spearsillustration

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Currently taking CodZ and TF2 Fanfic requests. <3

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Drew Scout in my style, not too bad if you (plsplspls!!!!) ignore the shoe on the right. I have no clue what happened there.

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Okay I've been in the TF2 fandom...but not really. I never played the game but I love the lore and fanwork. This is the first time I've drawn anything for it and of course I had to draw the medic. Not original but I wanted to get some practice in. I'm pretty happy with it so far but this is a rough sketch at like three in the morning so I'll add more on the background later.

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Drinking Headcanons - Primis & Ultimis crew

Note: Okay this is for me more than anything. My 21st Birthday is coming up in a few days. 2/22/2004. Since I'm not really doing anything for it I decided to write something for fun. This is how I'd imagine drinking with the crews would go. 

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Edward Richtofen Primis - 

I don’t see him as much of a drinker, at least not in the traditional sense. He���s not the type to drink for the sake of it, nor does he seek out alcohol as a means of escape or indulgence. Instead, he strikes me as someone who appreciates the finer things in life, someone who finds joy in the details—the craftsmanship behind a well-aged bottle, the complexity of flavors, the history behind each sip. If he were to indulge, it would be with purpose, not excess. A good wine, perhaps something rich and full-bodied, would be more his style—something deep, something that lingers on the palate, something to savor rather than mindlessly consume.

He carries himself with a strong sense of self-control, and that extends to his drinking habits. He knows his limits, never one to overdo it or let himself slip into recklessness. If anything, he’s more of a social drinker, someone who enjoys the experience rather than the effects. For him, it’s about the atmosphere, the company, the quiet moments shared over a perfectly poured glass. The idea of sitting in a dimly lit room, perhaps by a fireplace or under the soft glow of candlelight, letting conversation flow as smoothly as the drink in his hand—that’s what appeals to him most.

There’s something almost ritualistic about it, a moment of stillness amidst the chaos of life. He finds comfort in the way the world slows down in these moments, how every sip carries a certain weight, a pause that allows him to fully immerse himself in the present. It’s not just about the drink—it’s about who he’s drinking with, the subtle shifts in conversation, the way laughter lingers in the air like the aroma of the wine itself.

And if you were there, he’d certainly love to share a glass with you. He’d pour carefully, ensuring the perfect amount, watching with a satisfied expression as the deep crimson liquid swirls in the glass. Maybe he’d take the opportunity to discuss the complexities of the wine itself, remarking on its origins, its notes, its finish. Or perhaps he’d weave an interesting story to accompany the moment, his voice carrying that familiar cadence of amusement and intrigue. Either way, he’d make it an experience, one meant to be enjoyed, remembered, and cherished long after the last drop has been savored.

Edward Richtofen Ultimis - 

Unlike his counterpart, this man would drink just about anything without a second thought. Whether it’s a fine whiskey, a cheap beer, or something of questionable origin, he wouldn't be picky—if it’s alcohol, it’s good enough for him. That being said, I can’t imagine he’d have much of a tolerance. In fact, I feel like he’d be a complete lightweight. Just a sip or two, and he'd already start feeling the effects, his already unpredictable nature becoming even more erratic.

        It wouldn't take long before he’d spiral into a state of intoxicated chaos, his energy levels skyrocketing past their usual high. His laughter would be louder, his gestures more exaggerated, and his thought process even more nonsensical than usual. Every word out of his mouth would be either a dramatic proclamation or a slurred, barely comprehensible string of sentences that only he seems to understand.

        And then there’s the physical aspect—he’d be an extremely touchy drunk. Boundaries? Completely nonexistent. He’d drape himself over you, sling an arm around anyone within reach, and get way too close without even realizing it. His flirty personality, already hard to ignore when he’s sober, would become downright overwhelming. Every glance would be accompanied by a wink, every sentence laced with playful innuendo, and he’d probably try to sweet-talk just about anyone in his vicinity. If he weren’t already a handful sober, an inebriated version of him would be on an entirely different level—equal parts amusing and utterly exhausting you when trying to keep him in check.

Tank Dempsey Primis - 

        I see him having an extremely high tolerance, the kind that comes from years of experience and an iron will. This man can hold his liquor better than most, drinking without so much as a flinch while those around him start swaying after just a few rounds. No matter how much he drinks, he stays composed, never letting it affect his sharpness or control. Whether it’s whiskey, rum, or something stronger, he downs it with ease, barely showing any sign that it’s even hitting him.

        But are we really surprised? He’s a Marine, after all. Discipline, endurance, and an almost inhuman ability to push past limits are second nature to him. He’s the kind of man who could drink all night, put away enough liquor to make others drop like flies, and still walk away without so much as a stumble. It’s not just tolerance—it’s pure resilience, the kind that’s been forged through years of training, battlefield experiences, and probably more than a few nights of hard drinking with his squad.

Tank Dempsey Ultimis - 

     I feel like he’d have noticeably less self-control than his Primis self, almost as if he lets himself indulge a little too freely, simply because he can. He’s not the type to drink for sophistication or out of habit—no, for him, it’s all about the fun of it. He enjoys the rush, the lightheadedness, and especially the warm, fuzzy feeling that creeps in after a few drinks. It’s an escape, a way to loosen up and let go of the more serious, calculating side of himself.

        He drinks like a reckless teenager experiencing alcohol for the first time, eagerly chasing that buzz without much regard for when to stop. The moment he starts, it’s hard for him to pull back—whether it's out of excitement, boredom, or just the thrill of losing himself in the moment. He doesn’t have the complete lack of restraint that Nikolai does, but he’s definitely not far behind. There’s an underlying problem there, something that he either refuses to acknowledge or simply doesn’t care to fix.

        Unlike some who drink to forget their troubles, he drinks because he enjoys the feeling too much. The way it makes his mind race, the way the world tilts just a little, making everything feel lighter, funnier, and far less complicated. It makes him more talkative, more animated, more prone to throwing caution to the wind. His already eccentric personality amplifies tenfold, and suddenly, he’s laughing louder, moving faster, and acting like nothing in the world could possibly bring him down.

        But beneath all that fun, there’s a dangerous lack of self-awareness. He might not spiral into complete self-destruction, but he certainly walks the line between enjoyment and excess, teetering on the edge without fully realizing it. And that’s what makes it a problem—because once he starts, stopping is never quite as easy as it should be.

Nikolai Belinski Primis -

        Unlike his other half, he has far more control over himself when it comes to drinking. He knows his limits, and while he enjoys a good drink, he never lets it consume him. It’s not about drowning his sorrows or chasing a reckless high—it’s about the experience, the camaraderie, and the shared moments that come with it. He appreciates the taste of a well-aged whiskey, the smoothness of a good beer, or even the warmth of something a little stronger on a particularly cold night. But more than anything, he enjoys the company that comes with it.

        There’s something almost ritualistic about it for him. He loves to drink with you and his friends, gathering together after a long day, letting the stress melt away with each sip. Sitting around a fire, the flickering flames casting warm light on familiar faces, he finds comfort in these moments. The sound of laughter fills the air, stories are told—some real, some exaggerated for dramatic effect—and for a little while, the weight of the world seems lighter.

        He’s not the type to drink alone. For him, it’s about the bond that forms when glasses are raised, toasts are made, and worries are forgotten, even if just for a little while. Whether it’s a deep conversation under the stars, a rowdy debate over something ridiculous, or simply leaning back and soaking in the atmosphere, these nights mean more to him than he’d ever admit.

        And when he’s drinking with you, there’s an added layer of warmth. He watches you with that familiar glint in his eye, savoring not just the drink in his hand, but the way the firelight dances across your face. He loves the way you laugh, the way your voice blends into the night, and the way these moments feel timeless—something worth holding onto, long after the drinks have run dry.

Nikolai Belinski Ultimis - 

Look, we all know this man can drink—there’s no question about that. He can throw them back like no one else, downing glass after glass without hesitation. It’s almost impressive, really, the way he holds his liquor, the way he seems unfazed by amounts that would have most people on the floor. But beneath that almost effortless ability to drink, there’s a darker truth—he’s not just drinking for fun. He drinks to forget.

Every sip is an attempt to drown out the ghosts that haunt him, the regrets he can’t shake, the weight of the past pressing down on him like an anchor. The warmth of alcohol dulls the ache, blurs the memories that cut too deep. For a little while, it works—he laughs louder, talks more, pretends the burden isn’t there. But the thing about drinking to forget is that it never truly works. No matter how much he consumes, the memories always resurface, creeping back in the moment the haze begins to fade. And so, he drinks again, a vicious cycle that he doesn’t know how to break.

When he drinks too much—and he often does—he loses himself in it. His walls come down, and suddenly, he’s not the strong, capable man you’re used to. He’s vulnerable, raw, a mess of emotions that he usually keeps buried. Maybe he gets quiet, lost in thought as he stares into his glass, or maybe he gets reckless, letting the alcohol push him toward self-destruction. Either way, it always ends the same—him, stumbling, lost in the fog of his own making, unable to find his way out alone.

But no matter how far he lets himself go, he always has you to pick him up from his drunken messes. You’re the steady hand that pulls him back, the voice that reminds him he’s not alone. Whether it’s holding him upright as he stumbles, talking him down from whatever spiral he’s fallen into, or simply sitting with him in the aftermath, you’re always there. He might not say it outright, but he needs you—more than he’d ever admit. And while he may not be able to save himself from his demons just yet, at least he has you to keep him from drowning completely.

Takeo Masaki Primis -

This man hardly drinks, at least in my opinion. He’s not the type to seek out alcohol on his own, nor does he find much appeal in drinking for the sake of it. He doesn’t rely on it to relax, doesn’t crave it after a long day, and certainly doesn’t use it as an escape. To him, it’s just another thing in life—something that exists, but not something he needs.

That being said, he’s not completely opposed to it. He’ll drink with you or his friends, but only in the right setting, at the right time. He sees it as more of a social thing, something to enhance an already enjoyable moment rather than being the centerpiece of it. If the occasion calls for it—perhaps a celebration, a rare night of unwinding, or a simple gathering where drinks are passed around—he won’t refuse. He’ll take his time, never rushing, never drinking more than he intends to. He knows his limits and sticks to them, never one to lose control or let himself slip into excess.

If you were the one to offer him a drink, he’d likely accept—not necessarily because he wants it, but because he enjoys your company. Sitting beside you, sharing a quiet moment with a glass in hand, is what makes it worth it to him. The same goes for his friends. He’ll partake if it means strengthening bonds, if it means sharing a laugh, if it means creating memories that will linger far longer than the taste of the drink itself.

But beyond that, he doesn’t see much use for it. He doesn’t drink out of habit, nor does he find any particular thrill in it. If anything, he’s the one who stays the most level-headed, the one who makes sure things don’t get out of hand. He might nurse a single drink for the entire night, content to watch the others enjoy themselves while he remains as steady and composed as ever. And when the night comes to an end, while others may stumble or slur their words, he’ll be the one standing firm, ready to carry on as if the drinks had never touched him at all.

Takeo Masaki Ultimis - 

 I feel like, despite the many differences that set him apart from the others, he and his counterpart are actually quite similar when it comes to drinking. Neither of them are heavy drinkers, nor do they seek out alcohol for the sake of indulgence or excess. He doesn’t have a particular fondness for it, nor does he rely on it as a coping mechanism. Instead, he views it as something secondary—an occasional pleasure, rather than a necessity.

        He doesn’t drink much, and when he does, it’s always in the right company. He won’t pour himself a drink alone, nor does he ever feel the need to. If there’s a reason to drink, it’s because you’re there with him, or because he’s surrounded by his comrades, sharing a moment that calls for it. It’s less about the alcohol itself and more about what it represents—companionship, trust, and the bonds that hold them all together.

        With his comrades, he drinks out of respect, out of tradition, and out of an unspoken understanding. There’s something sacred in the way they share a bottle, a mutual acknowledgment of everything they’ve been through together. Whether it’s to celebrate a victory, honor the fallen, or simply find solace in each other’s presence, he partakes when it feels right. He’ll sit back, glass in hand, listening to the laughter and conversation around him, knowing that in this moment, they are all safe, all together.

        And with you, it’s something a little different. He’ll drink because it’s a moment shared, a quiet, intimate experience that brings you both closer. Whether it’s a peaceful evening spent talking over a slow sip of whiskey, or a rare night where you convince him to relax just a little more, he allows himself to enjoy it—not because he needs it, but because he enjoys being with you. There’s a warmth in these moments, a quiet kind of connection that doesn’t need words.

        At the end of the day, drinking has never been something that defines him. He doesn’t crave it, doesn’t rely on it, and certainly doesn’t let it control him. But if the right people are beside him, if the moment calls for it, he’ll raise his glass—not for the sake of the drink, but for the people who make it worth sharing.

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hiii could you write some headcanons for the primis crew with a reader that tries to speak a bit of their native language to surprise them but it ends up sounding really broken 🥺? ty!!

Note:  Ooooo I've been excited to write this since the moment I saw the request. I wanted to work on this sooner but I did get busy.  I might do something like this for a longer project with Primis richtofen. But until then let's continue with this. 

Edward Richtofen - German 

He would be thrilled if you surprised him with this, even if you didn’t get everything perfect. The effort alone would mean so much to him, and he'd appreciate the thought behind it more than anything. Learning a new language can be incredibly challenging, and it takes time, patience, and practice to get comfortable with it. (It’s not as simple as just opening an app and instantly becoming fluent) language learning requires consistency, real-world practice, and sometimes even making mistakes along the way. But the fact that you’re putting in the effort to learn, even if it’s just a small gesture, speaks volumes.

