <3333

tw: literal smut. like mdni seriously. also mentions of gore, death, a lot of references to spain just assume that the reader was with leon in the events of re4.

wc: 14.5k

The guy lunges for you, hands outstretched, a determined expression on his face. You step back and slam your rifle against his head, then open the door he was guarding, crushing his microphone under your foot before stepping inside. You grip your gun tightly, alert for potential threats, but it seems they forgot to guard the inside of the room.

"I'm inside," you say quietly, pressing a finger to your ear. The feel of the smooth black metal soothes you. "Permission to—"

"No," Rebecca replies immediately. "Absolutely not."

"What happened to Chris?" you ask, slightly confused as you traverse the room. He had told you he was the commander for this mission.

"I kicked him out because he would’ve said yes," she states simply.

"Sometimes I hate you." You were counting on Chris to give you permission for this. It was your only way to a promotion, which meant more money.

"Your request is denied," she repeats. "Turn back, we're sending in—"

You don't let him finish. You take out the radio that controls the communication device and switch it off. Breaking it would be too risky in case you get yourself into something.

You shoulder your rifle against your back as you press against the wall, glancing into the open doorway. You shine your flashlight once, twice, and one more time before stepping into the room with your gun raised. Almost immediately, relief floods you as you see Sherry sleeping soundly on a bed on the other side of the room. You walk around the table in the center, brushing against the chairs, growing more excited with each step.

This was it. The first mission that Chris had entrusted you with since he learned about Spain and... him. You promised that everything would go smoothly, but he still warned you to be wary of everything. Now it seemed too easy.

You near his bed, heart pounding. Then you smack straight into something, but there's nothing there. You step back, shaking your head, dazed. When you stretch out a tentative hand, fingers shaking, they graze a surface you can't see. You push your palm against it, forming a fist.

"What the…" you whisper to yourself, debating whether or not to report this to Piers. Just as you bring your hand up, you hear the distinct click of a magazine reloading and duck.

The bullet flies past your head, barely missing your skull. You can almost feel it parting your hair. Crouching to the floor, you pull out your gun. Luckily, the table provides ample cover as you stalk around to the other side, keeping your footsteps as still and quiet as you can.

"You're not as quiet as you think," a sultry female voice says. 

Screw that, then.

You grit your teeth and glance under the chair to see a full-length, ebony blue bodysuit with black accenting straps. Blond hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and piercing brown eyes scan the room as her shoes clack on the tiles, slowly nearing you.

You don't recognize her, but her voice stirs something inside you, a faint memory. Those eyes seem familiar. 

You bolt for the door, mind racing. She's too busy examining Sherry, too busy stirring her from her sleep, too slow to stop you from slamming the door behind you. About ten feet away from the room, you circle around the same pathway you used to get inside, to the parking garage just as the door's hinges give way as it crashes to the floor. The woman recoils from an extremely powerful kick, her gaze finding you.

You skid to a stop as her brimming eyes ground you to where you are. She breaks into a run, and that jolts you back to reality. Her... eyes. Sherry, that smart, smart girl sneaks around the back of the corridor to join you.

But as you faintly register her gentle touch, you’re still staring at the woman.

"Jill?" you choke out, a click of recognition. Her footsteps grow louder, more insistent towards you.

You swing your legs onto the motorcycle.

“Wait,” Sherry calls out, voice faint. “Just…”

You grip the handlebars tightly, then turn on your comms. Almost immediately, Rebecca’s voice comes through, panicked. And as everything is going to shit, of course, Sherry collapses in front of you.

"Are you stupid?" she lectures, oblivious. "Why would you turn the only way we can communicate with you off? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Calm down, I'm fine," you say, glancing down. "But I think you might want to come get the target."

"Why?" she asks, and you suppose you should be grateful she only sounds slightly angry. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. She just fell."

"I'll send a team out right now—but do not move," she says sternly.

"Don't worry, sir," you reply sarcastically. "I won't go anywhere."

"They're on their way. Please—" Rebecca gets cut off as the revving of another engine startles you. You glance to the other side of the parking lot, the realization that you aren't alone hitting you. Another motorcycle shoots from the entrance, heading for you.

You’re about to make the most insignificant escape in history when you see Sherry lying facedown on the concrete. Great, they're here for her, you think, then quickly lug her in front of you. It's an uncomfortable position, but the other motorcycle is catching up the ramp quickly.

You shoot towards the exit, cradling the girl between your legs as you carefully maneuver between lanes of traffic. You make it to some abandoned wasteland, thinking that you've lost the pursuer.

Then the same flashy, ivory motorcycle bursts through the brush and skids to a stop in front of you. You quickly start the engine again, but they've already caught up. You race alongside each other in silence, and you can't tell if they're here for her because they make no move to try and get her.

You look to your side, and the motorcyclist is looking straight ahead. "Are you part of the team?" you shout over the wind. Their head snaps towards you, but you don't get a reply.

You assume that the defenses will take care of them when you get to the base, so you skip the detour and race straight for it. The walls open, but no one tries to stop the other guy. The new sentry tries to convince the seniors, but they all shake their heads, smiling, as if they know something.

Confused, you swerve around shipping containers, ditch the bike, and sling Sherry’s arms around you, carrying her inside. You can't see where the guy is, so you drag her into the base and into the elevator.

They go through all the protocol—checking identity, running tests, all that bullshit. No one seems concerned that an intruder's lurking inside the base.

What if they don't know? A realization hits you. What if they managed to evade them somehow?

There's no way, another voice, a logical one argues. How could they have? We have the best technology in the US.

Not like that’s done any good shit for you.

A few nurses roll the girl in on stretchers, and you collapse onto the couch.

"You look like shit," Rebecca comments.

"Shut up, you wouldn't know anything about it. After all, your job is to send reinforcements to people that actually need it," you say jokingly.

Your friend fakes a hurt look. "Is that how you talk to your friend?" She sits down beside you, pulling up her tablet. "You wanna know about her?"

"Why not?" She hands you the tablet, and you read the profile. "Sherry Birkin… as in… Raccoon City?”

"That's the one."

"And?" Rebecca's eyes darken, but she tries to hide it behind an innocent smile.

"I don't know, actually. We... never got the data. Only that she’s been harboring the T-Virus for a long time."

"Liar," you say, but you let it go. After all, if she's not telling you, there's a reason behind it. "I like her though. You know, a guy followed me inside."

"Who?" she asks almost immediately. It's so fast that you get slightly suspicious. "I mean... do you know?"

"How should I know?" you say, crossing your arms. "It's not like anyone tells me anything around here. Besides, he practically followed me in."

"About that..." she begins sheepishly.

"What?" you demand.

"We all took a vote," she says quickly. "And we decided it would be better not to tell you about the new arrival because of your past and all the things you've told us, and we thought you might not be happy with it—"

"Just get to the point," you interrupt. "What's going on?"

"So... that guy who followed you in? He just joined, but he's made it clear he's one of the DSO’s best agents. I don't think you know he exists because the admin made it clear we shouldn't tell you."

"And why should I not know about this mystery man?" you raise an eyebrow.

Rebecca shrugs. "Dunno. Apparently he asked to be kept secret."

"So a mystery man who doesn't want me knowing that he exists... hm, wonder who that could be." You pretend to feign ignorance for Rebecca's sake, but your mind's already formed an idea of who it is.

After all these years, he's back for revenge.

"I can't tell you," she says apologetically. "Maybe you'll meet him at that conference today?"

"What conference?"

"Girl, seriously? The one with the agents? About the mission?”

"That's today? Shit!"

"Yeah, you're getting paired up." Rebecca stands and pats her coat down. "I'm going back to the lab. I'll see you later."

<><><><>

"So..." Chris leans back in his chair, resting his head on his hands. He looks oddly relaxed given the situation. "Wesker's not going anywhere since he’s managed to cheat death twice. It won't take long to infiltrate his manor. What now?"

"Either we take action, or we sit and wait," Helena replies, gritting her teeth. She has a somber look on her face. You don't know much about her, but she seems mysterious, as if she's hiding secrets. Then again, aren't we all?

"Why are you here, again?" Piers Nivans, Chris's new recruit, asks with his eyebrow raised.

"I'm on the mission," she chides. "My partner isn't here yet."

"Do you know who your partner is?" you ask her.

"Of course I do," she snaps. "Do you think I'm dumb?"

"Can I... know, by chance?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't concern you." She turns away from you, crossing her arms.

"So... I guess you'll be paired in case her partner doesn't show." Chris glances at the ground, his expression darkening as he mutters, "I wouldn't expect him to, anyways."

"And how do you know?" you ask quietly. Chris doesn't respond, his face stony.

The air turns awkward, and you sit in silence for a moment longer before Piers interrupts, "So, uh, captain, we should get some sleep."

"Good idea," Chris says quickly. "We need our rest." He stands up, but you grab his arm before he can leave, looking up at him.

"Wait, if Helena's partner shows up..." you trail off, hesitant.

Chris smiles wearily. "Don't worry. You'll still be with her. Trio wouldn’t hurt."

You exhale, relieved, then smile. "I'll hold you to that. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he replies, shutting the door behind him. You can hear his and Piers's footsteps fade away, and then you glance at Helena. You open your mouth, but she shuts you down before you can say anything.

"Before you ask, no, I'm not going to tell you who my mission partner is, and I'm not interested in getting to know you."

"... I was going to ask if you could hand me that blanket."

You don't know how long you sit there. Helena stares out of the window, legs and arms crossed. You slump onto the pillow, clutching the blanket around you.

"I think that it might help if you learned that you might need to work with me," you say.

"I know," she says simply. "Phase one of the operation happens tomorrow. Get some sleep. And... don't take anything too lightly, okay?"

You don't know what she means by that. You're still thinking about it on the car ride to the manor. As you pull up, you cast a glance at her face, soft and fresh. When you woke up, she was making coffee for you both. You wonder why she switches back and forth with you.

"Alright, people, this is it. Everyone clear on their roles?" Chris’s weary tone holds an undercurrent of urgency.

"As clear as it'll ever be." You run your hands through your hair, nerves getting the best of you. Helena’s face softens, a reassuring look in her eyes. You feel like glaring at her. Your feelings about her are "don't trust her" at best.

Piers speaks again, his gaze boring into yours. "We blow this, there's no second chances. You listening, rookie?"

You stiffen defensively. "Hey, lay off, I know what I'm doing."

Chris cuts in. "Enough, we don't have time for this. Helena, you're on watch. Piers, you've got our exit. And—" he fixes you with a steely glare— "don't screw this up."

You nod, anxiety mounting. Helena peers through her scope. "Alright, looks like they're moving in."

Piers steps into position by the getaway vehicle. "Hurry it up, I don't like standing still for long."

Chris hands you your gear. "You're up. Do your job and we all go home, a step closer to beating this asshole. Understood?" You take a slow breath and check the belt, lined with tactical knives and daggers. You slip it under the hem of your dress, hidden from sight but easily accessible.

"He'll tell me the code, right?" You glance up.

Chris gives you a curt nod and a pat on the shoulder. "We're counting on you."

"Jesus, it's like you're expecting me to fail," you say, a small smile curving the side of your face as you turn away. You take a deep breath, then approach the entrance of the manor.

You could get turned away right here. The scary thought flashes through your head, almost stopping you. You could fail the mission right here. You could mess everything up.

"Excuse me, miss," a voice says, giving a small smile. The man to your right, guarding the entrance, extends a hand. "Invitation, please?"

You slip out the thin paper, the fake engravings brushing your fingers as you pass it to him. He gives it a cursory glance and nods to you. You dip your head and step inside.

The air is cooler than the summer air outside, probably due to air conditioning. Your eyes adjust to the dim lighting from the chandeliers, and you're immediately awestruck. A majestic staircase rises up and curls elegantly along the wall, its polished steps gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Intricate carvings adorn the banisters and newels, depicting scenes of frolicking angels and mythical beasts.

Even with this masterpiece, there’s still enough room for guests to mingle around the area. Built into the bottom of the staircase seems to be a bar of some sort, at which people laugh and drape their long, nimble fingers over glasses of swirling wine.

You walk slowly towards the staircase, feeling out of place. The carvings seem to come alive as shadows dance across their surfaces, leaping for you, telling you that you don't belong here.

You take a moment to wait for anyone to approach. No one does. You assume your partner must be running late and commence with stage one of the operation: find someone close to the target.

Taking a steadying breath, you near the grand staircase as a swirling sea of aquamarine silk and satin. There's a soft ballad starting to play, and you realize that if you don't find someone to dance with quickly, they might single you out.

Your eyes flit over the glittering crowd, picking out a victim turned away from you, engaged in animated discussion with several others. He turns to the side, exposing his face and laughs, flashing white teeth, then you recognize him.

James Marcus. You would pull up a profile on the man, but there's barely any information about him—known to you, at least. His white hair is chopped back in that classic old-man haircut, and you grimace, wondering if you really have to. Across the room, Chris gives you a look, his eyes holding a message. You can almost hear his voice yelling at you.

Hurry up before he leaves. Another voice argues, what if he doesn't want to dance? How will you keep him occupied and get information?

Only one way to find out. You glide over, catching the tail end of their conversation. "...simply unacceptable, the terms must be renegotiated." You try to make your presence known with what was meant to be a delicate cough, but it comes out as... well, something. It gets their attention. They glance over at you with bewildered eyes. You continue with a subtle, "Pardon my interruption, but might one of you honor me with a dance?"

Please don't have one of those other guys say yes, please, please, you repeat in your head, stealing a look at a burly man standing close to him, his suit looking as if it's about to rip.

Marcus eyes you appraisingly. Oh shit, he's going to— Before anyone can say anything, he suddenly bows. "The pleasure is mine, my lady." Relaxing slightly, you let him take your hand and lead you into the dance.

As you move in time to the orchestra, you try to feel him out, probing for his relationship with Wesker and other targets you had your eye on without arousing suspicion. His answers provide mere grains of insight, but he guards his full thoughts well.

You break away, smiling politely before heading for the bar, another face catching your eye. Just as you step towards the stools, a figure crosses in front of you, stopping directly as you glance up, slightly irritated.

"Hey," the waiter says casually, a tray of drinks balanced in his hand. He's wearing a black mask, the edges fanning out, looking soft and light. You want to reach out and touch them, but you don't. Even though you're glaring intensely at his face, he doesn't meet your eyes. "I don't suppose you're..."

"You've got the wrong person," you say quickly, stepping to the side. He copies you, blocking your path. The target, Edward Ashford, laughs and turns away, calling for another glass of fancy wine. "I think you're forgetting where we are."

"I'm not that certain," he replies smugly with a small chuckle. He still doesn't look at you. "Care for the next dance, my lady?" Great, another distraction.

You argue that if you give him one dance, you'll get back to the target faster. The ball lasts for three hours; you have plenty of time. Besides, you're intrigued. There's something familiar about the glint in this guy's eye, the fall of his hair over his ears.

You place your hand in his, allowing him to sweep you into his arms. He spins you around for just long enough to slide his tray, still clustered with drinks, onto the bar counter without spilling a drop.

