#the mechanism for that is broken or just isn't there for some reason

[aeillien]

The analogy isn't valid. For a number of reasons.

First, there is a difference in kind between human intelligence and AI "intelligence" and for that matter between AI "intelligence" and animal types of intelligence.

On the most basic level we could define "intelligence" as the mechanism that responds to sensory stimuli in varying ways in order to achieve goals.

The most basic goal of all, of course, is survival, and all living organisms could be argued as having the "goal" of survival and propagation.

Furthermore in most living organisms more complex than bacteria or viruses we can see changes in behavior in the face of circumstances that suggest there is some sort of processing, however basic, that adapts its behavior to stimuli. An Octopus will try varying strategies to get food in varying circumstances, to use your example.

Broken down like this we can break down "intelligence" into four levels of growing complexity:

Level 1:

Something that meaningfully collects and communicates stimuli from one cell to another, so, basically a nervous system, however rudimentary. Without such a pathway for the perception and communication of sensory information all you have are automatic chemical "responses" to stimuli by individual cells which are in essence 100% predictable on a chemical level. Bacteria and viruses then cannot be considered intelligent on this level since their responses are simply evolved chemical/biological occurrences that just happened to allow the cell in question to survive the random stimuli of the environment. Furthermore such responses are in essence 100% predictable: a bacteria will respond a specific way to salt, to water, etc. Even very simple organisms such as sea sponges do qualify for this level because there is communication between different cells and thus a rudimentary nervous system that collects and communicates information.

Level 2: Something that collects and then considers the collected stimuli and chooses, on whatever basic level, a response to that stimuli. So, basically, something that qualifies as a brain. This is the component that allows us to separate "reflexes" from more complex behaviors. Your aforementioned Octopuses have a brain, but a jelly fish or a sea sponge does not. Insects also qualify for this level.

Level 3: A brain that is sufficiently complex to permit something resembling a theory of mind. This brain is sufficiently complex that it collects stimuli both from the environment and can formulate responses that communicate information and therefore seek to effect the actions of other organisms. This brain can also formulate and make choices that might be risky for that individual organism but might benefit the group as a whole such as birds communicating to each other through song, pack animals such as dogs and wolves helping members of the pack even at the risk of their own lives and so on. Basically all mammals qualify for this level. Homo erectus, one of our hominid ancestors was likely here as well.

Level 4: A brain sufficiently complex to perceive and create abstract information for purposes ranging from survival to abstract goals and actions that do not even have a long term survival purpose. This brain is capable of perceiving information about the environment and formulating very long term plans such domesticating plants and animals to help the organism survive as a starting point but it can also purposefully creates things like art and can make choices that risk not just itself but even its immediate "pack" for more abstract concepts such as religion, ideology and so on. Obviously, only humans qualify for this level.

The first thing this taxonomy demonstrates is first that we can meaningfully describe a difference in kind between animal intelligence and human intellegence and even between different types of animal intelligence. I should not that like all taxonomies its an abstract intellectual organization of complex biological reality and there will be complex edge cases, but it allows us to at least generally describe the spectrum of of increasingly complex behaviors we see in animals without reliance on religious/spiritual concepts such as a soul.

The second thing this allows us to do is understand how "AI" does not actually qualify for even the most basic level of intelligence. It does not in any meaningful sense "perceive" information which is the reason why it makes the mistakes it does. All it is, atits heart, is a computer program which assigns a probability to a particular string of values following the previous string of values. My favorite description of "AI" is "spicy autocomplete" and this is accurate: that's all it is. If "AI" is in any sense intelligent that so is your cell phone's autocomplete feature and I would argue that at that point the word "intellgence" has been stretched to the point is ceases to have any meaningful value as a descriptor of what is occurring.

Lastly, I feel it's important that while AI does not qualify for any of the levels of intelligence it is being sold and used as though it qualified for the fourth level. It's use is being packaged by humans for the abstract concept of "profit" based on false premises, and its being sold for the abstract concept of "profit" despite the fact that its current use is almost wholly harmful.

