#Pistol Training Equipment

[rileyslibrary]

Ghost is shocked by your immunity to being tased.

I received an ask from an anon for this story. Unfortunately, either Tumblr ate it, or I accidentally deleted it; I can’t be sure because I trust neither of us. Gladly, I remember the gist of it. I hope that anon sees it. (Sorry, anon, and thank you for the ask.)

———————————————————————

You push open the workshop door, and notice a curated display of taser gear spread across the table for today’s training session. Ghost, your lieutenant and trainer for the day, occupies a corner, busy with extracting all sorts of stuff—taser guns, pulses, stun batons—from bags and placing them on the table. He catches the sound of your entrance and turns halfway to face you.

“You’re early,” he mutters under his breath.

“I just couldn’t wait, Lieutenant,” you reply sarcastically.

He huffs. “We’ll see about that once training’s over.”

You approach the table, and look at the equipment. You reach out and grasp a taser gun. It looks exactly like a pistol but bulkier and has yellow elements to distinguish it from firearms.

“Could you please remind me how this baby works?” you ask.

He turns his entire body towards you and contemplates your question. Although the training session is just half an hour away, and he doesn’t technically need to explain anything, you’re his weak spot. So he leaves the gear in the bag, walks towards you, and begins to give you a detailed explanation.

It almost feels like a private session, but you have ulterior motives—you’ve already been through a similar class in the past and are eager to skip this one. Despite your repeated attempts to convey this to Ghost, he remained adamant that this course would be a refresher for you and, thus, necessary.

“Once you have a clear shot, you press the trigger.” He concludes.

“Like this?” you ask, directing the taser towards your right foot and squeezing the trigger. It stings, but your previous training has taught you how to get used to the feeling and handle the pain better. Or at least make it look that way.

Your poor lieutenant stands speechless as he looks at the now-fired taser gun. He slowly looks down, where his shocked eyes trace the two wires extending from the device, connecting to your foot.

“What the fuck did you do?” he shouts, gesturing towards your leg.

“Jeez, Lt., you seem stunned,” you comment.

“Are you having a laugh, soldier?” He scolds you with as much authority as he has left from what he just experienced. He drops to the ground, working to remove the wires from your foot. He stands up, alternating his gaze between the device and your leg. Finally, he turns to you.

“How come you’re not in pain?” he asks, confused.

You shrug, unaffected, and pick up another taser from the table. “Maybe the first one was defective; let’s give this one a go,” you suggest, aiming at your other foot and firing.

“Are you out of your mind, Y/N?” he screams in a high-pitched voice and kneels again to retrieve the second taser from your foot.

“Come on, Lt., it’s not as bad as it seems!” You reassure him with a grin, seizing a third taser from the table. This time, you point it at Ghost’s leg. “Wanna see?”

He lifts his knee and gathers his arms close to his body. He looks like a pitcher, ready to throw the ball in a baseball match.

“No, no, thank you very much”, he protests.

“Sure?” You ask and aim at his other leg on the ground.

“Absolutely certain, you maniac,” he says, switching legs. “How far are you willing to go to skip this class?!”

“Not too far,” you reply with a smile, “as far as these two wires go when they get propelled from the taser gun.”

“Cut it out!”

To his relief, the rest of the team enters the room, and Ghost instantly transitions into his authoritative persona. He places both feet on the ground, protrudes his chest, and places both hands on his waist. He clears his throat.

“Take your positions, everyone,” he commands, “everyone except for you, Y/N.”

“Why am I excluded, Lieutenant?” you ask with a pout and a playful wink. “Is it because I’m unfazed?”

“Nah, soldier,” he replies and walks behind you to tidy the wires from the already-shot taser guns, “it’s because you’re a live wire—always keeping me on my toes.”

———————————————————————

[deathworlders-of-e24]

Danny, Security Chief

Part 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Watching his team get shot all morning was starting to get depressing in Danny’s opinion. It’d started out pretty entertaining, but…

The security personnel had been split up into two teams, just as Danny had planned, giving them an even mix of officers in each. He’d appointed the highest ranking member the leader of team 2 and allowed them to train however they pleased in order to compare notes later. And taking a tip from Captain Skitch, Danny decided to test out his crew in the GRID.

Early into the Earth’s time as a GAIL member, the human race had gotten its hands on the Padrino’s environmental code, something they used for data storage if Danny remembered correctly. But when the Humans got a copy of it, they used the code for anything they could think of, and the greatest breakthrough that came of it was what would be known as the GRID, a totally holographic environmental simulation, used for anything from military training to video games. Amazingly, those two things weren’t that different these days. It’s probably what was fueling the Deathworlder rumors. It couldn’t be helping, to say the least.

Danny had booked the GRID environment room for training purposes, and at first the team had been doing alright, playing to their strengths. However, they didn’t seem to get how to work as a team, as a single unit. After the first round it had all be downhill from there if he’d been honest. He understood that it was just day one, but Danny figured if he could just get a running start, so to speak, then the rest of the mission would be smooth sailing.

The team filed out of the GRID and stood at attention. Team 1 was made up 2 Quintin named Ritz and Coola, siblings, a Doun from the same detail Danny had been in at the embassy on Earth named Homet, and someone from the ‘living stone’ species, the Sed, named Grite. The Sed weren’t actually stone, but they did have a rigid exoskeleton and massive calcium and keratin deposits throughout their bodies, giving them the appearance of gray marble.

All four stood in a line, awaiting their evaluation. Danny looked them over as he walked the line, hands behind his back.

“Anyone know what’s going wrong in there?” He asked. Grite stepped forward, looking annoyed.

“The setting are too high, commander. There are only 4 of us and dozens of them. It’s clearly a no win situation.”

Homet snorted, and Grite glared at him. Ritz and Coola took a step back to get out of the way. Danny hated to think this on just day 1, but Grite was being pretty detrimental to morale. Every round in the GRID he just ran out first and became a bullet sponge instead of even attempting to make a plan with the others.

“Ensign Grite, why do you think the simulation isn’t winnable? I’ve been in this exact situation before on Earth, and as you can see, I’m still here.”

Grite looked at him and snorted.

“Prove it.”

Danny was impressed at how fast Homet moved to the controls in his freezer suit, imputing new parameters into the machine.

Guess he kinda needs this, huh, Danny thought. Homet and he went way back, so he figured he knew the guy pretty well. He also figured a stiff like Grite would get on people’s nerves after a while, especially the Doun man.

“Homet, turn it up a bit too man, gimme a challenge.”

“You’ll scare them if you go too hard in there you know.”

“They can take it. Give them a show.”

Danny walked into the GRID simulator. The room was dark, save for a single blinking red light on the wall. A synthesized voice sounded from speakers built into the room.

[Simulation beginning in 30 seconds. Please select equipment.]

“E24, American Army Ranger standard issue.”

In a flash of ‘pixels’, Danny was wearing army fatigues, carrying a rifle in his arms with a pistol on his hip. Strapped to his flak jacket was a knife, a few extra magazines, and two grenades. He felt almost snug in the holographic armor.

A less synthetic voice sounded in the room, though it was a little more gravelly.

“Don’t like energy weapons commander? Got a little too much kick for you?” Grite sounded like he was smirking, Danny was calling it.

“Homet, if Grite talks again you have my full permission to shoot him. Now set the Pirate protocol to max and hit shuffle on my playlist.”

Homet laughed as he hit the button.

“Good luck commander.”

[Simulation: Pirate Boarding Party beginning in 10 seconds]

Danny took a deep breath, turned his hat backwards, and breathed out as the music started.

Dubstep.

Nice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When asked later, the security team under Chief Ducane would say they didn’t understand what they saw. The simulation itself was simple, the Pirate Boarding Party dropped you in a random part of the Noah, under attack from hostile forces trying to take over the ship.

The part they didn’t get was that Chief Ducane tore through them like they were made of paper. First hostile came through a door 10 meters ahead of the Chief, and they were taken out before the door was all the way open, almost tore in half by the ballistic weapon he was wielding. Then a squad of three came from around a corner, but Ducane barely moved except to keep walking forward, loosing three short bursts from his rifle, felling the enemies the moment they came into his sights.

Another pirate came out of a door, using a simulated crew member like a human shield. That one gave pause to Danny’s advancement. He set his weapon down for a moment and put his hands up. The Pirate shoved the crew member aside and pointed their ray at him, but was immediately blown full of holes from Danny’s sidearm, old west style.

“Get to safety,” was all he said to the holographic crew mate, who nodded and ran off. Danny went back to work.

Wave after wave of hostile forces came out of the woodwork, firing holographic energy weapons and throwing ion or plasma explosives, and Danny Ducane destroyed them all. An entire platoon came at him and he barely slowed down. The security crew even questioned if their commander remembered this was only a training exercise, given that he was roaring and taunting the holographic enemies.

“Sister, do you think he knows they’re not real and they can’t actually kill him?” Ritz asked.

“Yes, I’m sure he knows they can’t kill him, brother,” Coola replied, in awe of the chief. “We are recording this, yes?” Her brother nodded.

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Homet said. “He…he’s actually better than the last time I served with him.”

Grite said nothing, just a tight grimace on his stony face as he watched the simulation unfold.

Meanwhile, in the GRID, Danny had finally run out of ammunition, and there was one Pirate left. This one was bigger than the others, with better armor and a blaster. Danny threw down his rifle and charged, knife drawn, roaring like a berserker as he went.

The pirate shot high, clearly aiming for his head. Dimly, Danny knew someone, somewhere had said ‘humans only die if they get shot in the head’, and quietly laughed to himself that that little detail had made its way into the coding for the simulation. He’d seen the shot coming a mile off.

Danny dropped to his knees and skid the rest of the way, slashing the pirate’s leg as he slid past. The hologram howled and dropped to one knee while Ducane spun and buried the knife in the creature’s side, striking vitals. The pirate ‘died’ almost immediately. It dropped to the floor and evaporated into a cloud of ‘pixels’. Danny stood up, breathing hard, but grinning.

Hotem and the Quintins ran in, congratulating him, saying things like “Commander that was amazing!” and “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that!”

“That’s the ‘Ducane the Destroyer’ I remember,” Hotem said, clapping him on the back.

Danny noticed immediately that Grite was still in the control room, watching them. His face seemed conflicted. After a moment, Grite left the GRID all together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost the end of the shift when Grite made his way into Danny’s office. Danny had been eying the clock for a while by then, wondering when the Sed was going to come explain the request he’d put in.

Grite walked in through the sliding door and stood at attention.

“Ensign Grite, reporting.”

“Go ahead ensign, say your piece.” Danny figured he knew where this was going.

“You received my request to transfer to the other shift. I was not aware I was required to list a reason.”

“You’re not, but humor me anyway.”

The Sed had that conflicted look on his face again, and Danny now realizing it was more like apprehension. Possibly even…anger?

“It doesn’t seem necessary to have me on this shift, what with your…capabilities.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Sir, I really don’t think-”

Danny held up a hand to stop him. Grite’s body language was stressed, full of tension, even with the exoskeleton Danny could see the telltale shake of blood pressure rising.

“Grite, you don’t have to like me. Hell, you can even hate me if you want. But if you’re asking me to change personnel schedules for you after just the first day, you’d better have a good reason.”

Grits looked at him with clear disgust.

“I am Sed. We are Borin, Highest Peaks, bred to be warriors. We conquered our world, and are trained since birth to be the best. And you humans come here, no birth advantages, nothing, but you do alone what we can not do in entire squads. You…embarrass us.”

Danny just looked at him for a moment. He certainly hadn’t expected all that. He’d offended him by… one-upmanship?

“So what you’re saying is-”

“What I’m saying is put me on the other security team.”

Danny sighed. Clearly this wasn’t going to go anywhere. Not anywhere productive, anyway.

“Fine. Request granted, Ensign Grite.”

Grite stood there rigid, nodded, and left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, or cycle as it was called in space, went smoother. The change in personnel seemed to bring the team’s morale up.

“Good shot, Hayte!” Hotem called out to the new Indroprime on the team, Grite’s replacement. The simian like young man was using his excellent agility go jump and dive through holographic enemy fire. Danny thought that despite the reason why, it would end up being a good decision to send Grite to the other team, for everyone.

Danny cocked his pistol and dove into the fray with his team.

“Form up on me guys, we’re advancing!”

“Follow the Destroyer!” shouted the Quintin siblings in unison. Homet howled with laughter and Danny grinned, feeling the rush of adrenaline starting to pour into his veins.

This would be a good team.

Danny would make sure of it.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 13

With two back-to-back shows in Paris, with a new song added to the set list, Kara expects to largely watch Lena sleep. But somehow, the morning after the first show, Kara is woken early by movement beyond the shared door of their suites.

Upon knocking, she receives a bright "come in!" and opens the door to find Lena bustling around the room. She's dressed in leggings and spandex top, complete with brightly colored sneakers on her feet. Her face is bare of makeup, but retains the dewey vibrancy only youth can give.

"Good morning!" Lena greets, bouncing to Kara with more energy than she has any right to have. "Did you sleep well?"

"Sure," Kara returns drolly. "But not enough--- how are you even awake? We only got back at 3am!"

Lena laughs. "I've got to get a workout in before the meet and greet later." She lifts one of her earbuds in one hand, nestling its pair in her ear with the other. "Wanna join?"

"The meet and greet, or the workout?" Kara asks dubiously.

"Why not both?"

Why not both. She's here with the express purpose of supporting Lena, but now she's faced with the dilemma of deciding whether that included running. She hasn't seriously trained since she played volleyball in college... she'd probably trip over her own feet.

"Sure," she finds herself saying, before her brain can catch up. When it does, she hesitates. "Oh-- I didn't bring--"

"I've got some looser gear that should fit," Lena responds easily. She cocks a grin. "Or you can just spot me."

"Yeah... I should probably do that. I can run out and grab some gear later today. At least some sneakers."

She does take Lena up on the offer of her looser workout gear-- sweatpants that were more capris on Kara than not, and a tank top that would have sagged on Lena, but comfortably snugs against Kara's curves.

"Oooh," Lena says when she sees her. She trots over and gives Kara a peck on the lips. "I like this look."

"You speak of this to no one," Kara warns, more self conscious of her bare ankles than anything else.

"What happens in Paris, stays in Paris," Lena promises, then tilts her head towards the other room. "Come on."

Kara expects them to use whatever gym amenities the hotel offers its guests, but it turns out the suite of rooms includes its own exercise area, complete with treadmill, freeweights, and aerobic equipment.

"I prefer not to use the shared amenities downstairs," Lena explains lightly. "I don't want to hog the machines. Or disturb anyone else's workout."

Seeing Kara's curious look, Lena gives her a mysterious smile. "It'll make sense later."

Lena trains like a professional athlete. Kara is exhausted just watching, and almost an hour in, it seems like Lena is only getting started. At least, Kara reassures herself, the woman sweats like a normal human.

"What?" Lena pants as she pistol squats with a fifteen pound dumbell under her chin.

"You really like this stuff, don't you?" she asks. Watching from the weight bench, Kara can see that this isn't just a means to an end. She enjoys it.

Lena smiles. "Yeah, I do. I can't help it."

Her enthusiasm is infectious, as proven by the fact Kara is compelled to join Lena in her floor exercises. Core had always been her strong suit in college, but it's clear from her lackluster plank and crunch stamina that she's lost any and all conditioning she might have had.