You blink in confusion, but he pulls you near the clump of people, and as you move in time to the lively rhythm, he leans in, warm breath ghosting your ear. "Simmer down, Falcon. I believe we have... business to discuss."

You inhale sharply but don't miss a step. So this is more than just a chance. "I see. And what business might that be?"

"Only that I've been assigned as your partner for the duration of this mission. You didn't really think they'd send you in alone, did you?" His eyes gleam with quiet amusement, gaze flickering to the weapon hidden beneath your evening gown, a silent reminder of the danger you're facing.

"They told me," you say indignantly. "They also said you wouldn't show."

"Well, you can count on me, princess," he says, flashing a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, then glancing down at your dress. You feel silly in it, but Rebecca insisted it was essential to the look.

So, this is him. Your new partner, and somehow you’re slightly disappointed to find he’s nothing like who you expected, at least not based on outward appearances. You fight to control your expression. For now, you simply say, "Don't call me that. We have a lot of work to do."

"We're not going to that guy you were looking at," he says quickly, bristling. "He won't be useful."

"How do you—"

"I just do." You blink in confusion before shrugging. As you circle the ballroom again and again, searching, you notice the amount of weird looks you're getting.

"Hey, they're giving us weird looks." You look up at your partner. "What's with them?"

"Well, we're not dancing correctly," he says flatly. "Maybe that has something to do with it?"

"What?" You kick away the hem of your dress. "Why are you just bringing this up?"

"I mean, I tried getting you set correctly, but you keep slapping my hand away," he says, a twinge of exasperation in his tone.

"We— I— You—" You stutter, a faint heat fanning your cheeks. You thought he was trying to do something less civilized.

"C'mere," he says, his voice suddenly low. He puts a gentle hand on your waist and curls his other hand around yours. He tilts his head to his shoulder. "Other hand, here."

You do as he says, and for the next few rounds, people don't turn over their drinks to look at you as often. There's a foreign feeling in your stomach, igniting fire in your chest.

"Looks like Wesker's enjoying his show," he remarks.

"Maybe he just prefers operating covertly instead," you hiss. "Like we should be. Keep your voice down."

"Perhaps, but we won't get anywhere cowering in the shadows," he replies with an impatient edge that seems oddly familiar.

You frown. "Proceeding with caution is not the same as 'cowering.' Rushing in could jeopardize the entire mission."

"We need to take the initiative if we want results," he insists stubbornly. There’s something in his tone you think you recognize, but you've never met him. Of course not.

"Initiative is one thing, but not without a plan. Discretion is key here," you argue diplomatically.

He scoffs dismissively. "Plans tend to fall apart. Better to act and adapt than overthink ourselves in circles."

Engrossed in your debate, you take a step forward just as he does and collide directly into his solid form. He lets out a surprised "oof" as the wind gets knocked out of him.

Flailing your arms to catch your balance, you only succeed in further unbalancing you both. Your partner windmills helplessly, grasping for any support, and ends up seizing hold of the poor server who had been quietly passing by with a towering three-tiered cake.

The man goes toppling over with a yelp, and the magnificent confection sails up into the air as if in slow motion. You watch in horror as it seems to hover there for an eternity, the frosting and pastry suspended, while you and your partner collapse on the floor in a sweaty heap, the servant stretching his arm in a failing attempt to save his masterpiece.

Time speeds back up as gravity takes over, and with a massive splat, the entire cake slams into you and your partner. Icy frosting and chunks of sponge coat you from head to toe in an instant.

The ballroom falls deathly silent, all eyes now turning in shock to the spectacle you had unwittingly created. Through the mess obscuring your vision, you make out your partner staring back at you with equal disbelief written across his visible features.

Someone storms from a metal door, raising a spatula angrily. "L'ho appena sfornato! You know how long it takes to bake a cake?"

Meanwhile, the server whispers to himself, "I'm going to get fired, I'm gonna get fired, my life is over, I'm so done for," as if it were some reassuring mantra he was chanting.

The cream from the cake bursts forth on impact, now oozing over your shoulders and down your arms in long, dripping ropes. Your hands and legs below are caked in a technicolor mess—swirls of blue, pink, and yellow seeping through the thin fabric of your gown.

Through the haze, you see Chris push through the crowd, crouching down to help you. There's a strangled expression on his face, but he calls out to the crowd, "Sorry, my daughter and her fiancé are new to this. Please accept our apologies and we'll be headed home."

The murmur of people around you, their soft voices and judging gazes, aren't what stings and provokes your forming tears. What hurts is the disapproving look on Chris's face as he lugs you out of the ballroom, the sun heating your chilled arms, and the realization that you've failed everyone.

<><><><>

You slowly tug off the silver mask, then your billowing dress, covered in crumbs and frosting, and throw it aside. You kick your heels off and unclip your hair. It falls across your bare back in cascades of brown dotted with blue, pink, and yellow as you step into the bathroom. You switch the setting to the hottest it can go, which isn't even close to the burning, searing feeling in your chest.

Not the one you felt with your partner, but the one that slowly began to spread when you tried explaining to Chris what had really happened, and all he said was to leave.

"That's an order from your commander," he had said quietly, eyes cast downward. "Now get out of my face."

The scalding water pours over you, but does little to soothe your thoughts. You lean your head against the cool tile and try to process the events of this evening.

It looks like your own commander has lost faith in you, his dismissal cutting deep. As the clouds of steam envelop you, you try to decide your next move. You don’t know if you should abandon not only the mission, but the job entirely. It seems you can’t do anything right, huh?

A quiet knock at the door startles you. "Hello? It's... your mission partner. We need to talk." His muffled voice holds a note of concern that gives you pause.

"I don't want to hear your voice right now." If it were just you, Chris wouldn't have been disappointed. You wouldn't have failed him.

"I have plans. We can still get Wesker," he insists with determination in his voice. His tone gets you thinking. Maybe there's still a chance to prove to Chris that you know what you're doing.

After toweling off and changing into a random pair of shorts and a tank top you find in your closet, you brace yourself to face whatever awaits on the other side of that door. You grasp the door handle and try twisting it, but something blocks it.

"Hey," you call out. "I can't—"

"I know," he says suddenly. "I... don't want you to see me."

"You were the guy who followed me into the base," you say, the realization hitting you. "Who... are you?"

You hear a sound against the door, and the door handle tilts to the side, but the door doesn't open. You suspect he's let go of it, trusting you enough not to open it.

"Sit down with me," he says. You sit down with your back against the door, knees drawn up protectively over your chest.

"Who are you?" you repeat.

A weary sigh comes from the other side of the door. "Let's just say... we have a shared past with the man you're after. A past I've been trying to make right."

You offer calmly, "You don't have to face this alone. If we're honest with each other, maybe we stand a better chance of stopping him."

A long silence stretches before he replies. "Alright. No more secrets between us. I'll answer any questions honestly... if you promise to work with me as a team from here on out."

"Deal," you reply. "So, who are you?"

"A friend," he says with a smile in his voice. "But you can call me Condor."

"Really?" you deadpan. "You can't tell me any more than that?"

"Not yet, sweetheart. You'll have to wait a little longer for that."

As night falls, you decide to do some reconnaissance of the nearby training area. Moving quietly through the shadows, you spot a lone figure practicing maneuvers under the moonlight. You see the mask and know it's Condor (what kind of name even is that?).

At first, you take him for keeping his skills sharp. But as you watch closer, you begin to note subtle details. The graceful yet powerful way he flows from one form to the next, mixing kicks and strikes with fluid precision.

You had worked with agents from BSAA for over two years, and yet no one you'd trained with had this precise style. No one displayed this. It's a style you know well, one you have analyzed endlessly trying to gain any advantage in your mission together. A style belonging to only one agent you had ever seen move with such skill and poise.

His style looks like Leon's. His name sparks something inside you. Watching him just reminds you of heartache—of the months following Spain, searching endlessly for someone who didn't want you to find him, of erasing it from your mind, steeling against memories of him.

He doesn't see you observing from the treeline as he runs through an attack sequence on a training dummy, perfectly focused. But you see every telltale motion, recognizing the techniques you had practiced and perfected as partners long ago.

You continue to watch silently, taking in the bittersweet memories his fighting evokes. It couldn't be Leon, though. You had pulled up his file mere weeks ago, and the database had marked him as MIA. Maybe…

You shake your head and turn away, pressing your back and hands to the concrete wall that separates you. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, and you feel sweat trickle from your forehead.

It's not Leon. You're imagining things. Anyone could learn such elegant moves like his. There's no chance it's Leon. Don't get your hopes up. You'll just be crushed again. You're not stupid.

Curiosity gets the better of you, as it always does. While he continues training, you stealthily make your way to the armory. Flicking on the lights, you scan the row of lockers until you find the one labeled only with a number—his designation, it seems. Taking a steadying breath, you input the code and swing the door open.

At first glance, his arsenal looks standard issue—a selection of handguns and knives arranged with military precision. But you look closer and notice subtle modifications.

Most oddly, you recognize most of this gear. Old and worn with time, but still vaguely familiar. You brush it off as having seen them in the weaponry store Chris had taken you to when you were a freshly minted agent.

Extra notches filed into certain knife handles. Markings you had seen countless times before, wielded with deadly accuracy and calm focus under pressure. But this could all be from one big brand that created everything, custom-made.

You pick up a knife and run your thumb over the distinct patterns worn smooth from years of use. A memory surfaces of your first lesson with knives, Leon's hands over yours. The thought hurts, so you push it away.

As you throw the weapon back, your eyes fall on dog tags hanging from a hook on the back of the locker. Steeling yourself, you reach out a hand to grasp them when a voice stops you.

"Going through my stuff, huh?" A chuckle escapes him, and you glance at Condor, cheeks burning. "When I said we'd be honest, that didn't mean you could go through my stuff."

"I was just—routine check," you fumble.

"I did my own check yesterday." He crosses to you in long strides, slamming the locker door shut. His hand is still firmly planted on the metal as he leans closer. "You can't lie to me. What were you really doing?"

You purse your lips and try your best not to shiver under his gaze. His eyes wander over your face, a cursory glance that stops at your lips.

"I suppose I should be asking you why you still have that stupid mask on," you retort. The curved, ivory edges of his masquerade mask seem to shine in the dim light, seemingly freshly cleaned.

He coughs and steps back, bringing his hand to cover his mouth subtly.

 "Don't let me catch you going through my locker," he says, half-joking and fully ignoring your question. You nod quickly, not thinking too hard about it, and notice the wet patch staining his combat shirt. He follows your gaze and turns slightly to hide it from you.

"Did you... get hurt?" you ask, slightly curious.

"I'm fine, it's nothing," he says quickly.

"It'll get infected," you reply, your voice a bit louder. "Let me treat it."

"I'll get a nurse to do it," he says, stepping back.

"The nurses aren't on night duty. It's just me and you," you say defiantly, stepping forward. His mouth parts slightly, face flushed, eyes wild through their mask, and he glances to the side as if someone's watching him.

"You won't—"

"No, you won't be going anywhere until I've seen to that wound," you insist, already rummaging through the nearby medkit propped up against the bench.

He starts to protest, but you level him with a stern look. "No arguments. Now sit before you lose any more blood." Reluctantly, Condor begins to peel off his bloody shirt, revealing a long gash that runs from the base of his forearm to his wrist. A flush rises in your cheeks at his bare torso on display, muscles gleaming with a sheen of exertion.

Another reason it's not Leon—Leon wasn't that comfortable with you.

If he notices your reaction, he gives no sign, focusing on the injury. But you see a hint of pink tinting his ears as he sits bare-chested before you, awaiting treatment.

Averting your eyes to the task at hand, you get to work cleaning and dressing the gash with steadier hands than you feel. Your eyes wander over his familiar yet unplaceable scars. One high on his left shoulder draws you in, a long pale line raising questions.

It tugs at something in your memory, just out of reach. You trace the scar gently, trying to place its significance. Your companion tenses at your touch, watching you intently.

"Does this wound mean something to you?" you ask cautiously. He frowns.

"It's a reminder that I'm never safe."

"Wow, uh, okay." At a loss for words, you finish dressing his gash in a bandage and order him to sleep. You watch him stalk off, raising his hand in a goodbye gesture without looking back. You also see him wince at the effort before cradling his arm and scurrying away.

<><><><>

The next day, at the dusk briefing for the mission, you lean back in your chair and sip from a cup of steaming coffee, courtesy of Helena. You sit together and watch Rebecca, Chris, and Piers argue over something on the map.

"You'll kill them if you send them there," Rebecca protests. "Just skip that sector and move to the next one. There's nothing there!"

"We're missing the intel on Irving's future plans. We used to have Sheva stationed there, but we pulled her back to train troops for the scaled invasion," Piers retorts. "Without that information, we're all going to be killed."

"Besides, I have faith in them." His eyes find you. You can't muster the courage to meet his gaze. "I'm sure they can handle it."

Condor enters the briefing room with his arm in a sling. You wince at the splatters of blood streaking across the patchy white material. Obviously, whoever treated his arm was not thinking clearly. He wears a face mask, one of the blue sterile ones. Believe it or not, it does a good job of hiding his face.

Chris stands at the head of the table, maps and reports scattered across the surface.

"Glad you could join us, Captain, even in your state," Chris says. "I know you're itching to get back in the field. Well, I may have a mission that will suit your skills and let you prove to me that you can be trusted to succeed in a mission that should be as..."

"Easy as cake?" Condor offers, a small grin quirking his lips.

"Exactly." Chris's expression mirrors his. At least he's not yelling at anyone.

"Let's get to it," Rebecca interrupts, raising an eyebrow at you. You can hear her silent question—what's going on?

You shrug as Condor takes a seat next to Helena and leans in. You do the same, eager to hear the details. Piers launches into an explanation. "Our troops had to evacuate sector five off the east, but they left valuable information behind. If this were to fall into enemy hands, we would be done for. Not to mention that without it, our whole mission would have to be rethought."

"A small strike team going undercover at night is our best bet." Chris nods to Condor. "You up for a reconnaissance mission, Captain?"

Condor nods, though he holds his injured arm gingerly. "Just say the word, Commander. I'll have our best men ready to move out at your order."

"Good man. Get some rest, and I want you geared up and prepped to leave at 2200 hours." You all stand. "Dismissed."

As you prepare to leave, Condor lingers. He looks up at Chris from his seated position. "I won't let this injury slow us down, sir. We'll get you the intel you need."

"Maybe," Chris says with a half-smile. "Don't get injured training by yourself in the first place." He nods to you with a genuine smile before turning and leaving.

<><><><>

The cover of night provides just the cloak you need as Condor's strike team moves stealthily through the forest. You follow close behind him, determined not to let his injury sideline your efforts. As his mission partner, you’ve vouched to replace the squad medic, Nathan, who will stay behind to watch over the injured soldiers that arrived from sector seven.

You creep toward the enemy encampment, relying on night vision goggles to pick out defenses and patrol routes. Condor signals a halt, then motions for you to join him.

