#perpetual disappointment with this team

[reminiscingtonight]

Bench cam after conceding 2

Both of them are a mood

[3416]

I haven’t watched a hockey game since one of my high school teachers put it on during class time cause he was obsessed (aka like a decade ago) BUT I love getting to see all your Leafs content. Highly entertaining. Making me slightly obsessed with the success of a boy I don’t even know (Mitch). 10/10, finally starting to feel like a proper Canadian

fksdjfkldsjflks oh i'm so glad you find any entertainment from something you hardly care about and keep up with my blog anyway. ❣️❣️❣️ 😭😭😭 honestly... i never really expected myself to get this hardcore into sports, but the SECOND you start treating the teams and players like there's a narrative or a story to their success n failures.... it becomes impossible not to get attached i feelfjdklsf (which is exactly what franchises WANT, they're all about the storytelling). mitch and the leafs are definitely worth rooting for, even just vaguely, sO PLEASE!!! u can definitely feel proud to be a canadian bc of them.

[6ebe]

going to be completely honest guys I’m starting to get stressed and anxious abt the euro final tomorrow

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 1

Part 2 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, implied soapghost, angst with a happy ending Part 1 cw: mentions of torture, blood, violence, MWIII spoilers

---

Soap turns hazy, unfocused eyes toward the screen and watches the man with his face run down the tunnels under the English Channel. The man shoots at Konni soldiers, ferocity and desperation painted over every twitch of his brows and silent shout from his lips. 

It all seems so real.

But it can't be. It's not.

He watches Price and the man with his face cut through the enemy. Watches them attempt to disarm the bomb.

Watches Marakov approach.

Their bodies jerk in succession as Makarov's bullets rip through them both. They hit the ground, and sympathetic pain throbs through Soap's shoulder. 

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Not his wound. Not him. Just a man with his face bleeding onto dirty concrete on the other side of a black and white screen.

Makarov goes after Price. The man with Soap's face rises up to stab Makarov and–

Makarov blows a hole through the man's head.

It's surreal to watch his own face go blank. To watch the life drain from wide eyes within seconds. To see the others barely pause. Only standing beside the body for a few moments before continuing on because they have a fucking job to do. No time to pause and mourn the perpetual FNG.

Except for Ghost.

Soap's vision darkens on his right side, and he blinks away the sweat or blood – could be either or both but he's too numb to care – as Ghost falls to his knees beside the body of the man with Soap's face. The CCTV cameras are too shitty to see his eyes as he gazes down at the body leaking blood across the floor, but Soap hopes.

Hopes there's real emotion there. Hopes even more that Ghost finally sees it – finally sees that the dead man whose chest he's so tenderly pressing with his hand isn't his *Johnny.*

This time the watery blur appears in both eyes, and he doesn't bother to blink it away. Because he's seen all this before, and it never changes.

The door behind him opens, but he keeps his focus on the screen. He watches his former teammates leave the body behind in their desperation to follow Makarov.

But they won't find him. Soap knows because he recognizes the footsteps behind him as easily as he once recognized Ghost's.

Ghost, who made his gait purposefully distinct to alert Soap to his presence before slipping into Soap's bed late at night and who murmured soft words in his ear, words no one would ever believe the hardened man would say out loud. But he did. He said them to Soap as he took him apart piece by piece like he would a favorite gun, slow and deliberate, before putting him back together with love and care.

A hand slides into his long, filthy hair. Soap braces for the pain, and Makarov doesn't disappoint as he yanks Soap's head back.

"Enjoying the show?"

Soap doesn't respond. He never does, though it enrages Makarov.

On the screen, soldiers fill the tunnel, taking up the space won back by the 141. They set up a perimeter around the bomb.

The dead man remains sprawled on the ground, lifeless and forgotten.

"Look how they just left you behind. Left you to be picked up and brought here to wallow in misery."

A surge of anger burns through him—

But.

No. That's not right. Soap was never in that tunnel.

He's been in this cold, dark room since the mission in Siberia, taken down by a bullet and dragged away before he could radio for help. He has no idea how long he's been here, but he's endured every kind of torture: electrocution, waterboarding, frostbite, knives, pliers, hot pokers, and more. His body is a canvas of scars and burns

Through it all, he held on to his faith with ragged, broken fingers, with bloody teeth sunk into the promise of hope, that his team would find him. That *Ghost* would find him, rescue him from this hell, and wreak havoc on their enemies.

Until Makarov showed him why no one had come for him. Why no one will ever come for him.

A knife flashes in front of his eyes, fluorescent light reflecting off silver. Soap's voice grates through the air like steel against steel.

"Who was he?"

Makarov lets go of his hair, leaving behind a dull throb of residual pain, and rounds the chair Soap is tied to, hands on his hips and a sadistic glint in his eye.

"Him? Oh, just someone who got confused about his role in this lovely little play. Perhaps the serum was a bit too effective at turning him into you, disgusting loyalty and all, hmmm?"

Serum.

Memories resurface slowly. He's had this conversation with Makarov before. A sliver of panic bleeds into his numbness.

Christ have mercy. He's fucking losing it. How long before he stops remembering? How long before he becomes a shell of himself?

Maybe it doesn't matter. After all, no one is coming for him.

When Soap doesn't say anything more, Makarov's glee sours into a frown. The blade flashes in front of his blurred vision once more before pressing against his neck.

"I admit I thought you would be easier to break. You seemed so obedient in Verdansk. You could've ended me, but instead you followed orders like a good little soldier. And here you are."

The knife digs in, but pain is a familiar friend he's learned to ignore. When Soap doesn't react, Makarov sighs.

"I suppose if you won't break on your own, it's time to get experimental."

He brings out a syringe and holds it up as if considering his next action. The liquid inside glows a sickly yellow green, and Soap's stomach churns at the thought of what new pain this torture it might bring. Because he knows Makarov's pause is just for show. There is no escape.

The gleeful grin returns as he jabs the needle into Soap's neck in the same spot he'd just cut him open. The liquid is brutally cold as it enters his blood stream, his muscles seizing from the rapid temperature change.

WIthin seconds, Soap's world tilts sideways. His eyes blur yet again. He blinks and blinks, but the room goes softer with every passing second. His muscles relax, and he slumps forward in his chair, the bonds securing his wrists behind him cutting into his skin, though he can't feel it anymore.

Makarov sounds like he's underwater when he speaks. "Good. Let us begin."

Blackness takes him.

---

When Soap wakes, he's no longer in a dark, cold room. Through the broken out window of his full helmet, he sees strange buildings rising up into a swath of blue sky. Giddiness that borders on panic wells up in his chest.

He's outside. He made it outside. Did he escape? He doesn't remember.

His gaze falls, and the world stops.

He's surrounded by rivers of blood, knife in hand. His heart pounds like he's dying.

And on the ground lies a Ghost, splayed out like a sacrifice, bloodied and beaten and looking up at Soap like he's seen God.

"Johnny?"

Part 2 >>

[thethiefandtheairbender]

once again i am asking everyone who was disappointed with natla and wants more good original animated storytelling to watch The Dragon Prince on netflix, particularly if you want complex, flawed, and fleshed out female characters and worldbuilding! Also for consistent motifs/symbols, foreshadowing, and a truly stunning amount of lore.

Unreliable narrators! Tragic siblings! Characters who are allowed to be hypocritical and sympathetic! Neutral and malevolent magic systems! Exploring not only how to break cycles of harm, abuse, and violence, but also why they're perpetuated! Dragons with personalities! Varied queer (lesbian, gay, transgender) and disabled rep (deaf, blind, amputees)! Majority of cast and key players are also all characters of colour, particularly in s4 onwards

It's been 5 out of 7 seasons and we're still unravelling things from the first 4 episodes alone, never mind the foreshadowing.

Tropes:

If you didn't want to be assimilated into my found family, you should've killed me when you had the chance

Someone who believes they are hard to love and someone who loves them like it's breathing

The needs of the many (interrogated) x Deal with the devil

Just... constant recontextualization, god bless

Child kings and queens

A metaphorically cannibalistic magic system that might not be so metaphorical after all

and so much more! I think about "You let him live, but you killed us all" every damn day, and that's just from ep1. Some of the ATLA voice actors (Sokka and Koh the Face Stealer) feature here as well as some of the creative team (most notably Aaron Ehasz, ATLA's head writer)

[ctimenefic]

just had to write this out of my brain, I'm sorry pierresteban lorekeepers if I have fucked up the dynamic, I'll go back to my corner at once

2k of post-Brazil stuff tentatively titled something like slow lane, fast lane, parallel lines

Pierre didn’t pack a podium-worthy outfit for the triple header. Certainly not for Brazil. A party outfit, sure, in case Charles did well – that’s still fucked, a crumpled bundle rank with sweat at the bottom of one of his cases, shipped back home without him two weeks ago after Austin. He hadn’t seen this coming.

No one had seen this coming. 

He has to settle for a creased button up, undone so far the team will be able to see his heart still thudding against his ribs, hours after the last bubbles swirled away into the standing water on the track. It’ll do; he tries to smoulder into the mirror, but he can’t stop smiling. It’s just going to get soaked with sweat anyway, in whatever bar backroom they’ve secured. It was Harriet, he heard, shaking with hope from the moment the red flag came, ringing round Sao Paulo venues with broken Portuguese and her heart in her mouth.

It is strange, being alone for this clutch of minutes, to shower and shave and press cologne against his skin like anointing oil. The team had been all around him the moment he was out of the car, all the way to the hotel. Esteban next to him for hours, hip to hip. Pierre had been warm, despite the rain, the perpetual grey of track and sky.

The shirt is not so white that he’ll look filthy, later, if he’s touched. He undoes another button, just in case. Kiki said, once - if he won, and she wasn’t there. Then it was fine. She’d been joking, maybe, but he hadn’t pressed her. There are many beautiful men and women in Brazil. 

He goes down to the lobby early, already sick of the quiet. He wants the roar back, the force of it against his skin. He wants hands on his back, fingers on his neck, in his hair. Three girls from the team are huddled waiting for a taxi, by the doors, but they hover six inches away now, like without their uniforms he’s unsafe to clasp. Apart, again. 

Pierre drifts away, to the spot where the lobby leaks into a bar and - George Russell is there. As out of place as usual, squinting at his phone, folded up in an armchair that’s too low for him. It turns his knees into a ski slope. He only looks up when Pierre gets right up beside him; then he unbends upright, gets halfway to a handshake before he’s gripping Pierre’s shoulder instead. “Good racing, today,” he announces, like he hadn’t said it hours ago, dripping wet and still horribly sincere, all his natural animosities tucked away.

“Thank you,” Pierre replies, automatic. “I did not think Mercedes were slumming here though?” It is a fine hotel, but not so very nice. The lifts are slow. And Mercedes take up space. They have a sponsor deal, he thinks; some foolish video Charles had sent him last year with a string of emoji. 

Russell snorts. “No. Meeting Alex for our sad bastards dinner.”

Of course. Because for Mercedes, fourth is a disappointment. Which trophy did Russell imagine he’d be snatching today? Pierre’s? Max’s? He hopes Alex charges his meal to Russell’s card. 

“I am going out with the team,” Pierre offers. Immediately feels foolish. He meant- the point was to not invite Russell. It is fun, usually, being rude to him, watching his jaw tic. He is very English about it. 

Now, though, he seems unfazed. His eyebrows jump just a little. “I gathered.” 

His gaze drops briefly down the deep V of Pierre’s shirt. It is perhaps not an achievement with the most notorious homosexual on the grid, but still. There’s some satisfaction to it.

“Where are you- oh!”

The cooldown lap had felt a hundred years long, after an impossibly drawn-out race. Pierre had felt like he could count every drop of spray between his and Este’s cars. 

It is a little like that now, watching Russell’s eyes slide over his shoulder, the way his face changes slowly and utterly. Cheekbones lifted, so his eyes get a little smaller, the start of crows feet at the edges. The top of his face starts smiling before the rest catches up. His shoulders roll too, back and down and open. It happens in a blink, and yet it changes the whole shape of him. Like sunlight through clouds. 

Pierre doesn’t need to look round to guess what he’ll say next. “There he is,” Russell adds, regardless. “Have a good evening, Pierre.” He strides off before Pierre can find the right sniff for such an abrupt dismissal. 