Even so, instead of feeling discouraged, Lena's delighted giggle, Kara looks forward to her next attempt. The workout ends with cardio on the treadmill-- or so Kara thinks.

"I gotta put these in," she warns. "That okay?"

Kara nods. Lena's mystery smile returns for a brief moment, before the treadmill beeps on and Lena starts with a brisk walk. After five minutes Lena expertly keeps up with an increasing pace, until her sneakers are pounding out a heavy rhythm at a rate Kara can scarcely fathom. Only the most dedicated of players on Kara's volleyball team had been able to keep up that kind of pace for very long, yet there Lena is, strides long and even and surefooted.

Then the singing starts. Lena begins with a scale or two, then a few vocal warm ups. Kara recognizes the first song of Lena's setlist from the opening note, and from there can only listen in awe as Lena belts through her entire concert from start to finish.

It sounds as steady as any true performance, the notes strong and clear without any shortness of breath. It's... astounding.

When the treadmill finally slows to a walk once more, Kara comes around to rest her forearms on the rail. She looks at Lena expectantly, who is patently pleased with herself.

She shrugs with false modesty. "It's sort of my superpower."

In answer, Kara crooks a beckoning finger, prompting Lena to lean down and receive a kiss for her efforts. Lena doesn't even break stride, but she does fumble for the off button, slowing to a stop as the kiss persists, deepening.

When Lena hops off the machine, Kara has half a mind to press Lena up against it to kiss her senseless-- a temptation she fails to resist when Lena's hand slides up her shirt to run warm fingers over Kara's ribs.

"Jesus," Kara mutters, pausing for breath. "Lena, you... I don't know if I--"

"We go at your pace, darling," Lena murmurs back. "Just know that I really, really want--"

Kara swallows her next words with another, deeper kiss. Helpless to the attraction tugging under her ribs, Kara lets her fingers wander up Lena's side, until her palm cups Lena's breast. It earns her a heady moan into her mouth, and a tightening of Lena's arms around her neck, pulling her closer--

"Lena? We have two hours before the meet and greet!"

Jess' voice calls, innocent yet conspicuous behind a door that stays shut. Lena sags, the moment broken but not it's tension.

"Thank you, Jess!" she calls back, not bothering to unloop her arms from Kara's shoulders. "I'll be in the shower shortly."

Jess' footsteps pad away, but Lena doesn't resume their previous activities.

"We don't have a lot of time..." she starts conspiratorially, voice low. "Not enough to do *this* justice. But..." Her green eyes darken with desire. "Think we can make up some time by doubling up on the shower?"

Kara reaches up and grasps Lena's hand, bending to capture another kiss.

"There's only one way to find out."

They do not make up any time whatsoever.

[suzdin]

Belly of the Beast: Part I

Dark!Dave York x F!reader

Warnings: it’s Dave, so…buckle up! No use of y/n. Homicide with a gun, reader is shot and grievously wounded and dying, graphic descriptions of murder and gore, use of medical equipment/terminology, amateur triage and medical care, Dave is a voyeuristic creep, Stockholm syndrome?, physical restraints, partial nudity, divergence from EQ2 plot and major character deaths mentioned. No mention of wife or kids. No smut this time! (Shocking, I know.) Dark themes obviously, I mean, Dave DOES kill for money, after all.

Summary: You’ve been Dave’s housekeeper for two years. When you arrive for your morning shift, the last thing you expect to see is Dave standing over a body.

This was going to be a one shot but I decided it worked better as a two parter. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4,700

Taglist: tagging the people I know for sure want to be tagged. If you want to be tagged for part II, lmk!

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @natdeandar @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @guelyury

—

The sky is still dark, a faint slice of jagged light cast across a slate colored horizon, when you arrive for the day at Dave York’s home.

You notice his car parked in the driveway as you pull in, checking your messages to make sure you hadn’t missed anything from him, finding nothing. You frown.

Normally, he would tell you when he would be home if he knew you were also going to be there that day. He simply must have forgotten to mention it this time. It wasn’t a big deal; you could just work around him like you always did.

He was gone for work more often than not. What that entails, you aren’t entirely sure of; all you knew was that he worked in D.C. Something bureaucratic, most likely.

What was even more curious than his unannounced presence, however, was a second vehicle parked behind his.

You pull up next to aforementioned vehicle and get out, gathering your bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat. Dave provided most of what was used, but there were a few items you preferred for various reasons, with his approval, of course. You had been his housekeeper for the last two years, servicing his home bi-weekly, and he paid you well, plus tips. You had few complaints.

Although the home was large and stately, he lived alone as far as you knew. You couldn’t recall seeing anyone there before now.

As you walk along the edge of the driveway to the side door, you note the pale illumination filtering out through the kitchen window onto the concrete, which makes sense considering the time of day. He’s most likely just sitting down to have his coffee and breakfast. You hope you don’t startle him too much.

The sun is ascending rapidly, already burning brighter in the short walk from your car to the door, providing you with enough light to get your key out.

You unlock the side door, which steps directly into a small utility and mud room. The interior door to the kitchen is drawn shut, which wasn’t unusual, but an unfamiliar noise registers as you enter, immediately followed by what sounds like chair legs scraping along the tiled floor, and Dave’s voice saying what sounds like a name. Mac? Is that what you heard?

Your mind fumbles over the original sound, knowing it’s familiar, but that you can’t quite place it, trying to trace its source. You can best describe it as a muted pop, loud enough to notice but not so loud as to sound any alarm bells. Or so you think.

You smell the strong waft of coffee and eggs cooking as you enter. And something else.

The scene that is laid out before you as you push open the kitchen door is the last thing you would ever expect or want to find, and the realization of what the unidentified sound was hits you like a freight train.

What you discover is Dave standing above a body, pistol clutched tightly in his right hand, knuckles turning alabaster, with what you’re certain is a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel.

The body sprawled across the floor belongs to a man you don’t recognize, a pool of fresh blood spreading rapidly from a single gunshot wound to the front of the skull, bone and brain matter studding the kitchen island and wall, the stink of crimson iron filling the air.

Dave’s head snaps up when he hears you enter, his face gone pale, but otherwise completely blank and devoid of emotion.

Your eyes lock.

You think you say his name. You aren’t sure, and the only reason you know you’ve said anything at all is because you feel the muscles in your esophagus stretching and vibrating, your heart thundering inside your rib cage.

You’re smart enough to deduce that this isn’t some home invasion gone awry. The unknown car in the driveway and the trained, emotionless nature at which Dave currently presents himself is testament to that.

The only option left is that Dave killed a man. And now he has his sights trained on none other than you.

You drop the bucket of supplies, the hollow sound of plastic hitting ceramic reverberating in your skull as you turn, your brain screaming at you to run, run.

In hindsight, running was a bad idea. But panic doesn’t always create rationale.

You feel your legs pumping, your lungs sucking in air. You want to scream for help but when you attempt it, the only sound that comes out is a small, strangled croak of terror. You feel like a damsel in distress in every horror movie you’ve ever seen, almost as if you aren’t actually moving at all, like you’re just running in place while the villain slowly catches up to you.

If you could just reach the neighbor’s house. If you could just… reach…

You manage to make it to the driveway, but you’re barely a few steps onto the concrete when that same muted pop registers again, and you instantly feel a sharp, burning, agonizing sting that rips right through you like a hot knife through butter, knocking you ass over teakettle just paces from Dave’s car, your face slamming hard against the ground.

You look down to see the spreading circle of blood on your shirt against your lower abdomen, a geyser of red bubbling up from the wound. And Dave is on you in an instant, hovering above you, gun trained right at your head.

You know you’re a goner. Abdominal gunshots are frequently fatal, at least according to the kind of shows you like to watch. And at the rate you’re seeing your blood spill out, you know it’s anything but good.

Before you fully comprehend what is happening, your vision already waning, you’re pleading for Dave to end your life as quickly as possible, ‘please, please Mr. York, I’ve been good to you. Please do it fast’, you choke out.

But Dave doesn’t kill you. His dark eyes bore into you, through you, and he hesitates. He’s watching you die and beg for him to put you down and yet he can’t bring himself to actually do it, regardless of how many names he’s scratched out of his ledger without remorse. Maybe because you’re just an innocent, wrong place wrong time, but he can’t seem to do it.

“Please, don’t let me suffer,” you sob as you lift a single, quaking hand that is slicked deep burgundy, and still he doesn’t put you down, only lowering the gun to his side, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve to suffer slowly like this.

Finally, some sense of self preservation washes over you, and even as you’re dying, in your final throes of desperation, you start ripping and clawing at your shirt, managing to somehow tear a sizable chunk out of it, in order to make some kind of makeshift tourniquet that could potentially save your life.

Your hands shake and slip, blood pressure dropping rapidly, and your vision wanes more, the edges of the lightening sky fading and blotting away. You suddenly feel very cold and you can feel your heartbeat gradually ebbing to a slow, dull throb.

The last thing you see before your vision goes completely dark is Dave crouching over you, his face screwed up in regret.

——

God damn it.

When Dave had found out only days before that McCall was still alive, and that his old compatriot had sniffed out the details shrouding Susan’s death, Dave had lost all sight of anything else, completely forgetting you were scheduled to clean his house that day.

Had he realized, he would have canceled. It would have made things far less complicated.

But God fucking damn it. He didn’t want to kill you, his militaristic training and instincts piloting his actions when you fled instead of surrendering, intending to put a round in your skull but changing his mind at the last possible fraction of a second so that he totally FUBAR’d the shot and hit your abdomen instead. A gut shot wasn’t much better. In fact, it was worse. Way worse.

You’re still breathing when he finishes applying the crude tourniquet that you had started, which didn’t completely stop the bleeding but slowed it enough to make a difference. That way, he could get you down into the basement where he could apply proper triage.

His medical training was rudimentary and archaic at best, but it was better than nothing. And it was his best chance at keeping you alive.

Your blood soaks through the light blue dress shirt Dave is wearing as he carries you through the house draped in his arms, the one you once told him looked nice on him. He takes you into the basement and places you on his work table — which isn’t sterile — noting no exit wound as he sets you down, which can be good or bad, all things depending.

Thankfully, he locates the bullet readily enough, fishing it out with a narrow pair of forceps, discarding it into a medical pan as he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the bullet didn’t strike anything crucial, an incredibly lucky feat.

He grabs a skin stapler to close up the wound; a messy and rushed method of closure that would leave behind a pretty significant scar, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to close the wound properly with a needle, especially considering the rate at which his hands were already shaking.

He takes in a deep breath when he finishes stapling you back together and leans over you, examining your face and body visually, his mind racing as to what he should do now. You still had a pulse. You were breathing. But you had lost a lot of blood, and your prognosis wasn’t good.

Frowning, the crease deepening between his brows, he cleans and sterilizes the wound, wrapping you up in proper dressing, which he hopes is enough to stave off any infection. He can’t risk taking you to a hospital. Especially when there’s still a dead man to deal with only a floor above.

The good news is that he knew no one would come looking for McCall, the majority believing him to already be dead, so disposal would thankfully be swift and painless. You, on the other hand, he was unsure of. He knew your parents had passed and you didn’t have siblings, but he didn’t know if there was a boyfriend or girlfriend in your life, or friends who would notice your absence.

His mind reels with every possibility. Dave isn’t a man who enjoys loose ends. Loose ends make his ass itch.

Your shirt is shredded and bloody, so he removes the remainder of it, leaving you in a soft black cotton bra. He doesn’t let his eyes wander, although, at the back of his mind, he realizes he has always found you attractive. Just as quickly as it dawns on him, he shakes the thought from his mind; it is neither the time nor place for such endeavors.

He removes your shoes but not your socks, knowing you would be cold from having lost so much blood. He might actually put one of his pairs over your own, for good measure.

After a long beat of silent contemplation, Dave scoops you up into his arms once more.

——

You wake up from a fitful sleep some hours later, in a bed you’ve never slept in before. The room around you is dark, shades drawn, a faint light flooding in from beneath a closed door.

When you attempt to sit up, pain lances through your torso and you cry out, your back hitting the mattress. You immediately realize, much to your horror, that you’re also handcuffed to a bedpost. Even if you could move without effort, you aren’t exactly going anywhere.

Your memory suddenly comes flooding back in a tidal wave of images, recalling all of the events that lead up to this point; the body on the kitchen floor, the gunshot, Dave staring down at you with a pistol in his hand.

But you aren’t in a hospital and this isn’t a hospital bed. You’re in Dave’s bedroom. In Dave’s bed.

The door clicks open and a familiar silhouette steps into the room, regarding you in steely silence. You recognize the broad shoulders right away, the thick arms, the short cropped hair.

Your pulse quickens, your body and mind telling you to flee again, even though you know you can’t, causing you to flinch with a choked whimper when he takes a step toward you.

“I wouldn’t move, sweetheart. You lost a lot of blood,” Dave explains, his voice low and soft to your ears as he approaches the bed.

Your body is trembling hard. So hard that it makes the entire bed vibrate.

He’s no longer wearing the blue shirt or black slacks from before, now dressed in a slate gray t-shirt and Adidas sweats. His dark eyes study you as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed. If you weren’t so weak, you think you would strike him.

He lifts the back of his hand to your cheek and you flinch again.

“Shh,” he tuts, “I’m not going to harm you.”

His hand presses to the soft round of your cheek, your forehead, checking for fever.

“Y-you— you s-shot me—?“ you croak.

“I reacted poorly,” Dave agrees with a small nod, his lips parted softly, “but you also shouldn’t have run.”

“You k-killed… that man…”

“I did, indeed.” His eyes grow a shade darker, his brow knitting together, lending him a sinister appearance. “But that man was threatening me. That man was going to kill me…” Dave explains, an edge of malice and contempt to his voice. “I was left with few options.”

You stare back, unblinkingly, trying to decide what to say next, if anything.

“My family will come looking for me,” is what you settle on, a wash of bravery suddenly welling up within you.

To that, Dave smirks, eyes remaining dark, hand lowering to the bed by your hip.

“What family?” Dave asks, smirk slanting even more, his tone semi-mocking. “Do you really think I would hire someone to come into my home without doing a full investigation on them?”

Your jaw drops open, hanging slack in the air, as it dawns on you that a trained killer has been right under your nose this entire time. You would scream if you had the lung capacity to do so.

You should have seen the patterns. Noticed the signs. The constant travel, the lack of personal touches to his home, the pinpricks of blood you occasionally found on his clothes that you excused for other things. That one room in the basement he forbade you from entering.

But you hadn’t, causing you to nearly pay with your life.

Truth is, Dave had picked you for good reason, and it wasn’t just because of the exemplary reviews. You were naive and trusting, you had no family, no criminal record, you didn’t work for an agency; you worked solo. Your work ethic and reliability were just cherries on top.

You look down to notice the IV needle in your hand, and you lift it in examination, your hand shaking and sputtering weakly. No… no, you really had no clue who this guy was at all.

Dave watches you for a beat before he gently grasps your hand and places it back down on the bed, regarding you with uncharacteristic softness and empathy.

You feel your consciousness starting to drift then as Dave pulls the covers back to check the dressings, finding they’re still intact and that the wound hasn’t reopened from what he can tell. He’ll clean and redress everything in the morning. For now, you need rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you, stepping out of the room for what feels like only a meager blip of time to you, but when you open your eyes again, he’s hovering above you once more with a thermometer and an ice pack.