"Take a look," he whispers, handing you the goggles. His uninjured shoulder presses against yours as you peer through and count at least three dozen hostiles milling about. They all seem to be guarding the warehouse where Chris says you would find the information. After surveying the perimeter, you pass the goggles back with your assessment. "We need to map their positions and strengths before heading in."

Condor nods. "You heard the woman. Fan out and record all details. Move fast but stealthy—we can't be spotted. Radio check-ins every 15 minutes."

The squad disperses on your assignments. You realize that you don't know any of them—not even their names, and promise yourself to ask after they return. You hang back with Condor, insisting on keeping his injury immobilized. "Don't overexert that arm," you warn softly.

He flashes a grin. "No promises, but I'll try for you, Doc."

Your heart skips. Then shouts arise almost out of thin air, and enemy fire lights the night as your team engages. You drag Condor into cover. "Time to pull out. Mission's blown. Have they got—"

"We're clear to leave, but they've gotten themselves into a bit of a problem. Turn on your radio," Condor urges.

You do as he says and almost immediately are met with gunfire and the sounds of panicked soldiers.

"I repeat, Captain, we need backup!" A woman's voice comes through only to end in a scream. The radio fades to static.

"Don't assume the worst." Condor stands up, helping you to your feet. "Let's get over there. We've got this."

<><><><>

You definitely don’t got this, you think barely a few minutes later, surrounded by seemingly never-ending hordes of zombies. It's been a while since you've seen those rotting, decaying corpses stumble toward you, but the memory of dispatching them has never been clearer.

"Leon, behind you!" you shout.

"I see them," Condor insists, plunging his knife into an attacker's throat before whirling to face the next. "Watch your six; there's more coming!"

"I've got it covered," you pant, gunning down two more enemies with practiced precision. "How many are left?"

"Too many," Condor growls through clenched teeth, blood dripping down his face from a fresh wound.

"Shit, you're hurt!" you cry out in alarm.

"It's nothing," he retorts. "Focus on staying alive—we'll worry about this later."

Your backs meet in the midst of the fray, fighting off assailants on all sides as if you’re two parts of a well-oiled machine.

"Behind you!" you warn, just a split second before it senses you.

He spins and fires without looking. You feel Condor's guard shift in turn to cover your exposure. "Thanks for the heads up."

"You're welcome," you say between shots. The crowd seems to be getting smaller, but you’re not going to say anything about it yet. "How's the shoulder holding up?"

"It's fine," Condor grinds out through clenched teeth.

Suddenly, you realize that even with dwindling enemies, your rhythm is thrown off by his compromised mobility. Condor struggles to keep up, taking more hits than usual as you fight harder to cover for him.

"We need to fall back," you say urgently, grabbing his uninjured arm. "We can make it back. The others already escaped."

"Not until they're all down!" Of course, he refuses to retreat, stubbornly fighting through the haze of pain. But his sluggish reflexes keep putting you both at greater risk.

When the last of the zombies' bodies litter the ground, the grim smile is evident in his voice, if not his expression. "Think that's the last of them?"

"I hope so." You scan the mounds of decaying flesh, gun at the ready. "Condor, you're looking a little pale..."

He opens his mouth to protest, but instead his eyes roll back. He starts to crumple to the ground before you manage to catch him in your arms.

"Shit, no!" You ease him to the ground, gripping his sides in panic. Blood pulses thickly between your fingers from the wound at his shoulder. "Don't do this to me, stay with me!"

Condor's eyelids flicker open, his gaze finding yours with effort. "Hey... get out of here. Before more come."

"I'm not leaving you," you say fiercely through tears. A weak smile touches his lips. You rip fabric from your shirt to bind a makeshift dressing, tears mingling with the blood on your cheeks. "Why'd you have to play the hero, huh? You couldn't dodge one lousy hit?"

"Had to... keep you... safe."

"Well congratulations, genius, now we're both screwed." Your breath hitches on a sob. "Just hold on, damn it! You're not dying on me, do you hear?"

Condor's hand finds yours, grip tightening with determination. "Not... going anywhere. Promise."

You press your finger to his lips, trying to draw strength from the lingering warmth of his body against your legs. But you know that out in the open, he won't last long without medical help. You have to get to shelter, and fast.

"We never got to learn... to dance," he says quietly. You bring your attention back to him.

"What?"

"Spain... you and I... you knew," he says with a small grin. "You knew... it was me." He gasps for air, and you shake your head.

"I did," you say softly. "I knew it was you, Leon."

You see the flash of his teeth in a quick smile before it vanishes, and a strangled moan escapes Leon's lips. "Just hold on, damn it! You're not dying on me, do you hear? You don't get to leave me twice in a lifetime!"

"Wish... I was... with you," he says quietly. A gentle smile tugs at his lips. "Always... knew you... cared..." His eyes slide shut as consciousness flees from his body.

The heavy thrum of approaching rotor blades cuts through your panic like a knife. You lurch your head to the sky, the sun blinding you, desperation fueling your exhausted limbs into one final sprint.

Waving your arms, you stumble directly into the landing chopper's spotlight, shielding your eyes against the blinding glare. Two medics leap out, bearing a stretcher between them.

"Please, help him!" you scream over the deafening noise, dragging Leon's limp form the last few feet. Your fingers cling to his jacket even as the medics pull him away, wanting nothing more than to keep contact.

For a second, you let yourself think that he'll be alright, then they whisk Leon aboard and settle him behind shatterproof glass, disappearing behind a tangle of cables and medical equipment as the chopper shoots skyward. You take an automatic step to follow—only to smash into an invisible barrier, your bloody hands leaving pale prints on the reinforced hull.

You see Leon's silhouetted form lost amid the bustle of medics working frantically to stabilize his critical injuries. Your shouts are drowned out by the thrumming engines. All you can do is watch helplessly through the frosted barrier, pounding your fists bloody against the unyielding glass.

A kind-eyed paramedic finally takes your elbow gently but firmly, guiding you away as an IV needle slides into your battered arm. You sag against the hull in reluctant exhaustion, unwilling to take your blurry gaze off Leon even as he starts to swim before your eyes.

The medic presses an oxygen mask to your pale face, assessing your injuries with a worried frown. You lazily recognize the face as Nathan's. But all you can really focus on through the haze is Leon’s still frame across from you, bathed in shimmering halos of light from above.

Your bloody fingerprints streak down like tears as you curl onto the cold steel floor, fingers clawing compulsively at the transparent wall between you. All the anger, fear, and desperate longing to bridge that gap come pouring out in a broken sob you can’t hold back any longer.

Through the pane, Leon remains ominously still—the rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he’s still alive. Nathan's hushed whispers are the only reason you feel safe enough to let darkness consume you. You let your eyes close.

<><><><>

It seems like the next second, you open them. Gasping for air, you clutch the arm in front of you.

"Ow..." Rebecca recoils, a grin on her face as she shakes her arm. "Well, I was going to discharge you, but it seems like your murderous thoughts have other plans."

"Never mind that," you reply impatiently. "What about Leon? Is he alright?"

"You knew?" she asks, eyes wide with surprise.

"I'm not as oblivious as you think," you retort. "Now please, tell me how he's doing."

"His shoulder was bothering him a few weeks back," she explains. "I managed to keep him resting it. But it seems fighting like that reopened the injury."

"Weeks?!" you exclaim in frustration. "Why am I only finding out about this now?"

"I thought you were already aware..." Rebecca glances down regretfully. "He was admitted about a week after you."

"So for three years, he's pretended not to know me." The fear for Leon's safety swiftly transforms into an unquenchable fury. How could he deceive you for so long?

"Calm down, he can explain himself," Rebecca says soothingly. "Let's get you to his room so the two of you can talk."

Her words do little to quench your simmering anger, but you nod curtly anyway.

"Lead the way," you say tersely to Rebecca. She gives you a worried look but compiles, guiding you out of the patient room and into the hallway.

You walk in strained silence for a few moments. Your thoughts swirl with questions and suspicions. After six long years apart, Leon owes you the truth. Why did he lie about being here? Why didn't he tell you?

"So how have things been around here?" you ask, your tone hardening on the last word as you shoot Rebecca a sidelong glance. "Is there something else that you've been hiding from me?"

She purses her lips, hesitating before answering. "There's no use taking it out on me. I should have told you sooner, I know. But Leon... there were reasons, I'm sure."

"What possible reason could justify this?" you scoff. "Unless the truth is even worse."

Rebecca opens her mouth to reply but is cut off by a shout up ahead.

"Hey Doc, think you can speed it up a bit? I think I'm dying over here."

Your head snaps forward at the familiar voice. Leon. After everything, you'd know that voice anywhere. A fresh wave of anger and hurt rises in your chest. It's time for answers.

"We're almost there," Rebecca calls back uneasily. "Leon, you have a visitor."

You quicken your pace, bursting through the door with Rebecca close behind.

Leon is propped up in bed, eyes closed as he massages his forehead in apparent frustration. "Tell them to fuck off. I don't want to see anyone right now."

"Leon Kennedy, you open your eyes right this instant," you say sternly, hands on your hips.

At the sound of your voice, his eyelids fly open in shock. "What are you—Why are you up—"

"Save it." You hold up a hand, your ice-cold glare stopping his question dead. "We need to have a long overdue talk. Alone."

Rebecca smiles apologetically at Leon. "I'll leave you two to sort this out. Call if you need anything." With that, she slips quietly from the room.

An uncomfortable silence falls as you and Leon size each other up. You've dreamed of this reunion for years, yet now only outrage remains. He fidgets under your burning stare, opening his mouth hesitantly.

"Look, I know you must have a lot of—"

"Questions? Accusations? You bet your ass I do." You pull up a chair and lean in close, lowering your voice to a furious whisper. "Start. Talking."

Leon sighs wearily, running a hand through his cropped hair. "I'm really not up for this right now. My shoulder is killing me and I just wanna get some rest."

A noise of indignant disbelief escapes you. "Too bad! You don't get to leave me for three years and then play the injured card."

"I never meant to hurt you," he insists, frustration evident in his tense features.

"Bullshit! You lied straight to my face." Your voice rises as your temper flares further. "Was our friendship some big joke to you?"

Struggling to sit up taller, Leon grits his teeth against the pain. "Of course not, you know that's not true. But I had my reasons, okay?"

"What possible reason—"

"I was trying to protect you!" he seethes, immediately recoiling as his shoulder flares up painfully.

You open your mouth to respond, but Rebecca must've already heard the commotion because she immediately rushes in with a syringe at the ready. "Alright, that's enough, you two. Leon, take it easy before you tear your stitches."

He relents with a weary sigh, allowing Rebecca to administer a sedative. Within moments, the tension seeps from his body as sleep claims him once more.

You slump back in your chair, fists clenched in your lap, overflowing with questions that will have to wait. Leon's deception cuts deep—but seeing him injured stirs regret along with your lingering anger.

"Okay, he's in stable condition," Rebecca says with a huff, stepping back and dusting her hands. Her eyes flit to you. "But he won't be much longer, by the look on your face."

You don’t want to admit it, and you definitely don’t say it out loud, but he’s gotten more attractive over the years. I mean, he was good-looking to begin with, but he aged well—taller, with darker hair and eyes, but you still recognize them with the same challenging look in them, daring you to speak out against him.

You clench your fingers together, watching the blood drain from them. "Leon… fucking Condor. You thought you were slick with that name? I'm going to fucking—"

"Come over here and talk it out?" Chris says from the doorway. He leans against the frame, a questioning look on his face as you approach, closing the door behind you. "Alright, so what's got you so worked up?"

"I won't work with Leon," you declare, arms crossed.

"So you know. Who told you?"

"Why does it matter when you hid it from me?" you retort. "I'm not working with him."

"You already have, but whatever," Chris says with a shrug. "We didn't know how to tell you, given how you react whenever he's on TV."

"That was once," you protest. "Jesus, you still haven't let that go."

Chris chuckles and shakes his head. "You acted like he was really there." A wistful look crosses his face. "Ah, I should've recorded that."

"Take him off the team," you insist. "You need me. Besides, you saw how the mission failed when he was there with me."

"That was partly your fault. And the second mission went perfectly fine. True, we might need you," Piers agrees. "But we definitely need him."

"No, you don't!" you protest. "All he does is 'protect' you when you don't need it and then ghost you for six years. And then work in your agency for three years that you only joined to spite him in the first place."

"We can still hear you," Rebecca calls from around the wall.

"Shut up!" you say, louder than you want to. Then you say to them in a quieter voice, "Look, I just can't work with him. Every time I see him... all I can think is..."

"Woah, calm down, I don't need the details," Chris says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You flush and swat at him.

"It's not like that! You're insufferable," you say exasperatedly.

"The admins need you to work with him," Piers says suddenly. "Wesker hasn't recovered from you destroying his image, and if anything, your actions have caused him to stray further from the media's presence. In order to get our team back, you need to get everyone to take the bait."

"You have to be kidding me," you grumble, running a hand through your hair. "There's no way I can act friendly toward that guy."

Chris sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I know you two have... history. But orders are orders. This mission requires the full cooperation of our team."

"Yeah, easy for you to say," you retort. "Leon didn't ghost you for six years."

Piers chimes in, "I know it's not ideal. But staying committed to the plan is crucial. The fate of our organization depends on it. We've come too far to let personal issues get in the way."

"Be friendly or they're firing you," Chris interrupts. "You have to fool Wesker, therefore the world, into believing that you're friends with him. It's really not that hard. If the target finds out you aren't friends with him, things could go wrong."

"Then get Helena to do it; I don't fucking care!"

"I'll be visiting inside, thanks," Helena says, appearing around the corner. She opens the door and steps inside, leaving it slightly open.

"Just give the man a goddamn chance, would you?" Chris sighs, a troubled sound that makes him sound far older than he really is. "You're always so quick to judge."

"Who else is on the team?" you ask, deflecting the subject.

"Well, we're supposed to have Sherry Birkin and Jake Muller. But right now, it's just us," he says, gesturing to himself and Piers, "and then, of course, Leon and Helena."

"So we're missing, what, a fourth of the team? That's not too much. We can manage without him." You roll your eyes and avert the subject again. "So about my group..."

"You're being grouped with Leon," Chris says flatly. "We argued about this for three months and we decided that Helena's only here for backup, in case something goes wrong."

"Three months? You've known about this for three months?" you sputter, stepping back.

"Wait, why can't I be backup?" you protest.

"Because you know Leon better," he says simply.

"I used to think that too," you say sweetly. "But obviously, we were both wrong."

"We were watching you while he had the mask on—"

"Whose idea was that?" They stare at you. "The mask, I mean."

"That was this guy," Chris says, gesturing to Piers, who flushes.

"It was part Leon's idea too!" he protests. "Besides, we knew you would recognize your partner any day now."

"So you're both in on this, huh?"

"You can say whatever you want, but the moment you're back in Wesker's estate, you better act like the sun shines out of his ass," Chris warns.

You frown. "Isn't that from—"

"Don't patronize me! Now, are you on the team or not?" Chris asks. There's an expectant look in his eyes. Your gut tells you to do one thing, but the agency expects something else from you.