You’d most likely end up learning quite a bit from him over time. Whenever he gets passionate about something, whether he’s going on a long-winded rant about a topic he cares deeply about or completely immersed in his work, he naturally reverts to speaking in his native tongue without even realizing it. It’s in those moments—when he’s truly in his element—that you’d hear the language in its most authentic and unfiltered form. Without even trying, you’d start picking up words, phrases, and expressions just by being around him. Over time, you might even find yourself understanding more than you expected, simply because language has a way of sinking in when it’s tied to real emotions and experiences.

Most of the time, he would whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you drifted off to sleep, his voice soft and soothing, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. His words, spoken in German, would be gentle and affectionate, a quiet lullaby meant just for you. At first, the meaning behind them might be lost on you, just a string of unfamiliar yet beautiful sounds. But over time, as the nights passed and the words became more familiar, you might start to recognize certain phrases, piecing together their meanings from the way he says them, from the warmth in his tone, from the way he smiles against your skin.

It wouldn’t just be those whispered endearments that you’d pick up—there would also be the special nicknames he gives you in German, ones that hold meaning only the two of you share. Maybe they’d start as little teases, playful and lighthearted, or maybe they’d be impossibly sweet, ones that make your heart flutter every time he says them. And before you even realize it, those words would become second nature to you, ingrained in your memory, as much a part of your world as he is.

In times like these, learning even a little bit of his language would take time, patience, and plenty of trial and error. It wouldn’t happen overnight, and there would be moments when you stumble over certain words or struggle to get the pronunciation just right. But despite the challenges, the effort itself would mean everything to him. The first time you manage to say something in his native language, even if it's just a simple phrase or a clumsy attempt at a sentence, his heart would absolutely melt. He’d be caught somewhere between surprise and overwhelming affection, completely endeared by the fact that you’re trying just for him.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to resist playfully correcting your pronunciation, teasing you with a smirk when you mix up words or get the accent just a little off. He might repeat the word slowly, exaggerating the proper way to say it, only to chuckle when you try again and still don’t quite get it right. But no matter how many times you fumble, he wouldn’t ever get frustrated—in fact, he’d find it adorable.

And if you were truly interested in learning more, he’d love nothing more than to actually teach you. He’d be patient, guiding you through phrases and expressions, encouraging you even when you make mistakes. Maybe he’d start slipping in more and more German throughout the day, testing you with little challenges, praising you when you get something right. It wouldn’t just be about the language—it would be about sharing something deeply personal with you, letting you into a part of his world that means so much to him. And over time, bit by bit, the words that once felt foreign on your tongue would start to feel familiar, woven into the fabric of your relationship in a way that makes them even more special.

However, when you finally learn enough to even speak a little German, he would think you sound absolutely beautiful—no matter how imperfect or hesitant your pronunciation might be. The moment you string together a full sentence, no matter how simple, he would pause, his expression softening as he takes in the sound of his native language coming from you. There would be something incredibly endearing about it—hearing his words spoken in your voice, knowing that you put in the effort just for him.

At first, he might just smile, a little surprised, maybe even stunned silent for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief. “Say that again,” he’d murmur, leaning in as if to make sure he really heard you right. And when you do, his grin would grow even wider, his heart swelling with pride and affection.

To him, it wouldn’t matter if your accent wasn’t perfect, if you stumbled over certain words, or if your grammar wasn’t flawless. He would find every little imperfection charming. In fact, he’d love the way his language sounds when you speak it, as if it was meant to come from you all along. If anything, the slight mistakes and hesitation would make it all the more precious to him—proof of the time and effort you’ve put in, proof that you care enough to try.

He’d gently cup your face, his eyes filled with admiration, and whisper something in German—something soft, affectionate, and utterly heartfelt. And whether or not you understand what he’s saying in that moment, the warmth in his voice would tell you everything you need to know. Because to him, hearing you speak even a little bit of his language wouldn’t just be beautiful—it would be one of the most meaningful things in the world.

Tank Dempsey - English

This man would find endless amusement in your attempts to speak his language, especially if you happened to mess up along the way. The way you hesitantly string together words, trying to remember the right pronunciation or piece together a sentence, would bring the biggest smile to his face. Not because he’s laughing at you in a mean-spirited way—never that—but because he finds it absolutely adorable. There’s something about the way you try so earnestly, even when you fumble over syllables or accidentally say something completely different from what you intended, that makes his heart swell with affection.

He might chuckle softly as you attempt to repeat after him, shaking his head fondly when your pronunciation is just a little off. If you accidentally say something ridiculous—perhaps a phrase that translates into something unexpected or hilariously wrong—he wouldn’t be able to hold back his laughter. But rather than discourage you, his amusement would only make the experience more enjoyable, turning your language lessons into moments filled with warmth, teasing, and lighthearted fun.

At times, he might dramatically repeat the correct pronunciation, exaggerating his accent just to make you roll your eyes and playfully swat at him. Or maybe he’d challenge you, promising you a kiss or a reward if you can finally get a tricky word right. No matter how many times you mess up, he would never tire of hearing you try. If anything, your efforts—flawed as they may be—would only make him fall for you even more. Because, in the end, it’s not about perfect pronunciation or flawless grammar; it’s about the fact that you care enough to try. And to him, that means everything.

He’d absolutely try to help you out and teach you a bit of his language, but the truth is, he wouldn’t really know how to go about it. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—he’d love for you to learn—but explaining the rules and grammar in a structured way? That’s where he’d struggle. He’s so used to just speaking it naturally, without thinking about the mechanics behind it, that when you ask him why certain words are structured a certain way or how verb conjugations work, he’d just blink at you in mild confusion.

"Uh… it just is," he’d say, scratching the back of his head, looking a little lost himself. He might try to give you examples, only to end up contradicting himself because his native language has so many exceptions to the rules that even he can’t keep track of them all. If you asked him to break it down in a way that makes sense, he’d probably end up staring at the ceiling, deep in thought, before finally sighing in defeat.

Instead of formal lessons, he’d end up taking a more casual, spontaneous approach—throwing random words and phrases at you throughout the day, quizzing you when you least expect it, and laughing whenever you give him a completely wrong answer. He might point to objects around the house and tell you their names in his language, watching with amusement as you try to repeat them. If you accidentally mispronounce something, he’d correct you with a teasing smirk, only for you to groan in frustration when the words refuse to roll off your tongue the way they do for him.

Despite not being the best teacher, he’d still be incredibly patient with you, never making you feel bad for struggling. And, in a way, his unstructured way of teaching would make learning more fun—filled with inside jokes, playful teasing, and moments of genuine connection as you slowly start to pick up more and more of his language, one adorable mistake at a time.

Nikolai Belinski - Russian 

You trying—but absolutely failing—to speak Russian would make this man laugh harder than he has in years, in the most loving and affectionate way possible. The moment you open your mouth and attempt to string together a sentence, he would already be grinning, bracing himself for whatever hilarious mispronunciations or accidental nonsense you’re about to come up with. And the second you butcher a word so badly that it sounds like something completely different? That would be it—he’d lose it.

His laughter would start as a chuckle, but the more you try, the harder he’d laugh, eventually doubling over, clutching his stomach, his whole body shaking with amusement. He wouldn’t mean to make you feel bad—on the contrary, he’d find it absolutely endearing. The effort you’re putting in, even when you’re failing spectacularly, would only make him adore you more. He’d wipe at his eyes, struggling to catch his breath, before finally managing to correct you—though whether or not he can do it without laughing again is another question entirely.

"Wait, wait—say that again," he’d beg, grinning ear to ear, still trying to recover from his laughing fit. The moment you repeat the word, somehow butchering it even worse than before, he’d be gone all over again, shaking his head as he pulls you into a hug. "I love you, but that was so bad."

He might tease you about it for days, randomly bringing up the funniest mistakes you made just to hear your groan of frustration. But despite the endless teasing, he’d always encourage you to keep trying. Because underneath all the laughter, he’d genuinely love that you’re making an effort to learn. And no matter how much you struggle, the fact that you’re doing it for him would mean more than any perfectly pronounced sentence ever could.

Like Dempsey, he wouldn’t exactly be the best teacher—he’s more of a "learn as you go" kind of guy rather than someone who sits down and explains things step by step. Structured lessons? Forget about it. Grammar rules? He barely even thinks about them himself. More often than not, if you ask him why a word is the way it is, he’ll just shrug and say, “It just is,” as if that’s the most logical explanation in the world.

But despite his lack of formal teaching skills, he’s doing his best, and that’s all you can really ask of him. He’d try in his own way, slipping words and phrases into everyday conversations, repeating things slowly for you when you struggle, and even making little games out of it to keep things fun. He might point at objects and wait for you to name them in his language, raising an eyebrow when you get it wrong and grinning when you finally get it right.

His teaching methods would be a little unconventional—sometimes helpful, sometimes just plain chaotic. He might jokingly teach you phrases that are completely useless just to see if you’ll actually say them. Maybe he’d trick you into thinking a ridiculous sentence means something sweet, just so he can hear you say it and then burst into laughter when you realize what you’ve just said. But when it comes down to it, he wants you to learn, and he’ll always be patient with you, even when you’re struggling.

And while he may not be the best teacher, there’s something about the way he tries—the way he lights up when you get something right, the way he playfully teases you when you don’t, the way he unconsciously switches to his native tongue around you more and more—that makes learning from him feel effortless. Because in the end, it’s not really about the language itself; it’s about sharing something important to him with you. And even if neither of you have any idea what you’re doing, the journey of learning together makes it all the more special.

Takeo Masaki - Japanese 

He’d be completely taken aback the moment he heard your poor attempt at speaking Japanese, his eyes widening slightly in surprise as he processes what just came out of your mouth. For a second, he’d just stare at you, lips twitching as if he’s trying to hold back a reaction. Did you really just say that? Was that actually supposed to be Japanese? Or was it some strange, new language you accidentally invented?

He’d blink a few times before leaning in slightly, his curiosity piqued. “Wait… say that again,” he’d urge, his voice caught somewhere between amusement and genuine confusion. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as bad as it first sounded. But the second you repeat yourself, struggling even more with the pronunciation, he’d completely lose it.

A chuckle would slip out before he can stop himself, and before long, he’d be full-on laughing, his shoulders shaking as he covers his mouth. It’s not that he’s laughing at you—he just finds your effort, no matter how flawed, absolutely endearing. The way you furrow your brows in frustration, the way you try so hard to get the syllables right but somehow still make it worse—it’s adorable to him.

He’d probably tease you about it for a while, dramatically repeating what you said in an exaggerated, butchered version of your already-botched pronunciation, just to mess with you. “Are you sure that was Japanese?” he’d joke, flashing you a playful grin. But after his laughter dies down, he’d ruffle your hair affectionately and reassure you, “It wasn’t that bad… well, maybe a little.”

And despite all his teasing, there would be this unmistakable warmth in his eyes—because deep down, he’s touched that you’re trying. Even if you’re struggling, even if you absolutely butcher the language, the fact that you’re making an effort means the world to him. And if you’re serious about learning, he’d be more than happy to help—just don’t be surprised if he makes you repeat words over and over, not just for practice, but because he secretly loves hearing you try.

Unlike the others, Richtofen and him especially would be incredible teachers if you truly wanted to learn the language. Both of them have an uncanny ability to break things down in a way that makes sense, even though their teaching methods might be unconventional. Where the others might give you half-hearted attempts at helping, Richtofen and him would take genuine care in making sure you understand the language, guiding you through each step with the patience and attention you deserve.

He’d give you structure and consistency, making sure you don’t just memorize words but understand how to use them in context. He’d be the one to correct your mistakes with care, never laughing or mocking, but instead gently guiding you to the right pronunciation or grammar rule.

[spearsillustration]

°[Flirting With Death]°

Ultimis Richtofen x Reader

Note: I intended to post this earlier for Valentine's Day but fell behind and had to go over it and add some last-minute touch-ups. 

Warning a bit of sexual tension but nothing too crazy. This was already a bit over twenty pages. So I decided that if I was gonna add some NSFW it would be best to just start another oneshot in the future. Hope you enjoy. 

Page number: 22.8

Word count: 7,718 

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Richtofen stood in the middle of a relentless horde of zombies, their decayed bodies pressing in from all sides, forming a gruesome circle around him. The stench of rotting flesh filled the air, mixing with the smoke from his weapon. Their guttural moans created a horrifying symphony of death, growing louder as they inched closer.

        With a manic grin, he gripped his Ray Gun tightly, the cold metal pressing against his gloved fingers. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, unleashing a barrage of neon-green energy blasts. The high-pitched whine of the gun's discharge cut through the chaos, each shot vaporizing the undead on contact. Limbs and torsos disintegrated in bursts of glowing residue, but for every zombie that fell, more crawled forward, their hunger insatiable.

        Richtofen spun on his heel, firing in every direction, his laughter growing more unhinged as he reveled in the carnage. A particularly fast zombie lunged at him from behind, its bony fingers reaching out—but with a quick step to the side, he turned and obliterated it with a well-aimed shot.

        But the horde was endless. His ammunition wasn’t.

        As the Ray Gun’s energy core began to flicker, signaling its dwindling charge, Richtofen’s expression twisted into a mixture of frustration and excitement. He needed a plan—fast. His eyes darted around the battlefield, searching for an opening, an escape route, or even a Max Ammo power-up. The undead drew closer, their bloodied hands grasping at the air just inches from him.

        "Ah, scheiße… I do love a challenge!" he muttered, tightening his grip on the Ray Gun before unleashing another round of destruction.

        "Need a hand there, Doctor?" I shouted over the deafening roars and guttural snarls of the undead, my voice barely cutting through the chaos. The stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming, mixing with the acrid scent of gunpowder as I fired round after round into the advancing horde.