“Open up,” he instructs, and you do so obediently.

“Good girl,” Dave praises as he checks your temperature, and you close your eyes.

When the thermometer beeps, which feels like an eternity later, he frowns, exhaling a long sigh. “101.5. Here,” he says, leaning to the side where he opens a drawer on the night stand, a bottle of aspirin rattling somewhere next to your head. The sound is grating, making your head throb, and suddenly the lamp seems too bright.

He feeds you some pills and gives you a drink of water from a nearby tumbler, which you guess was also on the nightstand, but aren’t too sure.

He pulls the blanket back up all the way to your chin and places the ice pack on your forehead, staring down at you. Although Dave was the reason you were even here at all, he is treating you with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“You need to eat,” he says after a moment. “Dinner is almost ready.”

——

You must pass out again, because when your eyes reopen, Dave stands next to you with a small tray table filled with food.

“Chicken and dumplings,” he explains. “It will keep the cold away.”

You nod your head weakly as he places the tray over you. When you reach for the spoon, he stops you, blocking your hand with his own.

“Let me,” he says, picking up the spoon. “I don’t want you moving anymore than necessary.”

You have to keep reminding yourself that he’s the one who shot you. He’s why you’re in this mess in the first place. Why you’re here, injured, with a hole in your abdomen, chained to his bed.

The way he’s acting shouldn’t be trusted.

You try to resist, but he grabs your jaw with the other hand and forces it to pop open, pressing the spoon past your lips as he ladles the soup into your mouth, much to your displeasure.

“Eat,” he says softly, but sternly, his features darkening in regard.

The food is warm, as promised, and delicious. You aren’t sure of the last time you ate, not knowing what time or even what day it is, but you soon realize you’re starving. Because of this, the second spoonful is not met with as much resistance as the first, your mouth hinging open in resignation and acquiescence.

Dave’s eyes zero in on your soft lips. The way they twitch ever so slightly as they divide. The way your tongue looks so velvet and inviting…

He feeds you slowly, thoughtfully, watching your every move, his own lips parted in concentration as you take in the much needed sustenance.

By the end of it, you’ve managed to polish off about half the bowl. Seemingly satisfied with that, he makes you drink some Gatorade.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask weakly as soon as you swallow down a couple gulps of the blue liquid, your consciousness ebbing and flowing by the second. Dave looks at your face, but he doesn’t give you an answer. He doesn’t have one to give.

Part of him wishes he did.

“I have to pee,” you tell him suddenly when you notice the familiar stab of discomfort in your lower region. A realization that sends a jolt of anxiety rushing through you, your pulse racing when you watch his face fall. He hadn’t even thought of that…

His skills and equipment were limited to wound care, so of course he hadn’t put a catheter in. He wouldn’t know how even if he did happen to have one.

He deliberates on what to do. He didn’t have a bed pan. But, he was sure he could find something comparable to use.

Or he could help you to the bathroom. He has an en suite, it was literally only steps around the bed. But the space was tight. It would take some maneuvering. And he would have to be close to you the entire time. Not to mention uncuffing you from the bed.

In the end, that’s what he settles on.

“Let me help you to the bathroom, sweetheart,” he says to you, pulling the blankets back, and you are cold. So cold. Your flesh pebbling with the lick of cool air against your skin.

He unlocks the handcuffs and you massage your sore wrist and shoulder the moment you have full motion of your arm again.

“Slowly,” he instructs, his voice low and even. “Grab the IV stand.”

You do as you’re told, gripping the cool steel in your hand as you grasp his forearm with the other while he gingerly manipulates you into a sitting position. You cry out at the sudden dagger of pain that slices through your lower gut, and he does his best to steady you against him.

He did this to you, you keep reminding yourself. He did this to you.

He lifts you carefully, slowly, and you groan at the swell of pain when he places you on your feet.

“Easy, easy…” he murmurs, one arm circling your waist to keep you upright. You flinch at the contact.

You make it to the bathroom easily enough, light flooding the small room as Dave flips the switch. A bathroom you’ve cleaned countless times. There was rarely much to clean in here, save for the occasional whisker in the sink, or some light trash in the bin.

Dave was neat and fastidious, and not frequently home. You often wondered why he needed someone to clean his house in the first place.

The space looks no different than usual, but right now it feels… different. You shouldn’t be here.

He guides you to the toilet, and when you get there, you stare down at it, pondering to yourself how this is going to work.

He seems hesitant to leave your side.

“Go ahead,” he tells you softly, “I won’t look.”

You freeze. The last thing you want is to expose your body to him when he already has several advantages on you. But your bladder is screaming at you to go, especially now given your proximity to the porcelain bowl, and you can barely stand on your own, your arms and legs wobbling.

You watch as he turns his back, placing himself between you and the exit. You bend just slightly to tug your bottoms down, but it’s too much, more pain coursing through your body. You yelp, unable to even budge the fabric.

“Hey,” Dave says, turning back to face you, “Let me help you.”

“No, I—I got it,” you protest, your arms shaking, attempting it again, only to end up with the same result. “Fuck—“

“Hey,” Dave says a second time, more sternly than before, as he moves in to your space. “Let me help. I promise I won’t touch you.”

You tremble. You’re cold, you’re frightened, you’re weak. So weak. You’re in your bra, partially exposed to him already. Yet, you concede with a nod anyway. You’ll piss yourself if you don’t.

He mirrors your nod in silent confirmation and moves closer, crowding into your intimate space, his fingers finding the waistband of your leggings and underwear. He slides them down your hips and legs in unison, all the way to your knees. As promised, he doesn’t touch you more than he needs to.

But he has to look. He needs to see where his hands are in relation to your body in order to keep himself from accidentally breaking his promise of touching you in a way you didn’t consent to, and another part of him just can’t help it, either. He is a man, after all, and he wasn’t currently seeing anyone. Romance wasn’t exactly optimal for someone in his position, his attention honed in on his work above all else.

When the nights were long and lonely enough, he would, on occasion, share his bed with a sex worker, but aforementioned nights were few and far between. He enjoyed his job. He got off on it. Romance was often placed on the back burner.

But there’s just something about you. Especially now, with how vulnerable you are, that he finds irresistible.

His gaze only lingers on your bared skin for a moment, big brown puppy dog eyes roving over your soft curves, holding on to you as he lowers you down to the commode. And, god, you’re just as beautiful as he imagined, his skin heating at the sight of your soft folds.

“Call for me when you’re done,” he grates quietly as he takes a step out of the bathroom, blood rushing to certain parts of his body, shutting the door to give you a modicum of privacy, which you’re more than grateful for.

His eyes on you had not gone unnoticed. You weren’t stupid and you weren’t seeing anyone either, currently; his attention, regardless of how brief, had made your skin heat and your core pulse with need. You clear your throat and try to discard the thought.

Dave is why you are here. Dave is dangerous. So dangerous he can’t even take you to a hospital to get proper medical attention. Stop it.

It feels like you pee for ages. You aren’t totally convinced you’re awake for most of it. Eventually, you finish, even managing to wipe yourself, in spite of things, which you’re relieved for. You wouldn’t want him to do it for you; that would be humiliating and degrading.

You call for Dave when you’re done and he returns in an instant, hoisting you to your feet as he pulls your pants and underwear back up and over your hips, trying not to think about your soft cunt. You can see how hard he’s trying not to look at you.

“Good?” he asks. You nod.

Bracing yourself against him, he helps you back to the comfort of the bed. It smells like him, despite how little he’s actually in it. You hiss through your teeth as he manipulates you into position, adjusting the pillows and covers until you’re as comfortable as possible.

You’re cold. Freezing, in fact, despite it being the swell of summer.

“I’m c-cold,” you lament to Dave, crossing your arms over your chest beneath the blanket.

Dave’s lips pinch to the side in thought. “Hold on.”

He returns a moment later with an extra blanket, tossing it over you, tucking the edges neatly around your form, taking extra care to be gentle, noteably around your abdomen.

As you watch him, his face and eyes soft, his hair mussed and unkempt, you ask yourself once again why he’s doing all of this for you.

Guilt? Shame? Something else?

You don’t have much time to ruminate on it for too long before your consciousness peters away once more.

——

Dave sighs as he watches you slip back into listlessness. You’re doing better than he anticipated, but you aren’t out of the woods yet. He knows how much blood you had lost; he’d spent hours cleaning it. Not to mention McCall, the remains of which he had delivered to an acquaintance who works at the industrial incinerator on the outskirts of town, after tending to you.

He loops your hand back through the cuff on the bedpost and peers down at you. You’re so beautiful; he hopes you make it. He wishes you hadn’t run from him. God, why did you run? He doesn’t want you to meet the same fate as McCall. He doesn’t want to know what your incinerated body smells like.

Every body has a different smell, in his experience.

He gives you another dose of morphine to reduce any pain you may be feeling and to keep you knocked out for a few more hours, checking for fever again, which is currently holding steady. It was good that it wasn’t going up. Any higher and you could potentially be in trouble. He’ll keep checking throughout the night to be on the safe side.

He sighs, knowing he’ll have to stay in town for weeks, which he detested doing. He hated staying in one place for longer than required. But he didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

He turns off the light and shuts the door behind him as he leaves you to rest.

Part II coming soon!

[victoria-grimesss]

tear you apart - part IV

Shiny new Masterlist

->Pairing: König x fem!reader

->Words: 4.7k

->Warning: MDNI!, fluff, König spilling his heart out to his favorite girl, roadhead, car sex, outdoor oral, face sitting, overstimulation, pretty much porn with plot at this point. 

->A/N: A bit different that the other chapter but I wanted to do something a little sweeter.

Your dreams are luxurious and delicious these nights, a whirlwind of experiences ever since you transferred to the new base. You dream of luxuries far beyond your reach with a man who sure as hell should be out of your reach too. You dine on five star meals on the beach, sip champagne in a clawfoot tub overlooking waterfalls, have ravenous passionate love making sessions in silk sheets. 

König has rewired your brain and embedded himself within you.

You awake in his bed again as has been the same routine for a few weeks now, you’ve moved a stash of your stuff to his room at his request of course. You don't see each other too often during the day so night and early mornings are the times where you catch up and enjoy eachothers company.

Spending a few spare moments to soak in the smell of the sheets you roll out of bed and notice a flower in a tall glass of water sitting beside a note. 

Chicken scratch, yep written by König alright. You smile as you envision him scrawling it quickly before leaving for the day.

My love,

Clear your schedule this afternoon, I plan to take you somewhere very special.

-König, your one and only. (boyfriend)     :)

Boyfriend. 

Huh I guess that's really what the two of you are now. You both danced around the word for a while now. You suppose you were a couple in the grand view of it, slept in the same bed, ate dinner together, got ready for bed together, said goodmorning and goodnight to each other. You could get used to this. Off base dates are far and few too, sometimes you'll take walks around base, the views are amazing nearby and it makes you yearn for your own country-side cottage with a garden.

You ready yourself and go about your day, you’ve flowed into a nice routine as of late. Get up, sometimes with König, eat in the mess hall, workout, training, dinner with König sometimes, and usually not get a lot of sleep together because he's too busy having your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You can’t complain.

The mess hall is loud and crawling with activity this morning, you enjoy it more than you thought you would. The activity is a welcome distraction from homesickness. You eat in silence, sitting with a few others you’ve somewhat befriended. Bennet hasn't been around lately, thinking of if now you can’t remember the last time you did see him.

You clear your throat,

“Have any of you seen Bennet around?”

One of the other guys laughed.

“Yea I saw him alright. Saw him on his way out. Guy got so scared of the colonel he transferred back to his home base. Guess the two of them clashed over something. But if you ask me, I just don't think the guy was cut out for this line of work.”

“Yeah, that's weird. Strange.” 

You continue eating, your question answered to your requirements. 

König is intimidating, sure he’s nice to you but you can’t imagine being an outsider, being on his bad side, or god forbid being his enemy. The stories you’ve heard about the things he’s done on the battlefield could make anyone uneasy. 

Breakfast finishes up and you head to the gym where you’re thankfully uninterrupted during your workout. Cleaning up you hit your next stop, the shooting range. It’s mostly empty, the weather is nice today so many people are using the outdoor range. 

You take your pistol, silencer equipped and a long range sniper down to the last stall and prep your gear.

You use the sniper first and take deep breaths before firing. 

The door opens and you assume it’s just someone else using the stalls until a voice makes you jump.

“Hold it higher liebling.” 

Your hand grips your heart, putting the gun down you turn fully around, being met with König standing tall with his hands behind his back.

“König, ever heard not to sneak up on someone with a gun?” You lean against the counter.

“Am I mistaken or is that your forte in the field? I’m simply a superior observing my team members, wouldn't want you using the tools the wrong way right?”

He's so quick with his quips, you smile then turn around bringing the gun up leaning your cheek on the side as to see through the scope.

You feel his hands on your hips and he kicks your feet further apart, you look down at his feet that are standing on the outside of yours. 

He brings his head down right next to your ear,

“Hold it back harshly into your shoulder, so the kickback won’t knock you down.”

“You’re making it hard to focus.” 

“I would assume you would be able to focus even with distractions yea? But I suppose our time in bed has proven otherwise.”

You blush but regain your composure quickly until one of his hands stays on your hips and the other brushes your cheek to move your hair slightly.

You shoot once, then twice, hitting the target both times.

His voice has gotten even lower, whisper dancing the line of soundwaves.

“You read my note yea?”

“I did, plan to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

He kisses the shell of your ear then your cheek through his mask. 

“I will see you later then, you’ll meet me in the lower garage at 1500 alright?”

“Oooh, meeting my big strong colonel in a dark garage, I certainly hope he doesn't take advantage of me.” You laugh and bat your lashes at him.

He squeezes your hip and scoffs playfully, 

“Keep talking to me this way and we certainly won’t even make it to the car. Busy yourself and meet me there, don't be late.”

He releases his grasp and you miss it already.

“Shall I pack a bag?” You ask.

“Don't bother, I’ve got everything handled. 

“Yes sir.” 

He steps away from you, walking to the door ignoring all others in the range and you watch him until the door closes. 

Taking a steadying breath you focus once more unto the range, feeling his phantom touch still.

—

You stop by your room before going to the garage, the lights flicker as you shut your door and you grow more and more excited for the evening to come. 

Opting for a simple two piece set underneath plain jeans, boots, a simple black shirt. 

The walk to the garage is straightforward, taking a dimly lit stairwell downwards and the garage smells of dust and you take it the electrical in this place could use an upgrade. Probably not high on the budget list.

There are rows of military vehicles and equipment, storage and the likes. An area sectioned off from the others hold what looks like personal vehicles, some nice and some looking decrepit. 

A door slams in that area and you make your way over,

“König? That you?” 

“Y/N, yes it is me! Just finishing up, go ahead and get in the doors unlocked.”

He drives a larger SUV, like the kind you see FBI agents driving, suiting you guess you never really pictured what car he drove but you can assume he drives whatever kind of car he can fit in so style types are probably very restricted.

You enter the car, the inside smelling like leather and the cologne he wears. It’s clean, damn near pristine the same as his room. The trunk closes and he gets in, his seat all the way back, he adjusts  and looks over to you, his eyes bright and he's buzzing with excitement. 