You let your shoulders slump, catching a glimpse of Leon's darkened blond hair from the sliver in the doorway. You shake your head. "Fine then, put me on the team."

"That's what I like to hear," Chris says, beaming, all traces of his bad mood gone.

"So... now what?"

"Now, we wait for tomorrow. You might want to get some rest. You need to look nice for tomorrow." When you tilt your head questioningly, he smiles mysteriously and heads back into the room with Piers.

The door closes agonizingly slowly, and you catch a bit of Leon and Helena's conversation.

"Heard you got grouped with my favorite rival. Trying to steal my spotlight again?" Leon manages, coughing afterwards.

Helena huffs in amusement. "In your dreams, pretty boy. We all know who the real star is around here."

"Of course I do, sweetheart."

Pretty boy? Sweetheart? Since when are they so close?

You shake your head, not wanting to look at Leon any more than necessary, and you certainly don’t want to talk to Helena. You make the decision to head back to your room. You take the elevator up, walk to your door, and unlock it, stumbling inside.

The bedroom door's open, so you shut the window to block out the moon rays. You lay on your bed, resting your head on your pillow, and try to sleep. When you wake up again, the moon has moved further down its path to the horizon, not quite reaching it yet.

Still half-asleep, you pull open your drawers and grab your glasses, wanting to catch up on the announcements you must've missed. The first thing you do is call Rebecca, hoping talking to her might ease your conflicted feelings.

"No way, you called me back!" Rebecca dramatically gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. "I think I'll have a heart attack!"

"Save it," you grumble.

“What's got you so depressed?” Rebecca asks, her voice tinny over your phone’s speaker. On the screen, her brown hair is down, smooth and tame, and she’s poking at one of her dozens of window plants, vibrant shades of crimson and navy.

"The whole mission's going to be shitty." You groan. "Honestly, I don't know what they were thinking, putting us together. I hate his guts."

"I don't think you do," Rebecca replies thoughtfully with a smile. "For someone you hate, you sure do talk about him a lot. And I’m pretty sure you knew about his identity from the beginning, didn’t you?"

"That's only because he's a prick—I would know that from anywhere—and everyone needs to know that," you say dismissively.

"Well," Rebecca giggles, "I think he's quite charming."

"Great," you deadpan. "You can have your happily ever after with him."

"Actually, I meant for you," she says.

"You're exactly like Chris."

"Ew." She makes a face, and you start to laugh, but you cut off when you hear rustling from the entrance. You cover the speaker and peer out of the door frame.

Quiet footsteps approach. You step out of the bedroom. A light flicks on in the hallway, and the person who stumbles into the kitchen is Leon.

"Wait, is that—" you disconnect the call and shove your phone into a pocket. He’s rumpled and half-awake, shoulders slumping as he yawns. He stands in front of you wearing a light blue hospital gown. His hair is a mess. His feet are bare.

Leon freezes when his gaze falls on you. You stare back at him. He suddenly stands up straight, but his face is still bleary and confused.

"Hello," he says, his voice hoarse. "Sorry. I was just... Häagen-Dazs."

He gestures vaguely toward the refrigerator, as if the name somehow explains his odd behavior.

"What?" you respond, bewildered.

He crosses to the freezer and grabs a small box of individually packed ice cream, showing you the Häagen-Dazs logo printed across the front. "I was out. Knew they'd stocked you up."

"Did you—do you raid everyone's kitchens?" you ask accusingly.

"Only when I can't sleep," Leon replies. "Which is always. Didn't think you'd be awake." He looks at you, deferring, and you realize he's waiting for permission to open the box and take one.

"No," you say firmly.

"Why not?" Leon whines, a sound you’ve never heard from him before. It's oddly satisfying for him to push back against your refusal, but after all these years, conversing with him feels like a foreign practice.

You shrug and roll your eyes, and his face lights up as he grabs the box anyway.

"Have you practiced what you'll say tomorrow?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes," you reply, bristling immediately. "You're not the only professional around here."

"I didn't mean—" Leon falters. "I only meant, do you think we should, uh, I don’t know, rehearse?"

"Do you need to?" you retort.

"I thought it might help." Of course he thinks that—he's probably been around the world, mingling with all kinds of people. He’s never thought you could handle yourself, and it seems he still hasn't changed.

You walk toward him, unlocking your phone. "Watch this."

You line up a shot of the Häagen-Dazs box on the counter, Leon's hand next to it, and the side of your face as he glances up, confused. You open Instagram and add a filter.

"'Nothing like,'" you narrate flatly as you type a caption, "'midnight ice cream with my new partner.' Posted." You hold the phone out for him to see. "There's a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn't one of them."

Leon frowns at you over his ice cream, looking doubtful. "Does this mean we're okay?"

"Oh, no," you say, a sappy smile on your face. "We'll never be okay. What you did was unforgivable." Dramatic, but it works.

"Well, uh, thanks." His eyes meet yours, and his icy blue eyes are full of emotion, glazed like they're brimming with tears.

"For what?" you say, your voice softer than expected.

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, lips pursing. "For the ice cream," he mumbles quietly. It's a goddamn box of ice cream; just take it.

"It's fine. Now, are you done?" you ask. "I was on a call."

Leon blinks, then folds his arms over his chest, back on the defensive. "Of course. I won’t keep you." As he leaves the kitchen, he pauses in the doorway, considering, leaning against the wood.

"I didn’t know you wore glasses," he says finally.

He leaves you standing there alone in the kitchen, the box of chocolate-swirl ice cream sweating on the counter, and the faint wish that he had thanked you for something else.

<><><><>

The drive to the interview is hot and stuffy, and it probably didn’t help that the driver refused to put down the windows and that you were seated right next to Leon, your legs almost brushing.

In the room, stylists twist Leon's hair into elaborate patterns that fall over his eyes, casting shadows over his pale blue irises. He gives you a crooked smile with the side of his face as a makeup artist dabs his cheekbones with powder.

Leon’s wearing a sweater that matches yours, except unlike you, he looks like he’s attending a private school in England over the summer, spending his days playing polo and betting on horse racing.

You don't understand why Leon needs makeup. He already looks fine, but you suppose "fine" won't suffice for the rest of the world—or Wesker. You realize you’re glaring at him and quickly look away.

"Alright, let's go over this," Helena says quietly, crouching near the edge of the couch you're sitting on. "You need to make it seem like you've been close friends with him, kept in touch for a long time."

"Got it," you say, slightly bitter. "Why couldn't you do this?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"And you thought I did?"

"It doesn't matter what you want," Helena says, but a small smile has crept onto her face. She shakes her head and glances up at you, eyes flitting to the complex camera system. "Do what you need to. Remember what's at stake here."

You nod, and she stands, dusting herself off before walking away. Someone shoos all of Leon's artists away, sending them scrambling like a school of fish. A voice counts down, and you glance at the preppy interviewer sitting near you, smiling eerily.

"So, you two, you look cozy over there," she says, waggling her eyebrows in a way that makes you want to throw up. "Let's hear a bit about yourselves before getting to the main questions, huh?" She turns to you, wide eyes boring into you.

"Uh, hello?" you begin unsteadily, introducing yourself. "I've been working as a government agent for around five years, skilled in combat and medical fields, and have been..." You falter here.

"We've been friends for a long time," Leon finishes for you. "Contrary to what happened at the gala, we're very close, and what occurred was just a misunderstanding." He smiles warmly at the camera, and the interviewer's own smile only grows.

"So, you've been friends since the Raccoon City Incident of 1998, yes?" she asks, directing her pen toward both of you.

"Uh..." Leon's eyes cut to you.

"Yes," you say for him. "It's almost like we've known each other for our entire lives."

"Mhm, yup," Leon affirms, like the easier thing for him to do is lie with a sweet smile on his face, the smile you know sends your knees buckling and stomach fluttering.

"Now, here's the biggest question on everyone's mind," she says, leaning forward in her seat. "Two special agents working together to serve the government. It sounds like a romance novel!" She giggles.

"I'm... sorry?" Leon tilts his head, and by the confused look in his eyes, you see he doesn't understand the full length of what the woman said.

"I understand what you're implying," you begin.

"What, wait, you do?" Leon turns to you, raising an eyebrow. "What does she mean?"

"Go ahead. Tell him what I mean," she says, eyelashes fluttering. She waves the camera over, and you feel the gazes of multiple people on you.

It's Leon. He'll laugh at the implication and wave it off. He's your Leon. The one you know. You can trust him.

"She, along with the rest of whoever 'everyone' is, thinks we're dating." The room holds its breath, Leon's expression unchanging. Then he smiles.

"Are we?"

"No, stupid."

"Women," he says, scoffing and turning to look the other way. The camera zooms in on his face, and you can see a smile creep onto the side of his lips.

"Leon has very readable emotions," you say, immediately getting his attention. He snaps back to you, eyes meeting yours in a challenging glare. You sit forward, and he copies your movements, his glare cast downward as yours is cast upward. Your faces are so close that your noses could be touching.

"My partner has visible reactions to everything I do. I guess I'm just too handsome for her to leave alone," he says smugly, a smirk curving his lips.

"Fuck off, you self-absorbed prick."

Leon leans forward. "Are we giving them something to talk about?"

You meet his gaze without flinching. "No."

Leon smiles strangely. "Your reaction says otherwise."

Your temper flashes. "Don't flatter yourself. I couldn't care less what people think. What even were we?"

"You know what we are," Leon says, meeting your gaze. His eyes, however much they've darkened over the years, are still his, full of emotion. There's something different now, though. There's something guarding them, some kind of emotional barrier to keep from showing too much.

"I used to think I did," you say. "But I don't think I do anymore."

"Why are you acting like this?" Leon asks, his voice suddenly angry.

"Like what?" you retort defensively.

"Like it's my fault this happened!" Leon says. "Did you honestly think I was gonna come meet you right after risking my life multiple times to save you and Ashley? Not everything is about you! I have people to meet, duties to fulfill, and places to be!"

"Your life doesn't have to be about me!" you protest. "All I wanted was to know that you were at least alive!"

"Maybe I should've," Leon says, sounding genuinely guilty. "Maybe I should've called you once, and then let the government kill you? Is that what you wanted?"

"Government... kill me?" You pull backward. "Why would they—"

"They threatened to find you if I didn't leave you the day we got back to the US. They thought I would tell you government secrets and they would get leaked." Leon crosses his arms and tries his best to look away from you.

"But... I don't understand," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Don't they know that you always put your work first?"

"I usually do," Leon agrees. "But... Ashley might’ve gone to ask if you could be added to her team."

"Team... like, security?" you ask. "Of course they said no! What was that girl on?"

"Actually," Leon says sheepishly, "they said yes. They figured if you survived through all that with no training, you must have raw talent. They liked that."

"So... why was I not with you and Ashley for these past six years?" you ask accusingly. Leon's eyes darken.

"Because I refused," Leon admits. "I didn't let them get to you. I told them you would be too big of a burden and that I'd take all the responsibility to keep you safe." Leon pauses as he runs a hand through his hair. "Because..." He trails off. "Look, I made a mistake. I know I should have called you after those six years. But I thought that you understood why I had to do what I did. I was protecting us."

"I don't need to be fucking protected by you, Leon," you growl. "Seriously, you thought I couldn't handle myself? That I need a big strong man to follow me everywhere because I'm too weak to protect myself? Jesus fuck, I'm not Ashley!"

"You're not Ashley," Leon acknowledges, anger in his voice as he flushes. "But you would've gotten yourself killed without me in Spain, watching your back!"

"You would've died from a blood infection if I wasn't there," you retort, crossing your arms. "You wouldn't have lasted a day without me."

"Why couldn't you trust me? I knew you would survive. You just had to wait. Why couldn't you wait longer?"

"I waited six fucking years, Leon," you say, tears stinging your eyes. "How much longer did you want me to wait?"

"I don't know." Leon mumbles. "Maybe two weeks. Maybe a decade. How am I supposed to know? They don't fucking tell me anything." His feet shuffle on the floor.

"A decade?" you laugh dryly. "We're getting pretty damn close to that milestone, aren't we?"

Leon’s eyes flash dangerously. “You know it isn't that simple.”

“It was for me,” you retort. "I grew to depend on you, and you left."

Leon leans in closer, voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “If you thought I would do anything other than that, you’re more naive than I thought. You have no idea what was really at stake.”

You match his tone, eyes glittering. “Enlighten me then. Go on, tell me where you really were.”

Leon recoils slightly but quickly masks it. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

“Coward,” you spit.

“Watch yourself, rookie. You’re treading on thin ice.”

You lift your chin defiantly. “Or what, Leon? You’ll leave me again?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. Finally, he straightens, avoiding your eyes. You regain notice of the cameraman, peeking out from behind his set, mouth slightly open. “We’re not having this conversation here.”

"Cut the cameras," the interviewer hisses, tracing a line along her throat. Her earlier giddiness seems to have vanished. “Actually, you know what? Cut all that out. He’ll have my head if that government shit airs.”

"No need." You grit your teeth. "I'll be taking my leave. Helena, let's go."

Your questionable friend stands up with you and walks out the door.

"Was that really the way to tell him your feelings?" You slump your head against the wall.

"I don't know how else to." Your eyes well with tears that sting. You swallow painfully past the lump in your throat and stand up straighter. "What's with you?"

"I don't follow," she says cautiously.

"The flirting. The pet names. You think I can't hear?"

"We have history. I don't like him in that way."

"Leon and I have history too," you reply coldly. "So I hope you'll understand why I'm quitting the mission."

"You can't!" she bursts. "We need you!"

"You need Leon more," you say flatly.

"I understand this is difficult for you," she soothes. "Working so closely with Leon again after… everything. It's a lot to process."

You say nothing, staring numbly at the floor.

Helena presses on gently. "If you feel you need space, we'll respect that. Your well-being is what matters most right now. We need to make this believable."

At this, your head snaps up in surprise. "You'd… let me quit?"

Helena nods. "This is about more than just the mission. It's about you finding your way forward, in your own time and way."

You think of this during the car ride back, in a separate car from Leon, and all the way to the base. And all you can remember is the anguish he caused when there were miles and miles between you, when you forgot the sound of his voice, crying for it at night.

So you might’ve taken a few drinks, waiting for someone to fetch you.

You might’ve let the alcohol get to your head.

What does it matter when you let Leon get to your head too?

Crying out helplessly, silently. Wishing for solace.

<><><><>

You storm up to your room, emotions raw. You throw open the door to see the person you just cannot stand, Leon Scott Kennedy, at your desk.

Leon looks up coolly. "Trouble knocking?"

"It's my fucking room, you..." You seethe, hands balling into fists. "You miserable piece of shit."

Leon raises an eyebrow. "To what do I owe this hostility?"

You step forward, flicking out your knife, all your emotions welling up inside you. You find the strength to slam him back against the wall and press the knife against his throat.

Leon grunts in surprise, but his eyes gleam with interest rather than fear. "I see you've come ready to play."

You press against him threateningly. "Give me one good reason not to end you here and now."