I don't think anyone would argue with the idea that humans are far more capable than any current AI, but I'm not sure what the point is in arguing that there is a fundamental difference in kind between human intelligence and artificial intelligence (and animal intelligence, for that matter). I mean, unless you believe in an actual non-material soul, which I don't. In any case... cephalopod brains evolved wholly independently of mammalian brains, their structure is very different, but people have no problem looking at the behavior of an octopus and saying "that's intelligence". Not as intelligent as people, obviously, but it's an example of intelligence. We can't know what's going on inside the octopus's head (actually, let's not anthropomorphize—what's going on in its tentacles), but we can look at the behavior and call it a type of intelligence. And we can look at the behavior of an insect, or a simpler mollusc like a slug, and identify it as having a type of intelligence too, although maybe again a more rudimentary one.

Well, yes, something like GPT4 works in a very different way from a human mind. And it's not nearly as capable as a human. And, indeed, it may look less capable than it is, because people don't understand it—people see it "stating" falsehoods and they forget that it was not design to know truth from falsehood, that's not something its training entailed; it is a predictive text machine. But I think you can look at what it does, look at its fantastic ability to mimic human speech, and say easily "that's a type of intelligence", if your mind is open enough already to say the same about bugs and slugs. Which it should be; to say anything less is biologically ill-informed.

When an octopus mimics a piece of coral, you don't conclude that the octopus is stupid because it is not as good at filter feeding as the coral. You recognize that, although it is mimicking a coral it is not a coral, and it should not be judged on the standards of a coral. You should think the same way about GPT4 mimicking a human.

[piowasthere]

but now the important question

does solar have a hip dip

please please please please please please please please

idk, i tried asking, but he just looked at me like this

guess there goes the chance of him taking the hoodie off his hips 🤷‍♂️

[lay-z]

I'm sad for some reason I think I'm getting close to getting my period, so... I'm yearning for a fictional man and I'm hurting, because I can't have him 🥺❤️‍🩹 Also, I'd like to explore some slow burn type of romance and keep Simon's past traumas in mind! Pairing: civvie!F!Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley Warnings/Info: Reader is demisexual; cussing; tw: mental issues; insecurities; slow burn; awkwardness; humor Word count: 3.5k The one where two broken people connect.

You've already decided that you've given up on finding, not love, but companionship.

You've given up on love a long time ago, long before you'd reached your late 20s.

An old, creative and gentle soul, weighted down and scarred by childhood bullying, constant criticism by your family, societies bloody beauty standards and things you suffer from which you didn't even know how to describe let alone name in your youth.

Demisexuality? Body dysmorphia? Eating disorders? Anxiety? Insecurities, so deeply rooted, that they border on self-hatred?

And no, you never went to therapy – no. Gods, no, because if you go to therapy, you're mental, right? And how can your poor mother tell the rest of the family that you're mentally unstable? That something is wrong with her little, darling daughter? Hm?

So, no therapy, because your hyper-independence got your back. You're used to that, learned it in your younger years; always there for others, but no one ever stepped up for you, except yourself. Yet you're cursed to be an empath, so you never stopped caring for others, even if it killed you inside.

Giving. Giving. Giving. Tearing yourself apart to please and give up the love that brimmed in your kind heart. Never receiving anything good and soft, like some cheap whore, until there was little left of love to give.

Now you've turned cynical, cold, and lonely – or that's what you keep telling yourself to keep the façade up. Hiding behind humour and feigned nonchalance, because you're an entertainer. Always have been. You would've been an amazing actress, but when you were younger, your mother told you that you could never be the love interest, so why bother go to acting school and actually do something you enjoy?

You rarely wallow in self-pity anymore; only occasionally, right before you get your period and your hormones make you feel sad and depressed, make you break and hate yourself. Quiet and in secrecy, in the safety of your dark bedroom, or in front of the bathroom mirror – just to play out a sad scene in your delusional mind. Probably with a fictional man, someone who'd never hurt you – in your alternate universe.

Accept. Adapt. Overcome. Repeat.

It isn't ideal, but you've found coping mechanisms that work for you, albeit some unhealthy ones and you've survived so far. Emphasis on survived, not lived.

You're so deep in your thoughts, on the brink of dissociation, that you don't even realize you've been staring – again.

Your eyes flutter briefly, focusing back on the here and now until you realize what or, rather, who you have been staring at like some creep.

Fuck.