“Comfortable?” He smiles softly at you, he's wearing a black tactical long sleeve shirt, dark jeans, boots, and his usual hood of course. He looks good in black.

“Very. Can I ask where we're going yet?”

“Nope, just sit back and relax schatz.” 

He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, informing the guard of his time away.

The tall gray walls of the base and large fences you know melt away into a wonderful countryside with creeks, tall trees, and rounding hills. König has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your knee, his thumb rubbing small patterns.

“This is nice.” You breathe a sigh of relief, adjusting in your seat and König’s hand on your knee slips higher. 

König looks relaxed, he deserves this. Always working so hard… he should definitely relax.

Your hand wanders from the center console to his arm, rubbing the tight muscles underneath his hoodie. He squeezes the inside of your thigh in thanks.

Trailing your hand down his arm to the outside of his thigh, holding your hand there and tipping your head to look over at him.

He laughs breathily, “What are you doing, liebling?” His eyes shift from the road, your hand, and your face. 

“I just want to show you how much I appreciate you, König.” He shutters hearing his name from your lips and your hand moves to the now hardening bulge in his pants, he readjusts his hips to get more comfortable.

“Scheiße, you’re going to get us killed, sit back down I’m serious.”

He’s not serious, there is not even one percent of serious inflection in his tone, he speaks with need, his mouth already being filled with cotton at your movements.

You’ve leaned over the center console, face next to his ear as you unbutton his pants and palm him through his briefs, he’s solid where he sits and your mouth is already watering.

He shutters and his eyes flutter for a second,

“Eyes ahead baby, I can’t do anything if you don’t keep us steady ok?”

He does not answer, the blood isn't in his head anymore anyway, well not the one on his shoulders at least.

The trees race by the window as fast as your thoughts race in your head, you lean down and kiss him over the cloth, you feel his abdomen grow tense.

“I can stop if you really want-”

“Stop right now and I'll turn the car around.” 

You grin, mumbling a yes sir before moving your hand under the band of his briefs and giving a kiss to the tip. He takes a steady, concentrated, painful breath in and the exhale is so shaky you feel him tremble.

You give small licks from top to bottom, he’s a big guy so there’s certainly more to love. 

“Scheiße, ficken, Liebling ja” 

You take him fully in your mouth and he's warm, and fits right in place. You hum and he moans in response, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of hearing him like that. You take what doesn't fit in your mouth within the grasp of your hand starting at a steady pace. The music playing in the car isn't even registering in your head, the heavy weight in your hand and mouth is all you focus on.

“Fuck my love, your mouth feels-feels spectacular, I do not deserve what you give me.” 

He groans and bucks his hips up into your mouth, one hand on the wheel and the other gently being placed onto your neck, moving to the back of your head where he gently caresses your hair.

You’re working on him until he begins to shudder and you pull away, he tries to chase you with your hips but you lean back and kiss him on his cheek. His eyes are dark and he glances from you and the road.

“You’re going to kill me, Mein Liebling. He's panting, hand now gripping your hair tighter, you’re far from dry down under and touch his hand that's in your hair and move it down your front and under your pantline. You both moan when his fingers make contact with your wetness, he draws uncoordinated shapes into you, from your clit all the way to your entrance. He presses your entrance through your panties and it’s like he’s knocking on a door asking for permission to grant you the pleasure you oh so want, no need.

“König, please. I need you, I know you need me too.”

You whine, looking down at where his cock sits exposed, leaking heavily with every swipe of his fingers on you.

“My love. liebling.” 

He grits through his teeth when you take his hand once more and more your panties to the side allowing him unrestricted access to where the flames burn the brightest.

“Scheiße, du gewinnst” He pulls the car over, sitting on the dirt shoulder of the road, heavy tree cover surrounding you and you hear his heavy breathing.

He puts the car in park, removing his seatbelt and since the seat was already set all the way back due to his size he leans back and pats his lap.

“Come take what you want.” 

Eyes dark and hungry he watches you remove your pants and move over the center console onto his lap, his cock sitting right in front of you so it brushes against your stomach, you get a visual of just how deep he will slip into you. 

You’re shaking with anticipation when you grasp him again, pumping a few times before raising yourself to tease the tip over your panties.

His eyes are focused on where you touch him, his hands on your hips gently, awaiting your move.

“Get on with it..” 

His voice is dark and shadowy, his patience growing thin as you tease and tease him again, he’s a patient man but only for so long.

You play with him until you hear him growl deep in his chest, taking your panties in his grasp and you hear them rip.

“König! You seem to have an affinity for destroying each pair of panties I own.” 

You try to quip back but your voice is so breathily and weak it holds no volume. 

“I’d rather you not wear them at all, when we have a place of our own you won’t.”

You both moan when he pushes your hips down harshly, he sits fully inside you and you feel euphoric, one because he fills you so deliciously it has your mouth watering again and two he mentioned the two of you having a place of your own. Perhaps it’s him being so drunk on lust he says things he does not mean but your head is already slipping on all sane thoughts so you file that away for later.

His head tips back when he’s fully sheathed within you savoring the warmth and wetness you provide. 

“König, fuck. You’re so big.” You whine on top of him and his eyes regain their focus on you, he’s already too sensitive from your mouth earlier you might actually kill him with how tightly you’re wrapped around him.

His grip on your hips is bruising as usual and you have no qualms with it, feeling his grip reminds you this is all real and you need to ground yourself as you begin to move up and down on him the noises amplified in the car.

“Yes, just like that darling, fuck! You’re so, so good, so tight.” 

You start to move faster, spurred on by his praises your breathing grows faster as does his. Your hands try to gain purchase on the wheel behind you as you gain more speed, knocking the horn you breathily laugh and he grabs your hands and puts them on his shoulders. You grip your nails into him and he growls, now thrusting up into you he meets you halfway and you’re moaning his name so loudly now your throat hurts. 

The windows are fogged and you’re sweaty, hair sticking to your forehead.

He moves one hand from your hip to play with your clit, moving smooth and quick circles into you and you bow inwards your hand slapping onto the cold window, leaving a handprint on the fog it slips down and you wrap both arms around his neck your legs growing shaky and weak from your approaching high.

“König, don’t stop don-don’t stop please please.” You’re whining, squirming, and writhing in his lap an utter and complete mess and he drinks you in. Your pleasure makes his throb and balls tighten as he continues rubbing your clit and thrusting up into you.

“I can feel you getting close, you want to cum yea?” 

He’s panting and sounds just as destroyed as you are.

“Yes, I can’t hold on much longer. I want it so bad.” You whine and he stops altogether.

You cry, hitting his chest and trying to move but he holds your hip still.

“König plea-.”

“Beg.”

“What?” 

“You want to cum? Beg.” He’s not joking, he’s all serious and you whine again before spewing the filthiest words that’s ever come from your mouth, begging and praising him like a God to be worshiped. 

“Please König, god please I can’t, I need it. You’re so big, I need you to make me cum, fuck.”

“Good girl, always listening and doing what I say, I think you deserve a reward.” 

Before you can say anything he begins his thrusting and rubbing ten-fold and you once again hold onto him like your life depends on it as you cum harder than ever before, your vision is spotty and he’s praising you through it. He follows you through the high seating you firmly on his lap, holding himself as deep and he can reach and flooding you thoroughly. 

You both sit together for a good while, panting growing into soft breaths and you pull away from his chest and look at him, smile on your face.

“You think you can make it the rest of the way now? Are you satisfied?” 

He cups both of your cheeks, kissing your nose through his mask.

“I think I'll be ok for a little bit. Maybe.” 

You move off of him, both of your least favorite part is when he has to leave your warmth, but he’s never gone for long. 

You put on your pants, no panties due to König but you would assume he packed you some more, although his previous words would assume he rather you never wear any.

“Ready?” He’s buckled his pants again and you can’t help but notice the sizable mess you made on his lap, the bottom of his shirt and top of his pants wet.

“König, made a bit of a mess on you, sorry.” You grow shy.

“I like it, it challenges me to make you cum harder the next time.” 

Oh God.

He turns back onto the road and you continue your trip down the road, you roll your window down, still warm from your session and the cool mountain air fills your lungs and you rest a hand out of the window. 

—

“Liebling, we’re here.”

“Huh.”

You shoot up in your seat, König standing on your right side, the passenger door open his hand gently on your shoulder as he shakes you awake.

“You passed out, I clearly tired you out.”

“Shut up, you’re full of yourself.”

He laughs, offering his hand to help you out, you take it and observe the scenery around you. It’s late afternoon now and you’re parked in the driveway of a small countryside home, it’s dark inside so you can assume you’re not staying with anyone. There’s a large field surrounding the home. Trees lining the meadow and plants that held out over the cold weather stand strong and the evening sun is even a bit warmer than it had been recently. 

“König this is beautiful, is this your place?”

“Yea, just somewhere small when I need to get away. Don’t come here often, don’t have many reasons to visit. But I wanted to share this with you.” 

He's unpacking the car, grabbing both of your bags. 

“Do you need help?”

He laughs.

“No, I do not need help.” 

The car is locked and you follow him up the path to the house, clovers dot the front path and a flower box on the window is untouched, dry soil packing the inside.

He opens the door and the ceilings are high, but it’s still cozy, lived in even if he says he doesnt come here often. Shoes are discarded at the door and you hang your jacket on the coat rack.

“This is beautiful König, didn't take you for an interior designer.”

He sets the bags down near the front door and you take in the room.

“I actually had my mother decorate it, I don’t have much of a sense for style like she does.”

“Do you see her often? Your mom.”

“Holidays, I try to call her often but when it’s busy it’s harder. She understands.”

“Well I’m sure she’s very proud to have such an accomplished son.”

He smiles, head tipping down, “I hope so.”

He claps his hands, ending the heartfelt moment.

“You look around, make yourself at home. I will start a fire and later we will go watch the sunset ok?”

“Very well.” 

Your heart is giddy and light. He’s so kind and nice and handsome and sweet and a million other words to describe him. The house is more spacious inside than it appears outside, a large archway leads to the kitchen, one bedroom and a nice bathroom. Everything is high up, the shower head is fit just for him, cabinets stacked high, large bed which looks enticingly comfortable.

“König!” You call for him as you look around.

“Yes, mein Liebling.”

“How long are we staying here?”

“Just for the night my love, couldn't get much time away approved.”

“Oh, ok. Will we come back here eventually?”

“If you wish to do so then we will.” 

You observe the view out of the window and König wraps his arms around your waist.

“Scared me.” You laugh, your hands tracing along his hands and up his arms.

“My apologies, shall we head outside to enjoy the view?” He kisses the top of your head and you melt once more.

“Lead the way.”

He brings a thick blanket with him outside and lays it down in the meadow, you lay with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you, watching the multitude of colors paint the sky as the sun descends another day, bringing a sweeping array of stars and cool breezes. 

“Thank you König. You’ve been so kind to me and bringing me here means a lot.”

“All that is mine is yours, if you’d allow me I’d like to show my appreciation again.”

You shiver in his grasp and he holds you tighter.

“Yes.”

That's all he needed to hear before he lifts up his mask and takes your lips in his, he trails his lips down to your neck and leaves new bright bruises and snakes a hand up your shirt to play with your breasts, nipples hard from the combination of the cold and his touch. 

“Pants off.” He tugs at your waistband and you comply, the cool air hitting your core.

His hand moves down and caresses your body thoroughly, missing no spot.

“Sit on my face Schatz.”

You pause and look at him.

“I don’t want to suffocate you.” 

He actually laughs now, a full laugh.

“I will die a happy man.” You push him back, he’s gleeful and you laugh as well.

“No really darling, you will not ‘suffocate me’ get up here.” He uses heavy quotation marks around his words and you carefully make your way up to his face, knees placed on each side of his head.

He lifts his mask right to above the peak of his nose and he licks his lips eagerly, eyes only focused on where you sit above him.

“Take your shirt off too.” He strokes your thighs slowly leaving goosebumps in his path.

“What if someone sees?!”

“No one is coming out here trust me. I wouldn't have you expose yourself if somewhere were to see what’s all mine right?” He bites his lip as you discard you shirt and bra

Completely exposed outside as you sit above a man you care about fills you with a fire once more.

“It is like I have died and gone to heaven, you are breathtaking.” He kisses the inside of your thighs as he talks, leaving small bites.

He truly feels he's undeserving. The setting sun casts a glow on your back where it illuminates your outline in soft light, it casts on the dips and curves of your body, the swell of your breasts softly lit.

He grows hard again in his pants but wants right now to be all about you.

“Now sit darling and relax.” You sit slowly onto his awaiting mouth, hovering over him as he kisses you first and licks from entrance to your clit. He has to lift his head to reach you which frustrates him.

“I said sit.” He grips your waist and forces you to sit fully on his face, his mouth latching tightly onto your clit and you gasp and he moans, eyes rolling back into his head as he tastes you once more. He can taste the both of you from the car ride and he licks feverishly at you making your head spin. The stubble on his face scratching the inside of your thighs so nicely.

You brace your hand on his head trying to make him slow but he won't relent from his work. He’s a thorough man and once he starts a job he won’t stop until it's finished. He works on you and your chest starts rising faster and faster, he sucks licks and ravages like he’s never eaten before. 

“König, don’t stop please.” 

You moan and tip your head back, he groans as you arch backwards hands bracing on his midsection and you moan freely into the air. His mumbled words vibrate your core and it makes you reach your peak that much quicker.

König doesn't stop, not after you cum and he won’t slow down, his face is soaked and his pupils dilated.

“König it’s too much, please.”

You try to move your hips away and he growls the hands on your waist gets tighter and you’re able to lift just a bit off his lips for reprieve, he whines.

“Please darling, give me another ok? Just a few more.” 

You can’t say no to him, he’s licking his lips again, your fluid soaking his face and nose, it glistens in the sunset glow and you can’t say no to him. So you lower yourself again, he smiles as his mouth meets you halfway. 

“Fuck, König.” It isn’t long before you cum on his mouth another two times, he’s quick to draw it out of you and he knows what buttons to push and ways to move to make you unravel.

By the end he’s kissing the inside of your thighs again and you pant down at him mind turned to sand by his actions.

“You look beautiful like this, we’ll have to do this more often.” His grip is light and his thumb makes patterns on your exposed skin and you shiver from the cold now, the sun fully set and the stars in full swing. 

“Here, let's get you inside, warm up yea?” He gives you his shirt to put on and carries, much to your protest, you back inside where you both shower and sit on the couch in front of the fire.

His arms are wrapped around you and your eyelids grow heavy as you rest on him.

“König.”

“Yes schatz?”

“Did you mean it earlier when you said we’d have a place of our own?”

He smiles, you can’t see it but he hums at the thought. The two of you retire from the force and he can come home to your awaiting gaze and warm touch.

“I would love it, more than anything. You complete me, relax me and ignite fire within me all the same. To live by your side would be eternal bliss.”

“I would love that too.” 

You smile and cozy yourself closer to him, your eyes grow heavy and you feel content giving yourself to sleep in his arms.

[generic-sonic-fan]

Tensile

Summary: Shadow says he is drawing a model of a combat encounter. Omega suspects there's more going on.

796 words

---

“YOU ARE STILL AWAKE.”

Shadow looks up from where he’s sitting on the living room floor. His hands hold a pen and paper against the coffee table.

“ORGANICS REQUIRE AT LEAST EIGHT HOURS OF REST.” Omega says.