"Fuck, you've gotten good with that thing, haven't you, sweetheart?" The term stirs something inside you. His expression is suppressed, and he makes a strangled sound deep in his throat.

"You... you—" You break away from him, shivering. You collapse against the wall, your anger evaporating into a wave of despair so vast you think you might drown in it. Leon lowers himself beside you against the wall's solid support. His proximity feels both foreign yet familiar.

"I wasn't happy where I was." He lets his head lean back onto the wall, gazing up at the moonlit ceiling. "I hope you know that."

"Say I do," you begin half-heartedly. "What'll it take for you to be happy again?"

"You," he responds almost immediately. "I don't want you to be mad at me. God, you're all I need to be happy, doll."

You move closer. "What was that?" you say teasingly, resting your head on his shoulder.

"You heard me," he chastises.

"What about Helena?" you test.

"I..." He looks away sheepishly. "Let’s just say my efforts to get over you were in vain."

"Is that so, pretty boy?" Your lips quirk in a smirk as Leon sharply inhales, eyes fluttering closed.

"One more time," he says, his voice rough velvet against your ears.

"Hm?" you ask innocently. His eyes open, and when they meet yours again, stormy seas roil beneath the surface.

"Call me that one more time, and I swear I'll—"

"Make me, pretty boy. Prove you mean what you say."

Leon’s eyes burn into yours as he struggles to maintain control. He leans in close, whispering harshly, "Do you really want that?"

Your breath hitches at the intensity of his stare, your heart pounding in your chest. But you can't resist the challenge. "Go on then," you dare him, your voice barely audible. "Prove it."

Leon’s lips twitch into a grin, the tiniest hint of satisfaction lighting up his features. He pulls you closer, your bodies pressed tightly together. His hand moves to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your sensitive skin.

"I don't think you understand what you're asking for, doll," he warns softly. "This isn't what you want."

You reach up to grip his wrist, using it to guide his hand lower, tracing a path down your spine toward the curve of your hip. Your eyes never leave his, the challenge still present in their depths.

"I'm not sure you'd know," you counter, your own voice low and sultry. "But I know exactly what I want."

Leon’s breath hitches, his grip on you tightening as you slide your free hand up his chest to grasp the lapel of his jacket. Panic flares in his eyes, and he pulls away, standing up afterward. You follow his movements, watching his gaze on you.

Did you go too far? You quickly reach out for him, trying to reassure him with your eyes that you didn't mean anything, but he steps back, shaking his head minutely. His breathing is labored, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Are you drunk?" he rasps, taking a few steps away from you. At your silence, he shakes his head again. "We can't do this. We shouldn't. Not while you're like this."

But even as he tries to distance himself, you can see the fire in his eyes refuses to die down.

"Why not?" you retort, mirroring his movements except forward until you're once again only a few steps away from each other. "Because you still care about me? Because I bring out feelings you'd rather bury alive? This isn't about me being drunk; this is about you being too much of a coward to admit your feelings!"

Leon clenches his jaw, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each labored breath.

"You want me to admit it?" he snarls, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "Fine! Yes, I still care about you. I even love you. But that doesn't change anything!" His fists clench at his sides.

"Then why fight it?" you whisper, feeling boldness surge within you. Your hand reaches out tentatively, tracing along the edge of his shirt where it meets his waistband.

"Because it leads nowhere good," he growls, catching your wrist before you can venture any farther. His grip is firm, but not painful.

"Maybe somewhere better," you murmur, looking up at him with wide eyes. Desire courses through you like wildfire, igniting every nerve ending with its heated touch.

"What if I hurt you?" His eyes flash with fear.

"You underestimate me, Leon," you murmur. "I'm not as breakable as you think."

"Please, don't push me," he breathes hoarsely, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "I don't know what I'll do if you keep pushing."

"Why don't you understand that you don't get to decide everything? It could be my relationship too!"

Leon’s grip on your wrist tightens as he stares into your eyes, searching for understanding or defiance.

"You don't get it, do you?" he snaps, his voice low and dangerous. "I tried to protect you before, and look where it got me! Another man could've had you!"

"And now?" you question quietly, trying to reassure him with soft strokes against his palm. His heartbeats pound beneath your fingertips, syncopated with yours.

"Now..." Leon swallows hard, looking away briefly before meeting your gaze once more. "Now... I have you. And despite everything, that scares the hell out of me."

You glance up and kiss him.

The tension crackles in the air, thick and palpable. He leans closer, his voice a low growl. "And I'm telling you, I'm the last thing you need."

Your heart pounds in your chest. "Are you suggesting someone else?" you dare to challenge him.

"Fuck no." His eyes narrow, a flicker of jealousy crossing his face. Then, in a swift movement, he pins you against the door, his hips pressing against yours. The relief you feel at his answer is quickly replaced by a surge of pure desire.

"Good," you breathe, tilting your head up to meet his. You capture his bottom lip between yours, sucking gently before nipping it with your teeth. "Because I only want you, Leon."

Your words seem to break something within him. He finally gives in, your mouths colliding in a kiss that is hot, fierce, and utterly out of control.

Need pulses through you as he grasps your backside, pulling you flush against him. Your back grazes the wall as you use it for leverage, pushing closer to his strength. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him. Your nightgown rides up with the motion, but you don't care. All you can think about is the way he's kissing you, the way his mouth moves against yours, the way his tongue dances with yours.

The world narrows to this kiss, this moment, this man. He is yours. Or maybe you are his. It doesn't matter, as long as he keeps kissing you.

Heat floods your body as his mouth trails down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"God," he murmurs against your skin.

Then, you're moving. You hear a crash as your desk chair hits the floor, and the next thing you know, you're sprawled across your desk, your legs wrapped around his waist. He leans over you, his fingers tangled in your hair as he devours your mouth once more.

You kiss him back with a hunger you've never known before. Your hands reach up to brace yourself, knocking over anything and everything in your way. Time seems to stand still.

"You'll hate me in the morning," he says between kisses, his voice husky. "You don't really want this."

"Stop telling me what I want," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair. You tilt your head, giving him better access. He takes it, his mouth moving down your neck to where it meets your shoulder.

Every touch of his mouth to your skin is like a spark igniting a flame. You gasp when he lingers on a particularly sensitive spot, taking his time.

"Unless you don't want me," you whisper, a flicker of doubt creeping in.

"Does this feel like I don't want you?" He takes your hand and guides it between your bodies. Your fingers curl around his length, feeling the evidence of his desire. You whimper, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his need. "I always fucking want you," he groans as you squeeze him. He lifts his head, his icy blue eyes locking with yours. You see the raw desire reflected in their depths, mirroring your own. "You walk into a room, and I can't look away. I get anywhere near you, and this is what happens. Fucking hell, I can barely think when you're around." He thrusts his hips into your hand, and your stomach clenches with anticipation. "My problem isn’t with wanting you."

"Then what is?" you ask, your voice trembling with desire.

"I'm trying to protect you," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "From me."

He's right. You know he's right. But in that moment, you don't care. All you want is him.

"I don't need protection," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I want you."

And with that, he takes you. He takes you hard and fast, his movements relentless, his kisses demanding. You move together, a tangle of limbs and desire, until the world around you fades away.

You cry out his name, your body arching against his. He holds you tight, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've got you, darling," he promises. "Let it out."

"Shit," you gasp, as the pleasure builds to an unbearable crescendo.

He takes you over and over, never stopping, until you are both lost in the throes of passion. All that matters is the two of you, lost in a world of your own.

Finally, he collapses on top of you, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with raw emotion. You look up at him, your heart overflowing with love and desire.

"I’ve never lost control like that," he says, bracing his weight on one arm and brushing your hair back from your face with the other. The move is so gentle, so at odds with what you’ve just experienced, that you can’t help but blink, then smile.

"I know. I've noticed." The smile morphs into a full-out grin. "Not that I’ve ever had something to lose control of before." He laughs and rolls you to his side, keeping you close and cushioning your head with his biceps. You look to your mahogany desk.

"Did I…"

"Ruin your desk?" He lifts a brow. "Yes."

"Oh." You can’t find it in you to be embarrassed, so you brush the backs of your fingers across the stubble along his jaw.

"To be fair, I was messing it up when you walked in. I also might've broken your dagger stand." He grimaces. "I’ll get you a new one."

You blink. “That was…” You didn’t even get the man’s pants entirely off, and your gown is haphazardly hanging from one shoulder.

“Frighteningly perfect.” He cups the side of your face. “We should get you cleaned up and to sleep. We can worry about… your room tomorrow. And one more thing."

You look up at him questioningly. "Yeah?”

“You really should try to be more careful."

"I am!" you exclaim. His eyes narrow. "Mostly.”

"Well, if you weren't so reckless, we wouldn't be having this conversation." He sighs. "If what you said about our agency got out, what would have happened to you?"

Your gaze drifts away from his, and you bite your lip. "I know."

"Good, because now you're going to listen to me." He leans forward until your noses touch. "No more taking chances. No more being careless. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl." He grins, a crooked curve of his swollen lips. "But don't worry, we'll figure something out."

"Thank you." You lean against him and rest your cheek against his chest.

"Of course, princess," he whispers back, stroking your hair.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," you say quietly.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he replies, kissing the top of your head. "We all have our moments."

"I just wish things were different sometimes," you whisper.

"Me too, baby," he responds, wrapping his arms around you tighter. "But we'll make the best of it, yeah?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding. "Thanks."

"Anything for you, princess," he mutters back, dipping his hand back between the both of you, snaking around your body.

“What are you doing?”

No response, only silence. Leon smirks, you feel it on your neck. You’ve missed that smirk, and he makes sure that you tell him.

Guess you never realize how much you miss someone until they’re gone, huh?

[antiquarianfics]

Distraction

a/n: here’s an unedited drabble i wrote instead of lesson planning. you’re welcome.

warnings: swearing, violence, the works

you do not have permission to copy or repost my work.

You’re stuck. Completely and utterly stuck. You glance at Bucky who stands to your left, head raised, looking for some aerial escape. When he meets your gaze, you know. There is no escape route.

“Barnes, tell me what to do. I’m out of ideas here,” you say, pulling out a fresh magazine and reloading your gun.

“Do I look like I have any?” Bucky responds with snark. His jaw, however, is clenched tight, and he keeps balling up his fist and releasing it. He is just as anxious as you are.

The sound of yelling floods the hallway you and Bucky have found yourself in. Gunshots echo through the corridors. You’re royally fucked, and you know it.

Bucky speaks up then as the yelling grows louder.

“In just a minute, you need to use the moment of distraction to run and regroup with the rest of the team.”

You scrunch your eyebrows together.

“What about you?” You question, your heart pounding in your chest with the nerves.

“I’ll be the distraction,” he says with full confidence. There is no room to argue with him with the finality in his tone. You, however, choose to make room to argue.

“Absolutely not, Bucky! The fuck?” You feel livid that he would even suggest throwing himself into danger without backup.

“Y/N, don’t argue with me! Just go!” Bucky’s own frustration is boiling to the surface.

“No! I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, fuck you, Bucky. Let me care about you. Don’t run head first into that with no backup! You’re not alone anymore!”

“I know I’m not alone, but if anything happens to you, I will be!” Bucky yells in exasperation. “Y/N, please, just go.”

You stare at the man dumbfounded for a moment before shaking your head.

“No. I love you, too, you self-conscious, self-sacrificing man.”

With a sigh, Bucky stands up straight, readjusts his weapon, and nods his head in the direction of the gunfire. “Just stay behind me.”

“No,” you say, leaning up to kiss his cheek before running down the hall in front of him.

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER SEVEN - dogfight

TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC)

PREV CHAPTER || MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace you still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

Suddenly, everything is a blur of red lights and yelling and running.

Price ushers you to your room with a stern: "go go go."  You grab your pack and shove what you can into it as he guards the door, handgun firm in his grasp as he shouts orders to soldiers as they dart up and down the hallway grabbing gear.  Your heart pounds in your ears and you barely have time to zip up your rucksack before he's urging you out again.

Sandwiched between everyone with your head ducked down, you run.  Gunshots ring out over your head and under your feet, and you yelp whenever Ghost grabs your arm and yanks you away from a sniper hit just as you're leaving the building; urging you along.  Price is yelling.  Soap is yelling.  Nikolai is with your small group—sharp, Russian orders shouted over the loud buzzing of a helicopter as you're all but pushed inside.

It's off the ground the second your back hits the wall.  Suddenly, Price is in front of you again—but you can barely see him through the panic that floods your senses.

"Breathe.  Deep breaths, kid.  C'mon," he says as he coaxes a headset onto your head.  You try to help, but your hands are too shaky.  The others are yelling, and Ghost is leaning out of the side of the helicopter as it bobs and dips, returning Shadow Company fire with abandon.  The sound, as well as the raspiness of Price's voice, are both muffled by the earphones around your ears until Price's voice comes through on the comms.  "You're safe with us.  Y'hear me?"

You swallow the bile that threatens to rise in your throat, squeezing your eyes shut as you try to force your breathing to regulate.  You nod, but your hands squeeze at his sleeves anyway—knuckles white as you use his presence to ground yourself.

"Okay,"  you force out.  "Y-yeah.  I hear you."

"Good.  Keep breathin','' he looks over his shoulder to where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz are all fending off the others.  "Does anyone have a visual?"

"They've got their own helos after us, sir!"  Gaz shouts.  "Things might get ugly!"

"Helos?!"

"There's five of 'em!"  Soap clarifies, reloading his weapon.  His arm is bleeding, but he doesn't seem to notice.  "The cunt isn't fucking around this time!  It's either we go down, or they do!"

"Yeah, well, that's not fuckin' happening,"  Price all but growls, bracing you against him as the helocopter lurches to the side.  "Give 'em hell!"

"Yes, sir!"

You press yourself back against the wall, watching as everything goes to shit around you.  A line of fire dents the wall of the helo right by your head and you yelp.  "Price—"

As if on cue, there's an explosion. 

You're knocked sideways.  Your vision blanks whenever your head hits metal, a ringing in your ears exploding from your senses.  In a split second of quick thinking, your hand wraps around a metal railing as the helo tilts.  Curses and yells of surprise fill the small space as everyone scrambles to the side.

Except one.

"Soap!"

He slips with a yell and you grab his wrist before he can slip out the side opening.  You watch boxes and supplies slide out and into the snow maybe twenty stories below as the Earth below you tilts and spins.   Shocked, he looks up to meet your gaze—your eyes meeting his with nothing but sheer panic as he lifts his other arm to grab your wrist in both hands, legs flailing. 

Nikolai is quick to right the helo again and you're launched back onto the floor at Soap's side.  Disoriented, you pant as your shaky arms pull yourself upright to meet Soap's gaze.  He's shocked, eyes wide as he blinks with you—as if he really didn't expect you to save him.

He nods his thanks before Price pulls you to your feet again.

"We lost Gaz!"  Nikolai's voice explodes over the comms.

"Fuck's sake!"

"Again?!"

"We'll have to go back—"

"No time!"  Nikolai calls over his shoulder.  "You want to stay alive—no turning back.  Not now."