He turns to wave at Alex, but he’s already turned back towards the lift, shoulders up around his ears until Russell slings an arm over them. He hears Russell teasing: “Don’t be a lazybones, Albono, you’re on the fourth floor, we can walk it.”

And then they are gone, and the girls from the team come to collect him for the car, and they are squashed up close enough that he does not have to think about it for too long. Just long enough. 

How many people look at him like sunshine? He had friends like that, once. More than one of them, once.

Tonight, he will say something gracious. Tell Esteban he raced better. That Pierre could not have caught him if he tried. (Perhaps not if he tried. Perhaps that is ungracious. Perhaps he should not remind Esteban that he is the better teammate. That he is keeping the team.) He has a whole taxi ride to find the right words, the olive branch that Esteban will not reject, or discard, or ignore.   

They will hug, and it will not be the last time. The Haas is not so bad; that will help. And ten, or twenty years from now, Pierre can walk into a room somewhere in France, some gathering of old men who raced fast cars, and someone will smile to see him. 

It is twenty minutes to Harriet’s bar. By then he can see it; where in windswept Normandy it will be. Snow on the ground and overcast. He will keep most of his hair, he decides, somewhat against the odds; he gives Esteban a little gut but fewer lines, no jowls. Silver in his stubble, but not his hair. Comfortable shoes. Bracelets on their wrists. 

The bar is good, for a last minute get. The staff on the door know his face, gesture him through. There are beautiful people in clusters, grapes on the vine, ready for picking. And on the dancefloor, Alpine, Alpine, Alpine. In the centre of it, Esteban, tall even there. 

There’s a whoop from near the edge of the throng as someone spots him - one of the pit crew, Marc. It spreads, fast, a sea of heads turning his way, a cheer Pierre thought he might not hear again. They tug him in, hands on his shoulders, back, feet already bouncing, the strange wistful sadness in his stomach already lifting as he raises his hands, shouts with joy and-

Esteban looks across to Pierre and smiles like clouds parting.

---

The carpet in the hotel stairwell has a dizzying pattern, geometric but impossible for the eye to follow. Or perhaps only impossible for someone who has been awake for 24 hours now, staring at it in the half-dark of emergency exit signs. But Pierre has to try, has to trace the thick black lines up and left and down over and over, or the choking gluk sounds Esteban is making round his cock will drive him mad. Tip him over ten seconds into the best-worst blowjob of his life. 

They had taken the stairs because it would be quicker than the ancient lifts. Not quick enough, for Esteban. Despite the risk, Pierre does not want to make up the distance. He wants this to last.  

Esteban pulls off for a moment; his smile is a slice of white in the darkness. Pierre doesn’t mean for his hand to drop to his face, thumb along his bottom lip, down his chin, but it does so anyway. He catches Esteban’s spit on his thumbpad; sucks it into his own mouth. There’s salt to it. 

“You are very wet for me,” Esteban murmurs, matter-of-fact, and Pierre gives up on the carpet, shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back into the corner with a thunk. He has been wet all day, drenched in rain and champagne and sweat. What is one more? He can feel it, the way precome rolls down the underside of his dick to Esteban’s fingers, until Este’s tongue drags back over him, a long side up the inches he cannot fit in his hand. 

(“It’s bigger,” he’d said, and Pierre had failed to hide his smirk. He hadn’t made it up, tripod. And Esteban’s hands are bigger now, too.)

His shirt is undone, bunched at his elbows where hands - some familiar, some strange - had dragged it down to trace the shape of his shoulders, the rise and fall of his arm muscles. He’d tugged it back up in the car back, but not enough to stick, not with Este’s long fingers at his neck. It makes him feel on display now, naked from his thighs up, Esteban’s dark head the only modesty he’s been afforded. 

He’s cold where Esteban had slicked down his happy trail with his tongue. It makes him shiver when Este gets back to bobbing back and forth, and his hair whispers over Pierre’s stomach. He has been touching him all night, never a hand off him, and yet Pierre is still so sensitive to each new collision. He can feel Este grin, smug, around him, like he’s noticed. It doesn’t rankle like it should. 

Esteban divebombs down Pierre’s dick again, and he comes before he can get out a warning, choking on thick air, hot and tight in his lungs. Este surfaces seconds later, cracks Pierre’s mouth open with a finger and thumb on his jaw, and feeds him his come in long, loving licks around his teeth. He’s still got his other hand wrapped around Pierre’s softening dick. As Pierre blinks up at him, stupefied, those clever fingers slide to cup his balls instead. A single digit taps at his taint. 

“Dry here,” Esteban muses. Pierre’s mouth falls open, panting. He thinks his come must still be gleaming on his tongue. He can still taste it. “We can fix that.”

And then there is light, crashing through the dark, as the door to the stairwell on the floor above opens, and the perpetual glow of the corridor shines through. Pierre clutches Este to him like cover. The bastard still has all his clothes on, at least, even if Pierre’s bare thighs are obvious either side of his too-skinny frame. 

The shaft of light falls a little to their left, not quite a spotlight. Perhaps they will not be noticed. Perhaps there is still enough luck for one more miracle. 

Soft steps, on the stairs. And then-

“Fuck,” someone hisses from above them. 

Not someone. Familiar. Far too English. 

Someone who should not be in the stairwell of the Williams team hotel at 4am. But. Pierre is in no position to throw stones. His stones are still in Esteban’s large, warm hand. 

Esteban is being no help. He snickers into Pierre’s neck for a moment, so lightly his lips barely leave his skin. Then: “Take the lift, George,” he calls, apparently deciding plausible deniability is for other motherfuckers. 

His voice is a little rough. Well-used. 

Russell, at least, understands how to play the game. It is silent, except for the hurried steps up and away. The whine of the door. 

“Shit,” Pierre groans. Esteban’s finger presses again at the space between his arse and his balls. “Shit,” Pierre says again. It echoes differently. Higher. 

Esteban is snickering again. “Always so dramatic,” he chides. But his hands are gentle as he pulls Pierre’s slacks back up his legs; does up precisely one button on his shirt and slides his palms down the sides like that will make him presentable for the CCTV in the corridor. “Come on, two floors more to mine. I shall have to fuck you in the morning, you are too spooked now.” 

Pierre doesn’t like the needy sound he makes; Esteban’s eyes gleam. He won’t beg for it, but: “When is your flight?” Pierre’s is late, commercial. They book different flights, more often than not. Esteban’s gaze wavers for a second. But only down to Pierre’s mouth, his navel, and back up. 

“The same. It is the same. I asked- said to change it. After. At the track.” Este must bite his lip – his bottom teeth disappear for a moment. Pierre wants the light back, wants to see his face. “We were-” he says the rest with his hands, palm to palm, parallel – two cars moving in sync around a curve. “And in the cooldown. You smiled at me.”

“I smiled?”

Este huffs. It is just enough like his cruel silences to make Pierre feel alert again, hands twitching to grasp a wheel he cannot see.  “I cannot change it back. It will be sorted by now.” 

There is an inch between them that has not been there all night. Esteban’s weight shifts, like he means to step back further. Pierre has to lunge for him, cram their mouths together. They had not done this at the bar. Touching, yes, everywhere they could get away with, but this was different. Private. 

Este whines a little into the kiss. His fingers get grabby again.

“Fuck me now, and later,” Pierre demands against his mouth. Esteban nods; in the dark his lips leave a smear against Pierre’s temple. 

His echo sounds like a promise. “Now and later.” 

[pandapetals]

Slim Pickins

logan howlett x fem!reader- angsty, reader lowkey hates logan, inspired by sabrina carpenter's song slim pickens

read on Ao3

Without a doubt, you knew you were going to end up alone. The thought crept in after every disappointing date, every one-night stand that left you cold, every late-night text that led nowhere. All the guys you met were the same—douchebags with oversized egos and nothing real to offer. It was a pattern you couldn't break, a cycle that seemed destined to repeat. Why was it so hard to find a decent guy?

You didn’t even need perfect. You weren’t looking for some fairy-tale romance or a knight in shining armor. You just wanted someone who didn’t make you feel like you were settling for less than you deserved.

Then there was Logan.

You’d sized him up the moment you met him—jacked, rough around the edges, with a perpetual scowl and a short temper to match. He walked like he owned the room, his shoulders tense, his eyes dark, and he had the kind of attitude that practically screamed “trouble.” You’d rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, dismissing him in an instant. He wasn’t your type. You knew his kind. And after a few clipped conversations, you were more than certain Logan was exactly the kind of guy you couldn’t stand.

“Douchebag,” you’d muttered after he’d walked off from another pointless exchange.

And you didn’t hold back either. You bitched and complained about him to anyone who’d listen—Charles, Scott, Storm, anyone within earshot of your growing frustration.

“He’s impossible,” you’d said one night over beers with Storm, your voice rising with indignation. “He’s not a team player, doesn’t listen to anyone, and doesn’t even get me started on his attitude. You know what he said to me earlier?”

Storm had given you a knowing look but let you rant anyway. Everyone had opinions about Logan, after all. He was easy to dislike, a ball of raw energy, constantly on the edge of something dark and dangerous.

“He’s just... ugh,” you groaned, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t get why anyone puts up with him.”

But deep down, beneath all the complaining, something gnawed at you. Something you didn’t want to admit.

You hadn’t seen it right away—not until one mission changed everything.

It had been chaotic, a nightmare situation where nothing went as planned. The team had been dispatched to rescue a group of mutant kids who had been captured by some underground militia. The operation had gone sideways almost immediately. You’d been cornered, pinned down by enemy fire, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as panic crept in. And then—Logan.

You saw him, right in the thick of it, moving with a kind of brutal precision that took your breath away. He tore through the enemy lines like it was nothing, claws flashing, his eyes wild and fierce. But what caught you wasn’t the violence—it was the way he threw himself into the rescue without a second thought. No hesitation, no fear, just pure instinct as he fought his way to those kids.

The moment you saw him lift one of the terrified children into his arms, shielding them from harm with his own body, something inside you shifted. He wasn’t careful, wasn’t gentle, but there was a raw protectiveness in his actions that hit you like a punch to the gut.

You watched him take down another wave of attackers, blood streaking his face, his body moving like a machine—powerful, unrelenting. And then, as he brought the last of the kids to safety, something unexpected flared in your chest.

Respect.

He was more than your first impression.

You didn’t want to admit it, but Logan wasn’t just the hot-tempered, arrogant jerk you’d made him out to be. There was something deeper there, something you’d been too quick to write off. The way he fought, the way he protected those kids, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever asking for help—it unsettled you. Because it meant you’d been wrong about him.

Being wrong about Logan was a lot more dangerous than you wanted to acknowledge.

Days passed after that mission, but you couldn’t shake the image of him—the way he’d looked standing there, bloodied but unbroken, with a kid clinging to him like he was some kind of savior. The frustration you felt toward him softened, and changed. You found yourself noticing things about him you hadn’t before. The way his gruffness wasn’t just aggression, but a shield. The way he stayed on the fringes of the group, never quite fitting in, but always there when it mattered.

You didn’t complain about him as much after that. You didn’t have much to say when Scott made some offhand comment about Logan’s attitude or when Storm chuckled about his lone-wolf tendencies. Instead, you found yourself defending him in small, subtle ways, even if it was just a quiet “He gets the job done.”

It was a shift you didn’t want to admit, but one that was impossible to ignore. The more you tried to fight it, the more you felt the pull.

And Logan—he noticed.

You’d catch him watching you now, his dark eyes lingering longer than before, his smirk a little less cocky, a little more curious. He never said much, never one for words, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your pulse quicken.

One night, after a particularly long and exhausting mission, you found yourself alone with him in the briefing room. Everyone else had already left, and you were sorting through some files when Logan approached, his boots heavy on the floor. You didn’t look up, but your body tensed, already attuned to his presence.

“You were good out there,” he said gruffly, voice low and gravelly.

You glanced up, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Thanks,” you muttered, unsure how to respond. Compliments weren’t his style, and it threw you off balance.

Logan leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression of his. “You’re not as annoying as I thought,” he added, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched with a reluctant smile. “High praise coming from you.”

He shrugged, his gaze never leaving yours. “Just callin’ it like I see it.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the air thick with something that felt different now. Less hostile, more... charged. You didn’t know what to do with it, and this new dynamic was between you. It wasn’t the same as before, but you weren’t sure what it was either.