               Richtofen turned around without hesitation, his gloved fingers tightening around the grip of his weapon as he immediately got to work unloading round after round into the approaching horde of undead. The muzzle flashed brightly with each shot, momentarily illuminating the twisted, rotting faces of the creatures as they stumbled forward, their grotesque moans drowned out by the thunderous gunfire.

        He exhaled sharply, his breath ragged from the exertion, but despite the chaos surrounding him, a twisted grin spread across his face. A deep, almost delighted chuckle escaped him between labored breaths as he reloaded with practiced ease, his eyes gleaming with manic excitement.

        "Of course not, Fraulein~" he purred, his voice dripping with amusement, as if the dire situation was nothing more than a thrilling game.

        "It looks like you're having trouble, that's so unlike you," I teased, my voice laced with playful sarcasm as I fired off several rounds, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing through the blood-soaked battlefield. The horde of zombies pressed forward, relentless and unyielding, but each well-placed shot sent another rotting corpse crashing to the ground.

        I risked a quick glance at him, catching the glint of determination in his eyes as he reloaded with practiced precision. Despite the chaos, despite the overwhelming number of undead swarming around us, I couldn't resist pushing him just a little further.

        "You're not losing your touch on me, are you?" I added with a smirk, ducking as a grotesque, half-decayed zombie lunged at me. I twisted my body, bringing my weapon up and pulling the trigger, splattering its rotting brains across the cracked pavement.

        The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and decay, but I couldn't help but find a strange sense of thrill at the moment, especially when I saw the flicker of amusement cross his face. Even in the face of death, we still had time to challenge each other.

        "Oh please! My skills are unmatched~" Richtofen declared, his voice dripping with his usual arrogance, though slightly strained from exertion. He smirked in between firing, his gloved fingers moving with expert precision as he squeezed the trigger again and again, each shot finding its mark with deadly accuracy.

        Spent casings clattered to the ground at his feet as he pivoted, gunning down a particularly aggressive zombie that had managed to get too close for comfort. His eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and adrenaline, reveling in the carnage as if it were nothing more than a grand performance put on just for him.

        Even as the undead continued to swarm, their grotesque moans filling the air, he remained unfazed, his movements fluid and efficient. He reloaded with a flourish, taking a moment to cast a sideways glance in my direction, his smirk widening.

        "Didn't look like that from where I was standing," I laughed, the teasing edge in my voice barely masking the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My hands moved on instinct as I quickly reloaded, the familiar click-clack of the magazine sliding into place bringing a brief moment of satisfaction.

        I didn't have time to linger on my remark. A particularly fast-moving zombie lunged at me, its decayed fingers swiping just inches from my face. I barely had time to react, jerking back and raising my weapon in one fluid motion before firing point-blank into its skull. The force of the shot sent its body collapsing to the ground in a sickening heap, blackened blood splattering across the cracked pavement.

        Still grinning, I spared a glance toward Richtofen, watching as he dispatched his own wave of undead with an almost gleeful enthusiasm. "If those are ‘unmatched skills,’ I’d hate to see what happens when you have an off day," I quipped, dodging another incoming attack.

        Even in the midst of all this chaos, I couldn’t help but enjoy the game we played—pushing, teasing, and testing each other in a battlefield where the stakes were life and death.

        "You little—!" Richtofen huffed, his voice dripping with mock indignation as he fired off another round, the shot landing square between a zombie’s decayed eyes. "You should consider yourself lucky I am busy, because I would—"

        Another gunshot rang out, cutting off his words as he swiftly turned and pulled the trigger again, dropping another undead creature before it could get too close. The chaos was finally starting to slow, the relentless horde dwindling with each well-placed shot.

        "What would you do, Doctor?" I asked, my voice dripping with playful flirtation as I shot him a teasing wink. Without waiting for a response, I swiftly turned my attention back to the battlefield, raising my weapon and taking out a few more stragglers with precise, effortless shots. Each pull of the trigger sent another corpse crashing to the ground, the echo of gunfire ringing through the now eerily quiet battlefield.

        Richtofen’s smirk twitched, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly as he paused for just a second, watching me with amusement flickering beneath his usual manic energy. He chuckled lowly, shaking his head as he reloaded, the metal clicking into place with a satisfying snap.

        "Oh, Fraulein~" he purred, his voice laced with dark amusement, "You are far too bold for your own good. You truly wish to know what I would do?" His smirk widened, that familiar glint of madness dancing in his gaze as he took a step closer, tilting his head ever so slightly.

        His finger hovered over the trigger, "Perhaps," he mused, voice dropping lower, "I shall show you, when we are not so… occupied. I can only count the ways"

        A challenge, a promise—one I was more than willing to accept.

        "Well, as you count, do be careful. I don't need you dying on me just yet," I said, my voice carrying a mix of teasing and genuine warning as I kept my eyes on the battlefield. My fingers tightened around my weapon, squeezing the trigger once more—only to be met with an empty click.

        I sighed in annoyance, the realization settling in as I quickly glanced down at my weapon. "Oh, fantastic," I muttered under my breath, my frustration evident as I swung my gun over my shoulder. Running out of ammo in the middle of a fight was never ideal, but at least the horde had finally started to dwindle.

        Still, I wasn't about to stand around uselessly. My hand instinctively went for my knife, gripping it tightly as I pivoted, scanning for any last stragglers that might try to catch me off guard. The battlefield was littered with motionless corpses, but a few sluggish undead still staggered forward, groaning hungrily as they reached out with decayed fingers.

        I huffed, adjusting my stance. "Looks like I’ll have to get my hands dirty," I muttered, half to myself, half to the doctor, casting him a side glance.

        He chuckled, the sound low and amused, as he continued firing, each shot echoing through the battlefield and cutting down the remaining undead with practiced precision.

        "I’d be more worried for you, Fraulein~" he purred, his usual cocky demeanor unwavering despite the growing tension. His smirk never faded, even as he felt the telltale lightness in his weapon—a sure sign that his ammunition was nearly spent.

        His finger squeezed the trigger again. Bang. Another corpse dropped.

        Click.

        His smirk twitched as he tilted his head slightly, glancing down at his weapon as realization struck. Ah. He was down to just a few rounds now—perhaps three, maybe four if he was lucky. After that, he’d be just as weaponless as she was.

        He let out a small hum of thought, casting a side glance at her as she fought on with only her knife, moving swiftly and efficiently, slicing through the last of the stragglers with an almost graceful brutality. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary, watching the way she handled herself.

        "Hmm, looks like I may be joining you soon, mein liebling," he mused, his voice still playful, though laced with something else—a thrill, a challenge.

        Richtofen was right beside me, his gunfire ringing in my ears as he continued picking off zombies with sharp precision. But the undead weren’t letting up, and before I realized it, we were being pushed closer together, our movements syncing as we fought back to back.

        My breath hitched slightly as I felt the sudden, firm press of his back against mine, the heat of the moment making it impossible to ignore how close we had gotten. His coat brushed against me as he pivoted, firing off another shot before letting out an exaggerated chuckle.

        "Ah~ What an intimate predicament we find ourselves in, ja?" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. "How romantic"

        I rolled my eyes, ignoring the way my pulse quickened. "Keep talking, and I might just let them have you," I quipped, stabbing another undead through the eye before kicking the body away.

        His laughter rang out over the chaos, but even so, I could feel the tension rising—not just from the battle, but from the unspoken energy crackling between us. The undead were dwindling, but somehow, the fight felt far from over.

        He laughed breathily, starting to get a tad bit tired himself. "And how do you suggest we get out of this one, hmmm~?"

        "I don't know, you're the genius. How about you come up with a plan?"

        "Oh so I do all the thinking around here, is that it~?" He took a moment to look around and consider all the options left to them. His back was now fully pushed up against hers as he did.

        "That's what you're always saying. Guess it's time to back that up."

        He huffed with a smirk, trying to push down any other thoughts. He was getting tired from all this. "Is that a challenge, missy~? You should know I don't back down from those~"

        "I suppose it is," I replied, my tone still carrying a hint of amusement despite the exhaustion creeping into my limbs. The battle had finally begun to slow, the last few undead struggling forward only to be swiftly cut down. My breathing was heavy, my body aching from the relentless fighting, but there was no time to dwell on it.

        Before I could say anything else, the familiar sound of rapid gunfire tore through the air, accompanied by an all-too-recognizable voice.

        "About time you two stopped dancing and started finishing these freakbags off!"

        I turned my head just in time to see Dempsey charging into the fray, his weapon roaring as he mowed down the last remaining zombies with brutal efficiency. His arrival was as loud and dramatic as ever, but I had to admit—it was a welcome sight.

        I smirked, nudging Richtofen slightly as I nodded toward the American. "Oh look, Richtofen, it’s your guard dog."

        Richtofen let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes as he flicked a speck of nonexistent dust off his coat. "Ah, wunderbar," he drawled sarcastically. "Just what I needed, Dempsey arriving to bark orders like the good little lapdog he is."

        Dempsey scoffed, finishing off the last zombie with a well-placed headshot before slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, keep talking, Doc. You looked like you were about to get your ass handed to you."

        Richtofen placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "Mein Gott, such accusations! I was in complete control."

        Dempsey snorted. "Sure you were. And pigs fly."

        I chuckled shaking my head at their usual bickering. The battlefield had finally fallen silent, save for the distant crackle of fire and the occasional twitching corpse. For now, we had a brief moment of respite—but knowing our luck, it wouldn’t last long.

        "Took you long enough, Dempsey." He gave a huff and rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment.

        "Well Thank god that's finally over," I mumbled. 

        Richtofen took a moment before catching his breath. "Finally~" He looked over at me and let out a small smirk. "We weren't doing so bad though, were we~?"

        "We? I doing great till I ran out of ammo. I only dread what would have happened to our doctor if I didn't step in to assist." I said as dramatically as possible.

        He huffed, fighting back a laugh. "Oh really now? I think I would have gotten away just fine, you on the other- huff you on the other hand-" He smirked again, looking me up and down.

        "What about me?" I said watching his eyes wander.

        He pretended to consider the question for a moment while a smirk still adorned his face. He took a step closer so that they were only a few inches apart. His eyes didn't leave mine, the smirk still there. "You? I have a feeling you wouldn't have lasted very long without me~"

        "Are you sure about that? I do completely fine on my own. I just choose to help you out."

        He chuckled softly, slowly narrowing the space even more.

        "Oh really~? I have my doubts about that~ I'd wager that you'd be lost without me~"

        I dramatically placed my hands on his chest and looked up at him. "Oh yes, Dr. Richtofen I couldn't possibly fight on my own. I need a big strong man like you to protect me." I said in a higher-pitched voice than normal.

        He couldn't hold back a small laugh at this and decided to play along, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her just a bit closer.

        "Oh it's not just any big, strong man you'd need, now is it~? Just one in particular is it~?"

        "Of course not, only you Dr," I said playing along.

        "Only me, eh~?"

        He pushed me against the nearest wall, his movement quick and deliberate. Before I could react, I found myself completely trapped, the solid surface of the wall pressing against my back as his presence loomed over me. The air seemed to grow thicker, charged with something dangerous, something unspoken between us. He was so close now that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath warm against my skin as his proximity made every inch of space feel suffocating.

        One of his hands rested firmly against the wall next to my head, his fingers splayed out as though he were bracing himself against it—his body just inches away, the tension between us palpable. The other hand was settled on my waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of my clothes, sending a shiver down my spine.

        His eyes locked onto mine, the intensity in them unyielding, predatory. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, as if daring me to make the next move. His body was pressed against me, his presence impossible to ignore, pinning me in place, making it so that I couldn’t escape if I wanted to.

        The breath in my lungs caught as he leaned in even closer, his face mere inches from mine. I could feel his every movement, the subtle shift of his weight, the heat of his breath against my lips. There was no room left for doubt—he knew exactly what he was doing.

        For a moment, neither of us moved, the world around us shrinking down to just the space between us. The sound of our heavy breaths and the pounding of my heartbeat were all that could be heard in the silence. The anticipation in the air was almost unbearable, thick with something unspoken, an unacknowledged tension that neither of us seemed eager to break.

        Richtofen smirked again as he noticed my reaction. "Oh? Someone's a little red~ I wonder why that is~" He teased in a low but playful tone.

        This disturbed the Marine, his expression contorting into a mix of confusion and mild disgust as he shifted uncomfortably, clearly not accustomed to seeing the tension between us. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting between us as if trying to process what was happening. I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head, struggling to make sense of the situation.

        Dempsey, ever the provocateur, seized the opportunity to break the silence. He made a dramatic fake gagging noise, followed by a loud, exaggerated retching sound as if he were about to throw up right there on the spot. He even mimed wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the theatrics making his reaction so over-the-top that I couldn’t help but laugh.

        The absurdity of it all hit me at once, and despite the tension in the air moments ago, I found myself chuckling, shaking my head in disbelief. Dempsey’s antics always had a way of lightening the mood, even in the most uncomfortable of situations.

        Richtofen simply rolled his eyes and looked over to Dempsey, giving him a look that said 'really'. He looked back at her, this time with a softer smirk before speaking again. "Ignore him, he's just jealous because you like me more~," He said teasingly.

        "Who said I liked you more?"

        "Oh please, we both know you like me more." He said matter of factly, the smirk returning to his face.

        "Cocky bastard," I mumbled under my breath as I walked off joining Dempsey as the others arrived.

        "What was that, Fraulein~?" He called after me, a hint of smugness in his voice, before noticing the rest of the group arriving and shifting focus.

        "Oh nothing," I said over my shoulder.

        He huffed dramatically, rolling his eyes. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. His sharp gaze landed on Nikolai and Takeo, who had just arrived, both looking worse for wear but still very much in the fight.