“I’m modeling a combat scenario.” 

Omega approaches and, with only a little bit of clattering, sits down on the floor beside him. 

Shadow spreads the paper out, revealing a crudely-drawn oval. At the top of this oval is a symbol that might represent a door. Six red dots are placed loosely around it. On the other side of the oval is a square-shaped symbol. 

“They enter here.” Shadow points with his pen. “Blocking the entrance.”

“THEIR ARMAMENTS?” 

“M16 rifles, 40 round magazine size. Secondary HK-45 tactical pistols. For each of them.” 

Omega knows immediately these were not Badnik armaments. 

“They enter here.” Shadow repeats. “The only other exit is here. It requires external activation.” 

He gestures to the square-shaped symbol across the oval from the attackers. There’s a smaller station drawn just outside of it. 

“There is one person with adequate power to fight. And there is a civilian.” Shadow says quietly. “They are trying to get through the other exit to escape.” 

“WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU TRYING TO MODEL?”

“How the defenders could escape.”

“THE COMBAT-EQUIPPED DEFENDER COULD UTILIZE THE FREE-STANDING EXIT OR ITS LEVER AS COVER.” Omega points.

“No, the pod- it’s glass. Any bullets hitting it would damage the exterior and cause problems during re-entry.” 

“THE COMBAT-EQUIPPED DEFENDER COULD CHARGE THE ATTACKERS, PROVIDING DISTRACTION FOR THE CIVILIAN TO ESCAPE.”

“No, you don’t understand! They’re already trained on her, they’d fire the moment I’d-” Shadow stops himself. “The moment he moved.” 

Omega stares down at the sheet of paper, at the six red dots, the pen marks pressed down so hard that they’ve almost torn through the page. And he analyzes Shadow’s use of pronouns. And the time of night he is modeling this “combat scenario”. 

And he replies, “THERE IS NO POINT TO FURTHER ANALYSIS.”

Shadow clenches his fist, breaking the pen he’s holding in two, spilling ink across his glove. 

“YOUR BEST COURSE OF ACTION DURING THIS EVENT IS ALREADY APPARENT TO YOU. THERE IS NO FURTHER VALUE IN RE-SIMULATING THIS.” 

Shadow shoves Omega, smearing the ink across his chest. 

It’s a paltry gesture, not enough to actually move him. “THIS IS WORTHLESS SPECULATION.” 

“Worthless?” Shadow hisses. “You think this is worthless?” 

“AFFIRMATIVE. YOU HAVE ALREADY LEARNED AND IMPROVED FROM THIS COMBAT ENCOUNTER LONG AGO.” 

Omega recalls more sophisticated tactics Shadow had employed seconds after awakening from stasis, to save an startled Rouge from a hail of gunfire greater than any squad of GUN agents could hope to muster. Gunfire from Omega’s own targeting. 

He does not mention this.

Shadow stares down at the page.

“THERE IS NO PURPOSE IN UPSETTING YOURSELF OVER THIS AGAIN.” Omega grabs the paper from the table.

Shadow doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t stop him when he rips the page in half, either. 

“RETURN TO YOUR QUARTERS. WE HAVE A MISSION TOMORROW.” Omega draws a flame thrower and with a small puff incinerates the remains of the combat model. 

But before he can stand, Shadow throws himself against his chest. 

He freezes as Shadow’s hands scrabble for purchase on the sides of his plating as his body begins to shake. As the first sob registers in the air. As he closes his eyes and moisture begins to spill out.

Omega sheathes his flamethrower, and in a motion he has to calculate from only a few quickly-retrieved memory files of Amy’s posturing, he lowers his hands until they settle around Shadow’s back. 

Between his fingers he can feel Shadow’s diaphragm spasm with every breath, along with the trembling bundle of muscles in his core, feeding arteries that pulse just beneath his skin. Fragile mechanisms laid bare. 

For two tenths of a second, Omega worries that a single movement might disrupt the erratic combination of rhythms keeping Shadow alive. A recall of data from countless combat encounters puts a stop to that worry, however. 

“YOU ARE STRONGER THAN THIS," he mutters. 

Shadow stiffens. “You’re right.”

“STRONGER THAN THE MEMORY.” He adds quickly.

“Are you sure?” 

Every response Omega tries to calculate stops at the third word in. His language processor is woefully unprepared for the task. 

So he simply replies, “YES.” 

Shadow presses his forehead against his chest plating. 

“NEVER DOUBT MY ANALYSES.”

Shadow gives a strange combination of sounds, something between the classifications of a laugh and a gasp. 

“Thanks.” Shadow says. “Don’t tell Rouge.” 

“LIKEWISE.” 

He pulls against his grasp, and Omega lets him go. He watches as he wanders off to his room, and does not move until he is sure Shadow has fallen into the rhythm of sleep.

[reaveries]

▬  risk

"I will save your life. I'll try for you."

pairings: re2 officer!leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: while trying to escape the police station in the midst of the infamous raccoon city disaster, rookie police officer leon s. kennedy finds a young woman in need of his help.

content warning: descriptions of violence and gore

word count: 4.4k (estimated 21 minutes reading time)

a/n: this .... has been in my drafts ......... since april. you're finally free........

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 12/30/2023.

Leon’s gun had always been a mere extension of his arm, a tool to be honed and wielded with precision. The academy, with its spiral target walls and foam-filled mannequins, had served as his training ground, preparing him for the hopefully unnecessary evil of one day having to take a life. This unspoken burden came with the territory—an occupational hazard in the line of duty. But no amount of half-hearted demonstrations and target practices could’ve equipped him for a night like this.

Until tonight, he’d never seen a body fall lifeless due to his own hand. But if he had, he wouldn’t have expected it to stumble from its spot of decay, staggering towards him with a newfound vigor that defied everything he thought he knew about morality and his fragile existence.

Tonight has been a night of unholy firsts, and the air about him suggests it has only just begun.

The pungent metallic scent of arterial spray assaults his senses as he steps out of the shower room. His heart sinks in his chest as he takes in the sight of carnage in the westmost corridor of the police station. Uniformed men and women lie in crumpled heaps against the walls. Their bodies are mangled and torn, some so abhorrently disfigured that they’re scarcely recognizable as humans. The presence of the dead was something he was uncomfortably growing comfortable with, and yet to imagine the animosity it must’ve required to create this scene… 

Well, it unsettled him, to say the least. He could’ve known them if things had gone differently.

He steps over their quiet corpses with his pistol in one hand and a flashlight raised in the other. He nudges one with the toe of his boot, aiming for their skull if they so much as twitch. But their bodies remain convincingly still, slain beyond any chance of revitalization. His grip tightens on his gun as he presses forward down the narrow corridor. If this is the result of those infected creatures he’s become acquainted with, they could be lurking ahead, waiting for him. 

The rain outside stings as it pelts his cheek, dampening his uniform that’s already slick with sweat. He ignores it.

Ahead should be the S.T.A.R.S. office if the map he found is correct. Hopefully, he can find relevant information about Claire’s brother in there, something to help her find him if he should ever see her again. With a deep breath, he reaches out to turn the knob when a groan suddenly creeps from down the hall. But there’s something different about it. 

It sounds alive, pained, and distinctly human.

“Is someone there?” He calls out, his voice echoing down the long hallway. The sound reverberates off the walls and fills the silence, and for a moment, there is nothing but his own breathing. 

Then a low growl echoes back at him.

With an annoyed huff, he raises his gun and aims for the corner he anticipates the creature to hobble from behind. But before he can catch a glimpse of it, something moves in the darkness. It's too fast for him to comprehend, a blurring figure scurrying towards him like a feral animal. He watches in horror as it crawls along the ceiling, its movements disturbingly fluid.

As it draws closer, the moonlight catches on to the glistening texture of its skin. A grotesque tentacle-like tongue unfurls from its mouth, swinging through the air like a scythe.

“What… what the fuck?”

He fires two rounds into the fleshy matter of the creature’s head, but it makes no difference. Doesn’t even flinch. The rookie officer prepares to fire another round when the monster flings itself off the ceiling and lunges its body through the air directly toward him.

In a split-second decision, Leon throws himself into the office, his body slamming against the door before he scrambles to his feet and secures it behind him. Outside, the creature is relentless. Its wet, clobbering movements spasm through the walls. With his back pressed against the door, he braces himself as the monster rams into it with a sickening force that rattles the hinges. 

It takes all his strength to keep it from buckling under the creature’s assault. The force of each blow makes his arms tremble, and he can feel his grip slipping. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and his heart thunders in his chest as he fights to hold the door in place. 

But then, just as suddenly as it began, the onslaught ceased. Leon takes a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and listens for any sign of movement outside.

He waits a second, then slowly pulls himself away from the door.

With his chest heaving, a word comes to mind.

Licker. 

He remembers the warning about these beasts scrawled on a note left by a likely deceased officer. His naive self didn’t expect to encounter one so soon.

He takes a moment to survey the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The abandoned desks and personal items left behind tell him that S.T.A.R.S. personnel were just as underprepared for a viral outbreak as the rest of the city. The first thing that catches his eye is a trauma kit on the wall. He crosses the room and flips it open, finding it fully stocked. Dressings, hemostatic agents, antiseptic. A sense of relief washes over him. He reaches into his pocket to make room for the essentials, but to his dismay, finds them full of various necessities. There’s no space to carry anything in this damn uniform. With a sigh, the lid is closed and left as it was found.

“Hey!” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise. 

“Please tell me you didn’t die,” a disembodied voice says. The end of their sentence tapers off with a shallow breath. With a sharp turn of his head, he tries to place the direction it's coming from. There’s no familiarity in their voice, which is no surprise considering he’d only become acquainted with a few officers during his orientation.

“Where are you?” He calls out, raising his flashlight in search of an answer, hoping for a door or some kind of opening.

“Linen closet. Down the hall.”

Their muffled words become clear as he approaches a far corner of the office, likely sharing a wall with the room they’re in. “Did it get you?” they ask, quieter this time.

Leon takes a deep breath to steady himself before responding. “Almost, but I’m alright,” he assures them. With a glance back to the door, he continues, “Listen, I know how to get past that thing now. Just… stay put. I’ll come to you.”

“Please be careful,” the stranger pleads. Something in their voice rings as desperation, lending to the pit forming in his stomach. It’s more than likely that whoever this is is a victim of the outbreak, clinging to their last shred of humanity before the virus consumes them. The thought of putting down another person, to see the life fade from their eyes—he’d like to avoid it if possible.

With the barrel of his pistol, he cracks open the door and peers into the corridor. It’s just as he left it, but there’s no sign of the monster anywhere. He holds back a sigh of relief as he opens the door further and steps into the hall. The ceiling, where his eyes are permanently trained, is empty. The revolting shape of the licker is nowhere to be found. 

He pushes forward, boots ghosting across the floorboards and pistol drawn. His breathing is slow, his muscles tensed. He’s convinced the creature can hear the blood rushing through his veins. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he halts and peeks behind the turn of the hall where the linen closet should sit. 

His heart drops.

It’s there.

Of course it’s there. Why should anything be easy for him?

Perched in the corner, its sinewy body is raised on its haunches and pressed wetly against the wall. Rows of jagged teeth have overgrown the confines of its decaying jaw, and long bone-like talons sprout from fleshy hands. 

He can't afford to freeze up. One misstep is all it takes, and he’ll be gutted like the rest of them. He reaches for a hook on the holster hanging at his hips, fingers trembling as he fumbles for the cold, smooth canister he's grown familiar with. This might be his only chance.

With one finger, he hooks the pin and yanks it. The sound of it clattering against the tile echoes throughout the hallway just as a cloud of white explodes, engulfing the creature as it lunges toward him. It falls to the floor in an instant, writhing in agony as the grenade pierces the air with a sharp ringing noise.

No time to think. Leon sprints to the door, feeling the hot stench of decay brush past him as he avoids the stunned beast. The door flies open against his weight, and he forces it shut behind him.

He leans against the door, panting heavily as he tries to steady himself.

As he catches his breath, a voice whispers in the darkness.

“You made it.”

His eyes dart to the corner, where a young woman sits leaning against a washing machine. Her uniform is in bad shape, torn at her midsection and stained to the hem. It looks like blood is seeping through, smearing her fingers red as she tries to stanch the bleeding. The sight of the mess has him quickly closing the space between them.

She looks him up and down as he kneels beside her.

“You’re an officer?” She asks with knitted brows. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Leon Kennedy. I just started today,” he answers quickly, the adrenaline causing a noticeable waver in his voice.

She laughs but winces and screws her eyes shut. “And I thought my first day sucked,” she says through her teeth.

“Did that thing do this to you?” He asks, his tone gentle yet urgent, getting straight to the nagging thought in his mind.

She shakes her head, looking down at the wound with a suppressed grimace. “I thought the hallway was clear. And then, out of nowhere, it just…” Her mind seems to wander at the thought. “It came through the window. There was glass flying everywhere. It scratched me pretty good.”

Leon tilts his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wound. Her uniform makes it difficult to see the full extent of the injury. However, the amount of blood is enough to give him an idea of the severity.

“‘Scratched’ is an understatement,” he says, looking back at her.

A dazed sort of smile finds its way to her face. “I like to be optimistic.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe precisely because of it, his smile mirrors hers. She’s not infected. Thank God.

“So do I,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Then we can think about getting out of here.”

She nods and attempts to sit up straighter.

“Can you, um,” he starts to say, gesturing to the hem of her uniform.

“Yeah, I can take it off. I’m not shy.”

A blush creeps up his neck as she nimbly moves to undo the buttons of her uniform. Leon averts his gaze, suddenly transfixed by the desolate corner of the linen room. His fingers pluck idly at the skin around his nails. But from the corner of his eye, he catches her struggle to shrug off the top. It gets caught on her shoulders and refuses to slide down.

“Here, let me,” he offers reluctantly.

The room falls silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as he coaxes the shirt down her arms. She draws a sharp breath as it grazes over tender bruises and scrapes, and a strange sense of intimacy seeps in, making him feel guilty for having to undress her. As the shirt falls to the ground, revealing her white undershirt, his eyes are drawn to the dark magenta stain blossoming across the fabric. 

There, at the center of it all, is a shard of glass, roughly the size of the palm of his hand. Its edges are sharp and erratic, protruding from her lower stomach. 

It’s critical, he realizes.

“Sorry if it’s not the prettiest thing to look at,” she says, eyes fixated on the ceiling.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, hoping it sounds convincing. 

Apparently, it doesn’t, because she looks down for the first time and sees it.

“Jesus Christ!” She exclaims breathlessly. Her hands fly to hover above the shard, afraid to touch it. “You have to take it out,” she says with certainty, clearly unable to bring herself to do it.

His medical training at the academy left much to be desired, but even he was aware of the cardinal rule when it came to injuries such as these. Under the best of circumstances, the object should never be removed, lest the victim hemorrhage and bleed to death. However, he’d wager that they were far from the best of circumstances, and the alternative wasn’t enticing. Leon takes a deep breath, then places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the shard of glass. Their eyes lock, a silent agreement passing between them.

“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitates for a moment before pulling it out in one swift motion. He can feel her muscles tense beneath his hand as she reacts to the jagged edges scraping against her insides. A torrent of hushed expletives tumbled from her lips, the pain etched deeply in her features.