Logan pushed off the table and started to walk away, but then paused, looking back at you over his shoulder. “See you around, kid.”

You scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “I’m not a kid, Logan.”

His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Yeah. I know.”

Just like that, he was gone, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding harder than it should have been, your mind racing with thoughts you weren’t ready to unpack.

Logan wasn’t perfect. Hell, he was far from it. Maybe there was more to him than you’d given him credit for.

That scared you more than anything.

[victoriadallonfan]

Alien vs Predator vs Parahumans

So, recently, I decided to check out Alien vs Avengers because that art is gorgeous and I was curious about how an author could write a xenomorph outbreak in the Marvel Universe, and what wacky interplays they can do with various aliens, superpowers, and magical stuff.

It was... disappointing. Not to go all power levels on us, but it had Hulk struggle with a single drone and Spider-Man be caught off guard by a face hugger. And randomly immune to magic.

Not great.

So I got to thinking... what would be a cool way to handle Alien, Predator, and the Parahumans franchise?

Spoilers beneath the cut for Ward Spoilers

I think the one that gives the least amount of headaches would be post-Ward, so I'll be going off that timeframe.

They way I envision it, is that Weyland-Yutani (Or just Weyland at this point I suppose) is a wealthy organization focusing on colonizing other Earths, seemingly working with the Wardens, Auzure, and Mortari in helping refugees and allied colonies to have viable successes.

They aren't squeaky clean, obviously, but all their marks against them seem small potatoes when the city of Perpetuity had to deal with winter, anti-parahumans, Shin and Cheit terrorists, supervillains, the Machine Army, and Titans over the course of Ward itself.

So the company grows in power and influence, eventually funding a colony they call Jericho on a pretty barren Earth, claiming to use it as a test bed for more hostile environment technology. Not many people give the useless rock and it's colony much of a glance, beyond noting the oddity of 2000 residents going over there.

Quite a lot for merely scientist and personnel families, but again, bigger issues.

During the epilogue of Ward, the Majors are made up of Sveta (Coach/Mentor), Victoria (assistant coach/mentor), Withdrawal, Caryatid, Finale, and Limerick. The team as a whole has made waves with their travels across the multiverse, protecting colonies from supervillains, monsters, and natural disasters.

With Victoria flying off to Japan to help with the cape resurrection project, The Majors are content with doing a final lap of known colonies when Withdrawal picks up an SOS from Jericho on his scanner, only for the signal to cut out.

Curious, the team heads out to the portal leading to the colony... and are met with Weyland Yutani security and a Project Executive, who greet the heroes with artificial cheeriness ("Server malfunction, you know how the tech acts with these wacky powers!" "Oh the armed security? Well, you know, can't be too careful with the wildlife and all that supervillain nonsense." "Oh, you want to check in with the colony? Uhhh, wow, hm, I'll need to bump it up to my bosses boss - paperwork am I right - and I'll need to see about permits and gosh- Oh, what was that? You... You know the Mayor personally? Oh you're going to call her to grease the wheels? Well, you know what, I don't want to bother her with such a small issue so how about you stick around and you don't tell on me that I'm looking the other way a bit wink wink hahahaaaa.....")

The tension is not quite high, but everyone feels a bit on edge with each other as they go through the portal. The security team leader explains the colony is actually several miles away from the portal to better work with the natural earths hostile environment, so it's not uncommon for some issues to come up and these check-ups are mandatory (though it's clear she's upset that the Executive is on the ground here with his own goons). The Majors aren't quite used to the military types beyond Limerick, but they do their best to try and bond with the group.

Tensions don't lessen when radio contact continues to be unreciprocated by the colony as they drive in, though it's still explained away with bad reception from the harsh Earth.

This quickly changes when the colony is abandoned. A ghost town. Ruined cars are in the street, windows busted and interiors ruined by the harsh conditions of Earth. Shell casings randomly across the colony, along with discarded guns.

Checking the databases finds that the records - all of them - have been deleted.

Yeah, this is a problem now.

There's more tension, more arguments about what happened and what to do, but the Executive eventually reveals that there is technically another site further off in the distance: an archeological dig site for what they thought were past Earth inhabitants.

The group heads there and finds the dig site ruined, thrashed apart at the opening of a massive tunnel leading into the earth below.

The story from there follows the Majors and WY team exploring the cave and running into the Xenomorphs, the cave morphing and activating various traps or leading into biomes that make no sense for existing underground.

Meanwhile, a trio of young predators are being led to the ritual site by an Elder, and find these superpowered humans to be the perfect chance to hunt new prey....

[astersofthesky]

I have been so used to hearing L's dub voice in my head (whenever i read fics) and also whenever I watch clips that it genuinely shocked me when i heard the "I am L" scene in japanese and how different they sounded alongside the implications in the attitude of their characters.

L's sub voice holds a natural polite tone normal for the japanese whilst maintaining an air of professionalism and authority. His tone does not sound "condescending" too when he told the task force about how they would've died if he was kira. It was respectful although you can hear the slight disappointment in his voice, as if he's trying not to let it shown out of tact.

Additionally, the way jpn sub! L spoke the "Let's show Kira that we're willing to risk our lives, because justice will prevail." scene sounds encouraging to say the least. He was clearly driven by personal reasons ("But I will win in the end.") but even so, he was speaking in a "we" sense, like he was giving the task force some acknowledgement for their efforts and then pushing them to do better in the investigation.

The dubbed version of this scene, on the other hand, gives a feeling that L like meeting and working with the task force is more of a "chore" rather than of extra help. The perpetually tired tone of dub!L made the "Please don't give out your names so casually." scene translate to "Gosh, they're so stupid." It's both mockery and a warning. Atleast, that's how I interpreted it.

He lets his authority known by the task force without coating it. For example, the "I want to show kira that we're all risking our lives if that's what it takes, because justice will prevail no matter what" scene is very authoritative. Note on the emphasis on "I WANT," like L's telling the team "Yes, we will but under MY orders."

Now this isn't a hate on the death note dub version. I loved the dubbed voice for L and i do believe it also fits him. You could say I was just surprised at how a slight change of tone and delivery could change a scene so much.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Hi! Congratulations on your milestone 😊

I would really like to see something with Spencer x Reader and Blinding Lights by The Weeknd! ❤️

Hello my love! I’ve wanted to write a fic based on this song for so long! Set in place of 3.16 Elephant’s Memory.

Send me a song lyric from my list to celebrate my follower milestone 🎵

Blinding Lights

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - Spencer is ten months sober and struggling to ward off his cravings. When a case takes the team to his hometown, he knows there’s only one face that can keep him from falling off the wagon.

CW - heavy angst, hopeful ending, past drug use, thoughts of relapse, Spencer is just really sad, brief mention of a bad past relationship, tears.

WC - 3.8k

The golden medallion watched him thoughtfully from the dresser, the way any inanimate object could. He could feel the judgement rolling of it in waves, hearing its sickly sweet commentary as he stared unblinking at the opposite wall.

You’re not strong enough, it goaded him. You can’t do this alone. Relapse is inevitable. 

Of course he knew a piece of metal couldn’t think, couldn’t chastise him, didn’t have its own voice to vocalise these vicious words. It wasn’t sentient. It was a coin, a simple gold chip. And anyway, the taunting voice following him around like a rain cloud sounded too much like his own for it to be anything other than his own intrusive thoughts. 

His cell phone was next to him, tucked against his stomach as he lay in the foetal position atop the scratchy hotel bed sheet. 

Since having to cut his meeting at Beltway short and joining the team for the case less than twelve hours ago, he’d tried calling the same number fifty two times. 

Fifty two times he’d called and fifty two times he’d gotten the same monotonous voice in response. 

The number you dialled has been disconnected. 

Yet it didn’t stop him from calling the same number over and over until his thumb was numb and the beeping continued to sound in his ears long after he’d hung up. 

It was said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Did he really think that after fifty two phone calls the line would become magically reconnected just because he was so persistent? 

He wasn’t surprised exactly, but he was disappointed. It had been more years than he could count since he’d last tried to call that number. 

No, that wasn’t true, Spencer knew exactly how many years it had been, he knew how many minutes it had been since he last heard your voice. 

Five years, two months, sixteen days. 

He’d been standing in your doorway bidding you his final goodbye before he flew to Virginia to start work at the BAU. You’d said you’d stay in touch and you had. For a time at least. And then life simply got in the way. 

But today of all days when he was, as the literature put it, craving, for the first time in ten months of sobriety he needed to hear your voice. He needed to hear your dulcet tones on the other end of his phone telling him it would be alright. 

And to make even more signs point towards you, the case had taken them to his hometown of Las Vegas. 

He didn’t know for a fact that you still lived here but there was something in his gut that told him you were close by. He could feel your aura, sense you were within his grasp but just out of reach. 

Without so much as blinking, he blindly reached for the dresser next to the bed and felt around until his fingers brushed over that taunting gold medallion. 

He tucked it into his palm, squeezing so tightly it would surely leave indentations in his hand. It was meant to be a token to aid him, to keep him focused for the next two months when he got his own. 

But it was simply serving as a reminder of his addiction and how much he would give to get high right now. 

The dilaudid didn’t just allow for his escape from reality but it also offered him a reprieve from his perpetual loneliness. Spencer had been on his own for so long, fighting battles solo against demons who always seemed to win as of late. 

Sin City had never felt as cold and lonely as it did right now. 

Still clutching the chip in one hand he used his other to pick up his phone. He pulled up his call history whilst moving as little as humanly possible. 

But this time he didn’t call your disconnected line. 

He put the device on speaker and held it in his hand, finally closing his sore and tired eyes as he listened to it ring. 

He counted four dial tones until his call was answered. 

“Boy wonder?” Garcia’s tone didn’t hide her confusion. “It’s late, I thought you’d all called it a night?” 

“It’s not about the case.” He barely recognised the sound coming out of his lips and judging by the long pause down the line, Penelope didn’t either. 

“Ok. What’s up?” She sounded concerned, it was nothing new. 

Since the team discovered his addiction it was the same tone they’d all used on him. It was growing tiresome. 

“Can you find someone for me? Like if I gave you a name could you find out where they live?” 

Another stretch of silence met his ears but he knew Garcia was still there. He exhaled through his nose and forced his exhausted limbs to straighten out, hearing the clicking of joints that shouldn’t be as worn down at his age. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding in a groan deep in his lungs as he got himself into a sitting position. 

The medallion was still pressuring aggressively into his palm. 

“You know I can, Reid.” Garcia finally spoke. “But you’ve got to tell me what this is about. If I’m going to help you, you have to be honest with me.” 

The truth was that Spencer felt like he was drowning. During daylight hours he was just about capable of keeping his head above water but in the night was when he started slipping beneath the surface. 

The whole team was worried about him, hadn’t stopped worrying about him relapsing, worrying about his monsters out running him. 

If Garcia wouldn’t give him the information he needed, it was likely ten months was where his sobriety ended. 

“I need to see an old…friend.” Now was not the time to be going into detail. “It’s important.” 

It wasn’t as though he deliberately kept you a secret from his team, he just never felt like talking about it. If he talked about you then all the pain would come flooding back to him, the waves of heartbreak likely to wash him away to sea for good. 

But still, in the midst of undoubtedly the worst time of his life, you were the only person that had a hope of making it better. You’d been there holding his hand when he’d made the decision to have his mother committed, you’d been his rock in that horrible time of his life. 

He knew when he was like this, you were the only one he trusted enough. You were the only person who had ever seen him, all of him, both metaphorically and physically. 

“Reid,” Garcia sighed as she spoke his name and he knew exactly what words would leave her mouth next before she vocalised them. “Are you ok?” 

Are you ok?

Such a flippant and vague question, but one in which he’d been asked more times than he cared to count over the past year. 

And it wasn’t just the question, it was the tone that went along with it. The pity veiled in a cloak of concern, the kind of concern you only had for a person on the brink. 

“No.” He confessed, loosening his grip on the chip maybe in the same way he was steadily loosening his grip on reality. “But that’s why I need you to do this for me.”

The desperation, the agony of his fractured mental state must have come through in his voice because it was only a second or two before Garcia replied.

“Ok.” She agreed and he heard the distinctive clicking of keys down the phone line. “Give me a name.”

***

It failed to register with Spencer that it was gone midnight when he emerged like a shadow from his hotel room, creeping down the corridors as if he were nothing more than an apparition. Limbs moved of their own accord with the address Garcia had given him burnt into his memory. 