"Gaz,"  you huff, scrambling out of Price's hold.  "No—no we gotta go back!"

Price grabs you before you can get too close to the opening.  "There's no time, kid!"

"We can't leave him behind!"

"We have to!"

You shove yourself free just as there's a loud blast and the helo lurches again.  This time, you're too late to grab something.

There's yelling before there's silence.  A bright light and the feeling of something large knocking into you before there's nothing but blinding white and bright blue sky.  Your headset flies off your head, getting swept away in the wind as you watch the helo spin out of control from afar.

You're falling.

You're screaming, you think, but the ringing in your ears drowns out everything else.  Your body spins in the air as you flail and air rushes into your eyes and lungs.

The ground gets closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Then, your body breaks ice with a smash and everything is loud again.  The water roars as the breath is punched from your lungs.  You know you should move, flail, kick your legs—but your body doesn't respond.  You watch the bubbles fly past the dog tags around your neck as the light of the surface sinks past your fingers.  

Calm.  Quiet.  

Your body goes limp.  For the first time in weeks, the panic ebbs way to peace as the freezing cold numbs your senses. You think, maybe, you could sleep like this—silent, undisturbed, as your eyes sink shut and your nerves die.

Then, a hand grabs the front of your jacket, and you're yanked to the surface.

Simon gasps when he breaches the ice with you in his arms.  Not that it supplies him with much air to begin with; as the sopping wet cloth of his mask seems to choke him with each breath.  Waterboarding, a torture he's grown very familiar with over the years—and it sends an extra surge of adrenaline through his veins that helps him drag you up and onto the ice before climbing up beside you.

He turns on his side and it feels like the world tilts with him as he sputters and coughs up water.  The ringing in his ears is bright and loud as it seems to leak into his vision, blurring everything into smudges of white and black that are nearly incomprehensible.  Be it blind panic, or just his natural instinct to get up, keep moving—drilled into his brain after years and years of experience—but he shoves himself to his knees anyway.

He hears what sounds like coughing, gagging.  Panting.  His eyes flit over just as the sharpness in his vision returns and you're the second thing he sees: on your hands and knees, curled in on yourself at his side as you spit bile, blood, and water onto the ice with an arm curled around your stomach.  It's then that everything rushes back to him.  The alarms, the gunfire, the helo, Price's shouting, the Shadow Company.

He reaches out with a hoarse and quiet: "Kid..."

Your breathing doesn't settle.  Instead, it seems to speed up as you scramble backwards and the ice cracks underneath you.  Your movements shake, arms and legs dumb, slow, and useless as you force them to move you backwards; away from him.  Blood coats your face and your eyes are bleary and unfocussed.  He recognizes the look you give him—one of panic, confusion.  It's identical to how you looked at him whenever you first met, with a dead man's blood splattered on your clothes.

"No,"  you mutter, your breath coming in fast puffs.  "No no no no."

Simon stumbles over, grabbing your shoulder, "Easy now—"

Startled, you kick him away.  "Get off me!"

"Keep your head on, kid, it's me!"

"Fuck off!"

In a split-second decision of disparity, Simon reaches up and yanks off his mask.  He grabs your shoulders, keeping you still as you freeze—the figure of your nightmares gone and replaced, instead, by something more human.  Something sopping wet and equally as freezing.  He watches the fear in your face give way to confusion, and then the confusion give way to shock.

"It's me,"  he huffs out between breaths, the cold air stinging his skin,  "It's me."

He watches your mis-matched pupils scan over his face, the furrow in your brows smoothing over as a rivulet of blood drips down your temple from the gash on your forehead.  There’s a split on your lip, too, and all the blood mixes together as it drips off your chin.  Simon can’t imagine he looks much better as you take in his facial features for the first time.

Then, he watches your eyelids flutter as your head lulls forwards, and he catches it in his hand.

“Don’t,”  he commands, immediately shifting into action again.  “Stay with me."

“How…”  You rasp as he turns, leaning you against his geared chest to free his hands—each breath fogging up into the freezing air as he keeps you in a sitting position.  He reaches for the comm on his shoulder.  With shaky hands, he switches through channels until he gets to one that's dead silent.  He swallows thickly before he speaks.

“Watcher, this is Bravo 0-7, do you copy?”

The radio sputters.  The only thing that greets him is the silence of the snow and your shaky breathing.  He tries again, more urgently.

“Ghost to Watcher.  We fell out the helo.  Kid’s injured bad do you copy?”

Again, silence.  Ghost hears your breathing hitch and he purses his lips together.  Just as dread begins to settle deep in Ghost’s stomach—a voice comes loud and clear through the speakers.

"Watcher to Ghost.  I hear you.  Any word on Price?"  

You let out a sigh of relief at the sound of Laswell's voice.  If Ghost didn’t have a probably-broken rib, he’d do the same.

"No,"  Ghost grunts.  "We fell in a lake.  Helo is nowhere in sight."

"Are you injured?"

Ghost tastes copper in his mouth when he breathes.  "I'm upright."

"And the kid?"

You go to speak,  "I'm fine—"

"Hit and in shock,"  Ghost interrupts.  "Probably concussed."

Then, Price's out-of-breath voice cuts through the comms.  There's shuffling and other voices in the background.  “Ghost, this is Price.  You’re safe?"

This time, Ghost does let out a breath.  “Yes, sir.”

“Good.  We’ve crashed but Laswell's sent a team out to grab us.  We’re coming back for you two, you hear me?”

You grab Ghost's arm, "But Gaz—"

“Loud and clear, sir.”  Ghost breathes, “loud and clear.”

“Good man.  Get to safety, stay warm.  We'll be there A.S.A.P."

"Solid copy."

And, with that, all was silent aside for the sound of you and Ghost's combined breathing.  He places a hand on your shoulder, easing you back to look up at him.  "You still with me?"

Your eyes squeeze shut.  You shake your head as if trying to shake something out of it, your countenance flushed and dazed from the freezing cold.  He rubs your shoulders, trying to restore some warmth to your body.

“Keep talkin’.  Tell me what hurts.”

“Can't…”  You swallow thickly.  Your hands fumble to grab at your leg.  “Fuck, c-can't think…I can’t…”

“Stand?”

“Yeah.”

"You fell out of a helicopter, Mutt.  It would stand to reason if you were a bit shaken,”  he huffs, shifting into a kneeling position with his back to you.  “On my back.  We gotta keep moving.”

The shock fading a little from your system, you slowly push yourself upright enough to settle against his back.  

"Mutt?"  You question as your arms fall around his neck.  His gloved hands grab under your knees, keeping you secured to his back as he hypes himself up to stand.  

"That's what Soap called you, ain't it?"  He breathes as he stands.  "Some mutt the C.I.A. dragged in."

"Don't tell me…don't tell me that's what I'm stuck with now, after all this."

He scoffs a little, righting himself.  "What sticks, sticks, kid."

He barely takes a step forwards before his leg unexpectedly gives.  You gasp whenever he stumbles, falling to a knee in the snow.  

"Bloody hell…"

"Ghost?"  You prompt, worried, as he breathes in and out.  The world spins sound for a moment, and his eyes go dazed.  Your voice, however, pulls him out of it and your bloodied hand tugging at his ruined vest grounds him back to reality.  "Ghost if you're shot, we're fucked."

"I'm not hit,"  he wheezes, a bold-faced lie.  He's been hit in the calf in all the chaos, but it missed any major arteries so he chooses to ignore it for now.  Instead, he forces himself shakily back to his feet again.  He takes a few wobbly steps before he's walking steadily once more, his limbs feeling heavy as they waft through the freezing snow.  "Just old.  Can't take a fall like I used to."

You let out a breath that fogs up into the air, quivering from the cold as water drips from everything.

“Okay…okay, good,”  you breathe, your hold around him tightening.  “Where are we going?”

Simon looks up.  The cold bites at his bare face and he squints through the eye black and water that clings to his lashes to look up at the snow and the trees around them.  He swallows thickly, his mind cycling through S.E.A.R. training as he fights to stay focused, get to safety.

Safety.  Shelter.

You needed shelter.  

His gaze sweeps the empty forests with a newfound determination now that he has a goal to focus on; something to work towards.  His footsteps slow to a stop as he looks around, the only sound in the forest being the crunching of snow and the buzzing of a far-off A-10 that makes his stomach twist.  

But you were alive—and that’s all that mattered to him.

So, he picks up his pace.  He presses onwards.

“I don’t know,” He huffs.  “But we'll find somewhere."

@brokenpieces-72 @warenai @pertinentpostmortem @kaoyamamegami @hayleybarnesx @nostalgialeech @scuftryo @0alk0msan @synthe4u @stunkbiggu @bebobeboben @enfppixie @lyd14k4y @tlkonthestr33t @raye2000 @shinchanboi 

[moons-of-dewclan]

Uhh I’m sure you’ve been asked this before but!!! Do you have any advice for making a clangen comic? I’m kinda doing a disaster clan but in intervals of 5 moons, and I can’t fit in the specific prompts on one image (and I’m too lazy to draw like 5 pages) so uhmmm do u have any advice? :3

The reason I go in intervals of five is because I’m a curious guy and I draw and play clangen on separate devices so uhhh oh god am I oversharing I’ll shut up now

MY TIPS WON'T BE GREAT bc my whole art experience is 'do what i want when i want how i want and if it's not fun i don't do it' SO IT'S NOT A TECHNICAL THING BUT LKASNDLKASD I CAN TRY!! what's been good for me in clangen is, • always mark down your seasons! bc it sucks to forget what season the event took place in when you go to draw it • don't shove every tiny prompt and event into a moon if you don't want to (it's a lot of work..) • it's ok to have a clan of 40 cats and only follow 1 or 2 main characters. if the pressure if the amount of cats you end up with is too much, IGNORE EM. + silhouettes are ok if you wanna imply a full camp. use stamps even • IF an event happens that you think is going to have a damper on your enjoyment for the comic (like if your favourite cat dies), RELOAD AND PRETEND IT DIDN'T HAPPEN. authenticity is not Real in media you make for fun. unless it's fun for you for favourite main character BillyBreeze to kick the bucket to a random event, you don't have to save and go with it. if it makes you go 'euuhh..' and not 'NOOO!! (smiles in hidden)', 'ok' or 'OHOHO ;)) OMG COOL', screw it. never put anything above your muse and inspiration. • which brings me to, save after every event you like happening! so patrol events, or something. in case randomly something rly weird happens that doesn't make sense with the story or what your cat would do, you can just restart • if you develop your cat, and they do something wildly out of the personality you developed/hc for them, you can ignore it in favour of character consistency (I WILL NOT LIE, i wanted to 100% never change or refuse anything in the game, but i changed lyre's personality after the prompt came up saying that he MAULED VANILLABRIGHT FOR DOUBTING HIS LEADERSHIP. ARE U INSANE HE WOULD NEVER. plus character development is allowed, even if ingame events don't represent it well. so do what you gotta do. game files are easy to change!) • FOLLOW THAT LAZINESS. and follow fun. do what will keep you having the most fun through the entire thing. if you wanna end at 30 moons, do it. if you wanna stop and restart and do a different idea, do it. your own enjoyment matters most. so the second you go 'ugh i don't wanna'- DON'T. whatever it is, don't. nobody is paying you for this, do what you want. (unless they are paying you for it.. then damn, lucky)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hangover 6

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, other possible triggers. Proceed with caution.

Please leave any and all feedback! 💚💚💚💚💚💚

Part of The Club AU

Will leaves to the train station as you pretend at an immaculate recovery. Your back is no better than it was but you can’t let him worry about you. It’s your job to worry about him. 

You’ve been through it before. Years of running around the diner with heavy trays has taken its toll. You’ll take a hot shower and lay down and the morning will hopefully be easier. If not, you’ll just have to push through like you always do. 

When you wake, you’re stiff but you can move. Slowly.

Your daily routine takes you twice as long and has you running late for work. You clock in and tie on your apron, grunting as your back continues to pang. You hold your breath as you listen to orders and smile through the agony. 

“Table for one in the corner,” Monica say. “How about you take it? Shouldn’t be too much work.” 

“I’m good,” you insist. 

“Please, look at you. You’re moving like horse ready for pasture. Go, I’ll finish up that family by the window. Don’t worry, tip’s all yours.” 

You sigh, “you’re a sweetheart.” 

“And you should’ve taken the sick day,” she chides. 

You grab a coffee pot and head off to the corner table. You slow as the diner sits back and spreads his arms across the breadth of the booth seat. All the room just for one? Officer Storm smirks at your approach. 

“Hello, sir, coffee?” You offer flatly. 

“How long’s that been sitting on the burner? I’d like a fresh pot.” 

You grit your teeth, as much from irritation as pain. “Alright, I'll put a fresh one on, officer.” 

He clucks and rolls his eyes, “ah, now, what happened to that sugar? Huh? ‘Let me put a fresh one on, honey’.” He mimics you with a glint in his eyes. 

You stare at him as a chill crawls up your spine. His silhouette flashes in the glare of headlights and you swallow back a whimper. You nod and look away shakily. 

“Let me put a fresh one on, honey,” you repeat. 

This time he lets you go. You dump the pot and reload the filter. It’s a cheap diner, he can’t expect high-end. You don’t think he does. He only wants to make you squirm. 

As the new batch brews, you return to the table and pull out your notepad, “what can I get you, officer?” 

“Well, honey,” he says sharply as he brings his arms forward and leans on his elbows. He looks over the menu and sucks his teeth. “I’ll take the big breakfast number three. Over easy with home fries and an extra strip of bacon. As a thank you for my service, right?” 

He looks up at you and you nod, writing it all down. “Anything else, officer?” 

“Yeah, why the fuck are you walking like Frankenstein? Old bones can’t handle the cold?” 

You wince and focus on keeping your smile in place, “something like that. I’ll get your order in and that fresh coffee.” 

He snickers as you turn away. You can’t help but limp. You feel the tension screwing into your spine. Fuck. Only a few more hours. 

You put the order in the window and grab the coffee pot. You return to his table and pour him a cup. 

“Enjoy, officer.” You say. 

“Honey,” he insists. “Ah, what happened? You ain’t so sweet anymore.” 

“Officer Storm, nothing. Is there anything else I can get you for the table?” 

He shakes his head and his brows pop up derisively. He scoffs and sits back, sipping his coffee. “That son of yours, spindly, isn’t he?” 

You ball your hands as a zap runs through your hips, “he’s young.” 

“Sure is... nineteen? Still hanging out at mommy’s.” 

“Sir, with due respect, I don’t think we need to talk about him.” 

“Mm, I’m just curious if he knows his mommy is such a fucking slut.” He spits. 

“Sir, please,” you hiss. 

“I could charge you for public indecency, the way you had your ass and tits out,” he taunts and winks over the brim of his mug. 

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper. 

He narrows his eyes and looks you up and down, “because I can.” Your legs shake and you steady yourself. He slurps noisily and slams down his mug. “More.” 

You fill his cup and step back, your knee buckling slightly.  

“I’ll go check on your food.” 