It's that man with the skull mask, not a ski mask, but a balaclava – you've googled it the first time you'd seen him around the café. You'd even researched if face coverings like that are illegal in the UK – turns out they're not, unless you refuse to take it off when a police officer orders you to.

He's staring right back at you; dark brown eyes unblinking, skin around the eye holes covered up by some black smudge – combat or war paint, probably. Sitting at the table right across from you by the cafés large windows; incredibly out of place for such a soft and quaint establishment. Nursing a tea, looking menacing and intimidating with his massive physique and black clothing, yet his eyes hold something more than stoicism in them. You know, because you see it yourself when you look into any mirror.

Bottled up emotions, a myriad of them, simmering just below the surface like a dormant volcano, ready to erupt someday.

You narrow your eyes then, force yourself not to tilt your head to the side like a curious puppy would do, because you don't want him to know that you're actually perceiving him this time – and not merely daydreaming and brooding like you usually do. Cursing internally, when you eventually lose this staring competition that you've completely just made up in your mind, because his eyes are too intense and he's obviously immune to social awkwardness, you reach for your lukewarm  matcha latte, taking a small sip as you turn your head away to stare out of the large shop windows, pretending to watch passers-by.

You force yourself to focus on the shitty UK weather outside, resting your chin on the back of your hand, elbow propped up on the cheap table. Rain and wind and colourful leaves grazing the wet pavement as the seasons start changing and autumn begins creeping in. You like autumn, prefer it over summer every year – and your mind begins to drift again, distracted by random strangers outside, grey clouds in the sky and fat raindrops pitter-pattering against the windows.

Meanwhile, his eyes never waver from you, and Simon catches himself wondering, what you might be thinking about now.

Time passes, and you try to keep your routine up – going out for a coffee once or twice every week, so you won't die of loneliness or isolation. At least, the café is nice, the baristas as well, it's not far from your flat and it's usually not that crowded nor busy.

Or so it was during summer.

Now, all people want to do is drink their coffees and teas inside, apparently, since the temperatures have dropped, along with the leaves.

After ordering your matcha latte, you turn around to see that your favourite spot by the window has been occupied in the past six minutes of standing by the counter. If only the lady in front of you had ordered her bloody tea and biscuits a smidge faster, but nah, you're not that lucky.

Groaning internally, you move to the table across from your fave, pulling one of the two plastic chairs out with more force than necessary because you're petty and annoyed. It's loud – not too loud, actually, but louder than it usually is – and you curse yourself for going out. You should've just stayed in this afternoon, curled up on your couch, playing some Baldur's Gate or so.

Some minutes pass after receiving your hot beverage and you've managed to drown out the noises and successfully ignore the sudden hubbub around the café.

That is until you notice a looming presence next to you; aura thick like molasses and prominent like the smell of gasoline, you don't know if you like it or not. It does catch your attention, though, and you turn your head to the left, eye-level with his denim-clad crotch, perhaps a little too close for the acceptable social standards.

Furrowing your brows in both confusion and offense, you have to tilt your head back and lean back in your chair to meet his eyes. How can those eyes be soft and aloof at the same time?

"Uh, hi?" You say then, brows still furrowed; not a greeting but an out for him to excuse himself for getting too close and fuck off again.

"Yer in me seat." He counters bluntly, voice incredibly rough and accented and muffled by the fabric of his mask as he gestures at the table with his gloved hand and holding a small coaster with a steaming cup of tea on top of it in the other one delicately. It looks comical and stupid, yet somehow endearing.

You're dumbfounded for a moment, blinking up at him in disbelief before finding your wit again, nodding your chin at the two chatting women sitting at your favourite table.

"And they're in mine," you say matter of factly, "If we go by that logic." You add dryly, picking up your latte, because the conversation is surely over.

He stays by your side, unmoving like a marble statue, dark eyes flickering somewhat nervously between you and the empty chair across from yours. Simon doesn't know how to properly interact with a civilian anymore; let alone a female civvie, and he ponders for a moment if he should just leave again, have a cuppa at his own flat.

But Simon's therapist had advised him, pleaded with him, to at least try and make a friendly connection with someone outside of his military comfort zone and well, here you are. At least your face is familiar already and you look harmless...safe.