He found himself behind the wheel of one of the hired SUV’s, foot hugging the gas pedal as he sped in the direction of your home. The gold medallion sat on the dashboard almost like a reminder that this wasn’t a venture to buy drugs. 

As much as he wished it was. 

He knew the roads in Vegas like the back of his hand and he traversed them on autopilot. One road blurred into another, his focus waning. 

All he could really make out through his tired and heavy eyes was the assault of light around every turn, seemingly getting brighter with each new street he drove down. 

It soon became blinding, piercing his retinas as somehow he continued to drive, but all he could see was light. It all felt like some kind of fever dream, the haze that shrouded his brain was so familiar somehow. 

It was almost as if he was high. But that wasn’t possible, was it? He’d remember if he’d used, wouldn’t he? 

No, he couldn’t be high, he was simply fatigued. He was exhausted from work, drained from the constant internal battle he was fighting over his abstinence. 

He just needed to see your face, to rid his vision of these damn lights that seemed determined to impede his vision. 

He never could see clearly since you’d been gone. 

Somehow he ended up parking the SUV on a quiet and sleepy road and then once again, his limbs moving without his brain telling them to do so, he was climbing out of the vehicle, up the front steps of a building, and knocking on the door. 

He didn’t know what he planned on saying when, or if you opened the door. He hadn’t exactly stopped to think this through, if he had done there was no way he would have just shown up at your door after five years. He had more sense than that. At least he usually did. 

All he knew was that if he didn’t see your face he had absolutely no doubt he would relapse. It was an incredible amount of pressure to put on one person, his sobriety rested on your shoulders and you were none the wiser. 

He rubbed his palm aggressively against his left eye socket while he waited, still someone seeing those blinding lights long after they’d disappeared. 

Time had ceased to be relevant to Spencer long ago and so he had no idea how long it was he was standing in your stoop, rubbing his eye as if to somehow erase any trace of light still poisoning his retinas. 

But eventually the door creaked open, slowly, cautiously; it was the middle of the night and of course you would be sceptical about someone knocking on your door. 

He dropped his hand back to his side as you appeared from behind the door, your hands clutching the wood, ready to slam it closed again if you perceived a threat. 

Your brow was furrowed and you were rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. But a fraction of a second later he saw the realisation flood your features, the recognition of the man on the other side of your door in the middle of the night. 

Your frown faded at the same time your eyes widened in an animated fashion. Your jaw fell, leaving your mouth agape while you sucked in a thick breath. The hands that had been clutching the doorframe fell to your sides and you simply stared at him unblinking. 

“Uh, hi Y/N.” He offered you a meek shrug which told you without the use of his words that he had no idea why he was here. 

He stuffed his hands inside of his pockets and brushed his fingertips across the chip in an attempt to keep him grounded but it failed. 

You remained silent, taking him in. He’d aged, of course he had, so had you. But in your mind he was still the twenty-one year old saying his goodbyes as he left you forever in pursuit of his own dreams, in the process destroying your own. 

But it wasn’t just the fact he’d aged, he almost seemed like a completely different person from the one you remembered; a ghost of his former self. 

The dark circles he always wore under his eyes were blacker than you recalled, a stark contrast again his sallow, alabaster skin. His eyes always held so much emotion, like his heart lived through his pupils but right now they were vacant, staring through you rather than at you. 

His lips were cracked and split from profuse chewing, something you knew he only did when he was nervous or upset. His shoulders drooped, his neck retreated inside his sweater as though he just wanted to disappear inside it all together. 

You took a few breaths, trying to hurriedly reconcile all the emotions running rampant within you so you could move past them and focus on this broken man on your doorstep. 

“Spencer,” you swallowed as you spoke. “What are you…why are you…?” 

“I’ve been trying to call. I’ve been…” his voice was trembling and trailed off to try and correct it, whilst also trying to clutch at the right words. “I’ve been on my own for long enough.” 

The last part of his sentence was whispered, so quiet you had to strain your ears to hear him. 

He hung his head, looking down at his feet as he didn’t want to see your reaction to his pathetic words. He grasped the medallion tightly, it still didn’t help him to feel rooted. 

But then he felt your delicate fingers brushing against the underside of his jaw, gently guiding his face back up until your eyes met. Even when they did, you kept your hand on him and your simple touch was everything he needed to feel tethered again. 

It was as if you realised this too, as your lip started curling into a soft smile and when you removed your hand from under his chin you were quick to place it instead on his wrist. 

“You wanna come in?” You tapped his arm, causing him to dislodge his hand from his pocket. 

He nodded a little too frantically, sending his messy curls bouncing into his eyes. But he didn’t seem to care. 

With his hand free out of his pocket he hurriedly caught your own hand and the grip in which he held you showed off his desperation. 

You offered him another smile before leading him inside by his hand. And somehow just thanks to your touch, he felt whole once more. 

***

You made some chamomile tea while Spencer sat on your couch, eyes scouring the room, taking in every inch of your life. He committed everything to memory, drew a map of your home on his heart. 

By the time you returned Spencer had made himself comfortable, his converse tucked neatly next to the couch and he sat with legs criss crossed, a big plush sofa cushion resting in his lap. He was toying with something shiny between his fingers but he quickly pocketed it when he saw you coming back. 

You handed Spencer one of the mugs which he took with a small, tight lipped smile of thanks. You sat down on the other end of the couch, leaving ample space between the two of you. 

Spencer took a sip and if he noticed it was scalding hot it didn’t even seem to register with him. He cradled the mug in his hands and sighed. 

“I don’t know.” He croaked, barely able to maintain eye contact with you for more than half a second. 

“You don’t know what?” You replied, giving him a slightly curious look. 

“You want to know why I’m here. You were inevitably going to ask. And the answer is: I don’t know.” He sipped more of the tea. 

“Ok.” There was no point in following that up, no use reminding him of how many years it had been because he knew that better than you did. 

“I tried to call.” He said for the second time. “A lot.” 

“I had to change my number a while back. I had some issues with an ex-boyfriend. He got…obsessed after the break up. It’s ok now though.” You shrugged. 

Spencer noticeably winced, hating himself for not being able to be there for you during that time. It also had a little to do with the idea of you being with someone who wasn’t him. 

He’d asked you to go with him. When he moved to Virginia, he’d asked you to go with him. But you had a life in Vegas, you had dreams of your own that you weren’t willing to give up in order to chase his. 

And along the way you’d met someone else, of course you had. Just because he hadn’t even so much as looked at another person in the last five years, it didn’t mean you had to do the same. 

But secretly, he’d wished you had. 

He sipped his tea, his heart constricting inside of his chest at the thought of you with another man. You were each other's firsts; you were Spencer’s only. 

When he didn’t speak again you put your mug down on the coffee table and scooted a little closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating off of you. 

Spencer hadn’t been able to see clearly since you’d been gone, but now as he looked at you it was like a thick fog had lifted from in front of his eyes. 

“Spence?” You brought him back to the present, eyes blinking at you several times. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” 

He copied you and put his own mug next to yours on the coffee table before lacing his hands together on the cushion in his lap. 

“I’ve been…unwell.” He mused, remembering the terminology Ethan had used to describe his addiction. “I mean, I was unwell but I got better. And recently I guess I’ve been feeling…sick again.” 

You tentatively reached out and placed your hand on top of his and he felt so instantly relaxed at the feeling of your skin on his. 

“And you came here because…”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I just knew if I didn’t see you I would have done something stupid tonight. I…I’ve missed you.”

Of course he’d known he missed you before this moment, but Spencer had long ago compartmentalised those emotions. He tried not to dwell on them because if he did he probably wouldn’t make it out of bed most mornings. 

Your absence had left a hole in his life. He’d tried filling it with work, and for the most part it had been effective. 

But being beaten to death and back again in Hankel’s cabin, all those emotions managed to break free of the cage in which he’d held them captive. 

Dilaudid helped mute them, helped him escape from the loneliness he’d harboured for five years. Being sober again, he’d been forced to feel everything. 

You briefly squeezed his hands before softening your grip, unaware of just how much your touch was soothing him. 

“It’s been so long, Spencer.” You breathed out, thumb caressing his knuckles. “I missed you so much and now you’re here…” Now you’re here I never want to be apart from you again. 

“I know.” He nodded, knowing what you weren’t saying. “Me too.” 

A quiet understanding passed between the two of you while you unlaced his hands so you could entwine your fingers with his. 

All the pent up emotions clung to the walls of the room like stale cigarette smoke. Everything that had ever been left unsaid between the two of you being spoken without the use of words. 

You sat like this for some time until, still keeping your hands interlaced, you stood up, tugging Spencer to do the same. 

He let you lead him by the hand towards your bedroom where you let go of him so you could lie down on top of the made bed. He took a few seconds of contemplation before an encouraging smile from you convinced him to do the same. 

You laid on your backs but your hand soon found his again and he held on so tightly as if afraid you might float away. 

His other hand slipped inside of his pocket and he pulled out the medallion which he cupped inside of his palm. 

With you there by his side, holding his hand, the chip was much less taunting of him than it had been earlier in the night. 

It was never supposed to be an omen, but a talisman, and now he was seeing it for what it really was. 

He had two months until he would receive his own, and laying next to you in your bed he finally believed he could achieve that. 

He rolled his head to the side on the pillow and you did the same, a soft smile cloying to your lips. 

“What…what happens tomorrow?” He couldn’t help but ask, always in need of answers to questions that didn’t always need asking. 

You gently squeezed his hand as a small exhale left your parted lips. 

“Let’s worry about that in the morning, ok?” 

“I wish I could.” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I don’t know if I can just leave again this time.” 

“Spence,” you shuffled a little closer to him. “We’ll figure it out, ok? But if you think for a second I’m just going to be able to let you walk away again, well for a genius, that’s just dumb.” 

Spencer couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips as his heart soared at your words. He brushed his fingers over yours whilst doing the same to his chip. 

He exhaled a slightly shaky breath whilst turning completely onto his side and opening his palm so you could see the coin.

“It’s not mine.” He was quick to say. “I still have two more months to make my year.” 

He didn’t need to say more than that. You mirrored his position and took the medallion from his open palm. 

He wanted you to have all the facts, to have total transparency between you so you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. But he underestimated just how much you still knew him. 

“I figured.” You whispered. “You’ll get there. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to help you.” 

Once again his heart soared, his whole body feeling lighter than air. Tears he didn’t know had sprung to his eyes, started rolling down his cheeks but yet, he was smiling. 

“I’d like that very much.” He nodded against the pillow. 

You fell into silence after that and soon Spencer’s tired eyes started to flutter closed.

You’d been the one to show him how to love and along the way he’d forgotten. But now he was starting to remember it all. He’d been on his own for long enough and maybe, just maybe, you could show him how to love all over again. 

Being In your presence, the voices in his head were silenced, the lights weren’t quite so blinding. And with your touch, he could finally sleep. 

[sleepyfan-blog]

Tiny Visions

Author's note: Part one of The Emperor of Mankind raising the baby primarchs! Next

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets

warnings: dehumanization of the primarchs, dehumanization of infants, Warp Fuckery

Summary: Several of the Very Tiny Primarchs warp powers begin to manifest themselves at the same time, while still in their gestation pods. The results of this cause the Emperor to order them to be pulled from their gestation tubes as very young infants.

The tireless and careful work of over a thousand years' worth of genetic testing, engineering and tinkering lay slumbering in twenty maturation pods. Hundreds of anxious scientists watched every readout on the monitors, every twitch that the infant super-soldier generals made as they slept and grew in their incubation chambers, worried that if they did not keep their tense vigil, something terrible would happen and one or more of the little ones would be lost, and His Excellency would be furious… Or worse, disappointed that something had happened to one of his currently tiny creations.

Each of the twenty tiny primarchs floated in their numbered pods, what they may dream of was unknown to any of the scientists who kept monitoring them constantly. This project was intensely secret - from the moment that each of them had been brought onto the project (anywhere between months to decades ago) they had never left the underground palace genetics laboratories, lest the enemies of the Emperor of Mankind find out about what was being created in the sprawling complex. The Thunder Warriors were… They had been a success, yes. But their genetic enhancements had been unstable, and they had taken very poorly to the uneasy peace that the Emperor, His Custodes and Thunder Warriors had created across Terra, ending the shattered factions that Terra had long-descended into in the endless Night that Humanity as a whole was only beginning to crawl out of, and only by the grace and aid of The Emperor and the other Perpetuals who had lent their guiding hands and keen minds to the task of Uniting Terra.. And eventually, to reach out to the scattered and lost pockets of Humanity still lost to the Long Night that had consumed the galaxy.