“There,” he says softly, immediately deciding not to let her see the piece of glass once he realizes its morbid grandeur.

He can see the relief wash over her face, but it's short-lived as her condition quickly deteriorates. The sudden change startles him. Her eyes have started to glaze over, and her head falls limply to the side. Her words are barely audible, lost in labored breaths. 

“Hey,” he says urgently, reaching to cup her cheek. She responds with a groan and closes her eyes. He taps her cheek more desperately. “Hey, stay with me!”

With his other hand, he brings two fingers to the tender spot between her jaw and her neck. Her pulse is rapid but faint. Below, the stain spreads further along the cloth of her undershirt. He quickly lifts the hem, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold skin of her stomach. Blood gushes from the wound at a frightening rate, dripping onto the floor and pooling. 

His heart races as he frantically searches for something to stem the bleeding. It ends up being the closest thing: her discarded uniform. The fabric immediately darkens as he applies pressure. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The blood seeps through, coating his fingers. 

"Come on, stay with me," he pleads.

The blood flow slows a little, but only after having wholly soaked through her uniform. He undoes his vest and shrugs out of his shirt, leaving him in just the long sleeve he wore beneath. He brings the shirt to her waist and ties it tightly to keep the fabric firmly in place. As he secures it, her hand finds his arm. He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing shallow.

"Don't worry, I've got you," he says, trying to sound confident.

Her fingers tighten around his arm, and she mumbles something. He leans closer, straining to hear her words. 

“Don’t let me die here,” she repeats, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

He feels a lump form in his throat. "I won't... I promise."

He leans back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Breathing heavily, he runs a hand through his hair. Only then does he notice her blood staining his uniform, his hands, and the floor around him. He wipes his hands on his pants, but even in the dim, cold light of the linen room, it’s clear it isn’t going anywhere. 

This isn’t going to be enough to stabilize her; even someone with as little medical knowledge as him can see that it would be a miracle if it did. 

But despite that, amidst the chaos and the overwhelming odds, he still clung to the tenuous belief that he could save her life. He can do what he couldn’t for the others, who’d been only slightly out of his reach and beyond saving. Saving just one person would mean this all meant something, and that he, though just one person unsure of what he’s up against, could be the catalyst for a transformative ripple, a flicker of defiance in the face of the unknown evils inside this building.

It would mean everything.

He glances at the door, feeling his stomach drop with the knowledge of what he must do. The hemostatic agents, the antiseptic—those are her lifelines. If he doesn’t act now, she will die in this small corner of the police station, and she’ll have him to thank. Acknowledging this fact sets him in motion.

In a swift movement, he picks her up in his arms, careful not to exacerbate her injuries. She stirs uncomfortably for a moment, then settles against him. Blood drips from his shirt at her waist and trickles down his arm before pittering on the tile. It’s neverending. 

“Don’t make any noise,” he whispers down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, but she nods in understanding.

Here goes nothing. He nudges the door open.

Once again, he is greeted with a quiet stillness. The corpses are still lost in a dreamless sleep, and light rain rhythmically blows in through the empty window frames. It could be somewhat comforting if he were ignorant of the foreboding presence lurking in the nearby shadows. With each soft step, he gets further from the haven of the linen room. He passes the expired stun grenade and is approaching the turn of the hall once again when she shifts in his arms. She presses her forehead against his chest, brows furrowed in an effort to stifle her pain. He can’t imagine how it must feel.

He pulls her closer, hoping to offer a modicum of reassurance. We’re almost there. 

It can be said with absolute certainty that he has never moved as slowly as he did turning that godforsaken corner. And for that, he’s been blessed with a clear pathway. Somehow, the creature has not made its presence known. A thought nags at him, daring him to consider that he may have underestimated its intelligence. That it will rear its grotesque head any minute, and its mouth will pull in a sadistic grin, enravished with the idea that he could’ve fooled it once again. 

But this is not the case. There, in the imperceptible darkness, inches above his head, there is a shift. It’s slight enough that he almost misses it. He doesn’t need to look up to know what it is—to know that it’s there, to know that he’s directly below it.

Somehow, he missed it.

His muscles tense, but there’s nothing left to do but continue forward. 

Just a few more steps. 

He places one foot cautiously before the other, careful to avoid shattered glass. The air feels thick with apprehension; every breath a calculated risk. 

Then there’s a tug on his pants. 

A deep, gurgling groan erupts from one of the corpses by his feet, and it pulls itself toward him. On instinct, he brings his boot down to silence it, crushing its skull beneath his heel before it can sink its teeth in. The woman gasps instantly, startled by the sudden jerking movement. Fuck. 

Run.

The walls blur, and time seems to slow as he sprints down the hallway. The woman’s cries intermingle with the sound of talons scraping against the floor, padding down the corridor with a ferocity he doesn’t need to see to know. 

Before it can reach him, he forces the office door open and kicks it shut behind him. He ignores the sounds of it screeching and thrashing about and hurries over to one of the desks, swiping the clutter to the floor before setting her down on the cool wooden surface. He wastes no time in retrieving the trauma kit and rummaging through it, letting items fall haphazardly to the floor.

The seconds are slipping through his fingers. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says between breaths. 

She watches him through furrowed brows, blinking slowly as he quickly removes the blood-soaked uniform from her waist. She says nothing, whether due to sheer incapability or hopeless acceptance.

He doesn’t notice either way. 

His hands move quickly. He’s too lost in his efforts to see her watching him. Before the darkness creeps in, her lips form a short, one-word apology that gets lost on its way out, unheard by even her. The whisper of remorse dissipates in the air and fades. Then the world follows suit.

An uncertain amount of time has passed when she begins to stir. The room is blurred beneath the heaviness of her eyelids, but its meager contents slowly reveal themselves: plain wooden desks, some chairs, and personal belongings that confirm she’s in the room she suspects. She’d only been in this office once before when working on an intense, high-profile assignment. Even then, her visit was brief. There’s no reason she should be in here.

She pushes through the clouded haze and props her elbow on the desk to raise herself. Immediately, she’s struck with a burning fire in her abdomen, crumpling her back onto the cold surface. It felt like an electrical fire. Spreading quickly with a force that raised the hair on her skin.

Looking down, she saw the crimson stain on her undershirt, and the memory of the attack came back to her with a visceral shudder. The horrifying creature, the unrelenting pain, and the man who saved her. His name eludes her, the residual memories feeling like a half-forgotten dream. His face, too. Until slowly, the memory begins to sharpen, and she can see his face with full clarity. The young officer had been handsome, with an angular jaw and straight nose that lent him a serious, almost stoic look. Yet there was an undeniable boyishness to him, from the tousled hair falling into his eyes to the way he moved with an easy grace that belied the sharpness of his features. Yes, the stranger had certainly been an easy sight for her weary eyes. 

“You’re awake.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the memory began to speak. She realized just then that it wasn’t a memory at all and that he’d emerged from a corner of the room upon hearing her awaken. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks when she doesn’t respond. He’s tense, but his nervous expression seems sincere, and a strange sense of trust begins to settle over her.

“Hurts,” she grumbles. Her throat ached too. Everything ached.

His mouth flattened into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in sympathy. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says.

She notices his hands tremble slightly as they reach out to touch her, brushing warily against the exposed skin at her hip. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood staining his fingers or the hair falling into his eyes as he checks the dressing. Once it’s clear it meets his standard of approval, he looks up, and his light eyes finding hers expectantly, searching for signs of discomfort.

Then it comes back to her. 

“Leon,” she murmurs absently, testing how it sounds out loud. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "That's me," he says softly. 

She studies his face once again, taking in the way his features soften as he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“How long have I been out?” she asks hoarsely.

He pulls the hem of her shirt back down, covering the tender skin once again. “Not long, a few hours maybe.”

She tries to sit up once again, but her body protests with a sharp pain at her side. He places a hand on her upper arm, steadying her. 

“Take it easy,” he urges her in a whisper.

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses his concerns and her pain. She pulls herself off the desk and straightens her shirt. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “I feel like shit, but I’m fine.”

“You look better,” he says, observing her closely. “You have more color in your face.”

A faint smile graces her lips. “I think I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve been done for,” she confesses. “I’d already made peace with it by the time you got there.”

He offers a modest shrug. “I’m not sure about that. You seem like you’re made of tougher stuff, deputy.”

His words prompt her to tilt her head, inspecting his face and searching for any remnants of recognition beyond their recent encounter. But apart from that, there's nothing.

“Oh. I ran your badge while you were out,” he admits, his gaze momentarily directed toward the floor.

“Is that so…” She crosses her arms with a touch of amusement in her voice. Her inner resolve slowly finds her once again. “So was all this done to impress your boss on the first day?”

He chuckles quietly, now somewhat sheepish in the presence of his superior, in a world where such distinctions no longer hold much meaning. Oddly enough, his laughter somehow finds its place seamlessly amidst the heavy air surrounding them. 

Despite the lurking horrors outside the sanctuary of this room and the even grimmer uncertainties ahead, for a brief moment, none of it matters. She stands there as a testament to his actions, breathing proof that he made a difference. Placing himself in the epicenter of this diseased storm no longer feels like ill-fated martyrdom. Within these walls and in the face of the darkness that looms beyond, they are not simply spectators to a morbid narrative; they are, instead, influential participants. All hope isn't lost.

With a smug smile, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“Did it work?”

[least-evil-resident]

medieval resident evil au where Umbrella is a cabal of dark mages trying to unlock the secrets to lichdom and go mad learning secrets from the undead eldritch horror outside of space and time

Chris and Jill are Knights in service of the Order of Stars, Leon is a beginning town guard, Ada is still a spy, honestly not much is different

If you give them ttrpg character sheets then it's even more fun

Would guns be wands, badass Crossbows, or straight up magic, or different based on the game? They could also just be guns but that wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

Consider pistol=dagger, rifle=longsword, shotgun=axe? Grenades could be hand bombs or magic.

Or pistol=hand crossbow, rifle=light crossbow, shotgun is either special bolt or a spell

Beneath the cobblestone streets of raccoon city, where gaslamps and auto-carriages ramble, is the lair of an evil sect of mages developing spells in secret to transform humans into beasts

Could be very bloodborne-esque. Lots of fire and brimstone. Maybe STARS are more like paladins, and the bsaa is an order of Templar type organization.

If we go dnd 5e rules, Chris is a fighter for sure, Jill is like a rogue I guess? Leon could go either. It could be fun to make Claire like a sorcerer since she gets the grenade launcher

In later games I think Chris definitely fits either paladin or barbarian, where Leon goes for more rogue/maybe ranger vibes. Jill seems more rogue+fighter but magic rogue is cool, maybe artificer. Claire would be sorcerer multiclass I think. Keep any mages low powered that way.

Sherry in 6 is maybe warlock or aasimar instead of Cleric? Blood hunter would be cool. Rebecca starts as a Cleric in 0 for sure. For a low magic setting where research and Rituals are matched by quick, small combat spells, how high of a DC do you think enemies would go?

Of course, in a classless system like gurps or all flesh, this would be a lot less restrictive. What would be the best system for resident evil normally? What would be the best one for its fantasy au?

Wesker very much fits the low-fantasy vampire theme. He has a reflection and can step in he sunlight but wow it hurts his eyes. Chris rolls a 20 to punch a boulder to death.

Leon has the lucky feat or 20 in dex or something to pull off his stunts. Chris also gets Charisma as a leader for the bsaa, so paladin is up his alley. Leon's secret service requires more rogue skills, but his time in operation javier trains his skills as a Ranger under Krauser maybe?

Jill and Claire both get grenade launchers, but Jill is more Rogue with her lockpicking so it makes sense for them to switch level ups later on as claire learns more professional skills for rogue training.

Barry definitely hits fighter/barbarian with his heavy weapons. Jake is maybe more monk/barbarian but with something like a dhampir ancestry feature? Sheva is maybe rogue/fighter or paladin fighter since thats when chris starts taking paladin levels. Billy has to be rogue/fighter I think, or maybe fighter/rogue, if he even gets a second class. It would almost make sense for him to be pure rogue and rebecca be cure cleric, since she retires to become a researcher and hes never heard from again. Helena is I guess just plain rogue, hinting at her role in 6, while Leon has his ranger levels. Piers is more rogue/Ranger (or fighter archer). A lot of the one off teammates just don't get super interesting classes as a consequence of their limited appearance. Carlos... Fighter? Just fighter is fine.

Now, the problem here is that each game starts off with little to no equipment for various reasons. In the case of our spell casters like claire and jill, we can't just de-level them between adventures in the resident evil campaign. But we could give them more limited access to spell components to match the resource management of survival horror.

This is more complicated outside of dnd 5e, where a game like All Flesh Must Be Eaten has very different spellcasting rules, so you'd need to stray from a low-magic to a straight low-fantasy setting. Alchemist tools and one use spell scrolls replace your grenades and spell casting maybe? That's the issue you'd run into with treating the setting as one campaign instead of each game as an individual campaign though.

The easiest one to do is RE8. It's literally the same. Ethan starts 7 as a human Commoner, takes levels in artificer as the game goes on, since that one introduced crafting, and comes back very subtly as a human variant with a few new levels in fighter from chris' tutoring. Hey that means we can give Hiesenburg an artificer friend! Class buddies ♡ hiesenburg is probably artificer/sorcerer, giving him charisma and intelligence. Dimetrescu is maybe barbarian if she even gets class levels.

I don't think we can justifiably say Rose is a variant human, I think she gets her own custom ancestry features for this. Sorcerer also feels better than Druid for her, but a couple levels in - you guessed it, rogue! Cover her gun and Stealth skills. You get a lot or rogues and fighters in low powered/low fantasy settings, who knew lol

[justyaraya]

COD OC: Karina Cherepanova

Name: Karina Cherepanova

Nikename: Black Widow

Date of birth: February 12, 1987

Age: 29 (at the time of the events of 2016-17)

Place of birth: Moscow, USSR🇷🇺

Citizenship: 🇷🇺

Rank: none

Specialty: mercenary, Makarov's right-hand man, leader of the Black Widow Squad

Unit: Ultranationalists

Family/Relationships

Mother: unknown❌

Father: unknown❌

Love interest: Vladimir Makarov❤🇷🇺 [Professional relationship]

Reference/appearance

Parameters

Hair: blonde

Eyes: brown

Pigmentation on the body: -

Scars: on the face and hands

Height: 165 cm

Weight: 58 kg

Body type: normal

Equipment

Body armor: lightweight

AK-47 assault rifle

Pistols: M9 and Makarov Pistol (PM)

Cold steel: Tactical knife

Personality

On the surface, it will seem that Karina is calm and harmless, but in fact she is short-tempered and cruel, especially in her methods of unleashing the language of hostages during interrogation. At first, she waits patiently, but the vase of her angelic patience immediately cracks and uses force. She loves to be sarcastic, especially Makarova, and even makes fun of him, she likes his ardor.