"May I...sit with ye, lass?" He almost grits through his teeth, doing his best to ignore the way his heart beats hard against his ribcage as he waits for your rejection.

You pick up on the vulnerability in his voice, his demeanour, as if asking costs him some courage; truth be told, it would cost you some, too. Perhaps it's the fact that you've become silent acquaintances over the past few weeks; meeting up at this place without even meaning to. Each of you alone, always.

You stop in your movements, lifting the rim of your mug just to your lips before lowering it again, holding his gaze without taking a sip.

Sit with me? You muse to yourself, surveying him up close briefly and for the first time, at least consciously. He shifts on his feet some, heavy black boots – always boots, always layers of dark clothing, always the skull balaclava, no matter the temperature.

However, despite his looks, despite his authoritative and all-consuming aura and your better judgement, you nod once, cursing your intuition and empathy, nudging the empty chair away from the table from beneath it with your foot – a wordless permission, or perhaps an invitation?

And Simon exhales a long breath through his nose, jaw unclenching slightly as he gives a curt nod, sets his tea on the table and takes a seat on the offered chair. Easy.

And that is that.

The next time you're at the café, you breathe a sigh of relief to find it relatively empty for the time, except for some elderly customers and students working in silence on their laptops.

You're delighted to find your favourite table empty again and you order your usual matcha latte with coconut milk before eagerly sinking into the chair at 'your' table with a contented sigh and a good view on the people and life outside the cosy café.

Then your peace is once again disturbed by the soft clink of a tea cup being placed on the table, followed by the empty chair across from you scraping over the old hardwood floor, before he slips into the seat with a quiet huff.

"Your table is free," you tell him immediately, leaning to the side to look past his massive frame at the unoccupied table behind him.

"Aye, I know," he responds gruffly, folding his forearms on the table while he looks outside the window, "Figured we can ah safe space by sitting together." He suggests with a nonchalant shrug, though internally, Simon's stomach is clenching with nerves and anxiety. He despises feeling awkward and being in situations he cannot control.

Yes, it does feel incredibly awkward, but deep down you're too nice to tell him to fuck off, because he hasn't given you a reason to do so. When you were forced to share a table last time, you sat in somewhat comfortable silence, though you'd definitely finished your drink faster than usual back then before uttering a polite goodbye and slipping away.

"I guess so," you mutter in return because he's already sat down anyway.

Silence ensues, but you can't ignore the sudden tension of unasked questions and the pressure of social interactions. Then, it's too quiet in the establishment, and you both suddenly and silently hate it.

"Ye enjoy observin' people?"

His question catches you off guard because he sounds genuinely interested in you answer, and it's unnerving.

"Yeah, you could say that," you answer curtly, crossing your legs at your ankles under the table and leaning back into the cheap chair to feign nonchalance, even though you're currently anything but, "I find it relaxing."

"That's...strange," Simon retorts, quirking an eyebrow behind the safety of his balaclava, because he does that, too, and he never thought you'd blatantly admit that. Is people watching a thing among civvies? Then you shoot him an offended look and he can't help but cringe internally.

"Didn't mean it like that, lass." He assures you in a mumble, eyes flickering down to his steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.

Your first instinct is to mock him for his silly mask, ask him if he's a thug or cosplaying as one or some hooligan, but you bite your tongue, because you know better, and you feel like he could make you regret your sass. Especially if one of those assumptions proofs true.

"And what do you always do around here, hm? Never see you read a book or newspaper, let alone play with your phone," you ask instead, not even hiding the accusatory undertone as you turn your upper body towards the window. You're involuntarily dismissive, because it's been a while since you talked to a stranger like that, let alone a man.

"Same as ye, lass," he grumbles, "Thinkin', observin'...enjoyin' the peace." As if internal peace could ever be achieved in his case.

There's another moment of awkward silence and your mind is racing, riddled with anxiety, though unbeknownst to you, so is his. Simon is so out of his element and yet he forces himself to stay, unless you blatantly tell him to fuck off – which, deep down, he hopes you will.

"You're not some creep are you? 'Cause I swear, I'll clock you if you try anything or follow me home after this," you tell him with an edge to your voice, like you mean it. You're not opposed or afraid of violence. You grew up with older brothers and cousins.