        Nikolai, smelling of stale vodka and gunpowder, was lazily swinging his weapon over his shoulder, his movements sluggish but effective. His bloodshot eyes darted between us, taking in the scene with mild curiosity before scoffing. "What is this? Lovers’ quarrel?" he slurred, his thick accent making his words all the more cutting. 

        Takeo, ever the disciplined warrior, merely exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at the display before crossing his arms over his chest. "If you two are finished wasting time, we should keep moving." His tone was firm, laced with the usual disapproval, though there was the slightest glint of amusement in his eyes as he watched the scene unfold.

        Richtofen let out another dramatic sigh, his irritation now turning into outright theatrics. "Ah, yes, because clearly, I am the one wasting time," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Not the drunkard who stops for a drink between battles or the honorable samurai who insists on his philosophical speeches before every fight."

        Nikolai grinned, unbothered as he took a lazy swig from his ever-present flask. "Da, and yet, I still shoot better than you."

        Takeo merely shook his head again, muttering something about childishness under his breath.

        I stood there, watching the familiar back-and-forth, unable to stop the smirk that tugged at my lips. As ridiculous as they all were, this dysfunctional team was the only thing standing between us and the horrors that waited just beyond the next corner. And despite everything, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

        "How are you guys? No one hurt?" I started the dry conversation, my voice carrying a hint of exhaustion as I scanned the group. It wasn’t that I didn’t care—it was just that, after everything we had just been through, small talk felt almost ridiculous. The air was still thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood, and the eerie silence left in the wake of the last fight felt more suffocating than comforting.

        Nikolai grunted in response, rolling his shoulders as if testing for any unseen injuries. "Eh, nothing that vodka won’t fix," he muttered, patting the ever-present flask at his hip. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, but if he was in any pain, he wasn’t showing it.

        Takeo, ever composed, simply gave a small nod. "I am fine. Though I cannot say the same for our enemies." His voice was steady, but there was an edge of weariness behind it, like a blade dulled from overuse.

        Dempsey let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his dirt-streaked hair before shaking his head. "Still breathing, still pissed off. So yeah, I’d say I’m just fine." His tone was laced with sarcasm, but there was no mistaking the exhaustion in his eyes.

        And then there was Richtofen. He had been oddly quiet up until now, simply watching the conversation unfold with an unreadable expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was light, almost too casual. "Ah, mein liebling, how thoughtful of you to ask~" He placed a hand on his chest in mock sentimentality. "I do believe my feelings may be hurt. But, physically? Perfectly intact, as always~"

        I rolled my eyes at his dramatics, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips despite myself. It was the same routine as always—battle, bloodshed, barely scraping by, and then this. The moment of uneasy calm before the storm inevitably returned.

        I sighed, shifting my weight as I looked at them all. "Well, that’s something, at least." My voice was still dry, but beneath it, there was a trace of something softer. Relief, maybe. Because as battered and bruised as we all were, we were still here.

        For now, that was enough.

        "Aww were you worried about us dear?" Richtofen asked in a mocking tone.

        "Who said I was worried." I joked

        "Sure~ Of course you weren't~" Richtofen said sarcastically, a smirk on his face.

        "You're the one who should be worried about us Richtofen, you're the doctor."

        "And you think I don't worry about you lot~?" He said rolling his eyes. He was used to their jokes about him, but he still decided to play along.

        "Well, half the time I'm more worried that you'll dissect and eat one of us before the zombies get the chance."

        He smirked again and let a small laugh escape his throat. "Now why would I ever do such a thing~?" He paused, putting on a fake thinking face and tapping his chin. "I mean I've certainly considered it, but I'd never act on it."

        "Oh, so I should be worried?"

        He laughed again and walked closer, still smirking. "You should always be worried about me, Fraulein~ You never know what I'm going to do next~"

        I must be going insane if the simple change in his tone is enough to make my knees feel weak. It was ridiculous—pathetic, even—but there was no denying the way my stomach flipped at the sudden shift in his voice, the way a shiver crept up my spine before I could stop it. It was subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else, but I felt it. The way his usually smooth, teasing cadence dropped just slightly, taking on a more serious, almost commanding edge. It was enough to catch me off guard, enough to make my breath hitch for the briefest of moments.

        I swallowed hard, the reaction far too obvious for my liking. He was perceptive—too perceptive—and if I wasn’t careful, he’d pick up on it. That was the last thing I needed. So, I forced myself to play it off, shifting my weight and letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

        "Don’t need to tell me twice, Doctor," I quipped, keeping my tone light, maybe a little too casual.

        I dared glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips made my heart race even more. Damn it. He knew. He always knew. The gleam in his eyes told me he had noticed my hesitation, the way I faltered for just a second.

        But instead of calling me out on it, he merely chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by my attempt to act unaffected. "Ah, gut. At least you are learning to listen~" he mused, his voice still carrying that infuriatingly smooth arrogance.

        I huffed, crossing my arms in an attempt to ground myself, to steady the unsteady. But even as I stood there, pretending to be unaffected, I could still hear his voice in my head. That tone. That subtle shift.

        And worse? I knew I was never going to forget it.

He smirked again, noticing my reaction and enjoying it more than he should. "I'd watch my back, or one day you might end up on my operating table. I've been known to get a little… carried away~"

        "Okay, love birds, I'm gonna throw up if this keeps up," Dempsey interrupted, his voice dripping with exaggerated disgust. He even made a gagging motion for emphasis, as if the mere sight of us interacting was physically painful to witness.

        My face instantly heated up, and I spun toward him, my expression a mixture of shock and frustration. "L-love birds?!" I sputtered, my voice embarrassingly higher than I intended. "We’re not—! Shut up, Tank!"

        I could hear Richtofen chuckling beside me, clearly amused by my reaction. That only made it worse. I shot a glare at him, but he merely smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly as if enjoying the chaos unfolding before him.

        Dempsey, of course, wasn’t about to let it go so easily. "Oh? You sure about that?" He grinned, folding his arms as he leaned against his weapon. "Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like something’s going on."

        I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came out, my brain scrambling for a decent rebuttal that wouldn’t just dig me into a deeper hole. Instead, I could feel my face growing warmer by the second.

                Richtofen, the infuriating man, chose that exact moment to make things worse. "Ah, Dempsey, do not be so jealous~" he drawled, his smirk widening. "If you wanted my attention, you only had to ask~"

        Dempsey’s disgusted expression intensified. "Ugh, hell no. That’s not what I meant, and you know it." He jabbed a finger at him.

        I groaned, rubbing my temples as I tried to gather whatever shred of dignity I had left. "Oh my god, can we not do this right now? We have bigger problems. Like, I don’t know, the undead trying to kill us?"

        Dempsey shrugged, still grinning. "Hey, I just call it like I see it. But sure, sure, we can pretend none of this happened." He winked before turning away, whistling to himself as if he hadn’t just put me through hell.

        I exhaled sharply, glaring at the back of his head before glancing at Richtofen. He was still watching me, an unreadable expression dancing behind those sharp eyes of his.

        I hated that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. And, even more than that, I hated that some small part of me wanted to know.

        With that, we finally refocused, pushing forward through the dark, debris-ridden hallways. The distant groans of the undead echoed through the air, a grim reminder that we didn’t have time to waste. The ground beneath us was littered with shell casings and bloodstains, a testament to just how long we had been fighting to survive.

        As we moved, the tension from the earlier exchange lingered, but at least we were making progress. My mind, however, was still reeling—not from the battle, but from the conversation itself.

        Dempsey’s teasing. Richtofen’s amusement. The way my heart had stupidly skipped a beat during all of it. I clenched my jaw and forced those thoughts away. Not now. Focus. There were more important things to worry about. Like making sure we all lived long enough to see the next fight.

        As we walked on, exhaustion creeping into our bones, we finally stumbled upon a place that looked decent enough to set up camp for the night. It was an old, abandoned building—walls cracked, furniture overturned, and dust thick in the air—but compared to the chaos we had just survived, it might as well have been a luxury suite.

        Relief was short-lived, though. Just because it looked safe didn’t mean it was. We couldn’t afford to let our guard down, not even for a second. Before we could even think about getting any rest, we needed to secure the area.

        "Alright," Dempsey exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he scanned the dimly lit interior. "We split up, check for supplies, clear any rooms, and make sure we ain’t about to get ambushed in our sleep. I do not feel like waking up with a zombie chewing on my damn leg."

        We all nodded in agreement, already moving to spread out. Even with exhaustion tugging at our limbs, muscle memory kicked in—we had done this too many times to count.

        Richtofen stretched with a dramatic sigh, cracking his knuckles. "Ah, a scavenger hunt! How delightful~" he mused before stepping further inside. "Let’s see what kind of lovely horrors this place has to offer, ja?"

        I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, I gripped my weapon a little tighter and headed off on my own, sweeping through the first few rooms with cautious precision.

        The place had clearly been abandoned for a long time—furniture covered in layers of dust, walls lined with peeling wallpaper, and a faint musty scent lingering in the air. But it wasn’t completely useless. A few scattered supplies were still intact—some canned food, a half-empty first aid kit, even a couple of old blankets that, while not exactly fresh, would at least provide some warmth.

        As I stuffed my findings into my pack, a floorboard creaked from somewhere down the hall, making my breath hitch. I instantly raised my weapon, heart pounding for a moment before I heard a familiar voice.

        "Relax, Fraulein~ It is just me~" Richtofen’s voice carried through the silence, and I exhaled sharply, lowering my weapon as he stepped into view with a smug grin.

        "Maybe don’t sneak up on me next time," I muttered, shaking my head.

        "Ah, but where’s the fun in that?" He chuckled, holding up a small bottle of something. "Look what I found! It may be alcohol… or it may be poison. Shall we find out?"

        I huffed a laugh. "Pass."

        "Looks like it's just us, eh?"

        I rolled my eyes. "Unfortunately, but you decided to follow me when we already decided to split up. What, couldn't get enough of me, doctor?"

        "Oh I can never get enough of you, Fraulein~," He said without hesitation and with a soft smirk. "Maybe I just wanted a chance to talk to you without Dempsey or the others bothering us~"

        "Oh and what would you wanna talk about?" I asked looking through some cabinets facing away from him.

        He smirked again, watching her as she looked through the cabinets. He moved closer so he was standing right behind her and spoke in a low tone. "Oh, I don't know~ Maybe something more interesting than the usual banter~"

        I straightened up as he got closer, my breath hitching involuntarily. The space between us shrank with each slow, deliberate step he took, and before I knew it, he was almost touching me. The air between us felt charged, thick with something unspoken, something I wasn’t sure I was ready to acknowledge.

        I forced myself to hold my ground, even as my heart pounded in my chest. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter—he lived for that kind of thing. Still, I couldn’t ignore the way my pulse quickened, or how the heat of his presence made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

        His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with amusement as if he could hear every thought racing through my mind. "Ah, fraulein~" he purred, voice low and teasing. "You look so tense. Is something the matter?"

        I clenched my jaw, willing myself not to react, not to let him get under my skin. "Nope," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "Nothing at all."

        His gaze flickered to my throat—where I had just swallowed hard—before dragging back up to my face, sharp and calculating. "Mmm, if you say so~" he mused, tilting his head just slightly.

        I could feel the heat radiating off him now, his presence suffocatingly close. The scent of gunpowder, metal, and something distinctly him lingered in the air between us. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

        I shifted slightly, trying to create even the smallest bit of distance, but his smirk only grew as he caught the movement. He knew exactly what he was doing.

        I huffed, forcing a scoff. "You’re standing way too close," I muttered, pretending like my skin wasn’t buzzing from his proximity.

        His grin turned downright devilish. "Oh? Am I?" He didn’t move back. If anything, he leaned in closer. "How very careless of me~"

        I swallowed back another nervous reaction, keeping my expression neutral even as my mind screamed at me to do something. Push him away. Step back. Anything. But I didn’t. And neither did he. He moved closer until our chests were almost touching. He lifted his hand onto my hip and moved the other to rest on the counter next to me, effectively trapping me between him and the counter.

        "Don't get ahead of yourself Richtofen."

        He chuckled softly, the sound right next to my ear. His chest was pressed against mine now, and he was so close that his breath was hot on my neck. "And why shouldn't I~? I have you all alone, pinned to a counter, with no one around to bother us~" He said, his hand on my hip slowly moving upwards and leaving behind a trail of tingles.

        "E-Edward," I mumbled out, my voice barely above a whisper, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as I struggled to meet his gaze. My hands fidgeted nervously, unsure of what to do or say next. "What… what are you doing?" I stammered, my words faltering as I watched him with wide eyes, unsure of how to interpret the situation.

        "Oh that's a good question~" He said in a low tone as he slowly moved his hand under my shirt. His fingers were cold against my skin but sent chills up my spine. He smirked as he heard me stutter his name. "What does it look like I'm doing, hm~?"

                "Being a problem,"

        A cold chill ran down my spine as his icy hands made contact with my skin, sending an involuntary shiver through my body. The sensation was jarring, almost as if the coldness of his touch was seeping into my very bones. My breath caught in my throat, and I instinctively pulled away, but his grip tightened, holding me in place.

        "Oh, I think you like it when I'm a problem, though~"

        He said with a smirk. His hand moved higher, gently tracing its way up her side. He leaned down a bit more so his face was now right next to her ear again.