Fears - It's hard to say

Biography

Life in the 90s was quite difficult for many people, especially when banditry, theft, robbery, and murder flourished. Karina, one might say, lived in a real hell, in an immoral family, where noisy drunkenness periodically took place, there were fights. Karina does not have a father, her mother found a life partner when the girl was still little. But the one his mother chose was not the one he pretended to be, Instead of a "kind daddy", he showed a cruel man, and his upbringing was beatings, and Karina had a hard time, like her mother, but she believed that she was within the norm, but it affected Karina's emotional state. Due to the turmoil in the family and the lack of money for food, Karina had to work part-time to earn at least some penny, from which she slipped in her studies, graduated from school with grief in half, but then she had to work part-time, and everything in her life turned upside down. One day, unable to bear the anger of her stepfather and the next beatings, Karina took a knife in order to scare, protecting herself and her mother. She was scared at the time, which led to a state of passion, and inflicted a fatal blow on the man, which led to imprisonment for a certain period. The mother did not somehow defend Karina, having been surprised that her daughter was a murderer. Until 2016, Karina became a mercenary.

The meeting with Makarov is rather vague story. Karina decided to try to join his people as a volunteer, even if it was risky, at that moment Makarov needed people. Karina has been training for a long time, on an equal footing with others, and she also trained dogs, making them fighting dogs. Karina also has a four-legged companion, Doberman Fang, the same fighting dog, as well as a guard who always accompanies his mistress. The girl also provided assistance to the ultranationalists by supplying weapons, medicines, equipment, etc. Makarov, although he trembled with her arrogance and barbs, but appreciated her effectiveness in her work, allocated her a small detachment in which she became the leader, and the "Black Widow Squad", a shorter name "Spiders", appeared. They stayed in different parts of the world, Karina had to hide and work in the shadows, because loyalists followed her, which did not always make it possible to deliver a kind of "goods" to Makarov on time. As for her relationship with Vladimir, they are more professional than amorous. She continued to act unflinchingly, as if ignoring all the cold stares and sarcastic remarks, which only increased his irritation. In those rare moments when they were on the same wavelength, a spark of mutual understanding almost ignited the steppe of tension in which they were both immersed. As time passed, and as if in a dance of fate, they began to dance on the edge of a professional relationship, where each step could easily end in collapse or unexpected harmony.

[Biography may be edited]

[seniorpollinationtechnician]

Jorlan found himself lagging behind, his attention momentarily drawn to a strange reading on his helmet's display. The massive gust of wind created by the creature knocked him off the path and sent him rolling down a slight incline hidden by the mist. The rocky terrain gave way to a forest unlike any he had ever seen. The mist here was denser, swirling around his legs like a living entity. The trees were tall and slender, their trunks glowing faintly with an ethereal light. The leaves were a mixture of deep greens and vibrant purples, shimmering as though imbued with some inner luminescence. Strange plants littered the forest floor, casting a soft, otherworldly glow that illuminated his surroundings. Jorlan slowly sat up, taking in his surroundings with a mixture of awe and caution. The air was thick with the scent of unfamiliar flora, a heady mix of sweet and earthy aromas. He reached for his equipment, ensuring his helmet and mask were still in place. His helmet's display flickered to life, showing him a wealth of data about the environment. The readings were unlike anything he had encountered before. As Jorlan carefully navigated through the forest, he noticed a structure looming in the distance. It appeared to be an ancient, intricately carved stone building, partially overgrown with vines and plants. Curiosity piqued and with no other apparent options, he decided to approach the structure. The ground beneath his feet was covered in strange vines, each one dotted with tiny tendrils that seemed to reach out towards him as he walked. They reacted to his presence, gently swaying and pulsing with light, as if acknowledging his arrival. Jorlan pulled out his pistol, holding it at the ready. As he drew closer to the structure, his attention was drawn to a large, purple plant bulb situated at the center of the dilapidated room. It stood about waist-high, its surface smooth and glossy. He approached with his pistol trained on it, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a mix of fear and fascination driving him forward. As he got closer, the bulb began to shudder and slowly unfurl, revealing its hidden contents. To his surprise, the bulb opened to reveal a woman inside with skin a delicate shade of lavender. She was adorned with intricate patterns of vine-like lines that traced across her skin, and her eyes, a deep, mesmerizing orange, locked onto his with an intensity that made him freeze in place. Before he could react, a voice echoed in his mind, clear and melodic and Jorlan felt a strange sense of calm wash over him as he listened to her.

[mymreaderlibrary]

Maybe it's just cause I'm replaying Dying Light but with Cod zombies being a thing I'm thinking about the TF141 in an apocalypse type scenario. Just a blurb idk if I’ll do anything with this.

Gonna lean heavily into the story of Dying Light here because I love it. Note that mc/ reader takes a combined role of Bracken, Jade, and Kyle C. That being said there is no Bracken, Jade, or Kyle in this universe and Rahim is reader’s younger brother.

[TF141 x male reader, no relationship (yet), zombies, death and gore, ramblings/ lore skimming]

[Length: 1,480 words]

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The 141 are given a private mission to infiltrate the city of Harran and hunt down a terrorist residing in the area. He's stolen highly sensitive documents and is threatening to have them released through an informant if something happens to him. A standard deal where the task force is concerned however Harran itself is the dangerous part of the mission.

A disease has ravaged the city, being the first documented case of what is now known as the Harran Virus. It is a strain of rabies that zombifies any of those infected, making them instinctively hunt down other warm blooded creatures to spread. The city has been completely quarantined and the virus has not gotten outside of it yet, but this also makes the area a cesspool, concentrated with death and disease. Reports say there are no living (or at least non infected) residents remaining aside from the terrorist group which have holed themselves in an unknown location. Because of this a strike has been permitted to raze Harran in hopes of destroying the virus or at the least any violent infected. A counteractive medicine is in development with its prototype being given to the task force in case of emergency, however there is no solid solution beyond massacring infected. It's not pretty work but the world can't risk this disease breaking out.

The 141 are given specialized equipment, thick gear, loads of medical equipment, and a collection of high end firearms. The team are air dropped into the lower city and instructed to start their search immediately.

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The sun is already beginning to set by the time they land. It would almost be pretty if it weren’t for all the viscera in the streets creating a sour rotten stench. Both Gaz and Soap wretch but do their best to push through, keeping their eyes peeled for any signs of life. It doesn’t take long for them to find hostiles except to their surprise it’s not infected. Instead a group of well armed thugs attempt to corner them. They’re all carrying machetes and nail bats, some with masks while others have paint creating three jagged stripes across their face. Ghost notes their lack of firearms as odd but chalks it up to lacking proper equipment (even if their body armor told otherwise).

Regardless it goes about as well as you expect for the thugs against such well trained soldiers, however hell breaks loose when Soap decides to fire his pistol. A banshee like scream is heard from across the street and their attackers scatter without hesitation, even leaving behind their wounded. Quickly a horde of infected begin rushing towards the task force, mouths gaped wide and moaning. The zombies they were told of were slow and bumbling but these were ravenous. They ran, yelled wildly, clawed at the 141 with a fervor, and with each shot of the team's firearms another horde would soon follow. It was clear they were overwhelmed and the fear that the mission was over before it even began quickly hit. A pained hiss sounded from Ghost as a zombie managed to pull off his glove and bite into the calloused flesh of his hand. Another slammed Gaz onto the pavement and began chewing into his shoulder. Price and Soap just barely threw off their friend's attackers but the assault only continued.

As another infected went to claw at Price's face the zombie's head flew clean off. The corpse flopped down to the side, convulsing wildly, but unable to keep attacking. A group of young men and women, wearing uniforms unlike the thugs from before, began dragging the team out from the horde. They threw firecrackers over their shoulders and onto the street, catching the infected's focus and separating their numbers. A man in particular seemed to be leading the 141's saviors, giving quiet orders through hand signals to his comrades.

They got a solid distance before the same man began looking them over for injuries in a building. The lowered visibility from the growing dark made it difficult but not impossible. Gaz and Ghost were the only ones bitten meanwhile Soap and Price were scraped from their scuffle with the thugs. Despite the bites being small they bled heavily and the two men had already broken out into sweats. Shaking violently Gaz’s legs buckled and he began to cry out in pain. Ghost faired no better his eyes looking dazed and unfocused as he could only hiss out panicked breaths. Gaz's pain seemed to recapture the attention of the infected outside as banging began on the door of their refuge. A young woman went to barricade the entry but the vicious sound persisted. A fist broke through the wood and scratched at the woman's eye but she didn't falter, using her back to block the entry.

In the commotion Price recalled the prototype medicine he had been given by their contractor and quickly pulled out two small syringes. Their rescuers gave them an odd look before the leader snatched it out of his hands and injected both men without question. It took a moment for the medicine to take effect but the pair began to go lax, heartbeats slowing to a normal pace. However they were still too weak to stand and the door was beginning to buckle. The woman barricading it was grabbed and dragged out into the dark street by the vicious creatures. The rescue leader tried to pull her out but it was too late.

With a pained look in his eye the leader commanded the remaining men and women to take the 141 back to "The Tower" while he distracted the zombies away from them. He left no room for argument and they were whisked away quickly from the regrowing horde. The now nearly black streets greeting them as they ran, carrying their fallen comrades.

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The journey to this tower, which turned out to be an apartment complex covered in UV lights, took a lot of climbing but eventually they were welcomed through the front gates. Or well, welcomed was an overstatement, it was more like begrudgingly let through after some convincing from their rescuers. The guards at the door glared at the men and Price could hear them scoffing about their missing leader and how “Rahim is gonna be pissed”. Seems that man wasn't just a leader to those runners but to this tower as a whole. And well if that wasn't a way to instantly ruin your reputation.

They were transferred to the medical ward where Gaz and Ghost stayed, far too out of it to get out of their cots. It was honestly quiet odd seeing the two laying dazed and pale. While the medicine seemed to have some sort of effect, there was no saying for how long. It was still only a prototype.

Soap and Price on the other hand could leave after getting bandaged, only suffering superficial wounds. They were instructed to rest, guided to some rooms a floor below where they saw several civilian types. Men, women, children... a mother in the corner cradling her crying baby trying to convince him to go back to sleep. A father sitting beside his two daughters resting on a cot covered by a thin sheet. A teen boy sitting alone, curled up on a chair shaking. Life. Something they were told didn't exist down here outside of terrorists.

One day on and the mission was already a mess, two soldiers down, emergency meds already in use, a whole community of civilians discovered, a possible ally MIA, and they had not an ounce of info to show for it. Sleeping after that just didn't feel right but the two men supposed there was nothing they could do as the tower was locked until morning. If the screams and yowls of dead were anything to go off of, it sounded like the infected were more active in the night. Who knew if this tower’s leader was even alive out there amongst the savage undead.

It took what felt like a year for the sun to rise again but just as daylight cusped the window Price could hear commotion downstairs. Cheers, shouts, panicked calls for a medic. As him and Soap peered onto the floor above they spotted that same leader from before now being dragged in to the medical ward from the stairs. Blood trailed behind him, his arms littered with cuts, bruises, and bites, but he was conscious and attempting to walk. A thick stream of red pooled from his temple down his chin and for a split second his gaze caught Price. His eyes were near unreadable, murky like Ghost's but still alert enough to be aware of what was going on. He seemed almost satisfied seeing the captain alive and well but quickly was taken away to be bandaged.

This mission was already hell.

[fearandhatred]

about people comparing yusuf dikec and kim yeji in the air pistol olympic category, let me weigh in with my shooting experience to all the 0 people who care

essentially. whatever the fuck you put over your eyes does not matter. you don't even need to see the target clearly. in fact it should be out of focus when you aim. like see this

all you need to shoot well is

1. have the main front sight line up with the right sight like so:

2. your arm movements. THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT. you just have to make sure you lower your arm slowly and that it's steady when you finally aim. you can't see the individual rings clearly from 10 metres away and even if you could. it does not matter one bit if your arm isn't steady. when we trained there was absolutely zero time dedicated to how you should use your eyes to shoot. 100% of it is about practicing lowering the gun at the right speed and also building arm strength by keeping your pistol up for longer periods of time.

also, when i used to practice (in school, in shooting ranges) none of us used any eye equipment either. most people would either close their non-dominant eye so the dominant one can see through the sight, or they would use that black flap to cover it. i would not say any way is easier because honestly when you get used to it it's second nature. opening both eyes is not necessarily harder either because of this, and it could be easier for some people to focus as well 🤷‍♀️

anyway i saw people comparing the two everywhere as well and it pissed me off especially since they probably know fuck all about shooting lmao. and bear in mind the gold medalist also used a different set of eye equipment. they would not allow this type of variation if it actually mattered. ok GOODBYE

[refigiowen]

Process Of Ruin

RiftCorp. Employee: Sasha Darley

Age: 25 years old

Height: 174 cm

Background: Family owned a small bakery in Kolkata District. After an incident involving a now discharged Klepto Corp. employee, in which the employee went into a blind rage and began to feast on the owner's liver, the bakery had to permanently close.

After showing great results in her workplace and during the annual L.O.D Test, Miss Sasha was selected for Klepto Corp's recently created daughter corporation RiftCorp and their "Riftmover Cleanup Crew" Project. During her trial period she will be guided and supervised by Miss Jericho.

The needed procedures have already been completed and Miss Sasha is to be at Shivaji Terminus at 1:30 AM sharp. Should she not arrive on time the standard issue Discipline Charge in her neck will detonate and a squad of janitors will be sent to clean her remains off the street.

Chapter 0.8: Dead Fingers Talking

I stood there, freezing. 1:29 AM, on time just like i was told to be. Just a minute later and my brains would have been all over the walls. Yikes.

I had no expectations from my new job, after all, i wasn't told anything more than that i will be cleaning RiftCorp. trains. And to be honest, that sounded much better than my usual 90 hour week of non stop keyboard clicking and paperwork. Much better. Though i was curious as to why they handed me a gun as part of my equipment, i dared not to ask as well, guns are as rare among civilians as a smile. Firearms and ammunition are basically only available to big corporations or Offices, if they bought a license, and laws regarding weapons are so strict that you might as well just carry a meele weapon around as those are not prohibited. And laws aside, ammunition is insanely expensive. A full magazine of bullets costs almost as much as a decent apartment in Grovestreet District. So with that in mind i kept my mouth shut and accepted the gun.

And so i stood there and waited for my train to arrive, alongside it my supervisor Jericho. They told me even less about her, only that Jericho isn't even her real name. I wondered what kind of person she would be, nice? A pain in the ass? Maybe one of those shy kind of supervisors? "She works on a train", i thought, "maybe she is just a big nerd".

And before i could even finish my in-mind picture of my supervisor, a bright purple rift appeared and the RiftCorp. train, or "Riftmover", almost flew into the station with how fast it was. It was so fast that it took me a good second to even realize what happened. After fixing my hair i was greeted by the door of the train opening and a tall woman wearing glasses standing before me. I took a good look at her, she didn't wear a suit like me but a black trench coat. Only those belonging to The Claw wear those.

She took a deep breathe and an odd smile creeped onto her lips.

"Step inside, Miss Sasha. There is no need for more than this introduction."

And with that she turned around and i immediately followed her into the train.

These Riftmovers are incredibly spacious, like, really spacious. Just the middle row was as wide as an entire bus.

After walking through at least 6 sections i finally decided to say something.

"U-Uhm, Miss Jericho.. Can i ask what exactly im supposed to do? When the passengers arrive that is."

And in what felt like less than a second she turned around and was right in my face.