Simon snorts at your threat, genuinely. He's taken off guard by your fierceness and he's absolutely sure you're serious about this, and he hates to know that he's capable of taking you down if he wanted to, even if you'd fight tooth and nail. It makes him feel guilty, makes his gut twist and churn because of those dark thoughts coming up in his brain like some black pest, even though he'd never ever do anything to hurt you.

"'m not," he assures you, eyes flickering over to study your face, your expression. You look tense and standoffish, and he can't help but admire that; to know that you're not afraid, that you can take care of yourself if push comes to shove.

"Name's Simon." He offers it like an oblation, a small yet important piece of himself, putting his given name and some trust into the hands of a stranger, and asking nothing in return.

You're once again dumbfounded and yet your mistrust and suspicious nature get triggered; squinting your eyes as him, your heart and brain are in utter turmoil.

"Didn't ask," you eventually retort coolly, like a proper arsehole, even though, deep down, it hurts yourself, hurts you to be rude like that, especially as you see something flicker in his dark eyes. Surprise? Hurt? Anger? You can't tell, but he leans back in his seat, gives a curt nod, accepting your snappish response just like that, and you think he'll leave, but he stays seated.

"I'm...sorry," you utter suddenly, fidgeting with the hem of your grey oversized hoodie, "That was...unnecessarily rude." You admit with a deep sigh. But was it, though? He's a stranger, some bloke with a mask, who just randomly decided to sit with you and introduce himself–

"It's fine, lass," he says, pulling you from your spiralling thoughts with his deep gravelly voice, "A reasonable reaction, really."

It is, Simon thinks. He might have questioned you about your thoughts on self-preservation and your survival instinct, if you wouldn't have reacted the way you just did.

He contemplates lifting his mask to finally take as sip of his tea, but like always, it costs him every ounce of courage to do so while you're looking at him so shamelessly with your alert eyes and that slight frown on your face, and Simon rubs his gloved palms over his thighs below the table to soothe himself as you keep scrutinizing him.

But then you utter your name in return, albeit hesitantly, and his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze, noticing the hint of curiosity in your eyes.

You don't see him, Simon, for several weeks after that and after some contemplation, you decide that he must've found a new café to hang out at or perhaps he got arrested eventually. You don't care either way.

But then, why do your eyes keep flickering around the shop whenever you drink your matcha latte? Why do you stare at the empty chair at his 'favourite table'? Why do you keep wondering what happened to him?

You don't want to accept it, don't want to acknowledge it, but deep down, you actually enjoyed having a proper chat with him the last time you saw him. When he so randomly decide to sit with you and introduce himself. You swiftly fix the slight purse of your lips as your mind keeps pondering about this stranger and you force yourself to enjoy your hot beverage until you can get back home and feel accomplished for actually having spent time outside your comfort zones, namely your flat and workspace.

But it's lonely. Always lonely.

In those few moments you'd shared with Simon, despite the awkwardness and that uncomfortable feeling of being perceived by someone, you'd realized that something has been missing in your life. Perhaps you should give your parents and siblings a call back; perhaps you should answer all those ignored messages in your phone; messages that have become less and less, because the people closest to you will eventually stop reaching out. You know that spiel already, yet you're having so much trouble actually pulling yourself out of this hole of self-isolation, a hole that's become suffocating, draining the colour from your life while you keep telling yourself that you're fine, that you want it this way.

"Lass?"

His voice cuts through your overthinking mind like a hot knife through butter and your eyes immediately find his gaze, that unwavering, piercing stare of his.

"Simon," you say in return, more like a greeting if it wouldn't be for the shocked pitch lacing your voice. You can faintly see his tired eyes crinkle slightly as he rests one gloved hand on the backrest of the empty chair across from you and you wonder if he's smiling behind his mask.

"Remember me name, aye?" He asks gruffly, almost playfully, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his chapped lips beneath his mask as he pulls out the chair, waiting for your permission.

"Tsk. Obviously," you answer with a scoff and an eye roll before giving him a short nod. "No tea?" You remark as he sits down without it, raising an eyebrow as you sip on your own drink.

"Err, no. Not stayin' for one," he answers, shaking his head, "Was jus' in the area," he lies, "Figured I could drop by and say 'ello." He adds with a shrug, feeling utterly stupid now, because Simon definitely was not in the area.