        "The truth is, I'd be a problem all day if it meant hearing you stutter my name like that again~"

        I could only blink in surprise, my mind racing as I struggled to process what was happening. This wasn’t what I had expected at all. The entire time, I had convinced myself that all the flirting was just playful banter, harmless and lighthearted. But now, standing here, everything felt suddenly real and overwhelming. Did I find the older man attractive? Yes, there was no denying that. His confidence, his charisma, even his sharpness—something about it pulled me in. But did I expect anything to come from it? No, I had been certain it was just a game, a fleeting moment. And yet, here I was, trapped in a situation I wasn’t prepared for.

        Should I want this? Absolutely not. This was a crazy, dangerous, even evil man standing above me. He wasn’t someone I should be involved with, not someone I should even entertain in my thoughts. Yet, despite that voice in my head, my heart was racing, pounding against my chest, faster than I could control. Why was my pulse quickening like this? Why was every inch of me drawn to him, even as my mind screamed to stay away? I opened my mouth, wanting to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t make sense of the chaos swirling inside me.

        Edward smirked, noticing the surprise and confusion on her face. He could practically hear her thoughts, which only amused him more. His hand continued its slow and torturous journey up her side, causing tingles to course through her body. He was still so close, his chest against hers, his body pinning hers to the counter in front of them.

        "Cat caught your tongue, hm~? You look like you're at a loss for words~" He said in a low, mocking tone.

        I gave him a forced, annoyed look, doing my best to mask the conflict brewing inside me. My brows furrowed slightly, and I crossed my arms, trying to project all the irritation I could muster. I wanted to look like I was completely over this, like I wasn't the least bit intrigued, but the effort was harder than I expected. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, betraying my true feelings, and I was certain that my attempt to seem aloof and irritated wasn't as convincing as I hoped. The truth was, despite my best efforts, part of me was secretly enjoying this—probably more than I should. The mix of emotions swirling within me made my head spin. I tried to push it all down, to focus on the anger, the frustration, but it was almost impossible. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being drawn to him, no matter how much I wanted to act like I didn’t care.

        He chuckled softly, amused by the attempt to look annoyed. His hand continued its slow path, now moving up to my ribs. "Oh really now, you're giving me the annoyed look~? You're not fooling anyone, you know~ I can tell how much you're enjoying this~" He said it like it was more of a statement than an assumption. He then shifted so one of his legs was now in between mine making me gasp in surprise. 

        "Your hands are cold you know," I said bitterly.

        "Oh I'm well aware of that~" He replied in an almost playful tone. He smirked as he continued moving his hands. "Are you complaining~?"

        "N-no." I barely managed to get out.

        He chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself. He slowly began tracing small circles over the skin, enjoying the small shiver in response.

        "You have to say it louder, Fraulein~" He teased, his face now mere inches away from mine.

        "No, I'm not complaining," I said a bit louder against my better judgment.

        "That's a good girl~"

        He praised in a low, teasing tone, his hand still moving lazily. He then suddenly pushed me harder against the counter, his face now right next to my ear again as he spoke in a low, almost whisper.

        He lifted me effortlessly onto the counter, his hands firm around my waist as he placed me down with a quiet, almost deliberate precision. I was momentarily startled by how easily he moved me, as if I weighed nothing at all. Once I was perched on the cold surface, he positioned himself between my legs, standing so close that I could feel the heat of his body radiating against mine. The proximity was overwhelming, and despite the chill in the air, the space between us seemed to crackle with a strange intensity.

        The height difference didn’t really change; he was still towering over me, his presence impossibly dominant, making me feel small in comparison. He loomed above me, his figure casting a shadow that seemed to fill the entire room, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. His eyes never left mine, and there was something in his gaze, something sharp and unreadable, that sent a shiver down my spine. The air between us grew thick, charged with an unspoken tension, and I suddenly became acutely aware of every detail—his breath, the way his shoulders tensed, the way he stood so unyielding, so sure of himself.

        He smirked as he lifted me up onto the counter, enjoying the new position. He still had me completely trapped, standing between my legs as he leaned over her. He was so close that our faces were almost touching, and his hands still rested on my hips.

        "Come now, say it~ I know you want to~"

        "Edward please," I said as annoyed as I was eager. 

        He smirked widely when he heard his name pass my lips, it sounded like music to his ears. He slowly traced his fingers up my sides, watching as my breath hitched.

        "Please what, Fraulein~ You're so close~," He said in a teasing tone, now gently running one of his hands up and down my thigh.

        "Don't make me ask, it's alright embarrassing enough." I cried.

        "Oh come now, don't be embarrassed~! You're doing so well~" He said in an almost mocking tone as if he was enjoying watching me struggle. His hand continued its slow ministrations, now tracing small circles on my inner thigh.

        I lifted my hands so they loosely hung around his neck. I looked up into his eyes timidly but took a deep breath before speaking. "Edward, kiss me please."

        His smirk widened as he heard my request, and he could now clearly hear the desperation in my voice. He let out a low chuckle and slowly brought his face even closer. "Since you asked so nicely, I suppose I can't say no~"

        With that, he slowly closed the remaining space between us and pressed his lips fiercely against mine. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his body as he deepened the kiss.

        We were both too distracted, too lost in the moment, to hear the faint, almost imperceptible footsteps approaching from down the hall. Our attention was completely consumed by each other, by the electric tension crackling between us, and everything around us seemed to fade away. The only sounds that mattered were the rapid beating of my heart and the shallow breaths between our lips. He was so close now, his presence overwhelming, and I couldn't focus on anything except him. Every inch of space between us seemed to close, making it impossible to think about anything but the fire that was building with each passing second.

        Neither of us noticed the soft footfalls of Dempsey as he approached the room, moving quietly, as if unaware of the charged atmosphere unfolding inside. It wasn’t until he stepped into the doorway, his eyes widening in surprise, that we were jolted back into reality. Just as our kiss deepened, when it seemed like everything might completely tip over into something more, Dempsey walked in, a mere second too late. His presence was like a sudden, cold splash of water to the face, instantly bringing us to a halt. The room, which had been thick with tension and heat, suddenly felt too small, too crowded, as he stood there, frozen in place. I felt the blood rush to my face, my pulse suddenly erratic, torn between embarrassment and the lingering heat that still pulsed beneath my skin.

        He watched in disbelief for a moment before clearing his throat loudly. "Dear God get a room or fuck, and get it over with already." He said in annoyance making me hide my face in Edward's coat as I died in embarrassment. 

[spearsillustration]

Your ult Richtofen head cannons are so good!!!

On the same topic as the last anon, would you make a head canon for a younger woman dating him around valentines like what gifts he may give or how he treats it all. To me he is a workaholic who will stay at work for most of the day but will return to her later and will not make it a waste of time

OMG yay, okay this will be late for Valentine's Day...It is currently 11:58pm now that I'm starting this. I wanted to write something cute for Valentine's Day but I had work. 🥲 Okay I got distracted and didn't finish this till 2:47am. But I hope you can still enjoy. <3

Valentine’s Day would not be something he takes the time to remember. The date would come and go like any other, lost in the blur of more pressing matters. There would be no red hearts drawn in the margins of his notes, no hastily scribbled reminders tucked away in a corner of his mind. It would not be circled on any calendar—if he even bothered to keep one.

To put it briefly, I don’t think he would celebrate most holidays. The significance of such things would feel trivial to him, overshadowed by greater pursuits, and grander ambitions. He was not the type to stop and admire the world’s sentimental traditions, nor would he be the kind to indulge in fleeting, superficial gestures of affection. To him, holidays were simply another day, another rotation of the Earth, nothing more.

Even if someone were to bring it up, to mention it offhandedly in passing, he might scoff, brushing it off with a wave of his hand and a dismissive remark. "Ah, another foolish excuse for people to waste time and money, ja?" he’d say, rolling his eyes as if the entire concept was beneath him. The idea of setting aside a specific day just to express love and devotion would likely amuse him, if not outright annoy him. After all, in his mind, emotions—especially love—were often just distractions.

But perhaps, just perhaps, if someone close to him were to acknowledge the day in an unexpected way, he might pause for a fraction of a second. Maybe he would raise an eyebrow at a small, unexpected gesture. A gift, a card, a simple acknowledgment. He wouldn’t know how to react at first, maybe even scoff at the sentimentality of it all. And yet, he wouldn’t entirely dismiss it either.

Because despite his protests, despite his cold indifference toward the idea of holidays, there was always the possibility that, deep down, in the quiet moments where no one was watching, he might remember. Not because the date itself mattered, but because the person who acknowledged it did.

He might not even realize his oversight until the day was already over, only noticing when someone offhandedly mentioned it or when the world around him had already begun to move on. Ah, was that today? He’d mutter to himself, rubbing his temples in frustration, annoyed at both the oversight and at the fact that he even cared in the first place.

If confronted about it, he’d likely wave it off with some dismissive excuse—“Bah! Foolish traditions, so unnecessary!”—but there would be something else lurking beneath his words. A flicker of something unspoken, perhaps even a touch of guilt, though he’d never admit it outright.

And if—by some miracle—he actually did remember before it was too late, it would likely be in a rushed, last-minute panic, trying to salvage what little time remained. Maybe he’d hastily scribble something down, present a gift that was more practical than romantic, or awkwardly fumble through an attempt at a gesture that didn’t quite come out as intended.

Because while he might not prioritize such things, while he may not intentionally forget, deep down, some part of him would recognize that it mattered—to someone—and that realization alone might be enough to make him almost regret forgetting in the first place.

If he did get you a gift, it wouldn’t be anything extravagant. There would be no grand gestures, no elaborately wrapped boxes adorned with ribbons, no cliché flowers or chocolates. It would be something small—at least, small in the eyes of anyone else. But to you, it would mean everything.

Because whatever he chose, it wouldn’t be random. It wouldn’t be something picked up in passing or something that could be given to just anyone. No, he would put thought into it, whether he admitted it or not. He would get something that only you would appreciate, something tailored so specifically to you that it would be undeniable proof that—despite his aloofness, despite his dismissive attitude toward sentimentality—he noticed things. He noticed you.

Perhaps it would be an old, obscure book he had come across, one he knew you had been searching for but never managed to find. Perhaps it would be something he crafted himself—something small, precise, and uniquely designed just for you. Maybe it would be a trinket tied to an inside joke, something that would make only you smile, something meaningless to the rest of the world but priceless between the two of you.

And, of course, he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. He wouldn’t present it with flowery words or grand declarations. More likely, he’d hand it to you casually, almost offhandedly, as if it were an afterthought.

“Here. Take it. Before I change my mind.”If you expressed any kind of surprise or gratitude, he’d probably wave you off, pretending it wasn’t important, that it was just something he happened to come across.“Don’t make such a fuss. It is nothing.”

But you’d see it—the way he avoided eye contact for just a second too long, the way his fingers lingered when he handed it over, the way his usual smirk softened, just a fraction.

Because while others might not understand the significance of his gift, you would. And that was all that really mattered.

[spearsillustration]

Not Richtofen hitting that Optimus Prime pose.

I just saw the Primis crew gif and immediately thought of this for some reason. I can't explain how my brain works. 😢

[spearsillustration]

Guys I made a thing. 😏

This is my life now, omg.

On a lighter note I might make one for Primis Richtofen and Dempsey.

If anyone has any other songs I should add you should definitely comment so I can make the playlist longer.

[spearsillustration]

Would you be willing to do some head cannons or a one shot about Ult Richtofen as a boyfriend to someone a bit younger than him?

OMG yay okay *cracks knuckles* I've been waiting for this kind of request and I am so ready to fulfill it. This is the practice I needed for my next Oneshot.

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Note: Alright I've been wanting to work on something for Ultimis Richtofen so here we go. 

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I feel like it depends on the age difference between the two of you. The younger you are the more he'd tease you about your little crush you had on the older man. 

He would definitely joke about you having daddy issues, and it would probably be all in good fun, but still a little bit awkward. Given the age difference, he might playfully tease you about seeking out an older man, using that classic ‘daddy issues’ line as a way to poke fun at the situation. 

He's extremely bipolar with how he shows you affection, and it's honestly exhausting. One minute, he's incredibly touchy, showering you with affection, compliments, and constant attention, almost to the point of being overbearingly loving. He'll make you feel like you're the most important person in his life, holding you close, and expressing his love in every possible way. But then, just as suddenly, he shifts, and the next minute he becomes emotionally distant and cold, as if you don't exist at all. He'll completely ignore you, barely acknowledging your presence, consumed by his work or whatever else is on his mind. It’s a confusing emotional rollercoaster, one that leaves you questioning where you stand and whether his feelings are genuine or just fleeting moments of intensity.

Regardless of his lack of moral compass and the questionable choices he might make, he still has this fierce, almost contradictory side to him when it comes to protecting you. It doesn’t matter how flawed his judgment is or how much he messes up in other areas of his life—when it comes to you, he’s like a shield. He might not always make the best decisions or follow the rules, but when it comes to keeping you safe, standing up for you, or making sure no one harms you, he'll do whatever it takes. His protectiveness doesn't come from a place of pure morality, but from a deep, unspoken loyalty to you, one that seems to override any of his other questionable behaviors. It’s a strange mix of love and possessiveness, where, even with all his faults, he’ll be there when you need him, ready to guard you from any danger that may come your way.

And despite his overwhelming god complex, where he often carries himself like he's untouchable, irreplaceable, and superior to everyone around him, there's this surprising vulnerability hidden beneath it all. As much as he projects an image of complete self-sufficiency and power, he's incredibly easily made jealous if you're spending too much time with others, especially when you're giving them attention or affection that he feels should be directed towards him. It’s like this flicker of insecurity that he tries so hard to mask, but it still manages to surface whenever he sees you connecting with someone else. His pride may be sky-high, but the jealousy is almost palpable—he’ll subtly (or sometimes not-so-subtly) make sure you know he’s not happy about it. It’s as though he believes that, despite everything, you should be entirely focused on him, because in his eyes, he’s the one who deserves your attention, loyalty, and love above anyone else. His god complex only makes that jealousy more intense, as if anyone else getting close to you is some sort of threat to his sense of self-importance.