"So you do possess the ability to speak after all! I thought maybe you had some kind of disability, that your mother had inhaled some unpleasent fumes during her pregnancy!" She had that smile on her face again as she said those words. She then took a step back and continued. "Why, you clean up the train after and during its journey through the city. That is all you need to do, Miss Sasha. The 'bucket' is at the front of the train and i see that they already gave you the 'mop'." She said, grinning as she pointed at the pistol on my hip. "You should get to know each of the 30 sections of this train like the alphabet.. though that might already be a bit too much, remembering the alphabet that is. Nowadays you never know, you know?" (I could barely make out what she was trying to say most of the time). I simply nodded and followed her back to the front of the train where she gestured me to sit down.

"It's 1:45 AM, the passengers should arrive shortly." I said, and to my surpise, was met with a... more normal smile from Miss Jericho. "You're quite the observant crow, are you not? Most don't even realize that they have a bomb installed in their neck until they hear that beeping noise. And here you are accomplishing major achievements! But yes, they will arrive shortly. As such, i will feed you your next bits of knowledge when all passengers have arrived. Until then you may rest. You will need it." And so i waited, Miss Jericho looming over me like a shadow. Sleeping was out of the question..

After 15 minutes hundreds of passengers got onto the train. Soon, all 30 sections were filled and no seat was empty, we were ready. Shortly after i got into position the train began to move. At first it felt as though i was aboard a normal train (at least i think that is what it felt like, a train ticket was always far too expensive for me so i walked to work) until i felt a strange sensation in my stomache and the train began to speed up rapidly. I looked out the window and saw a rift appear in front of the train and in the blink of an eye it had devoured the train whole. After we had left our dimension i turned my head to the passengers. They all passed out. And almost as if she read my mind, Miss Jericho explained what just happened.

"As per RiftCorp regulations i must inform you that all information regarding the Dimensional Rift technology is highly confidential and that everything i share with you must be kept secret. Should you not follow these regulations the Discipline Charge in your neck will be detonated on the spot." She smiled and nodded her head in a way that said "Hope you understood!".

"And as for these passengers, they are fine.

They are as fine and content as a little bird in its nest. These trains are equipped with the Dimensional Rift technology. A Singularity Grade technology originally invented by the Asiyah Association. Klepto Corp. bought it and used it to create RiftCorp, your employer." Miss Jericho then walked into the first section, standing between the two rows of passengers on the left and on the right side of the section.

"These passengers are not here."

"Not here?" I said, confused as to what she meant by that.

"Their minds are still home, yet their bodies are with us in the afterlife." She answered.

At this point i was rather fed up with her way of talking, the constant beating around the bush. Despite being filled with fear that the charge in my neck would just go off if i raised my voice just a bit i took a step forward.

"What the hell are you even saying? Afterlife? Can you just tell me what the hell this all has to do with cleaning up? What do you mean that they aren't really here? And why the fuck did they gave me a gun if all im supposed to do is be a godforsaken JANITOR?!"

And i was more than surprised when the charge didn't start beeping. Before answering my questions Miss Jericho reached into her coat and pulled out a pistol. She then aimed it at the group of passenger to her right, firing multiple bullets into each of them. I couldn't help but vomit on the floor, the sight of these people made me recall the memories of my father and his bakery.

Miss Jericho just stood there and laughed.

"Now, now, fear not Miss Sasha. These people will return to the state they were in before we left our dimension. That doesn't mean their guts and blood will not remain. To those in our dimension a mere second has passed when the train arrives at the other side of the city, in here hours or have passed. That is where the 'janitor' in you gets unleashed!"

I just looked up at her, leaning onto a nearby wall as i wiped the remaining vomit off my lips. "What the fuck?" i mumbled.

"And that gun of yours is for the uninvited visitors we will soon receive. Nay, we are not alone in this.. realm between realms. Creatures of varying shapes and sizes will try to get into the train and enter our realm. Poor souls, lost between time and space, clinging onto a false hope of returning to their loved ones. Certainly, this train is not much different from the afterlife. We leave the realms for hours and kindly execute those who wish to return to their loved ones to ensure the safe travel of our passengers. Was there a part you did not understand, Miss Sasha?"

And there it was again.. that eery smile on her lips as she looked at me with her blood covered face. And as she stood there, pistol in hand, next to a bloody mess of people, i understood that that 90 hour week of paperwork may have just been a better job than this.

[eksvaized]

[ Previous ┃ Next ] [ All In One ] part 13, MDNI

Over the course of two gruelling, intense days, Simon teaches you how to use a pistol. Each morning, while the first rays of the sun are just beginning to kiss the horizon, you and he would rouse yourselves from sleep and make the short trek to a nearby neighbourhood. He deems the backyard of your house not an appropriate location for your makeshift shooting range. The loud gunshots, combined with all the noise you and he makes, draw the attention of the dead. More often than not, your rigorous training sessions are abruptly interrupted. You are forced to desert the front yard of yet another desolate home since the biters, lured to the clamour like moths to a flame, start circling you.

Simon also takes it upon himself to provide some rudimentary hand-to-hand combat drills, teaching you a selection of basic yet effective moves to defend yourself should you end up in a situation where you need to spar with someone. His goal is to equip you with enough skills to protect yourself.

Despite being a novice, you surprise yourself with your shooting skills. The accuracy you show is staggering, like a seasoned marksman honed by years of experience. You manage to hit nearly every target that is placed in your line of sight. Each bullet finds its mark with the precision of a hawk swooping down on its prey. Yet, when it comes to sparring with Simon, success eludes you. No matter how hard you try to win, wrestling with Simon is like trying to overpower a mountain. Every practice session, without fail, ends with you pinned to the ground, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, defeated and humbled; Simon looms over you, a smirk spread wide across his face.

On the morning of your departure, you both wake up at dawn. The tension of the upcoming journey is palpable. Simon decides against bringing his duffel bag. Instead, he fills your backpack with essentials: food, several water bottles, and other useful items he thinks might come in handy.

The first day unfolds like a calm before the storm, unremarkable and serene. It's filled with endless hours of walking under the all-seeing gaze of Simon, who urges you onward like a relentless drumbeat. Throughout the initial day, you are fortunate enough to avoid any encounters with the dead. As the sun begins to set and the darkness cloaks the world in its inky shroud, you and Simon find a secure and suitable place to rest for the night, a small respite from the looming threats outside. Simon is firm in his stand against exploring the shadowy, dangerous streets in the dark, citing the increased risk of encountering biters. He believes in preserving strength and avoiding unnecessary battles that could lead to dire consequences. But, by the third day, the circumstances around you shift as dramatically as a calm sea turning into a tempest. The dangers you could once sidestep now stand defiantly in your path, leaving you with no choice but to engage in a fight...

With each step you take, your feet seem to drag reluctantly against the rough, uneven ground beneath you. You find your gaze fixated on the concrete, unable to muster the energy to lift your eyes and take in your surroundings. Exhaustion is seeping into your bones, making your every movement feel heavy and laborious. The muscles in your legs scream out in protest, begging you for a moment of respite, for a chance to rest, if only for a short while. However, Simon is insistent on pressing ahead, urging you both to cover just a little more ground before you allow yourselves to stop.

The sun has already set, casting long, dark shadows across the small town that you find yourselves in the centre of. The pressing need to find shelter for the night has driven both of you into this unfamiliar territory. Yet, despite your best efforts, neither of you managed to spot anything that looked safe enough to provide refuge for the night. Every potential haven seems to be fraught with danger or uncertainty, making the task all the more daunting. Tired and on the brink of despair, you suggest to Simon that perhaps you should simply settle in a random house or the smallest shop and clear out any biters that might be lurking within. Rather than continuing your fruitless search, it would make more sense to fortify a chosen spot, but Simon merely shakes his head in response. His determination is unwavering, and so you continue on, hoping that safety lies just around the corner.

Suddenly, like a snake striking its prey, Simon's iron-strong grip seizes your arm. He yanks you down with brute force, forcing you to dive behind the rusted car. Your body crashes into the unforgiving concrete, the shock reverberating through your bones. You are bewildered, your eyes darting to Simon, desperate for an explanation for the sudden chaos. However, before you can formulate a question, Simon presses his index finger to your lips. He gives his head a vigorous shake, his eyes wide with a fear that mirrors your own, and gestures for you to cast your gaze towards the other side of the desolate road.

At that moment, a weight of dread, as heavy as an anchor, pulls your heart into the pit of your stomach, making it feel as though it has descended to your knees. A cold sweat, chilling in its suddenness, breaks out on your brow, a tangible manifestation of your terror. A swarm of the dead, their groans echoing eerily in silence, is steadily advancing in your direction.

Simon, normally so composed, appears to be as horrified as you are. His face is ashen, his eyes wide with the same primal fear that has seized you. Yet, while you are rooted in place by your terror, he is already springing into action. He scans the surroundings, his mind working in overdrive as he attempts to devise a strategy to extricate both of you from this deadly trap.

"Do you see that tiny shop just across the street?" Simon speaks into your ear. You give a slight nod. "We need to run. As quickly and quietly as we can. If we're lucky, we'll sneak in before the biters notice us. Once inside, we'll lay low and wait for them to pass. Wait—take this," he rummages through the backpack that's slung over his shoulder and pulls out a black pistol. "Don't lose it. And don't shoot unless it's absolutely necessary."

You nod again. You understand the gravity of the situation, yet fear has frozen you in place, like a deer caught in the glaring headlights. Seeing no other option, Simon takes the lead and pulls you along with him.

As you begin to sprint, your heart hammers against your chest, its pounding rhythm echoing the surge of adrenaline that courses through your veins like a rushing river. Simon releases your arm, but remains close behind, a steadfast shadow in your peripheral vision. Your eyes remain fixated on the shop as you force your mind to block out the ominous thuds of nearing footsteps and the chilling groans of the dead. A quick, terror-laden glance over your shoulder confirms that the biters have yet to notice you. But just as you lurch forward again, the pistol Simon gave to you slips from your clammy, trembling palm. It clatters onto the concrete, sliding a few feet away like a discarded toy.

You skid to a halt, your eyes darting around in panic. The horde is getting too close for your comfort, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. But you can't just leave the pistol behind; Simon has made it clear you need to keep it safe.

"Damn it." Taking a deep, shaky breath, you spin around and dash towards the fallen gun.

You pick it up. But before you can dash back, you get caught. A dead man's fingers coil around your arm, drawing you into his deathly embrace. He growls into your face, his breath reeking of decay. You choke down a scream, swallowing it like a bitter pill as you kick at him. Your foot connecting with the hollow thud of his flesh. But once you dodge him, two others approach with unsteady, lumbering steps. Panic seizes you, hot and overwhelming, and this time you can't contain the frantic whimper that rises in your throat. You want to shoot them, to defend yourself and drive them back, but when you lift your hand, the pistol slides out of your trembling grip again, clattering to the ground.

Another scream, louder this time and laced with pleading, eludes you when another cold, lifeless hand grabs your shoulder. The horde, who were previously as scattered as leaves in the wind, suddenly converges, their focus sharpening on you like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. They close in, their menacing presence growing, looming over you like an ominous storm cloud getting closer and closer. Your body is teetering on the brink of collapsing. You draw out a knife from your belt, but it does little good, and eventually gets stuck in the skull of a biter, who attempts to bite your leg.

The shattering roar of a gun firing punctuates the air, a thunderclap that sends a frigid chill coursing through your veins. The scent of freshly spent gunpowder, pungent and dizzying, invades your nostrils - a harsh, metallic perfume that fills your senses until it's all you can perceive. Four bullets. That's how many it takes for Simon to close the distance between you two. With each gunshot, he moves closer, until finally, you are within arm's reach. He grabs your hand and hauls you after him. There's a certain desperation in the way he grasps your fingers — he is terrified of losing you again.

In a swift and forceful push, Simon thrusts you into the shop. He barricades the entrance and then makes you both advance further inside the building. The noise of the horde outside is deafening. Fear is paralysing you, but Simon's presence acts as a grounding force. Eventually, the pair of you stumble upon a dark, desolate room, a stark contrast to the pandemonium just on the other side of the wall. You both stagger in and, after ensuring the door is securely closed, collapse onto the ground, gasping for air amidst the adrenaline rush.

Simon shatters the silence, his voice a ghostly whisper that dances above the echoes of your laboured breaths. Yet, beneath his hushed tone, a current of anxiety rushes. "What the hell happened?"

"I went back for the pistol," you say, the words leaving a bitter taste on your tongue as the harsh reality of your reckless actions unfurls before you. You risked your life, throwing yourself into the jaws of danger for a mere gun.

Simon's eyes widen in shock, his mouth falling open in disbelief. It appears as if he's teetering on the edge of harsh reprimand, but he ultimately seals his lips and rubs his face in frustration. He recognises the remorse etched across your face and understands that you're already punishing yourself for your impulsive decisions, absolving him of the need to add to your self-inflicted guilt.

"We escaped the biters this time. So, all's well that ends well, isn't it?" He murmurs, stepping close to you. The relief of your shared survival is as palpable as the thick, humid air before a storm. Taking a deep breath, he leans in, pressing his lips softly against yours.

After the short kiss ends, he retreats to the shadowy corner of the room, sinking onto the floor and leaning his back against the wall. He pulls the backpack onto his lap, his fingers deftly working the zipper open before he starts rummaging through its contents. The soft rustling sounds fill the otherwise quiet space.

Feeling a sudden need for some space, you move to the opposite side of the room. You need a moment alone to collect your scattered thoughts and calm your racing heart. The room, as if mirroring your emotions, seems to shrink, its walls inching closer. Curling into yourself, you hug your knees, pulling them to your chest. For a long time, neither of you speak. The silence is thick, and heavy with the unspoken words and emotions that hang in the air. You're both still trying to process what has just transpired, the danger you faced together.

The persistent throbbing in your shoulder is becoming increasingly unbearable. You've been trying to suppress the pain, hoping it would fade away. However, as you glide your fingers over the skin in a futile attempt to massage it, you feel a sticky substance coating your fingertips. When you bring your hand into the dim light, you're taken aback by the sight of your blood. An icy shiver, far colder than any winter breeze, ran down the length of your spine, inducing a sense of dread deep within you.

Simon doesn't seem to notice your fiddling. His focus is on his hands, which are working to revive the flashlight that seems to have run out of batteries. While he's preoccupied, you seize the opportunity to further inspect your wound without drawing too much attention to yourself. Squinting through the darkness, you make a chilling discovery - you have been bitten. It wasn't the fingers that wrapped around your shoulder, but the teeth.

You know, you must tell Simon about the bite. However, the words feel like jagged stones lodged in your throat. All you manage to utter is, "I think we should go home. It's far too dangerous. We're chasing shadows... my brother may not even be alive. I don't want to go looking for him anymore."

It kills you to say this. But the bleak reality stands before you like a grim reaper, its chilling presence whispering that the sickness will seize your life in mere days. The last thing you want is for Simon to risk his life for you. You are a walking time bomb, and you can't let Simon be caught in the eventual explosion.

"What?!" Simon's voice reverberates like a shockwave, echoing his disbelief as he struggles to comprehend your words. "We can't turn back now. Not when we've come this far," he says, his voice a symphony of emotional turmoil. "I know you're scared, but we... I... We're against the clock here, and we've already walked more than half the distance."

You stay silent. Your hand is still clutching your shoulder. You know that without a solid reason, Simon will not turn and go back. But you can't admit to him that you are dying. Because the moment you utter the words, the moment you confess to having been bitten, it becomes your reality—an irrevocable truth that can never be unsaid.

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