“Good girl,” he purrs as he lifts his cup again. 

You hobble back across the diner. A few your other tables come up and you struggle to get your tray to their tables. You don’t see yourself getting to the dishes that night. The longer you drag yourself around, you can’t help but worry how you’ll make it home. 

“You really need to sit down,” Monica says. 

“I can’t. Need the money.” 

“I can cover you.” 

“No,” you insist and glance over at Storm. You know you can’t hide. He knows where you live and he knows you have a son. He doesn’t need to make his threats aloud. “I can do it.” 

“Alright,” she shakes her head. 

Finally, Officer Storm’s order is put in the window. You swipe it up and make your way to him. You put his plate down, then the smaller one with toast. 

“Ketchup? Jam?” You offer. 

“I think I got everything I need. Trust me, I’ll let you know if I don’t.” His blue eyes hit you like ice water and you back away. 

“Of course, sir. Enjoy.” As you turn, your toe catches and you stagger forward. You cry out as Storm pulls his foot back under the table and you land on your tray as you hit the floor. You wheeze and whine as your hips split and you writhe helplessly. 

“Oh my,” Storm remarks. 

Monica rushes over calling your name, “are you okay? Oh my god!” 

“Everyone relax, I can handle it,” Officer Storm stands over you. “Ma’am, I’m gonna get you some help.” He bends over you and puts you flat on your back. “You gotta take it easy, alright? I’m an officer. I can get you to the hospital.” 

“Sir, call an ambulance,” Monica pleads. 

“We just need to keep her stabilised. Cruiser’s faster,” he insists as he knees down next to you. You hiss through your teeth as you grip your hips. “I got her.” He bends and scoops you up, another wail rising from you. “Someone get the door.” 

[frownyalfred]

Hey Res! Please ignore this ask if it's too troublesome or bothersome

I saw you had an guide for non-drikers writers that wanted to write about a character who drink. I was wondering if you could the same about guns?

I read synchronicity and I loved it how you used Jason's knowledge with guns to control the narrative and pacing. I don't know if you have actual technical knowledge on handguns (I think it's a no? But maybe you do?) But any tip is nice

Thank you a lot 🩷

Hi anon! This is such a fascinating question and I hope I can provide a somewhat plausible answer. I am familiar with some guns and have shot a few in my lifetime, but I am far from an expert.

Some things I think writers need to keep in mind while writing their firearm-related scenes. For clarity, I'm just going to call them guns below.

Are you thinking of a specific gun? Make sure you know its full name but ALSO make sure you know its nickname. Your character might think of it as "the Berretta" instead of its full name, etc.

What does your gun fire? Does it take shells, bullets, cartridges, etc? Shotguns, for example, don't fire bullets. That's a common mistake I see.

How do you reload said gun? Is it easy? What parts of the gun do you have to touch? Reloading a shotgun is MUCH different from reloading a handgun, for example.

Most guns get hot and release gunpowder residue when shot. They're LOUD. You can have several cascading things happen to a character who fires a gun or is near a gun when it fires: ringing ears, the smell of gunpowder, the hot feeling of the gun's muzzle, etc.

Even the best sharpshooters miss shots. IRL shooting is HARD, especially when moving. Different guns have different benefits to shooting style, stance, targets. Firing a handgun willy-nilly will rarely result in accurate shots, even if you dual wield (which is silly, this is SO hard).

Stance MATTERS. If you've ever seen Hannibal, there's a scene where Will talks about his choice of shooting stance with Beverly. They bicker over Isosceles and Weaver, which are two standard stances. One uses a triangle between your arms and the gun to brace for the kickback of the shot, while the other moves that brace to one side with a different grip. Will eventually chooses the latter stance because of a past shoulder injury. (GIF of Will struggling with his original isosceles stance)

If a gun isn't properly braced when fired, it will kick back and hit you. Sometimes in the face. Yes this has happened with me and a rifle. My first day shooting cans, I had a huge bruise on my face AND on my chest where the rifle butt kicked back.

If your gun uses bullets, there are different calibers. If you've ever watched Mythbusters, you can see why caliber matters -- it depends what or who you're shooting. Are you trying to penetrate armor? Are you sacrificing accuracy for power? Different guns use different calibers for numerous reasons, and guns can be altered to use other ammo as well.

With respect to discussing caliber while writing: It's all VERY complicated if you don't know guns, so make sure you're not giving too much detail if you can avoid it. That's a very easy way to spot a lack of experience with guns, in my experience. Your reader doesn't need to know the caliber just because the character is shooting a gun -- but in an autopsy, sure, the caliber is relevant.

You will lose your hearing eventually if you fire guns close to your ears unprotected. It's not sexy, and it also causes something called tinnitus. The real pros wear ear protection.

In terms of realism for writing, here's a couple rapid fire busted myths: You can't dodge bullets unless you're superhuman. Bullet wounds to the legs/arms/shoulders can absolutely still be fatal. Cardiac arrest caused by being shot is usually fatal, and CPR doesn't really help on its own. "Running out of shots" depends on the gun AND the modifications someone has made to it. You can't always tell just by looking at a gun what it will do. Silencers are rarely "silent" and are heavily regulated.

Injuries: Some bullets tear through bodies. Some aren't high enough caliber to do more than go in and lodge in some tissue. Some fragment and bounce around in weird ways. Depending on how gruesome you want to get, there's a lot of different ways to describe gunshot injuries. I've always been the kind of person to google images for better understanding, but I understand that's not for everyone. I think NYT or WaPo did a good piece on traumatic gun injuries a few years back, complete with an interview with an ER doc from Chicago (?). One thing I learned there -- sometimes people lose their legs, or both legs, after being shot in their leg.

In terms of describing how someone uses/fights with guns, I know the John Wick movies are a little cheesy, but they are staged by people who REALLY know their guns. They talk about what he's using usually before the scene starts, and there's very few frills when it comes to stance, firing, etc. John does a cool trick in the first or second movie where he ejects a casing one-handed away from his face, a notoriously hard maneuver that most people usually do with two hands to avoid getting burned. I highly recommend watching the John Wick movies for blocking ideas.

Which reminds me -- holding a gun sideways is a terrible idea. For many reasons. Stance, casing ejection, stability, etc. Someone can use it against you.

Never point a gun at something you're not willing to shoot. Well-trained characters should follow this rule religiously. If they were soldiers, agents, etc, they will know this rule.

Similarly, multiple people with guns will "clear" a room before entering. They will be trained for something called crossfire, which is when someone is downrange of their gun and could potentially be shot. A group of characters bursting into a room without clearing their shot is a nightmare. This is how people shoot their friends or random civilians.

I hope someone more knowledgeable can add onto this! These are just some big things that stick out to me when reading. I highly recommend checking out Mythbusters, John Wick, and even Hannibal for some semi-realistic shooting references. Good luck!

[sooniebby]

Sooooooo let's Go!

The reader would be Ashley's brother, and would be sent along with Leon to rescue her. But, the reader has knowledge about weapons and espionage, for being an agent (your choice of his affiliation), and throughout the mission Leon and the reader begin to fall in love with each other. So after rescuing Ashley, they arrange to meet and what happens next is up to you!

When Ada appears, the reader is with Leon, which makes him feel a little jealous and maybe Ashley helping them get together, pls?

ఌ 𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘

꧁ 𝙇𝙚𝙤𝙣 𝙭 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 ꧂

Word count › 3.4k

Rating › SFW

Warnings › none

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

╰┈─➤ ＢＥＧＩＮＮＩＮＧ

Maybe it wasn’t smart. Sure, (Name) had the skills to fight and kill. But never alone. He had never been alone before but here he was. In some random village. He was cursing himself in his head. His gun was empty as well. Ammo gone.

Only a knife as his only weapon of choice. He knows how to fight. But these aren’t… people.

He can’t even fight dirty! They don’t go down like normal people. Sure, he had heard about zombies but these felt so different. He was a fool to think he could ever save Ashley. His father was right on him not thinking before reacting.

But hearing his baby sister was kidnapped, how could he not panic? They don’t know what these people are. And after running into just two of them, he knew he was right to be afraid.

Checking his rounds again, as if some would magically appear, he shoved his gun back into his holster. He wanted to give up but decided he was too far ahead. The church he had heard those things talk about had to have Ashley in it.

It was mainly a guess but guess were all he had right now.

He was lucky enough that most of the villagers were already dead whenever he passed by. But that also caused him to worry. Who the hell was killing them? It looked to be gunshots, so he was hoping it could’ve been some regular army guy but he didn’t know if they would want to work with him.

The church in front of (Name) was mainly deserted. He saw two bodies on the floor as he walked to the entrance. It was already open. He slowly stepped inside, brandishing his knife.

It was a longer blade than most knifes but it was getting old. He forgot to grab a much newer one.

He was silent, just to hear if there was anyone else until he heard Ashley’s voice. And some unknown man’s. His sister screamed at first but then it was silent. (Name) panicked and quickly ran up to the ladder.

With only his adrenaline pumping, he was on the second floor in record time to see the man in front of Ashley. From his view, all he could really see was that he was holding a gun.

(Name) crept over, ready to attack the man until he turned around. A sudden squeak left his mouth, he would very much deny it, and he dropped onto the ground.

Ashley sighed in relief. “(Name)!” She rushed over to him despite the other man’s protest. “How’d you find me?”

“Oh, uh, I stole some… stuff.. it doesn’t matter. We gotta leave,” (Name) moved to stand up until a sudden cough was heard. The siblings turned their attention back to the man with the gun.

“This family reunion is cute and all but I need to know how you got here,” he said.

“Why? Who are you?”

“Leon Kennedy. I was sent by her.. your father to rescue Ashley. He didn’t tell me his son would be here as well.” Leon said, eyeing (Name).

“Well he doesn’t know.”

“Not a good thing, is it?” Leon asked, raising an eyebrow. (Name) bit his lip. Okay, he was right. It wasn’t a good idea to come here without telling someone. If he hadn’t found out where Ashley was and ended up being killed, no one would’ve known where he was.

Ashley sighed. “Okay, we can worry about this later. We need to get out here before—”

The sound of chanting interrupted her as the trio looked over to the window. It was the villagers with pitchforks and weapons, ready to do anything to keep Ashley from leaving. Leon cursed as he began to reload his gun.

“Alright, we’ll talk later. I’m sure you can fight, yeah? Don’t gotta worry about you?”

(Name) rolled his eyes. “No shit. I wouldn’t have been able to survive this long if I couldn’t.”

“It didn’t seem like it by that mouse squeak you let out earlier. But prove me wrong.”

“Guys.” Ashley groaned.

“Sorry…” (Name) muttered.

(Name) did not like this Leon Kennedy.

But he couldn’t lie at how cool Leon was fighting against the villagers. (Name) didn’t have to do much at all. He mainly focused on keeping Ashley away from any villagers that tried to grab her.

“We have a helicopter coming, we just have to reach the location before the weather.” Leon said, leading them to the supposed location.

(Name) felt weird following some random guy but he seemed legit. Ashley seemed to have no problem so he didn’t say anything. If this guy did have a helicopter for them to get out, he’d better take it.

Ashley elbowed his arm. “(Name), what were you thinking? Dad would’ve sent someone for me. You didn’t need to come.”

“Yeah, but, I was worried.”

“Worrying is fine but thinking would be nice.”

“Would you not have tried to come rescue me if you could?”

“Maybe but I would’ve had a plan or at least some people to help. Not go it alone. We’re lucky Leon is here.”

“I could’ve saved you without mister pretty face.”

“Thanks.” Leon suddenly said.

“Huh?” (Name) remembered that Leon could obviously hear them. He wasn’t exactly whispering when he said that.

“Mister pretty face? Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment…” (Name) muttered but got no answer from Leon. Ashley simply laughed.

The walk to the location was cut short when they ran into a few villagers. It felt like an ambush as they popped out from every side, effectively blocking them from leaving. (Name) pushed Ashley behind him, holding his knife out as some sort of warning.

He heard a chuckle from beside him but he decided to ignore it. Leon had no business laughing at him in a moment like this. The villagers began to attack as Leon started shooting.

(Name) payed more attention to Ashley the entire time, maneuvering her anything a villager grabbed at her clothes. But all this attention on her left his wide open for a swing at his head. He dodge the first time, much to his shock but was swiftly overtaken by one that stabbed his hand.

He cursed, watching as one of the much bigger ones grabbed him with ease and slung him over his back. Ashley screamed out, as another tried to grab her but was killed by Leon. He aimed his gun at the one holding (Name) but was swiftly attacked by another villager.

It gave the one holding (Name) enough time to walk away. (Name) used his knife to slash at the kidnapper but was unable to phase it. This wasn’t like the other villagers. It had a hat with a long coat. A stature that felt inhuman.

“Relieve yourself to God, my child. For it is the only thing for your salvation.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

(Name) could feel faint. His tiredness was getting to him. Fighting against two villagers earlier with just six billets and a knife tired him. He also didn’t pass by with no hits from that fight. They got him a couple of times. It didn’t bother him then, he had built a tolerance of pain but he could feel himself bleeding.

He didn’t have the adrenaline to push through anymore.

At least Ashley was safe with someone.

ꕤ

“You will be a great sacrifice. Abandon any struggling or doubt and give this fruitful body to God.”

The feeling of something cool against his skin shook (Name) awake as he tried to open his eyes. They were heavy as he heard the murmur of prayers. He wasn’t dead? A slice at his skin caused him to scream out, pulling at the chains that held him. He didn’t know where the hell he was but he could certainly tell someone was carving something into his back.

The sound of them walking away was when he finally got the courage to open his eyes.

He then tried to look around but only saw a dark cave. Only a lone candle light on a floor near the wall and the moonlight seeping through the cave opening was his only sense of light. He could feel blood trailing down his back as the blood was pulled away from his skin.

(Name) didn’t want to know what was carved into his back. He wasn’t sure what was happening but he knew he would die tonight. It had to be a human sacrifice. This cult already tried to kill him before.

He glanced around, to see if there was anything he could free himself with. His shirt was torn open seeing he still had it one technically. There were too lazy to fully strip him shirtless. His pants were still there but covered in mud and dirt from his falls earlier.

His knife.

His knife was on the table with the candle. He couldn’t even kill himself to not deal with whatever this shit was. (Name) whined. He wanted to just die.

Not have to deal with whatever the fuck this was.

He didn’t want to die here but it seemed most likely. Shit. (Name) hoped Ashley was fine. She had Leon at least. He sighed. The feeling of being lightheaded taking over.

“Oh wow. Didn’t think you’d be here.”

(Name) glanced up to see a woman in a red sweater dress in front of him. An odd choice to wear in a situation like this but he didn’t question it. The woman kneeled down in front of him, looking over his body with pursed lips.

“You feeling okay? You look a little woozy.”

“No…” (Name) couldn’t finish his speech. He groaned.

“You’re Ashley’s big brother, right? You came to come save her yourself? How cute.”

“I…”

“Well, it seems you’re in a bad position so I’ll help you and you’ll help me later, alright?”

“Hm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Ada Wong.”