When he's working, he absolutely hates being interrupted. It’s like a switch flips inside of him, and suddenly, everything else fades into the background. His focus becomes laser-sharp, and when anything or anyone disrupts that, it completely throws him off. The frustration is obvious, you can see it in his body language—his jaw tightens, his eyes narrow, and the air around him becomes thick with irritation. It's almost as though any interruption is a direct challenge to his concentration and efficiency, and it riles him up in a way that’s hard to miss. And while you're not exactly exempt from this, you're still treated with a bit more patience than others. He may not snap or lash out at you in the same way he would at someone else, but it’s clear that the annoyance still lingers. He'll let out a deep sigh, his tone becoming a bit sharper, though he tries to mask it with a forced calmness. It doesn't matter that you're the one person he feels closest to—when he’s in the zone, being bothered just annoys him to the core. His work becomes his entire world in those moments, and even the smallest distractions can leave him on edge. It’s a fine line between wanting to be kind and still feeling the weight of his frustration, and while he may handle it better with you than with others, you can still feel the tension in the air whenever you have to interrupt his focus.

If he isn’t working on something super important or incredibly urgent, he’s actually pretty laid-back about having company around. In those moments, he doesn’t mind your presence at all; in fact, it almost feels like he appreciates it. He might even seem a little more relaxed, more open to conversation or the occasional distraction. His usual sharp focus softens a bit, and he allows himself to enjoy the simple act of being around you, even if he’s still partially immersed in whatever task he’s doing. From time to time, he’ll even let you help out, but there’s a catch—he’s only willing to accept your assistance as long as you don’t get in his way. If you’re offering to help with something, he expects you to be efficient, stay out of his personal space, and not interfere too much with how he’s working. He’s not the type to be overly dependent or ask for help often, but when the time is right, he’ll welcome the extra hands. 

If you ask him questions, he’ll happily dive into his vast knowledge, especially when it comes to his areas of expertise, like science or medicine. It’s one of those things that he truly enjoys—he lights up when talking about subjects he's passionate about. The more in-depth or complex the question, the more excited he gets. He’ll go on long rants, elaborating with an almost contagious enthusiasm, explaining theories, sharing details, and indulging in every piece of information that he finds fascinating. It’s clear that he takes immense pride in his intellect, and when you show interest in learning from him, he’s more than willing to share, reveling in the chance to display his mastery.

However, there is definitely a limit to this, and it’s something you’ll quickly learn to recognize. If you start asking questions that he perceives as too simple, too basic, or beneath his level of intelligence, his patience begins to thin. What might have been an engaging conversation can quickly turn into a frustrating experience for him, as he becomes visibly annoyed or irritated. His tone might shift, and you can sense that he’s no longer eager to share his knowledge; instead, he’s counting the seconds until the conversation ends. He doesn’t have much tolerance for questions he considers trivial or beneath the level of discourse he’s used to. If you push too far, he’ll begin to pull back, offering terse or one-word answers, signaling that he’s no longer interested in indulging you. He’ll likely move on to something else, leaving you with the clear impression that there’s a threshold he’s not willing to cross when it comes to certain kinds of inquiries. For him, knowledge is something to be respected, and if he feels like you’re not respecting the complexity of the topics he’s so passionate about, he’ll quickly disengage.

[spearsillustration]

Oh my gosh!!! I forgot to add the painting this was based off, or loosely based.

So alright if you were interested here you go. 😘

°[Making Time For The Small Things]°

- Primis Crew With An Artist/painter Reader - 

Note: This is just a cute Idea I've had for a few days. I've currently started painting again after a while. I've had trouble making the time to sit down and finish a piece. And while I was working I came up with a cute idea with the Primis crew. (oh, and I'm using a painting I recently finished as a reference for this story.)

Word count: 4,302

Page number: 12.5 

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        After an exhausting and grueling day, filled with the relentless chaos of fighting and killing, we finally managed to carve out a small pocket of time to rest and breathe. The air still felt thick with tension, and the adrenaline had yet to fully leave our bodies. Every muscle screamed for release, but the surroundings were so eerily quiet that it felt almost impossible to relax. The remnants of the battle lingered in our minds, haunting our every thought. It was almost too uncomfortable, too unnatural, to unwind in such an atmosphere. Despite the desperate need for rest, the weight of everything we'd just been through made it feel like we were too on edge to truly settle into peace.

        I fidgeted with the zipper of my jacket, the fabric cool under my fingers, as we settled down by the fire. The warmth of the flames flickered in front of us, but the stillness in the air made it hard to fully relax. As I absentmindedly adjusted my jacket, my hand brushed against something in my pocket that I hadn't noticed before. I pulled it out, my fingers brushing over the five small tubes of paint, their lids glinting in the firelight. For a moment, I was confused, but then it hit me — I remembered exactly where I had found them.

        They were tucked away in the corner of an old, abandoned house we’d passed through earlier. The place had been decaying, with dust thick in the air and the creaking of old wood beneath my feet. But amidst the forgotten rubble, I’d spotted the paint tubes, left behind by someone who’d clearly once had a passion for color. I had even managed to find a paintbrush, its bristles were a little frayed but still functional. The thought of it made me smile to myself.

        A wave of excitement surged through me as I realized what this meant. I hadn’t expected to come across something like this, and the possibility of putting my hands to use creatively, even for just a little while, filled me with an unexpected sense of purpose. I eagerly reached into my bag, pulling out my journal. It was a little worn from travel, its pages well-used, but it still held the stories and moments I’d captured in sketches and notes. Flipping through the pages, I found a few incomplete drawings, half-finished thoughts from times when I’d managed to steal a quiet moment.

        With a grin, I opened to a blank page and set the journal in my lap, ready to lose myself in this rare moment of creativity, even in the midst of all the chaos. The fire crackled beside me, and the world outside faded into the background. 

        I started with something simple, a few flowers. Just basic shapes with soft, curved petals. It was easy, almost instinctive, and it felt comforting to let my hand move freely across the page. The smooth strokes of the pencil came naturally, each line flowing with little effort. I hadn’t even thought about adding color yet; the sketch itself was enough for the moment. But even as I focused on the drawing, something in the air kept pulling my attention. There was this nagging feeling, a subtle weight in the back of my mind as if someone was watching me.

        I glanced up briefly, trying to gauge the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention to me. Edward was deep in conversation with Nikolai, his voice low and serious, though I couldn’t make out their words over the crackling fire. Their exchange seemed intense as if they were discussing something important, but it didn’t distract me long. Dempsey, as usual, was doing his own thing, sitting with his back against a large rock, methodically taking apart his gun and cleaning it piece by piece. The rhythmic sound of the metal parts clicking together was oddly soothing, almost like a steady pulse in the background.

        And then there was Takeo, sitting a little farther away from the group, his gaze distant and unfocused. His posture was stiff like he was lost in his thoughts, as if his mind had wandered far away from the warmth of the fire. His usual calm was there, but there was something deeper in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place. His silence was heavy, though he rarely spoke much to begin with.

        Despite all this, the feeling that I was being watched lingered, tugging at my focus. It was strange, almost unsettling. I didn’t want to look up again and risk making it obvious that I noticed, so I kept my eyes down on the paper. Still, my mind kept drifting. I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the softness of the pencil in my hand, the way it moved across the page, but the suspicion didn’t quite fade. Maybe it was just the way the shadows from the fire flickered across the faces of my companions, or the quiet stillness of the night around us. But something told me I wasn’t alone in my thoughts, even if no one spoke a word.

        When I was finally satisfied with the sketch, I paused for a moment to take it all in. My eyes scanned the lines of the flowers, the delicate curves of the petals, making sure everything was as I envisioned it. There was something deeply satisfying about the way the sketch had turned out, even if it was simple. I wasn’t trying to make anything too intricate; I just wanted to capture a small, quiet moment of beauty. I made a few final adjustments, a soft curve here, a sharper angle there, then looked at it once more, letting a small smile tug at the corners of my lips. It was, in its own way, perfect.

        With a deep breath, I reached into my pocket again, pulling out the small tubes of paint. I didn’t have much to work with—only five colors. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for what I had in mind. I set them down carefully on the ground beside me, looking at the colors in the soft glow of the firelight: white, maroon, dark green, yellow, and navy blue. It wasn’t a wide palette, but there was still plenty of potential here. I could work with this.

        I picked up the maroon first, squeezing a small amount of it onto the makeshift palette I had set up, carefully using the edge of a broken stick as a mixing surface. I thought about how I would use the maroon and white together to create a gentle gradient, blending them to shade the flowers, turning them into a soft pink color. I imagined it—how they’d pop against the dark blue background, the petals delicate and inviting, with just the right amount of depth.

        The green and yellow were next. I figured the green would work for the stems and leaves, a subtle contrast to the vibrant blooms I was planning. The yellow would add a hint of brightness, maybe for the centers of the flowers, a little burst of warmth.

        Then there was the navy blue. That would be for the background—rich and deep, the perfect backdrop to make the flowers stand out, almost like they were glowing in the dim light. I could already picture how it would all come together in my mind, a beautiful, simple piece of art that felt like a moment of peace I could carry with me.

        But as I prepared to dip the brush into the maroon, the thought crossed my mind: What if I didn’t get to finish it? It was a fleeting thought, but the reality of our situation was always present. Who knew how much time I’d have before we had to pack up and move again, or worse when we’d have to fight our way out of another situation? The chaos of our world was always lurking just around the corner, ready to disrupt anything that felt even remotely normal.

        Still, I didn’t let that stop me. I took the brush in hand, dipped it carefully into the maroon, and began to paint the first flower, one slow stroke at a time. If I didn’t get to finish it, at least I would have this—this small, fleeting piece of beauty—captured in the moment. And for now, that was enough.

         My attention was entirely on the small canvas in front of me—the way the maroon paint swirled into the soft pink of the petals, the quiet rhythm of the brush against the paper. The crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of the others didn’t break my concentration. I had created this little world of color and shape, one that felt far removed from the tension and chaos of everything else.

        It wasn’t until I felt the weight of someone’s gaze that I realized something had shifted. A soft presence beside me. Before I could even turn to see who it was, I jumped slightly in surprise.

        There, standing next to me, was Takeo. I hadn’t heard him approach. He was so quiet, as usual, that his movement seemed almost imperceptible. But there he was, right next to me, his gaze fixed intently on the flowers I was painting. His eyes traced every stroke, every detail as if studying the way the colors blended together. His usual stoic expression was softened just enough for me to catch a glimpse of quiet curiosity.

        I felt a slight flush creep up my neck, an unfamiliar sense of being watched in a way that felt different from before. Takeo had always been a man of few words, but his presence was always felt, whether he spoke or not. Now, with him standing just over my shoulder, the silence between us seemed even heavier.

        For a moment, I froze, unsure of what to do. I didn’t mind him looking—though I wasn’t exactly used to it—but there was something about how still and unspoken he was that made me feel self-conscious.

        I cleared my throat, trying to regain some composure, but my hand remained steady, even if my mind was suddenly a little scattered. "You like it?" I asked, glancing up at him as I dabbed more paint onto the page.

        He didn’t immediately respond, his eyes were still focused on the flowers, studying them with a quiet intensity. I could see the faintest hint of approval in the way his eyes softened, though he didn’t say a word. Takeo was never one to offer praise or even much of an opinion. His silence was often his way of communicating more than words could express.

        Still, the fact that he had come so close to observing my work felt like a compliment in its own way. I wasn’t sure if he fully understood the significance of the act—painting, for me, was a rare escape, a brief respite from the constant noise of everything around us. But maybe, just maybe, in that moment, he saw that too.

        I continued to paint, but the presence of him beside me made everything feel a little different, a little more significant. I wasn’t alone in this small moment of peace anymore. It wasn’t much, but for a brief instant, it felt like something shared.

        Takeo didn’t say a word. He simply sat down beside me, settling into the dirt with a quiet ease that made his presence all the more noticeable. He leaned slightly forward, his attention entirely on my work, and there was something almost serene about the way he watched. It was as if he wasn’t just observing the act of painting, but something deeper—something that I wasn’t sure I fully understood. But there was no pressure, no expectation. He was content, and that quiet companionship was enough.

        I thought about it for a moment—how rare it was for someone to just sit with you without saying anything, without the need to fill the silence with words. I’d become so accustomed to the noise and chaos that I had forgotten how peaceful such quiet moments could be. He wasn’t in a rush to talk, to move, to break the stillness. He just… sat there. Watching. And who was I to take that away from him? In a way, it felt like an unspoken bond between us, a shared moment of calm in the midst of everything else. So, I did nothing to disturb it.

        I dipped my brush back into the paint, carefully blending the shades, lost in the process. Every so often, I would clean the brush off on my pants. My hands and thigh of my pants were stained with the pigment, but it didn’t matter. I was focused on the small, steady rhythm of my work. The fire flickered beside us, its warmth creeping into the air around us, but the world felt far away.

        Time seemed to pass differently when I wasn’t thinking about it when you're absorbed in something as simple as painting. Though not long after, I felt a shift in the air—the unmistakable sound of someone shifting position, stretching, and standing up. I glanced to my left and saw Dempsey, finishing whatever he had been doing with his gun. He wiped his hands on his pants before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a low grunt. His eyes found Takeo, and a knowing smile crept across his face.