The Primarchs were due to be released from their gestation pods within the next several months, if the meticulously gathered and reviewed data continued to show the signs of their growth and maturation within their tubes at the rate that they were currently growing at. There was some uncertainty as to just what physical age the little soldier-generals would be once they were released from their maturation chambers, given the fact that they would stand larger than even the Legiones Astartes that they would be commanding once fully mature. Still, it was none of their places to question how long the little generals would sleep and grow within their maturation chambers, merely watch and ensure that they got the nutrient slurry infused into their -

Primarch Eight began to thrash in it's sleep, tiny fists flailing, mouth opening in closing and head thrashing back and forth in clear signs of distress, causing dozens of alarms to go off. His dedicated team of geneticists rushed over to his chamber, frantically reading the sudden change in vital signs and movement - the little ones commonly moved a little, but were primarily stationary as they grew.

Primarch Nine began to thrash and wail as well - his tiny wings flaring out and causing him to be propelled against one wall of it's maturation pod and bounce off, it's tiny fists and feet flailing. It's mouth opening and closing in silent wailing. Nine's team rushed over to try and figure out what had set the little general off, their voices low and frantic.

Primarch Fifteen, who was the most deeply connected to the warp according to The Emperor and Lady Erda, turned an even brighter red and began wailing and flailing in it's pod as well, possibly in response to two of it's siblings suddenly reacting in distress to some sort of stimuli that none of the assembled baseline human scientists could begin to fathom.

And then, to the tremendous distress of it's entire team, primarch fourteen decided to Cause Problems because it's siblings were being rambunctious by teleporting outside of it's gestation pod. Again. It teleported several inches off of the ground and would have hit the ground with a wet thud (and probably start to wail at the top of all three of it's lungs) had not a pair of large, darkly tanned hands not suddenly grabbed the tiny primarch out of the air. "Fourteen, what have I told you about teleporting outside of your pod before it's time to leave, hmm?" The Emperor of Mankind rumbled, staring down at one of his future generals.

The baby Primarch with short, ashy white hair plastered flat to his skin by the incubation fluids opened it's golden eyes and stared up at it's creator and Lord. It's gummy, toothless mouth opened and it wailed tiny hands balling into fists as it flailed at the indignity of being cold, as the thick, sticky incubation fluids quickly began to chill the tiny primarch.

"Neoth, give him here, he's cold." Lady Erda ordered, lightly swatting at the emperor, having removed her clean jacket and began to wrap it around the infant primarch, rocking him back and forth, murmuring in a low, soothing voice "Shhh, shhh ,shhh. Mama is here, little one. I know, it's bright and you are cold, and some of your brothers are very upset. That's why mama and papa are here. To see what has upset you so. Come on now, stop crying for mama, you're safe now. There's a good boy."

Fourteen stopped crying at the sound of one of it's creators' voices, golden eyes wide, as a tiny fist was shoved into it's mouth. It leaned it's damp head against her chest, it's breathing slowing down to normal, before it's eyes slid shut and it began to sleep.

The Emperor of Mankind had left Fourteen in Lady Erda's capable hands, walking over to where Eight's, Nine's and Fifteen's teams were gathered and frantically trying to figure out why the three infant primarchs had started to thrash around and wail within their incubation chambers. Apart from distress-related vitals changes, there was nothing that any of the mortals could discern was wrong with any of the tiny primarchs.

"Imperator! We-" The lead scientist started, bowing deeply as he spoke, going silent as the large perpetual raised a silencing hand.

"Eight and Nine are having visions, and Fifteen is currently psychically connected to the two of them. The visions are not happy ones, which has upset all three of them. While I had intended on letting them incubate in their pods until they were physically toddlers…" The emperor's gaze focused for a moment on Lady Erda, who was still rocking a sleeping Fourteen and humming a lullaby to it. A small frown pulled at his lips "Will they be stable, if removed from their gestation pods?"

"S-sire?" Several scientists stuttered at the same time, eyes widening in surprise.

Amar Astarte walked over, grabbing the most recent readouts collected on each of the infant primarchs. "They should be able to survive outside of the pods. I thought that the plan was to wait until they were toddlers physically, before releasing them from their gestation pods? That way they would have a degree of independence before starting to be trained, sir. As infants they will have different developmental and physical needs… Also none of them should be capable of doing much more than rolling over on their own… Warp-based power shenanigans notwithstanding, my lord."

"… Nine and Eight have visions of what will happen, if they stay in the gestation tubes for that long. It is not a future I wish to see come to pass." The Emperor responded, the frown on his face deepening. While he could dismiss Erda from the project - and Amar as well… Part of him would rather that not happen. Both of them were incredibly talented geneticists and incredibly useful to him.

"… There is also the fact that we've been getting some rather… Unusual readings from Primarch Twenty's pod. It's abilities keep us from doing a visual check of it without removing it from the gestation pod entirely, I would advise caution in twenty's case." The geneticist warned The Emperor, frowning a little as well.

"Hmm? No, their readings are fine. They're a perfectly healthy set of twins." The Emperor corrected, placing one hand on the glass of Nine's pod, the other on Eight's as he sent a psychic wave of calm and peace their way, to get the little ones to stop thrashing and crying in their pods. He wasn't expecting three new minds brush clumsily up against his own in response, filled with innocent curiosity and fear. The emperor again pulsed calm-care-safety to the three fussing infant Primarchs. Fifteen - who he had most contact with - settled down immediately. Nine fussed for a couple more seconds before settling down. Eight, from whom the most concerning visions of chaos-tainted Astartes had come from fussed until he reached out to eight's mind once again and sent more soothing thoughts and feelings to the very fussy dark-haired baby. Eight finally settled down.

"… Oh. When do you want to begin decanting, sire?" Amar asked, slightly taken aback at his answer.

"I will need to ensure that the wing of the palace for the twenty of them is fully furnished and baby-proofed… Decant them in two weeks, beginning with One. I will increase the security around these labs and the Gellar field that protect them from outside warp influence. Three full squads of Custodes will be at each location, and I will have Valdor be watching over them directly. Do not interfere with their protective details." The emperor ordered "Back to your standard duties. Eight, Nine and Fifteen are already back in their slumbering states…" He let his voice soften and warm a little as he looked upon Erda, who was still rocking a sleeping Fourteen in her arms. Something about the sight stirred something very old in his heart briefly, but there was much to do, and she was a potential future traitor to his glorious cause. "Erda, the Primarchs' rooms aren't ready yet. Fourteen will need to go back into his pod for his own safety."

Erda sighed, cuddling Fourteen a little closer (the little Primarch whining wordlessly a little in his sleep) before nodding in agreement "You're right. Alright, sweetie, time to go back into the pod. Remember, mama loves you and your brothers." She pressed a kiss to it's forehead as two members of Fourteen's team opened it's gestation pod and brought it over for Erda to lower the tiny general into, which she did without complaint.

[cenorii]

Chris Redfield: personality

This is my psychological analysis of the character, which includes important details of the story, an analysis of the decisions they made and the concept of the phenomenon of «Guiding Fear». Contains spoilers!

Even if you know lore 100%, you will be able to learn something new from my thoughts

I did this to practice analyzing personalities and reliably prescribe my own characters.

[These are all my personal reflections that I have been accumulating and analyzing for six months. You can see the same analysis with Wesker here. In Chris' case, I want to dispel the myths that he is unstable and stupid. Thanks to everyone who reads this, I really appreciate it and it's nice to know that my thoughts are of interest to someone!]

Chris devoted his life entirely to the fight against bioterrorism, renouncing normal life so that others could have it. We don't know much about his thoughts and feelings, as it's in Chris' character to hide such things deep within himself so they don't interfere with his work, but his kind and honest nature shines through. His probable motto is «If not me, then who?»

The main theme of Resident Evil is the struggle with fear. We can speculate endlessly about which characters struggle with which fear, but I'm pretty sure Chris embodies the «fear of loss».

In his 48 years of life, he has lost many partners and squad members, as well as family and friends. Death follows Chris, and he is unbearably afraid of his curse. But who is Chris? In the eyes of many he is a hero, famous for his impulsive character and unbending sense of justice, because of which he is ready to argue with his superiors to prove his point. But behind the legend is a sensitive, respectful and careful man, able to recognize the best qualities in people and guide them.

«I'm not a hero» © Chris

Because of his fear of losing his loved ones, Chris needs control and order in his life, he avoids and minimizes any risks. For this reason, in re8 organized his own squad, separated from the organization, to have full control over the situation. This obsession to control his environment and outcomes to avoid the pain or disappointment that he has experienced in the past is a defense mechanism.

Chris is not an overly sociable person or someone who is eager to make new friends. Although he is easy to communicate, Chris still refrains from frequent socializing with people to avoid forming attachments that could potentially lead to losses in the future. He is used to formal communication between subordinates and colleagues, and informal communication only with those close to Chris who have been with him for a long time.

But let's go his way.

Chris and his younger sister Claire lost their parents when they were children, they died in a car accident. Since then, Chris has taken responsibility for his sister and they have become very close. The first major loss in his life.

At the age of 17, Chris joined the United States Air Force, where he stayed for 6 years. From there he has flying skills, and he is also good with various weapons and is known for his hand-to-hand combat skills, which will not once help him in life. A capable man who was fired for disobeying senior officers, because he didn't agree with them. Barry Burton, a friend he met in the Air Force, recommended Chris to S.T.A.R.S. (elite special forces division under the jurisdiction of the Raccoon Police Department), and that's how his fateful meeting with the Alpha and Bravo teams happened. On the team, Chris was valued for his versatility and was assigned as a point man.

There Chris won at least one award as the best shooter and also met Jill Valentine, who later became his good friend and partner.

His desk in S.T.A.R.S.'s office stands out with its perpetual clutter, scattered folders and disks. He tends to bring things from home, decorating his place with them. For example, next to his desk, Chris put a guitar and also hung a jacket with "Made in Heaven" written on it, which is a reference to a song by the band Queen. Did he risk using the guitar in the presence of the Captain?

On holidays, he would often go to the suburbs with his teammates to drink, which sometimes caused riots. At that point, Chris was chaotic, but because of a difficult fate in the future, he had to tame his inner chaos.

All good things came to an end when contact was lost with Bravo's team in the mountains near Raccoon City. Alpha, meaning the team Chris was on, went to investigate and stumbled upon the Spencer's Mansion. But it wasn't an accident, it was just part of the plan of Wesker, their Captain. The mansion was only a cover for the Umbrella lab beneath it. All the inhabitants of the place had become mere shadows of their former selves, turning into zombies. In order for Chris to explore the building more safely, Wesker left supplies for him in some places, which may not be canon, but only a game convention. But this is quite normal for Wesker, he maintained the image of the captain until the very end.

When Chris caught Wesker off guard in the lab, he was finally convinced that his fears were correct... the captain was a traitor. But even knowing that, realizing how many squad members he ruined, when Wesker was mortally wounded Chris didn't hide his excitement for him. In the re1 remake Chris twitches in his direction, but then recoils. Chris has compassion even for those who betrayed him.

Chris lost many friends, including Wesker, during this assignment. And that day left a strong imprint in his mind. It was later dubbed «Mansion Incident». Something that divided the lives of many into «before» and «after» and began an endless nightmare.

Chris, Jill, Barry, Brad and Rebecca survived and took it upon themselves to figure things out. Upon their return, Chris reported the horrific incident to anyone who was willing to listen, but Police Chief Irons hushed up all the gossip, being under the thumb of Umbrella, not to mention that even the government refused to listen to what Chris had to say. Umbrella had too much influence for it to be that simple, but that only fueled the fire of Chris's fighting spirit. He went on «vacation» to Europe to do his own investigation without saying anything to Claire. Chris wanted to keep his sister out of danger, but there were consequences. Concerned about her brother's disappearance, Claire found herself drawn into the chaos of the fall of Raccoon City, where she met Leon Kennedy (events re2).

During his time at S.T.A.R.S., Chris saw his sister often and taught her shooting and combat skills. Thanks to her brother's attention, Claire learned the skills she needed to survive.