“(Name) G….” (Name) felt his head fall down to the ground as the chains holding him up released him. He groaned out in pain but soon felt himself fall asleep.

He wasn’t sure he’d wake up.

ꕤ

“How’d you find him?”

“I’d put the gun down if I were you. The only thing that kept him alive was me. I see you lost Ashley though.” Ada said.

(Name) groaned as he looked around at where he was. He could feel that the carvings in his back certainly did happen. It was a fucked up dream. But what he didn’t feel all to there at all.

“He’ll be a bit stupid for an hour. It’s just the drugs.”

“I don’t have an hour.”

“Well you do now, Leon. Unless you wanna just leave him here, where anyone can just walk into this house. I mean, he isn’t your mission anyway.”

(Name) could hear voices outside of the room he was in. It looked to be the master bedroom with how spacious it was. He couldn’t think straight. A giggle left his lips as he tried to sit up only to collapse back down on the bed.

“He’s awake. Make sure his stitches don’t open. We’ll talk another time.”

The creek of the door caught (Name)’s attention as he watched Leon walk in. He looked angrier than the last time he saw him but his more blank expression took over once he saw (Name) stare at him.

“Ashley..?”

“Gone. She ran away. But I know where she is. It’s the castle.”

(Name) only grinned. “When’d you get so manly Ashley?”

“… excuse me?”

“Oh, wait… you’re not Ashley.” (Name) reached up his right hand to touch Leon’s face only to see it bandaged. “Ah! What happened?”

“How are you feeling? Any pain?”

“Hmmmm, no? I feel sleepy.”

(Name) moved to lay on his side, using his hand to reach out towards Leon. Leon looked more preoccupied with whoever he was talking to in his ear piece. (Name) wasn’t sure. He felt hazy.

He used his non bandaged hand to grab at Leon’s belt, playing with it. Leon pushed his hand away but that only made (Name) reach for it again. The only answer after that was a grunt before Leon just left him to it, more worried about who he was talking to.

The sound of thunder outside caught (Name)’s attention. In the back of his head, he worried for Ashley. Just when he had her, he lost her. He couldn’t help the whimper he let out, pulling away from Leon’s belt.

He failed her.

Tears streamed down his face as he tried to curl into a ball onto cry out in pain instead. He felt a hand grab his arm and looked up at an angry Leon.

It seemed the only thing he did for Leon was make him angry.

“No sudden movements. Those stitches aren’t professional. They can’t withstand much before breaking.”

“Sorry…” (Name) whispered. So pathetic. He should’ve just stayed home. Maybe he wouldn’t have caused such problems. His father was smart, he could’ve handled it.

Leon simply hummed before pulling away. (Name)’s face was still fresh with tears and they wouldn’t stop. He turned his face away from Leon, not wanting him to see him like this.

He did have some sense of pride on not being seen as weak. His military training was for nothing if carvings on his back killed him like this.

But he never really tried to fight whatever those things were.

(Name) stiffened when he felt Leon’s hand on his head. He waited for a moment, his breathing slowed as Leon awkwardly rubbed his hair as if he was a dog. Then Leon simply pulled his hand away.

He didn’t say anything before walking away, muttering about making sure no one had found the house. (Name) sniffled as he thought about what just happened. He was been used to people not touching him. That’s what he was.

An untouchable guy who killed with ease as a veteran at such a young age. Making his pops proud. Only Ashley really tried to get him to open up. Stop relying on his skewed view of a man to make himself feel better.

He was still crying. But it was for something else. The touch of someone other than Ashley felt nice. It felt good. No matter how awkward it was.

Maybe Ashley was right calling him a touch starved mouse. Though she only called him a mouse because of how he sounded during jump scares in horror movies.

(Name) wiped away his tears. He could worry about his mental problems later. Ashley being alive mattered more. But he couldn’t exactly move.

“Leon.” He called out.

Much to his shock, Leon was immediately there. He looked a bit panic at first before calming himself when he noticed that nothing was wrong.

“What?”

“You should go to Ashley. We don’t know how much time she has left.”

“No can do. I can’t leave you.”

“I’m not your mission. I came here on my own accord. I’ll meet you guys later.”

“Meet us later? You can’t even bend. How can I know you can fight? Let alone run.”

“Ashley matters more.”

“Ashley won’t be pleased to hear I had you and then lost you just as quickly. She’ll be happier and more likely to listen to you than me.” Leon said.

What he said felt final. (Name) didn’t feel like he could rebuttal him. Maybe it was the way he said it. His stance. His eyes. But he was a bit scary to argue with so (Name) shut his mouth. That seemed to please Leon as his anger was gone as soon as it came.

He looked out the window, possibly looking out for anything before checking how much ammo he had left.

“Where’s your gun?”

“Dunno. They took it maybe. My knife isn’t here either.”

“Okay. In an hour or two, we’ll head straight to where Ashley is. I’ll handle any heavy lifting.”

“The weather?”

“It should be clear soon. But if not, we may have to just go. They won’t stop their plans just because of the weather.”

Leon sat down on the bed as he contemplated about what to do. He never planned on having to worry about two people. This mission was going wrong at every turn. He hadn’t mentioned to Hunnigan about (Name) being here.

It wasn’t exactly a good time earlier and the quick call with her just a moment ago ended abruptly. It must’ve been done by the mole or the weather. But now he had no connections to anyone.

He was on his own.

“Leon… I’m sorry.”

(Name) felt himself flinch when the blonde glanced over at him. His face was unreadable. He didn’t say anything, as if waiting for (Name) to explain himself further.

“For coming. Here, y’know. It wasn’t smart. I wasn’t known for my brains anyway.”

“I’m not your daddy. You can explain yourself to him when you see him later,” Leon grinned. “Just rest for now. You’ll be moving nonstop later.”

(Name) watched as he walked away. He felt an odd sense of relief. Yeah, he would be seeing his ‘daddy’ later to explain himself. He wished he could get grounded again.

Maybe feel like a kid that he never got to be.

ꕤ

The plan to leave in an hour or two was swiftly forgotten when (Name)’s stitches came undone when he got up to use the restroom. He cried out in pain, leaning on the wall as Leon ran to him.

Now he was here, on the bed with his back facing Leon as he tried his best to redo the stitches. Whatever Ada had done was clearly done to just stop him from bleeding out. She hadn’t really taken the time to clean it out. The feeling of wet wipes on his back was not comfortable.

He continuously grunted in pain, wishing he hadn’t gotten this hurt. He just felt so weak. Leon was silent the entire time, stopping whenever (Name) let out a particularly painful cry.

It was better being unconscious when the stitches were done.

(Name) wasn’t sure if it was the blood lost, the drugs, or the touch of Leon’s hand on his back—he felt a sudden rush of blood in his penis. He hadn’t really ever been touched. Which is no shock.

Who would touch a veteran who had been groomed into acting out the worst traits of toxic masculinity. He had stopped two years ago but it still put a damper on any relationship he could’ve had.

Maybe that’s why the touch of Leon was making him act this way. Like a teenage boy who was getting touched by his crush. The hands moved around before lowering down a bit. It made (Name)’s whole body twitch.

Leon’s hand lingered on his lower back, gently rubbing the dip into his ass. The only skid I’m the room was (Name)’s heavy breathing as he tried to calm himself down.

“Leon…—”

A loud bang caught their attention as Leon maneuvered (Name) to hide in the closet. (Name) was sure Leon was about to close it but he was wrong as he joined him inside, closing it shut. Their bodies were pressed together, (Name) only reaching Leon’s shoulder.

He hesitantly rested his head on his shoulder, hoping Leon would be too focused on the intruder to care about him acting this way.

Unbeknownst to (Name), Leon was looking at him from the corner of his eye. He wrapped one arm around his waist, tugging him close. Using his free hand, he kept it on his gun, ready to shoot if anyone tried to open the closet door.

Leon tried to ignore (Name)’s growing erection. At least he wasn’t the only one having physical attraction to the other. He made sure his hand on (Name)’s waist didn’t dip any lower than it needed to be. Even if (Name)’s more… plump ass was right there to squeeze.

A shadow from the outside covered the crack in the closet. Leon was ready, hovering his finger over the trigger as the door was swung open. He aimed his gun at the person’s head only to realize it was Luis.

“Wow, hey! Don’t get all trigger happy on me, Leon!”

“What the…?”

“Oh, who’s this?”

(Name) felt tired. He simply sighed and felt himself fall asleep, tucked into Leon’s arms.

He’ll handle this new weirdo after his Power Nap.

“Uh, did he just fall asleep?”

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

╰┈─➤ ＥＮＤ

Changed some things… ended up with a full on plot 🤭 I got carried away lol hope I did Leon justice <3

Pt 2? Smut would happen next time. I tried to do it here but it just didn’t make sense right now—gotta go through another near death then you fuck, fanfic rules

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @chill-guy-but-cooler @kiiyoooo @mello-life69 ( @dabisbratz bcs I know you love Leon)

[arrenkae]

Some final thoughts on the Emperor:

I fucking love the guy. He is SUCH a manipulative asshole. He straight up catfishes you and when you find out about his true nature he just goes ahead and proceeds to be all like

"No dude you can still trust me, I'm just like you. I totally have Normal Human feelings. I never lied to you (except when I did). Go look at my basement with all the sentimental trinkets I keep there. I had a dog, does it make me sympathetic enough? Let's have another Heartfelt Convensation, but I'm shirtless now. Will you trust me more if we bang? Yes good so are you ready to turn into a mindflayer yet"

And boy he is REALLY good at this and sounds very convincing

But if you refuse to fall for is act he gets SO pissed off and changes his tune instantly and straight up shows you that this woman he told you about? How he cared so much for her and he is so totally sad that she's dead and do you feel sad for him as well now

Yeah he totally mind controlled her all this time

(which tbh I picked up on way too early because duke Stelmane having brain damage from being controlled by a mind flayer was a big plot point in one of our d&d games and I knew that it was a canon thing in forgotten realms lore even before bg3 came out)

And he's like WELL AREN'T YOU GLAD THAT I AM NOT MIND CONTROLLING YOU

(and by the way I reloaded my save to try those dialogue options; but in the end I played my character as someone who leaned into trusting him, maybe being just a bit wary but still considering him a necessary ally)

But you see

The best part is

That he is SUCH an asshole and keeps giving off more and more sinister vibes and when he asks you to give him the stones to control the elder brain it 100% feels like "oh yeah. this is it. this is the part where this obviously evil guy betrays you"

And then he just

Doesn't

Idk I fucking love it

Because yeah he is totally manipulating you. To do the same the same thing that you also want to do, which happens to be something that is good and beneficial for the realms

But still all he cares about in the end is self-preservation

This game really does well to show that a mind flayer doesn't have to be "evil" in the usual sense but they are beings that are fundamentally different from us and they feel and see the world differently, even being released from the elder brain's control and having some semblance of their old personality and memories doesn't make them just misunderstood humans with tentacles

I would totally kill him, but unfortunately Lae'zel died in my playthrough (the roll for saving her was SO HIGH and I just. decided against savescumming. it is what it is)

And without her my character didn't care enough about saving the githiyanki prince

Maybe next time. And of course another playtrough with a different character, who would stuff all the tadpoles into their brain and become a half-illithid and romance the guy because this is way too amazing not to try

[spacesapphic770]

I'm high key obsessed with the ways Armored Core 6 gives us multiple characters that are a mirrors to 621 and/or you as a player

What follows will be spoilers that include stuff all the way up to the New Game++ ending. Don't click if you're not okay with spoilers:

There are a couple that immediately jumped out to me.

The first is V.I Freud. The first sign you get that he is a mirror to the player is that he is ranked number 1 in the arena, and his bio says people speculate that he is heavily augmented and gets unethical "updates" like snail does. But the truth is that he's not augmented and he's just someone who really fucking loves being an AC pilot. Like us as players, he's just here for the love of the experience. This is further displayed by the fact that even though he is technically commander of the Vespers, he's absent from the story until it's time to fight him. Because he has no interest in doing what Snail does, engaging in logistics and command and subterfuge. He just wants to pilot his mech. And then you finally meet him in the Fires of Raven ending... and his first action is to kill Chatty and complain about the lack of challenge. And you get this chilling mirror into what your devastation across Rubicon has been like. Every AC pilot you've taken on was loved by someone. The way Carla loved Chatty (the way I loved Chatty too). And the rest of the fight is filled with great moments, like Freud silencing Snail on the radio and him revelling in your fight... but the tone has been irreversibly changed by his cold blooded killing of Chatty. To Freud, I'm sure Chatty felt like just another side objective or Loghunt. Freud's fight is an amazing way to make the player reflect in my opinion.

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO AVOID NG++ SPOILERS

The next one is more of a reflection to 621 in world than the player. Gun 5 Iguazu. I loved this dude and his shitty attitude from the moment I met him. He was such a perfect dickhead. Just a sassy dude. And then you read his arena bio and you realise he sasses you because he gets shit from the other redguns all the time and is scraping for any control in his life. It doesn't make him less of an ass, but you get it on some level.

Then the NG+ missions start happening, and you keep having these fights with Iguazu. It's almost funny how mad he gets and how relentless he is in trying to kill you. And he might take you down once or twice, but you can reload saves and he can't so he's doomed to fail. And he just gets angrier. He even sends a full on assassin to kill you, just to feel in control. In another world the game would be about Iguazu trying to finally beat his rival 621.

He gets more and more desperate. As you take the Coral Release ending he shows up when you ambush Snail, and he's more desparate. A few times he's mentioned a noise in his head he can't get rid of. It's a little unsettling. You continue down the path, get to the final boss, and... it's Iguazu. Sort of. He's joined with Allmind and is serving as its pilot to take you down. It's funny at first, at least I found it so. "No way! Iguazu is the final boss? Hilarious!"

Then you hear his dialogue. I had forgotten by this point that his arena bio says he's also a gen 4 augmented human. And it clicks.

In another world he really *could* have been the protagonist. He's a gen 4 like you. That noise he's been hearing? It was Allmind (And in the same way Iguazu is your reflection, Allmind is Ayre's reflection. Listen to the way Allmind talks to Iguazu. It's more manipulative than Ayre, but when Iguazu overloads your ACS Allmind tells him to take advantage of it the same way Ayre tells you to take advantage when Iguazu's ACS is overloaded). He wants to have the agency 621 has, he wants to have the skills 621 has, when he hears voices he doesn't want it to be painful... he wants a friend like 621 has. Walter says gen 4's can have trouble with their augmentations and we don't really see that with 621, but I get the impression Iguazu DOES struggle and he looks at 621 and says "Why? Why do they get to be free while I suffer?" Which becomes even more painful when you pick a fight with him at the Galia Dam.

As he says with his dying breath... he was envious of 621. And if you're anything like me it makes you reflect on things. Look into the mirror that Iguazu is and was. Think about the life 621 might have led if they weren't the chosen one who gets to be player character. This is not to say 621 does not suffer throughout AC6, because they are often treated like an object, a tool, or an animal. But it does make you think about how things would be if they weren't such a good pilot.

Anyway, yeah AC6 is good.