        It didn’t take long for Dempsey to notice that Takeo, who normally kept to himself, had moved over to sit next to me. The curiosity was evident in his eyes, and he stood up with a stretch, walking over to where we were sitting. He didn’t say anything immediately, just stood there for a moment, looking down at the journal I had opened in my lap. His eyes flicked over the sketch and the small paint strokes, and for a moment, I felt like I was being scrutinized.

        Dempsey wasn’t the type to keep quiet for long, and I half expected him to make a sarcastic comment or crack a joke, but he surprised me. His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable interest in it. “Looks good,” he said, peering down at the flowers, then glancing at Takeo, who remained silent. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

        I nodded, a little smile playing at the corner of my lips. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice soft, not wanting to break the fragile peace that had settled around us.

        After a while of pacing back and forth, Dempsey finally seemed to tire of the restless movement and plopped down beside me on my other side. Now, I found myself with not one, but two people watching me closely. The weight of their gazes from both sides was a little unnerving, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the work I had been so focused on was somehow suddenly inadequate. I glanced down at the flowers I had painted so far, and, of course, they looked just fine. But with Dempsey’s broad shoulders to my right and Takeo’s quiet presence to my left, I felt a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.

        It was strange. When I was by myself, painting felt like an escape, a way to express myself without the pressure of anyone else’s judgment. But now, with them both observing, even if they didn’t say a word, my confidence faltered. I always felt like my art didn’t look as good when I was being watched. Every brushstroke seemed less certain, every line less sure, and I had the urge to erase everything and start again—though I knew that wouldn’t really fix anything.

        The fire crackled beside us, but its warmth didn’t seem to ease the tension in my shoulders. I dipped my brush into the navy blue, trying to focus on the background. Just concentrate, I told myself. Ignore them. Keep painting. But every time I lifted my hand to apply the next stroke, I could feel their eyes on me, making me second-guess every decision.

        It wasn’t long before the other two—Edward and Nikolai—noticed the small gathering we had formed. I could see them from the corner of my eye, standing together by the fire, talking in low voices. They paused, exchanging a glance, then walked over in our direction. Their footsteps were soft on the ground, the crunch of dirt and gravel barely audible over the fire’s crackling.

        Edward was the first to break the silence, his tone light and teasing. “What’s this? A little art club forming over here?” he asked with a small chuckle, his gaze shifting between the three of us. There was a playful curiosity in his voice, but it was clear that he wasn’t expecting to see such a peaceful gathering in the middle of everything else. Nikolai stood beside him, leaning against a rock, his arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face.

        I didn’t say anything at first. I was still too focused on trying to ignore the tension that had crept into my chest. But I couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious now, with them both standing there, observing us. “Just… painting,” I murmured, my voice quieter than usual, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety or just the weight of the moment.

        Dempsey nudged me with his elbow, his tone still casual. “Not bad, huh?” He grinned, obviously not bothered by the extra eyes on the work, while Takeo remained silent, still lost in his own thoughts, but his eyes never strayed far from the painting.

        I felt a slight heat rise to my cheeks. “It’s nothing special,” I said quickly, trying to brush off the attention. But as I glanced at the work again, I realized it had come together better than I had anticipated. The flowers, though simple, had a certain warmth to them, and the background of the deep navy was starting to make the colors pop in a way that made it feel more alive. Still, with all four of them gathered around me now, I couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability, of being exposed.

        Nikolai raised an eyebrow, a smirk still playing on his lips. “It looks like more than ‘nothing special’ to me,” he remarked, looking down at the page with genuine interest. “You sure you didn’t take some extra time while we weren’t looking?” His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of approval there, and it made me feel a little better.

        Edward, who had been watching me with his usual amused expression, took a step closer. “You’ve got some talent,” he said, his voice sincere despite the playful edge. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

        I shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s just a hobby,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to downplay it. Maybe I just didn’t want anyone to make a bigger deal out of it than it was.

        The moment was oddly still, the fire crackling softly in the background, the weight of the night settling around us. Even with them all standing there, watching me, something about the simple act of painting still gave me a sense of peace, a small respite from the madness of everything else. I could feel the tension easing off my shoulders just a little bit, despite the nagging anxiety that tried to cling to the edges of my mind.

        "Thanks, guys," I said with a soft, easing breath, feeling the tension in my chest start to loosen as I looked up at them. "I didn’t think you all would be so interested. Well, maybe not most of you," I added with a light chuckle. "I’ve seen Richtofen sketch from time to time."

        The words felt a little awkward coming out, but they were true. I hadn’t expected any of them to pay much attention to what I was doing, especially with everything else going on. We were constantly moving, constantly preparing for the next fight, the next threat. The idea of sitting down and quietly working on something like this in the middle of all that had felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. Yet here they were, gathered around me, watching in silence, or in Dempsey’s case, offering casual comments. It was a strange feeling, having their attention focused on something so personal, something I rarely shared.

        I glanced over at Dempsey, who had leaned back against a rock, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the moment in his own way. His usual gruff demeanor seemed softened like he was taking in the rarity of it all. Takeo, sat quietly at my side, still absorbed in the painting, his posture steady and calm. Even Nikolai, who was usually quick to crack jokes or make sarcastic comments, was silently watching with something like quiet approval in his eyes.

        And then there was Richtofen. He had always been the odd one out in our group when it came to such things. The eccentric scientist seemed to have a constant need to document everything around him, often sketching or writing down observations, whether it was related to the madness we were stuck in or something far more abstract. I had caught glimpses of his journals from time to time—notes scribbled in his unique handwriting, odd diagrams, and sketches that only made sense to him. He was always observing, always looking for patterns or hidden meanings in the chaos.

        For a moment, the group fell into a quiet rhythm, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I turned my attention back to the painting, the brush in my hand steady as I added a few final touches to the flowers. The conversation around me faded into the background, the light chatter and quiet murmurs creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. It was a fleeting moment of calm in the midst of everything that had been happening.

        After a while, I finally managed to finish the last few strokes, each one feeling more deliberate than the last. I set the brush down, letting out a small sigh of relief as I pulled my hand back from the journal. My eyes took in the picture before me, and I allowed myself a moment to just observe it in its entirety. The flowers, their maroon and white petals blending seamlessly into each other, the deep green stems curving delicately beneath the soft yellow accents, and the navy blue background that brought everything together in a way I hadn’t expected. It was simple, but there was something about it that felt complete, something that resonated deeply within me.

        I leaned back slightly, taking a few steps away to get a better look at it, giving my mind time to adjust to the image I’d created. I couldn’t help but notice how the colors had come together in a way that made it seem almost… alive like the flowers were blooming right before my eyes. Each petal held its own character, every stroke of paint carrying a little piece of me, a little piece of the moment.

        A smile slowly spread across my face as I stood there, allowing myself to feel proud of what I had just done. It wasn’t anything extraordinary in the grand scheme of things, but to me, it felt like an achievement. A tiny, fleeting moment of beauty in the middle of a world that had so often been defined by violence, survival, and endless chaos.

        I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken time to do something like this—just sit. I could breathe, like I wasn’t just a soldier, a survivor, or part of a group trying to fight their way through the madness. I was simply me, and this painting was a piece of that person.

        I glanced over at my companions, who had quietly observed my work throughout the process. They were still in their places—Dempsey leaning back against a boulder, Nikolai standing nearby with his arms crossed, Richtofen sitting with me, and Takeo, who had remained silent throughout, now looking at the painting with quiet intensity.

        They hadn’t said much as I painted, but I could feel their presence, their attention, in a way that made the moment feel even more significant. It wasn’t just that I had created something—I had shared it with them. I didn’t know what they thought of it exactly, but I could tell they appreciated the fact that I had taken the time to do something that wasn’t just about survival. It was about creating, about living in a moment of peace, however fleeting it might be.

        I glanced down at the picture again, taking in its full glory. The simple flowers now felt like a quiet triumph, a testament to the fact that, even in this world, moments of beauty could still exist. A warm smile tugged at my lips, and for a second, I almost forgot about everything else.

        As I stood there, taking it all in, I felt a deep sense of contentment settle over me. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was small, but it was a moment of peace in a world that rarely offered any. And for now, that was enough.

[spearsillustration]

Omg I finally drew him in a style I'm happy with. For some reason he is so hard to draw. He does look younger but I'm still happy. This took about three attempts before I was remotely happy with it but I prevailed.

The original sketch was pretty rough though. But I was drawing from memory.

[spearsillustration]

Edward Richtofen Quotes/Sound Files

[Ultimis/Primis]

I use these for references/ideas for fics and headcanons. But you can also use them for sleep aid/ASMR I'm not judging. 👀

I could only find one for Ultimis so far but there is plenty for primis.

@itsyogirlaustralia

I'll post one for Dempsey as well, if anyone's interested.

[spearsillustration]

Dang, you know the hyperfixation is bad when my phone looks like this. I love this man. 😔

[spearsillustration]

°[Making Time For The Small Things]°

- Primis Crew With An Artist/painter Reader - 

Note: This is just a cute Idea I've had for a few days. I've currently started painting again after a while. I've had trouble making the time to sit down and finish a piece. And while I was working I came up with a cute idea with the Primis crew. (oh, and I'm using a painting I recently finished as a reference for this story.)

Word count: 4,302

Page number: 12.5 

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        After an exhausting and grueling day, filled with the relentless chaos of fighting and killing, we finally managed to carve out a small pocket of time to rest and breathe. The air still felt thick with tension, and the adrenaline had yet to fully leave our bodies. Every muscle screamed for release, but the surroundings were so eerily quiet that it felt almost impossible to relax. The remnants of the battle lingered in our minds, haunting our every thought. It was almost too uncomfortable, too unnatural, to unwind in such an atmosphere. Despite the desperate need for rest, the weight of everything we'd just been through made it feel like we were too on edge to truly settle into peace.

        I fidgeted with the zipper of my jacket, the fabric cool under my fingers, as we settled down by the fire. The warmth of the flames flickered in front of us, but the stillness in the air made it hard to fully relax. As I absentmindedly adjusted my jacket, my hand brushed against something in my pocket that I hadn't noticed before. I pulled it out, my fingers brushing over the five small tubes of paint, their lids glinting in the firelight. For a moment, I was confused, but then it hit me — I remembered exactly where I had found them.

        They were tucked away in the corner of an old, abandoned house we’d passed through earlier. The place had been decaying, with dust thick in the air and the creaking of old wood beneath my feet. But amidst the forgotten rubble, I’d spotted the paint tubes, left behind by someone who’d clearly once had a passion for color. I had even managed to find a paintbrush, its bristles were a little frayed but still functional. The thought of it made me smile to myself.

        A wave of excitement surged through me as I realized what this meant. I hadn’t expected to come across something like this, and the possibility of putting my hands to use creatively, even for just a little while, filled me with an unexpected sense of purpose. I eagerly reached into my bag, pulling out my journal. It was a little worn from travel, its pages well-used, but it still held the stories and moments I’d captured in sketches and notes. Flipping through the pages, I found a few incomplete drawings, half-finished thoughts from times when I’d managed to steal a quiet moment.

        With a grin, I opened to a blank page and set the journal in my lap, ready to lose myself in this rare moment of creativity, even in the midst of all the chaos. The fire crackled beside me, and the world outside faded into the background. 

        I started with something simple, a few flowers. Just basic shapes with soft, curved petals. It was easy, almost instinctive, and it felt comforting to let my hand move freely across the page. The smooth strokes of the pencil came naturally, each line flowing with little effort. I hadn’t even thought about adding color yet; the sketch itself was enough for the moment. But even as I focused on the drawing, something in the air kept pulling my attention. There was this nagging feeling, a subtle weight in the back of my mind as if someone was watching me.

        I glanced up briefly, trying to gauge the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention to me. Edward was deep in conversation with Nikolai, his voice low and serious, though I couldn’t make out their words over the crackling fire. Their exchange seemed intense as if they were discussing something important, but it didn’t distract me long. Dempsey, as usual, was doing his own thing, sitting with his back against a large rock, methodically taking apart his gun and cleaning it piece by piece. The rhythmic sound of the metal parts clicking together was oddly soothing, almost like a steady pulse in the background.

        And then there was Takeo, sitting a little farther away from the group, his gaze distant and unfocused. His posture was stiff like he was lost in his thoughts, as if his mind had wandered far away from the warmth of the fire. His usual calm was there, but there was something deeper in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place. His silence was heavy, though he rarely spoke much to begin with.

        Despite all this, the feeling that I was being watched lingered, tugging at my focus. It was strange, almost unsettling. I didn’t want to look up again and risk making it obvious that I noticed, so I kept my eyes down on the paper. Still, my mind kept drifting. I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the softness of the pencil in my hand, the way it moved across the page, but the suspicion didn’t quite fade. Maybe it was just the way the shadows from the fire flickered across the faces of my companions, or the quiet stillness of the night around us. But something told me I wasn’t alone in my thoughts, even if no one spoke a word.

        When I was finally satisfied with the sketch, I paused for a moment to take it all in. My eyes scanned the lines of the flowers, the delicate curves of the petals, making sure everything was as I envisioned it. There was something deeply satisfying about the way the sketch had turned out, even if it was simple. I wasn’t trying to make anything too intricate; I just wanted to capture a small, quiet moment of beauty. I made a few final adjustments, a soft curve here, a sharper angle there, then looked at it once more, letting a small smile tug at the corners of my lips. It was, in its own way, perfect.

        With a deep breath, I reached into my pocket again, pulling out the small tubes of paint. I didn’t have much to work with—only five colors. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for what I had in mind. I set them down carefully on the ground beside me, looking at the colors in the soft glow of the firelight: white, maroon, dark green, yellow, and navy blue. It wasn’t a wide palette, but there was still plenty of potential here. I could work with this.