When Claire learned enough information about her brother and left the infected city, she traveled to Europe to continue her search for Chris, but found herself caught by Umbrella. She was sent to Rockfort Island prison, which was more like a concentration camp. (Code: Veronica). Thanks to information from Leon, who Claire managed to contact, Chris set out to help his sister. On the island, he encountered a few revelations - Wesker was alive for some reason, and he was also after some Alexia.

The former captain who got Chris's friends killed. The one who was presumed dead has once again cast a shadow over Redfield's life. Their fates intertwined.

Since Wesker's presence has been causing disasters as of late, Chris decided not only to find his sister, but also to investigate the situation on the island to prevent his new enemy from giving him what he was looking for. Upon meeting him, he discovered that the former captain was no longer human. Chris was only able to defeat him by stealth, suffering greatly in the process.

He eventually saved Claire, and they left the place together. Deep in his heart, Chris realized that Umbrella must cease to exist so that people like Wesker would disappear. So that unfortunate people would not repeat the fate of Steve (Claire's dead friend) and the people of Raccoon City.

In 2003, he traveled with Jill to Russia because of reports of infected people in that region. Their visit to a biological weapons factory ended with a victory over a new enemy, T-A.L.O.S., as well as the collapse of Umbrella, because now Chris and Jill had all the evidence against them. It was not without the help of Wesker, who had contributed to this collapse, because he wanted the same thing. Since then, Chris had become very attached to Jill, as if he was responsible for her life.

However, bioweapons and viruses have affected civilians many more times. That's why Chris and his partner joined the young BSAA organization to prevent the disaster in Raccoon City from repeating itself. In 2005 they were drawn into a conflict with the terrorist organization Veltro, in the investigation of which revealed unpleasant information about traitors in their (BSAA) ranks. There, by the way, Chris becomes the partner of a certain Jessica Sherawat, who is clearly partial to him, but he pretends that he does not notice the hints, softly rejecting the feelings of the future traitor. Inside BSAA, the leadership had to be changed, and that was the first seed of doubt that settled in Chris's mind. The first feeling of distrust for the place he was involved with.

Life continues to put Chris on the spot, forcing him to go on various missions with little or no time to rest. Thanks to the huge number of things, he has dedicated himself to, Chris is at the top of the organization. His endless hard work is summed up in his own phrase: «I'm Not Going To Stop Until I'm Dead».

Let's travel back to 2006. DLC for re5 «Lost in Nightmares». Chris and Jill go in search of Spencer, the last remaining bit of Umbrella, its founder. This man is responsible for many things and deserves to be punished, and could help them find Wesker. But when the partners arrive on a tip-off at his mansion, they find only a bloody corpse with their former captain standing over it. The latter in turn was displeased with the intrusion and immediately attacked them, during the fight Chris was caught off guard. A couple of seconds separated him from probable death. But Jill intervened and pushed Wesker through the window, she falling with him into the cliff. Chris could only watch helplessly as they fell, realizing that once again he had lost someone dear to him. Here Chris wonders for the first time if his struggle is worth it.

Jill's body was never found, and neither was Wesker's, so the former was pronounced dead. The empty grave with the headstone that had been erected in her honor was not deprived of Chris's attention. He probably went there often and grieved. What he swore over Jill's grave was unknown to anyone, but it made Chris investigate even more and put himself through even more training.

Since 1998, his body has changed a lot. Knowing that one day he would meet Wesker again, Chris diligently grew stronger, pushing his body to the limits of human capability so that he would be ready for anything.

What follows are the events of re5. In 2009, he travels to Africa to stop a bioweapons deal, where he meets his new partner, Sheva Alomar. Although they don't have the reliving of the past that they had with Jill, they hit it off well, thanks to which they accomplish a lot together. At the very beginning they encounter a new enemy, Majini, the same Ganados that Leon once encountered in re4, only from an improved version of the Plaga parasite. They also meet a virtually immortal mutant created thanks to the new Uroboros virus. After defeating him, Chris gets the data and learns that the deal was rigged to test this virus. In doing so, he lost several more of his men and painfully realized that if he had arrived on the scene a little earlier, his corpse lay with them. The data also contained a picture of a woman who looked strangely like the dead Jill, but with blonde hair. Chris secretly believed that maybe his old partner was alive.

Sheva was disappointed by the deaths of her comrades and frightened. Not wanting to put anyone else in danger, Chris asks her to leave him, but Sheva refuses. She assures Chris that they are partners until the end. Somewhere out there, her people are dying, so she can't drop everything and turn back and leave Chris alone. Then Chris tells her that he's on this mission for personal reasons. His former partner Jill may be alive and she needs his help, so they need to hurry before it's too late. To which Sheva agrees, not doubting her new partner's theory.

Eventually, after going through many trials, they came face to face with Wesker. He revealed that Jill had been with him the whole time, but was under a mind-altering drug. Jill, being zombified, fought on the same team as Wesker against Chris and Sheva. One of the dearest people to Chris had been enslaved for two whole years, which was beyond his mind with horror and sadness. He had almost buried her, almost given up looking for her, but Jill was literally under his nose, in a terrible situation. Struggling with his best friend and partner, Chris never stopped trying to get the truth into her head so she would recognize it, and he's succeeding.

Running away on urgent business, Wesker leaves Jill alone, forcing Chris and Sheva to fight her. During the fight, they remove the injector from her chest that was controlling her mind.

A disoriented Jill repents that she realized everything but couldn't control herself, to which her partners reply that they understand. Jill is back in action and off to the «Desperate Escape» DLC, while Chris and Sheva continue the main plot and head off on Wesker's trail. For Chris, this was already a personal vendetta. Having suffered so much loss through this man's fault, he would no longer be able to look Jill in the eye if he didn't stop him.

While searching for Wesker, the team encounters an Uroboros mutated Excella, Wesker's his ally, on whom Wesker decides to test the virus, to see if Excella will prove to be the «chosen one».

After an exhausting battle, the partners find the man they came for and decide to use the serum stolen from Excella. It is an injection that, under the right conditions, stabilizes Wesker's powers, but when overdosed makes him weaker. A weakened Wesker tries to flee to his plane, refusing to be confronted any further. His partners, who managed to climb with him, cause the plane to crash into an active volcano, where their final battle takes place.

Wesker, having lost most of his powers, finds himself in a difficult situation and decides to resort to overdosing on Uroboros. Against him, Chris and Sheva are once again at odds, but the fragile rock in the volcano plays into their hands, and Wesker falls ridiculously into the lava as the ground beneath him collapses.

This allowed partners to take advantage of his helplessness and fire the rocket launcher twice at the target. Although not shown, it is assumed that Wesker was killed.

After that, Chris finally realized what he was fighting for, realizing that his fight was worth the lives saved. Jill was sent to rehab after everything Wesker had done to her and didn't get back to normal until closer to 2015, causing Chris to change partners again. Chris wrote in his notes, «Defeating Wesker's undoubtedly a turning point for me. Due to this battle, I found the meaning behind what I'm fighting for».

In 2012, during the events of re6, Chris and his new partner, Piers Nivans, were sent to Edonia to prevent the spread of another bioweapon, but things didn't go quite as they expected. Another mission, another loss for Redfield.

At some point, he learns about Jake Muller and the fact that his life is in danger. After learning that he was Wesker's own son, Chris thought deep down, probably about the fate that has been intertwined with this man since the days of S.T.A.R.S.

At the very beginning of the mission, Chris loses almost his entire squad, once again convinced of the curse he carries behind him. And amnesia during the trauma incapacitates him for six months and Chris becomes an alcoholic.

In 2013, Pierce brings his captain back into the service, forcefully reclaiming unpleasant memories in order to continue the mission. The losses that Chris has suffered have affected him greatly, and he worries for the lives of every member of the squad, making foolish and rash actions that put him in danger. It is only after talking with Piers that Chris comes to his senses and becomes his old self again, because being gripped by fear you can't save anyone. And he really couldn't save anyone again, only the two of them survived.

After meeting Jake again, Chris confesses that he killed Wesker, his father, which leads to an argument in which Jake pulls a gun on him. Chris at this point says, "Go ahead, shoot. You have every right to. Just promise me you'll survive. The world depends on it." Jake shoots past and declares that there are more important things at stake than their problems. Chris probably feels guilty about him.

On a mission to protect Jake and many others, Chris and Piers have to face a new bioweapon, HAOS. Piers, sacrificing himself, becomes infected with the C-virus and forces Chris to save himself by being alone with HAOS. In doing so, he became another wound on Redfield's heart. Another loss on the account. Chris had planned to retire, lay down his weapons and turn everything over to Piers, but now he is forced to continue his service, thus honoring Piers's memory. Chris once said he would fight to the end, and he doesn't throw words to the wind.

2017, re7 events. Bakers and Mold incident, which Chris was unlucky enough to be involved in. He once again tragically lost all of his people. Once again, fate has struck a sore spot. And that seed of doubt that had settled in his mind back in 2005 finally blossomed. After this incident, Chris became even more distrustful of the BSAA, because they had hidden the incident from the public, which had never happened before. He formed his own Hound Wolf Squad, gathering people he could trust, and spent the next three years tracking down a certain mother Miranda, with absolutely no authorization from headquarters. He became an outcast in BSAA for this cause and for justice.

As Chris got older, he stopped acting impulsively and began to act more uncompromisingly, clearly following the plan regardless of any interference. He saw no obvious reason why he was obligated to inform Ethan of his next course of action before shooting his «wife» during dinner in 2021. He believed that Miranda would realize that Ethan knew something, so such sacrifices had to be made.

Ethan thought until the last minute that his wife was gone and the baby had been taken away. What loss and stress Ethan went through Chris didn't even take it upon himself to imagine. In the end, it turned out that it wasn't his wife at all, but Miranda, who had pretended to be her, changing her appearance at the expense of Mold's abilities. Chris's plan had gone awry from the start, but it could hardly have been worse if he had prematurely informed Ethan. From now on, Chris tried to keep random people out of his plans to minimize any potential casualties.

On this mission, for the first time, Chris didn't lose anyone from his squad, but he did lose a friend. Ethan died to protect loved ones, and it hit Redfield and his fear once again. He experienced grief and anger at the realization that he would never be able to save those whose lives he held dear. Perhaps he chastised himself for the mistakes he had made during this assignment. Blamed himself for not telling Ethan the whole plan beforehand. He had plenty of reasons to hate himself.

But this small victory over Miranda doesn't mean victory in the never-ending war against bioterrorism. On the way back, one of his squad discovers that the body of the BSAA soldier on their plane was a bioweapon. This is the last straw for Chris, and he decides to look into everything, which will most likely lead to a coup in the organization.

To summarize, Chris is sometimes hard to understand, as he hides his emotions and feelings under a meaningful silence. The kindly man who was the soul of the company, by 2021 looks as if he has lost all hope, but it still burns in him. Every dead person he failed to keep safe feels like they destroyed his heart. Christopher is a huge wound in the fandom that is not easy to heal. His storyline is likely coming to an end, which makes me sad to see Chris meet his old age in sadness and loneliness. At the time of re8 (2021), he's already 48 years old, which is a lot considering he's been fighting bioterrorism since he was 25. Has Chris ever thought of his own wants and needs since then? He has such dedication and concern for others that it seems as if he is completely oblivious to himself. With his endless responsibilities, it would be impossible to take a vacation, but there are indeed moments of calm, does Chris never rest?

On a more personal note, he has always treated his squads like family, "I know it is not any of my business, but I want you to think of us as a family... no matter how this all ends" (Philosophy University Incident 2010). Nothing is known about Chris' relationships, except for one non-canonical instance of dating a girl in «Viral Campaign». Apart from his living friends, he has no one else. It wasn't until Ethan's death that he found something resembling a normal life. Chris helped Ethan's wife raise and educate their daughter Rose, becoming an uncle and father figure to her. It is unknown if Chris ever returned to alcoholism after his amnesia, but I can assume it is unlikely. A lot of things happened to him during that period of his life that affected his view of the world. Surely he no longer allows himself to behave so recklessly, even in the most stalemate situation.

Interesting detail, Chris is constantly contrasted with Wesker, as if he's a better version of him. Both were Alpha squad captains, both have blood type 0, and were once the same weight class and same height. Probably the same eye color, as well as great weapons proficiency. Their encounters in re5 don't look like a fight, it's more like a dance between two people with equally good fighting skills. Sure, Wesker is much stronger than Chris due to his situation with the virus, but he never let himself use more strength than necessary to keep Chris fighting him, prolonging any fight with him. It's possible that Wesker's attempt to kill Chris in «Lost in Nightmares» is just a ruse, and he was going to toss him aside somewhere, as he never seriously intended to hurt him enough. Chris' age at the time of his last official appearance in re8 is 48, which matches Wesker's age at the time of his supposed death. Their conflict isn't over yet, so it's fully expected that Wesker survived and will once again surprise Christopher with his presence. They need to finish what they started, as adults and having already been through a lot. Without the pointless fights that the current Chris is unlikely to get into. There's no telling what the modern Wesker might be like, but if he's stayed in the shadows for so many years, it's not like he's planning to be too reckless either.

-------------------

Due to a misunderstanding, I would like to supplement my text. This analysis is only my personal interpretation and my personal view of the character and his story. I do not claim that it is 100% canon, because canon is so vague and disjointed that it is impossible to fully assemble it objectively. Everyone is entitled to have an interpretation different from mine. Best wishes to all!

[buttercupjosh]

In light of everything going on in the hockey world lately (I’m not trying to dismiss the situation, I’m using different words because this post specifically involves the hockey fandom & don’t want to take away from that), some of y’all need to learn how STOP DOING THIS (see photo).

Stop perpetuating this cycle. It’s been proven time and time before that “oh don’t stan him, stan him instead” does not work at all. These guys are not the perfect well put together people that we see portrayed by the media, by their teams and in fanfics. They all have the capacity to disappoint and be horrible. Yes, you are still allowed to like people (there’s still good people in this world and I advise against liking people who are obliviously garbage) but just don’t let your parasocial relationship take so much control in your life.

What these players are being charged for is so much bigger than your fandom and support for them. There was a person who was very likely wrongfully harmed by those players and those allegations should be taken very seriously, even if it hasn’t gone through the legal system yet.

It’s valid and it’s okay if you’re upset/hurt/feel disappointed with all of it right now. It’s a very sad, horrible, and heavy thing. This post is just to help emphasize the concept in the photo because some of yall need to get it through your heads. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk😌

[fromabasementonthehilll]

Hey Honey how are you?? Can you write a enemies to lovers with Nat Scatorccio x Fem! Reader? Nat and reader dont really get along and only gets worse when she is with travis bcz reader and travis hate each other and the girls always have to step in so they dont fight (kill each other lol). But yknow they cant stand each other because they are in love, maybe girls help Nat figuring it out that she likes reader in a truth or dare game? Thank you!!

The Night of the Party

͙⁺･༓☾ - Summary: You and Natalie practically hate ‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎each other, especially after she started ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ dating Travis, until the night of the party.

Pairing: Natalie Scatorccio x reader

Warnings: ...

note: thank you for the request! I haven't written an actual fanfic before so I hope this lives up to your expectations 😭

∘₊✧────────────────────✧₊∘

"Over here!" Jackie called, you shuffled the ball trying your best to avoid the opposing team. You had noticed Natalie, throughout the entirety of practice, eyeing you; stalking your every move in attempts to steal the ball from you. This left you with no room for thought, she was constantly breathing down your neck, so you'd decided to ignore Jackie, running even faster to the goal. Normally you were a team player, making it fair and square for everyone around you, but when it came to Natalie your ego took over, you gave her side glances in attempts to get rid of her - but to no avail. As you neared the goal your palms started sweating like crazy, I mean it was just practice, but you couldn't let Nat win at any cost. She positioned herself parallel to the goal and parallel to you. Van was ready to block your kick and Natalie brushed her bangs out of the way so that she could focus on the ball. You knew how determined Natalie was, so as you gave her a hunting stare, the frustration inside of you grew like a fire.

Your strike was filled with force, it was tactical, but too rage infused. Somehow you had mistaken Natalie for the goal, subconsciously you just really wanted her to get out of your way, your brows furrowed, eyes fixed on the landing - you had hit Nat right onto her goddamn face.

You stood there as Coach Scott rushed to asses the situation, your teammates stared in awe.

-

"Nat I'm sorry it was just an accident I swear-" You pleaded, "Fuck off" was all she said, giving you the death stare of a lifetime and slamming her locker while holding a paper towel to her bleeding nose, you wondered why you even tried to apologise at this point, it all felt useless and repetitive. You sighed, walking up to Jackie and Shauna who had just finished changing. "You should've passed, (y/n), maybe then she wouldn't be so pissed at you" Shauna knew what was going on between you and Natalie, everyone did, it was too obvious lately, and that's why she didn't blame you - she merely glanced at you, disappointed with the constant feud you and Nat perpetuated. "You saw how she targeted me right? I mean it's not even my fault!" you spat out whatever reasoning you could, a slight guilt trailing your voice, "you two are always fighting, everyone's tired of having to break it up, just kiss already" Tai laughed, walking past the three of you. You scoffed, turning back to your friends. "It doesn't matter, (y/n), she'll get over it. Are you coming to the party today?" Jackie intervened, your team was celebrating nationals and had all decided to go to Jeff's party, you weren't too sure if you'd even wanted to go though. Jackie noticed your tight nit lips in response to her, "please?" she whined, "it'll be fun I promise.". "fine, I'll go." You gave in with a slight smirk, Jackie screeched in approval, Shauna laughed and you left early.

-

You didn't live too far from the school, so you'd decided to walk despite Shauna offering to drive you back. You turned your head curiously as you saw bleach blonde hair in your peripheral, and as you turned you saw Natalie talking to someone. Travis - you hated his guts, your teeth gnawed as you gazed intently while he was all over Nat, he tried to hit on you once a while back, but you never liked him, not at all. His back was faced to you as Natalie had her arms around him, looking directly at you. Still walking, you looked away, a grimacing expression painting your face. If you never liked him before, you definitely didn't like him now, you weren't sure why though, it's not like he did anything really, he was a huge dick but not enough to induce your deep deep hatred. All you wanted was for him to go away, only because he was a pain in the ass of course, I mean that was it, right? It was such a burden that you had fully convinced yourself that if he hadn't shown up your life would be a hundred times better.

You and Natalie weren't always spiteful towards each other, you used to hang out quite a lot, usually smoking and listening to music, there were moments where you two got so close it felt like something could've happened. At the end of last year, as you began dating guys and hanging out with Jackie and Shauna more, you and Natalie grew apart, to the point where she felt like a stranger to you. At first you stopped talking, then you began making remarks at each other - slowly, the anger between you built up. You didn't like it, but at this point it was second nature.

-

A loud honk surrounded your house, you peered outside of the window seeing Jackie and Shauna. Grabbing your bag you swiftly ran down the stairs and towards the car. "Hey (y/n)!" One of them exclaimed, "Wow you really went all out, I've never seen you wear such a flattering top", it's true, you usually wore super casual clothes - too casual, though well put together. "You dressing for someone?" Jackie winked with a sly smile, leaning her neck against the seat to look back at you. "No, of course not." You chuckled, unnoticed panic in your answer, and it was partly true, you didn't really think of dressing for someone, in retrospect you may have spiced it up for a reason, though you'd never admit it to yourself.

-

You stood leaned over a kitchen counter, a red solo cup touching your lips as you gazed at Lottie rambling about something, her hands gesturing and mouth moving so quickly you had just spaced out, absolutely no thoughts in your head, until you heard a familiar voice. It was Natalie Scatorccio, you didn't look, you had just assumed she was flirting with Travis or something, after all the music was loud enough to block out any coherent words from her and the people around you apart from Lottie, who was still talking to you.

"Hey Lot, I'm gonna go refill my cup - you want anything?", she paused for a moment and shook her head. Your head began spinning slightly as you filled your cup with an unknown drink, it was definitely doing a number on you, but after today it didn't really matter much. "(y/n)! Come with us we're gonna play something" You turned to Van as Tai crept behind her, "play what?" You perked up, "just some games, me and Tai got the idea", you followed them to the living room, waving your hand for Lottie to follow suit. There were less people, as everyone was mostly likely outside or making out in one of the guest rooms. It was merely your soccer team (admittedly, only some of them) and a couple of guys, including Travis. You sat the furthest away from him, next to Lottie and Shauna, leaning your head against Lot as Van and Tai tried their best to get more people. "Travis is such a dick." You stared at how he ignored Natalie, "I know right, who even gives him the right..." Lottie agreed, though her head was in the clouds. She knew how you disliked him. "what are we doing?" Inquired Shauna, "hmm," Tai didn't seem so sure, they clearly just decided to go with the flow, and you were too drunk to care "truth or dare?". "really?" you laughed slightly, "we're not in preschool, Tai".

After a while you were persuaded, alongside everyone else who were sober enough to think that idea was boring. You lifted your head off of Lottie and watched as everyone played, also noticing how everyone got more drunk by the second. Your eyes landed on Natalie as she laughed about something with one of your teammates. Eventually, it was your turn. "(y/n), truth or dare" you heard it from Van. The whole time you had observed how Van and Tai were laughing, talking about something while giving you glances, you noticed them speak to Natalie about something too, after which she playfully punched Van's shoulder. Now you were patient, as Van gave you the most malicious look you had seen, she was up to something - so you decided to play it safe. "truth". "boooring!!" Natalie remarked, "Oh shut up Nat" you bickered. She mocked you, causing a small argument, "Ladies, get a room, it's not the time." Tai broke you two up, Natalie crossed her arms and sat back down, a slight blush patterning her complexion, earning a hateful stare from you. "okay, (y/n), who do you have a crush on." "oh come on Van, ask me something interesting" Your eyes rolled around the room, music booming in your ears "nope, you have to answer, rules of the game", her snarky tone made you laugh, "fine, okay, I don't really have a crush on anyone" Van wasn't impressed at all, she gave Tai a look of disappointment, and you grew even more curious than you were before, "what? It's the truth!" You argued, slight defence in your voice, "I'm not buying it", you sighed and watched as Travis left, Natalie didn't even look at him, you became worried - did they have a fight? Did they break up without me even knowing it? It was true, you and Nat weren't the closest of friends, you weren't friends at all, but you always knew what happened in her life. "so? come on (y/n) don't be boring" you heard Nat say, snapping you out of your thoughts and scowling at her as she wouldn't put to it to rest. You gave a look of defeat towards Lottie, "have it your way. they're in this room, right now", you weren't sure what you were even talking about, and honestly you didn't care, you slurred half of your words and moved around carelessly, eventually sitting still and gazing longingly at Nat, as she looked back curiously. "is that it? that's all you're gonna give us?" Van pried, "it's childish, move on" you responded weakly. Van rolled her eyes, Tai giving her one of those looks that said 'really?'.

Most of the people had left already, you didn't blame them, the game wasn't much fun after everyone ran out of dares to give and truths to ask. You sat there overthinking what you had said, they're in this room? really? Scoffing to yourself. You never admitted it to yourself but you liked Natalie, you never actually hated her, you just hated when she wouldn't reciprocate your feelings towards her, you hated the fact that you grew apart. "you okay?" Once again Natalie had collapsed your train of thought, "hm?", you looked up at her from across the room, puppy eyes staring back at you, "oh, I'm fine". You weren't fine at all. You were too drunk, too confused and too lost, Lottie left, late for curfew, you took that as her leaving you here alone. Jackie and Shauna trailed off, Jackie most likely with Jeff. Finally, you watched as Van and Tai left together, giving you a smirk. You questioned it, and knitted your eyebrows together in confusion.

This left you alone in the living room with Nat as she sat leaning again the bottom of the couch with a plastic cup in her hand, staring at her shoes after you brushed her off. "hey Nat, what happened with you and Travis? He seemed pissed, but you two seemed fine earlier." She looked at you, parting her lips, then looking back down - she found the floor more interesting than whatever you were saying, so you just went back to what it is you were doing.