        I picked up the maroon first, squeezing a small amount of it onto the makeshift palette I had set up, carefully using the edge of a broken stick as a mixing surface. I thought about how I would use the maroon and white together to create a gentle gradient, blending them to shade the flowers, turning them into a soft pink color. I imagined it—how they’d pop against the dark blue background, the petals delicate and inviting, with just the right amount of depth.

        The green and yellow were next. I figured the green would work for the stems and leaves, a subtle contrast to the vibrant blooms I was planning. The yellow would add a hint of brightness, maybe for the centers of the flowers, a little burst of warmth.

        Then there was the navy blue. That would be for the background—rich and deep, the perfect backdrop to make the flowers stand out, almost like they were glowing in the dim light. I could already picture how it would all come together in my mind, a beautiful, simple piece of art that felt like a moment of peace I could carry with me.

        But as I prepared to dip the brush into the maroon, the thought crossed my mind: What if I didn’t get to finish it? It was a fleeting thought, but the reality of our situation was always present. Who knew how much time I’d have before we had to pack up and move again, or worse when we’d have to fight our way out of another situation? The chaos of our world was always lurking just around the corner, ready to disrupt anything that felt even remotely normal.

        Still, I didn’t let that stop me. I took the brush in hand, dipped it carefully into the maroon, and began to paint the first flower, one slow stroke at a time. If I didn’t get to finish it, at least I would have this—this small, fleeting piece of beauty—captured in the moment. And for now, that was enough.

         My attention was entirely on the small canvas in front of me—the way the maroon paint swirled into the soft pink of the petals, the quiet rhythm of the brush against the paper. The crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of the others didn’t break my concentration. I had created this little world of color and shape, one that felt far removed from the tension and chaos of everything else.

        It wasn’t until I felt the weight of someone’s gaze that I realized something had shifted. A soft presence beside me. Before I could even turn to see who it was, I jumped slightly in surprise.

        There, standing next to me, was Takeo. I hadn’t heard him approach. He was so quiet, as usual, that his movement seemed almost imperceptible. But there he was, right next to me, his gaze fixed intently on the flowers I was painting. His eyes traced every stroke, every detail as if studying the way the colors blended together. His usual stoic expression was softened just enough for me to catch a glimpse of quiet curiosity.

        I felt a slight flush creep up my neck, an unfamiliar sense of being watched in a way that felt different from before. Takeo had always been a man of few words, but his presence was always felt, whether he spoke or not. Now, with him standing just over my shoulder, the silence between us seemed even heavier.

        For a moment, I froze, unsure of what to do. I didn’t mind him looking—though I wasn’t exactly used to it—but there was something about how still and unspoken he was that made me feel self-conscious.

        I cleared my throat, trying to regain some composure, but my hand remained steady, even if my mind was suddenly a little scattered. "You like it?" I asked, glancing up at him as I dabbed more paint onto the page.

        He didn’t immediately respond, his eyes were still focused on the flowers, studying them with a quiet intensity. I could see the faintest hint of approval in the way his eyes softened, though he didn’t say a word. Takeo was never one to offer praise or even much of an opinion. His silence was often his way of communicating more than words could express.

        Still, the fact that he had come so close to observing my work felt like a compliment in its own way. I wasn’t sure if he fully understood the significance of the act—painting, for me, was a rare escape, a brief respite from the constant noise of everything around us. But maybe, just maybe, in that moment, he saw that too.

        I continued to paint, but the presence of him beside me made everything feel a little different, a little more significant. I wasn’t alone in this small moment of peace anymore. It wasn’t much, but for a brief instant, it felt like something shared.

        Takeo didn’t say a word. He simply sat down beside me, settling into the dirt with a quiet ease that made his presence all the more noticeable. He leaned slightly forward, his attention entirely on my work, and there was something almost serene about the way he watched. It was as if he wasn’t just observing the act of painting, but something deeper—something that I wasn’t sure I fully understood. But there was no pressure, no expectation. He was content, and that quiet companionship was enough.

        I thought about it for a moment—how rare it was for someone to just sit with you without saying anything, without the need to fill the silence with words. I’d become so accustomed to the noise and chaos that I had forgotten how peaceful such quiet moments could be. He wasn’t in a rush to talk, to move, to break the stillness. He just… sat there. Watching. And who was I to take that away from him? In a way, it felt like an unspoken bond between us, a shared moment of calm in the midst of everything else. So, I did nothing to disturb it.

        I dipped my brush back into the paint, carefully blending the shades, lost in the process. Every so often, I would clean the brush off on my pants. My hands and thigh of my pants were stained with the pigment, but it didn’t matter. I was focused on the small, steady rhythm of my work. The fire flickered beside us, its warmth creeping into the air around us, but the world felt far away.

        Time seemed to pass differently when I wasn’t thinking about it when you're absorbed in something as simple as painting. Though not long after, I felt a shift in the air—the unmistakable sound of someone shifting position, stretching, and standing up. I glanced to my left and saw Dempsey, finishing whatever he had been doing with his gun. He wiped his hands on his pants before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a low grunt. His eyes found Takeo, and a knowing smile crept across his face.

        It didn’t take long for Dempsey to notice that Takeo, who normally kept to himself, had moved over to sit next to me. The curiosity was evident in his eyes, and he stood up with a stretch, walking over to where we were sitting. He didn’t say anything immediately, just stood there for a moment, looking down at the journal I had opened in my lap. His eyes flicked over the sketch and the small paint strokes, and for a moment, I felt like I was being scrutinized.

        Dempsey wasn’t the type to keep quiet for long, and I half expected him to make a sarcastic comment or crack a joke, but he surprised me. His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable interest in it. “Looks good,” he said, peering down at the flowers, then glancing at Takeo, who remained silent. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

        I nodded, a little smile playing at the corner of my lips. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice soft, not wanting to break the fragile peace that had settled around us.

        After a while of pacing back and forth, Dempsey finally seemed to tire of the restless movement and plopped down beside me on my other side. Now, I found myself with not one, but two people watching me closely. The weight of their gazes from both sides was a little unnerving, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the work I had been so focused on was somehow suddenly inadequate. I glanced down at the flowers I had painted so far, and, of course, they looked just fine. But with Dempsey’s broad shoulders to my right and Takeo’s quiet presence to my left, I felt a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.

        It was strange. When I was by myself, painting felt like an escape, a way to express myself without the pressure of anyone else’s judgment. But now, with them both observing, even if they didn’t say a word, my confidence faltered. I always felt like my art didn’t look as good when I was being watched. Every brushstroke seemed less certain, every line less sure, and I had the urge to erase everything and start again—though I knew that wouldn’t really fix anything.

        The fire crackled beside us, but its warmth didn’t seem to ease the tension in my shoulders. I dipped my brush into the navy blue, trying to focus on the background. Just concentrate, I told myself. Ignore them. Keep painting. But every time I lifted my hand to apply the next stroke, I could feel their eyes on me, making me second-guess every decision.

        It wasn’t long before the other two—Edward and Nikolai—noticed the small gathering we had formed. I could see them from the corner of my eye, standing together by the fire, talking in low voices. They paused, exchanging a glance, then walked over in our direction. Their footsteps were soft on the ground, the crunch of dirt and gravel barely audible over the fire’s crackling.

        Edward was the first to break the silence, his tone light and teasing. “What’s this? A little art club forming over here?” he asked with a small chuckle, his gaze shifting between the three of us. There was a playful curiosity in his voice, but it was clear that he wasn’t expecting to see such a peaceful gathering in the middle of everything else. Nikolai stood beside him, leaning against a rock, his arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face.

        I didn’t say anything at first. I was still too focused on trying to ignore the tension that had crept into my chest. But I couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious now, with them both standing there, observing us. “Just… painting,” I murmured, my voice quieter than usual, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety or just the weight of the moment.

        Dempsey nudged me with his elbow, his tone still casual. “Not bad, huh?” He grinned, obviously not bothered by the extra eyes on the work, while Takeo remained silent, still lost in his own thoughts, but his eyes never strayed far from the painting.

        I felt a slight heat rise to my cheeks. “It’s nothing special,” I said quickly, trying to brush off the attention. But as I glanced at the work again, I realized it had come together better than I had anticipated. The flowers, though simple, had a certain warmth to them, and the background of the deep navy was starting to make the colors pop in a way that made it feel more alive. Still, with all four of them gathered around me now, I couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability, of being exposed.

        Nikolai raised an eyebrow, a smirk still playing on his lips. “It looks like more than ‘nothing special’ to me,” he remarked, looking down at the page with genuine interest. “You sure you didn’t take some extra time while we weren’t looking?” His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of approval there, and it made me feel a little better.

        Edward, who had been watching me with his usual amused expression, took a step closer. “You’ve got some talent,” he said, his voice sincere despite the playful edge. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

        I shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s just a hobby,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to downplay it. Maybe I just didn’t want anyone to make a bigger deal out of it than it was.

        The moment was oddly still, the fire crackling softly in the background, the weight of the night settling around us. Even with them all standing there, watching me, something about the simple act of painting still gave me a sense of peace, a small respite from the madness of everything else. I could feel the tension easing off my shoulders just a little bit, despite the nagging anxiety that tried to cling to the edges of my mind.

        "Thanks, guys," I said with a soft, easing breath, feeling the tension in my chest start to loosen as I looked up at them. "I didn’t think you all would be so interested. Well, maybe not most of you," I added with a light chuckle. "I’ve seen Richtofen sketch from time to time."

        The words felt a little awkward coming out, but they were true. I hadn’t expected any of them to pay much attention to what I was doing, especially with everything else going on. We were constantly moving, constantly preparing for the next fight, the next threat. The idea of sitting down and quietly working on something like this in the middle of all that had felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. Yet here they were, gathered around me, watching in silence, or in Dempsey’s case, offering casual comments. It was a strange feeling, having their attention focused on something so personal, something I rarely shared.

        I glanced over at Dempsey, who had leaned back against a rock, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the moment in his own way. His usual gruff demeanor seemed softened like he was taking in the rarity of it all. Takeo, sat quietly at my side, still absorbed in the painting, his posture steady and calm. Even Nikolai, who was usually quick to crack jokes or make sarcastic comments, was silently watching with something like quiet approval in his eyes.

        And then there was Richtofen. He had always been the odd one out in our group when it came to such things. The eccentric scientist seemed to have a constant need to document everything around him, often sketching or writing down observations, whether it was related to the madness we were stuck in or something far more abstract. I had caught glimpses of his journals from time to time—notes scribbled in his unique handwriting, odd diagrams, and sketches that only made sense to him. He was always observing, always looking for patterns or hidden meanings in the chaos.

        For a moment, the group fell into a quiet rhythm, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I turned my attention back to the painting, the brush in my hand steady as I added a few final touches to the flowers. The conversation around me faded into the background, the light chatter and quiet murmurs creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. It was a fleeting moment of calm in the midst of everything that had been happening.

        After a while, I finally managed to finish the last few strokes, each one feeling more deliberate than the last. I set the brush down, letting out a small sigh of relief as I pulled my hand back from the journal. My eyes took in the picture before me, and I allowed myself a moment to just observe it in its entirety. The flowers, their maroon and white petals blending seamlessly into each other, the deep green stems curving delicately beneath the soft yellow accents, and the navy blue background that brought everything together in a way I hadn’t expected. It was simple, but there was something about it that felt complete, something that resonated deeply within me.

        I leaned back slightly, taking a few steps away to get a better look at it, giving my mind time to adjust to the image I’d created. I couldn’t help but notice how the colors had come together in a way that made it seem almost… alive like the flowers were blooming right before my eyes. Each petal held its own character, every stroke of paint carrying a little piece of me, a little piece of the moment.

        A smile slowly spread across my face as I stood there, allowing myself to feel proud of what I had just done. It wasn’t anything extraordinary in the grand scheme of things, but to me, it felt like an achievement. A tiny, fleeting moment of beauty in the middle of a world that had so often been defined by violence, survival, and endless chaos.

        I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken time to do something like this—just sit. I could breathe, like I wasn’t just a soldier, a survivor, or part of a group trying to fight their way through the madness. I was simply me, and this painting was a piece of that person.

        I glanced over at my companions, who had quietly observed my work throughout the process. They were still in their places—Dempsey leaning back against a boulder, Nikolai standing nearby with his arms crossed, Richtofen sitting with me, and Takeo, who had remained silent throughout, now looking at the painting with quiet intensity.

        They hadn’t said much as I painted, but I could feel their presence, their attention, in a way that made the moment feel even more significant. It wasn’t just that I had created something—I had shared it with them. I didn’t know what they thought of it exactly, but I could tell they appreciated the fact that I had taken the time to do something that wasn’t just about survival. It was about creating, about living in a moment of peace, however fleeting it might be.

        I glanced down at the picture again, taking in its full glory. The simple flowers now felt like a quiet triumph, a testament to the fact that, even in this world, moments of beauty could still exist. A warm smile tugged at my lips, and for a second, I almost forgot about everything else.

        As I stood there, taking it all in, I felt a deep sense of contentment settle over me. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was small, but it was a moment of peace in a world that rarely offered any. And for now, that was enough.

[spearsillustration]

I put in the work for this today. And it was totally worth the probably hours of playing it took because I suck.

**Deep Breath** "Smash."

[spearsillustration]

My top 5 favorite Edward Richtofen Quotes

Not in any particular order

"Ha, empty. Like the contents of my beaten broken heart."

"I can build a partial accelerator from scratch, but I can't nail one board straight!"

"There it goes, my last thread of sanity. Snapped in twain...IN TWAIN!!!"

"War is inept- war is inevitabable-..., war is coming for sure!"

"Chemistry was always my first love, *sigh* but then physics came and swept me off my feet."