"he broke up with me." Her mouth falling into a shaky frown and her eyes glistening, "I knew he would do this, he's just..." failing to finish her thoughts, you took over. "it's not your fault, Nat, he's a dick." Your voice soft, matching her emotion. She didn't seem to acknowledge your words as her glistening eyes now trailed down to her cheek, she sobbed profusely, trying to be as quiet as possible while covering her face and dropping her empty cup down to her feet. You moved closer to her, purely inches between you two. Your warm hands trailed to her back, "it's okay, Nat, you're better than him." Mouth left slightly open, you realised how odd it was, talking to her without calling each other names or arguing, it suddenly felt like you two never even had a feud to begin with, waves crashed in your mind as you tried to make sense of it, you hadn't even noticed her yearning stare. You slowly faltered the hand that found her back, looking at her, needy and vulnerable. "(y/n), I don't hate you, you know that right?" Bloodshot eyes slightly squinted at your expression, as your sclera widened somewhat, your lips disembodied in failure to respond. Her shaky, careful voice echoed in your head. "I never have."

"Really?" Both of you laughed in a diminuendo, eventually falling back to your rather serious countenance. "No of course not, how could I," Her cheeks were red, and so were her eyes as she left them with drying tears. "I don't hate you either, Nat." Her body moved so quietly towards you, your eyes trailing towards her lips as they inched closer. Natalie kissed you gently, salt bruising the moment, but you didn't mind. Both of you pulled back, looking at each other for what seemed like forever, not uttering a word before you wrapped your hands around her neck and pulled her back in.

"(y/n)"

"Yeah?"

"I missed you."

-

After the party you had figured out why Van and Tai kept giving you looks. They set you up. Or at least tried to. You were just glad that Travis was out of sight and out of mind. Jackie and Shauna asked what happened between you and Nat, why you two got along so much better now. You didn't say much, though they caught on as you sheepishly smiled and blushed each time they would bring it up.

[ronearoundblindly]

Pirate & Pin Cushion (3)

Jake Jensen x gn! ops!Reader

Painful...But In A Good Way (see previous or JJ Masterlist)

The last thing you remember is the awkward kiss Jake planted on you during a screaming match. Now, awake and healed, your friend and teammate is acting more awkward than usual around you.

Warnings for foul language, *super skimmed over action,* canon-level betrayal (Roque), completely vague mentions of injuries, suspicions, doubts, misunderstandings,--GO FIGURE--an argument, and I just wanted this done honestly. Not that I don't love them, but I need a win in the COMPLETED department. WC ~1.5k

You’re a Loser through and through now.

Months have gone by since you were stabbed and unceremoniously, sorta-kinda-maybe-not kissed by Jake Jensen. You woke up six days later with Pooch by your side, disappointed it wasn’t your Banter Bro.

The last thing you remember is turning away from Jake to hide your face. After that, nothing. You suppose he feels awkward about it. Maybe he regrets it, even if the ‘kiss’ was just part of a gag to him.

The most frustrating part is everything is exactly the same. Jake keeps you at arm’s length, a holding pattern to get no closer as teammates but no farther as friends.

Is this…are you in the friend zone???

It blows.

You’d still prefer this over being a pariah, so on you quip from interaction to interaction.

For all Jake’s hype about loving Halloween, he shuts down when you ask him what costume you should choose. Then he goes home to his sister and niece for the holiday.

...Okay…

You console yourself knowing this is for the best. You’d promised yourself no attachments, and nature clearly pushes for you to keep that promise.

You’ve almost—almost—resigned yourself to actual pin-cushion-status, jabbed repeatedly by his indifference. You are PC: perpetually crushing on Jake Jensen. It sucks.

You can be professional though. You can keep up with the jokes and take the hits to your heart and body that come with the job.

Until you can’t.

Los Angeles. The port. The shitshow.

While scrambling to get out of the line of fire in a showdown gone wrong, Jake cuts his leg vaulting over a concrete barrier, and you get him to a nook between shipping crates.

You squat down to change the mag on your MP7 and suddenly hear Roque’s voice behind you. He’s not on the comms.

“Should’ve told ‘em, Jensen."

The look on Jake’s face is shocked and bitter.

Roque clicks his tongue. "At least then they’d know…”

Before you can so much as turn to look, Jake’s raised his own weapon, firing right over your shoulder and within inches of your ear.

The pain is sharp and hot, sending you stumbling into the warped metal wall of the nearest container.

Jake wraps a thick arm around your waist and yanks you away.

You catch sight of Roque dead on the asphalt.

It’s complete chaos, pure survival mode for the next twenty minutes, deaf and deftly tying a bandage around Jake’s leg in an open, empty crate while he’s on comms and frantically hand-signaling you the plan.

But you make it. Everyone but Roque makes it.

Eventually, when the ringing subsides in your non-ruptured ear, Clay lays outRoque betrayed the team. Aisha teaches you a way to cup your occipital and tap to reduce the tinnitis. Pooch leaves to see the birth of his first child.

You’re left to ponder if Jake is a traitor, too.

Did he kill Roque to keep his own cover? Was he supposed to recruit you into his and Roque’s plan? Is that what he ‘should have told you’ so Roque wouldn’t need to kill you?

The possibilities haunt you. Is this why he’s kept you distant for months? Was Jake worried you’d catch on?

You blame your stupid crush for stopping you from telling Cougar your concerns. You trust Jake—or you want to trust him, so badly—so you confront him alone.

Dinner. At your place. Away from the team so he can feel safe to admit it. Away from the team so you can pretend your forgiveness isn’t already secured. You’ll deal with the consequences once you know the truth.

Jake seems an odd mix of totally psyched and forcefully reserved when you invite him and a nervous wreck when he arrives at your door.

It’s just pizza. You were too distracted to do more.

He doesn’t pick up his slice because you don’t either, running your hands up and down your thighs compulsively, then quietly asking, “about what Roque said…”

Jake leans back in his chair, leg bouncing frantically, rubbing at his neck. “Yeah,” he replies, eyes on the floor.

“Was he…were you his partner in that? Were you suppose to take me out, too?

Jake’s head snaps up, his mouth askew and brow pinched. “WHAT?”

“Just tell me the truth. I swear, we can work it out with the rest—“

“Is this what—what the fuck—“ he shoves the chair back and steps away “—that’s the reason I’m here right now? I thought you were finally gonna say it!”

Jake rips his glasses off his face and harshly runs his fingers through his frosted tips.

“Say…what? What am I supposed to say? I’m not the one Roque had a damn secret with.”

He’s visibly upset but with bugged-out eyes like he has no idea what to do.

“Well, I’m not a fucking traitor,” he mumbles.

Jake replaces his glasses and takes his phone from the pocket of his low-slung jeans, hitting a few buttons and tossing it onto the table. It slides until it knocks your plate.

His own recorded laugh cuts off quickly. “Okay, PC, what were you saying about Halloween? One more time,” and then comes another slow voice, “I should have told you before I died.

“I love you.”

Your whole body freezes, brain turning the words over and over until it occurs to you…that is your voice.

“I didn’t say that.” Your knee-jerk reaction comes swiftly. “I don’t remember that.”

Jake snorts without humor. “Got that part.”

You’re too stunned to speak. You can’t even imagine when you would have…oh god.

Jake rushes to fill the silence as you die inside, again, maybe more realistically because what.

“Did you at least think I was a badass, like, ya know, a sexy traitor or whatever? Or…were you gonna wrestle me to the ground after I ate a whole pie?”

You keep sitting with your mouth agape.

“You didn’t poison the pizza, did you? Right? Say 'no.' That’s overkill, or just, kill—were gonna kill me?!”

“I’D KNOWN YOU FOR TWO WEEKS,” you explode, bolting out of your own chair.

“Yeah,” Jake squeaks, “I know.”

“Two weeks, and then you taped me saying ‘I love you?’”

“But, like—“ his usually deep timbre pitches super high “…did you?”

“Why would you just sit on that, Jake?!”

He shrugs. “You weren’t exactly sober.”

Too much, too many feelings, all at once. You try to get away, to make a break for the bathroom, but Jake grabs your wrist and swings your momentum to the wall.

Your back hits with a soft thud, pinned in place by Jake’s chest. He’s not breathing heavily, but you are, pushing you against him repeatedly.

That just makes it harder.

Yes, you said it (you guess), and yes, you meant it. Jake, however, hasn’t said word one about if he feels some sort of way for you. Your brain can’t intuit his romantic inclinations two minutes after accusing him of treachery.

He’s…there, not moving, not speaking, lips slightly parted while he stares at you.

You clear your throat.

“You’re…you’re touching me,” you say softly.

Jake doesn’t skip a beat, gently tightening his hold on your arms. “That’s what I do, PC. Finger keyboards.”

You gag as he quickly shakes his head.

“What the fuck?”

“Sounds sooooo bad," Jake moans. "I’m so sorry.” He let’s go of you, steps back, and slaps his hands in the air frantically. “Wait, okay? That was not the joke. I can do it.”

“You’re sick, man.”

Jake rubs at his temples, muttering something about keys, computers, and Halloween. “Hold on...so dumb. This is why I was trying to record it! It’s your joke. You were laying on the bed and--”

“I would never say you fin—“

“He was standing right there,” Jake bursts, scaring you to silence. “Roque. When you said that into the phone, I mean, he was standing at the door and he heard.”

Jensen sighs. Defeated and deflated, he rests his hands on his hips, inhaling sharply.

“So at the port when… He aimed a gun at you and I just—“ he makes a finger gun to point over your shoulder, adding a soft pow sound-effect “—Roque was saying I should have told you before he tried to kill you.”

“About the recording?”

“No.” Jake rocks on his heels.

“About the joke?” Your voice is so small.

His stupid, beautiful blue eyes lift to meet yours.

“No, pin cushion, not about the joke.”

There's a horridly long pause of nothingness.

"Fuck it."

Jake lunges forward with startling intensity, fingers lace behind your head to draw you to him.

You don’t turn away this time.

His lips are soft yet determined, slowly pulsing to transform one kiss into dozens, and he adjusts everything—his height, his stance, his proximity to get even more of you in a single embrace.

“I love you,” Jake whispers, shifting to tilt you left while he goes right. “I should have told you ‘I love you,’ too.”

You promised yourself no attachments, but who are you kidding? You're such a loser, and you found your match.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

😵‍💫

[archiveikemen]

Ikemen Genjiden: Letter from Management Team

05.03.2024

I tried my best to convey their feelings. But as usual, this is a fan-made translation with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes and grammatical errors.

We sincerely thank you for your continuous support and for playing “Ikemen Genjiden: Ayakashi Koi Enishi”.

The management team is sincerely grateful for the many heartwarming messages received following the announcement of reducing the resources used on the game.

Today, it is with deep regret that we have come to a decision that will greatly sadden everyone.

In regards to the future of the game, while we are unable to individually address your questions and provide more information than what has already been announced recently, we would like to take this opportunity to share some of our thoughts with all of you.

Since August 2019, the stories in “Ikemen Genjiden: Ayakashi Koi Enishi” have been carefully woven, depicting the lives of its characters during the period of the Kamakura Shogunate.

The perpetual theme of Genjiden is “fate (enishi)”. It signifies the “love” between you and him, and his “bonds” from the past to the future. Fate with no one to connect with does not exist.

Till this day, not one character or story in Genjiden servers no purpose.

Without a doubt, Rikka also plays a vital role in story building for Act 2 of the main story. His introduction as a duo with Tamamo, one of the characters from which Genjiden’s storyline originated from, was planned for over two years. This year, we were finally able to reveal him to everyone.

While we are genuinely glad to be able to share story expansions like such, the frustration and regret we feel is beyond what words can express. Despite exploring countless possibilities and during the best we could, we found ourselves unable to continue providing the same level of service we always had.

Not only this time, but there may have been many instances where we disappointed everyone. Even so, your unwavering support has always been a great source of encouragement for us.

The staff on the management team were truly blessed by all of your love and support. Moreover, we have been able to keep the app running till this day with nearly no changes to the main members of the team, since the developmental stage of the game; we believe that this is the biggest testament to the joy your support has brought to our team.

We have known our main team members from even before Genjiden was created, and we moved forward while sharing their frustrations.

Our love and degree of enthusiasm towards them remains unchanged since the app’s release. Rather, they have been continuously growing each day.

Although the app service for “Ikemen Genjiden: Ayakashi Koi Enishi” will be downscaled in the future, we will continue to cherish these feelings and our gratitude. For the sake of everyone who has expressed their love for the game, we will do our utmost to connect more “fates” and deliver as much as we can.

From this point forward, we thank you again for your continued support towards “Ikemen Genjiden: Ayakashi Koi Enishi”.

— The management team of “Ikemen Genjiden: Ayakashi Koi Enishi”