He came home from a deployment last night and wanted to check on you for some reason, see if you're still coming here, see if you’re doing alright – but of course, you are.

"Mhm," you hum affirmingly, though more suspicious than ever as you survey him. You want to spit out Why?,  the question burning on the tip of your tongue, but you’re somehow too distracted by his overall appearance.

The paint around his eyes has faded, as if rubbed and smudged too many times. He smells an awful lot of tobacco and something else you can't quite pinpoint. Even in his usual attire of some type of black jacket or hoodie, jeans, boots and his balaclava, he looks terribly dishevelled and messy.

"Where have you been?" You find yourself asking before you can stop your mouth from moving. "If you don't mind me asking." You add casually, for good measure.

“Deployed.” Simon answers offhandedly, sounding colder than he intended to, and you do pick up on the shift in attitude; he doesn’t want to elaborate.

“Okay,” you retort with a nod, though your curiosity is sparked, and you click your tongue, pondering, before you confuse him as you let out a little snort.

Of course, he's a fucking soldier, you muse to yourself, should've figured that out myself.

You can practically see him raise his eyebrows in confusion, noticing how the fabric of his bloody mask shifts slightly.

“Ye laughin’ at me for servin’ me country?” He asks and desperately hopes that you pick up on the teasing tone in his voice, though it’s still hoarse from barking orders at his men for days on end.

“No,” you answer uncharacteristically soft, flashing him a rare genuine and sheepish smile, “I always wanted to join the military myself.”

Simon doesn’t know if it’s the smile you shoot him, catching him off guard, because he’s never seen that expression on your face before, let alone that sudden twinkle in your eyes as you admit that you’ve thought about enlisting in your past, but he suddenly feels even more intrigued by you; this secluded, lovely civilian in front of him, and he finds himself asking then,

“Why didn’t ye enlist?”

Perhaps he should get that tea after all.

Part 2 ?

[magicalgirlmindcrank]

hey my gf wants me to get into HDG. what works would you recommend starting with?

Well recommendations depend a lot on the individual, like I wouldn't toss Wellness Check and Independence is Easy to the same person. How comfortable are you with non-con? How hard do you like the sci-fi? Do you want a character that's a bad person and gets broken into a soft pet, or someone softer being ensared by an affini's mechanizations?

Some recs, a brief synopsis, and their strong and weak points:

Wellness Check - NEET Shut-in hacker girl who's kind of just abrasive gets domesticated. Lots of memory play type stuff, digitization, and overall v cute. Very Ace in it's kink.

Independence is Easy - Independent Terran with only some maladaptive traits gets absolutely manipulated and unraveled into non-personhood. (A form of) Doll kink, lots of sex, kink, and good if you like stuff on the harsher side.

The Original - Hard to beat this in a lotta aspects. It's got the setting typical feral breaking, still one of the best contract scenes in the entire setting, and while it's level of non-con isn't as typical, it establishes what you can expect well. Theres a few chapters on Read Only Mind past the rewrite on AO3 if u want.

Divaricated - This was the most popular work in the setting for a long, long time, and for good reason. Outside of maybe Abscission, no fic established as much of the setting as Divaricated did. Softer on the feral breaking, and more focuses on domestication being something thats inevitable, a natural function of of an Affini and a Xenosophont being exposed to eah other. Also perhaps the most sci-fi leaning fic in the setting. The only real downside it's also crazy long, the second longest in the setting. Ace in it's Kink.

Cross-Pollination - The most above board consent wise fic on this list, this is about an actor and a former war hero playing fake pets for propaganda, when things get... more involved. Good length, but not long, very sweet, and a personal favorite.

One Analysts Opinion - Havent actually read this one, but it's lauded as one of the best newer fics for introducing readers to the setting, and we've seen it compared to Cross-Pollination, premise-wise. It details the actual fall of the Accord more than any other fic out there, and has, from what I understand, very excellent kink to boot.

And I'm legally obligated to mention Dog of War - While we can't fully say this is the best intro around simply due it being the longest fic in the entire setting, it is also the most popular. It doesn't really front load a lot of setting info on the reader all at once, but it does present them. We've been told that it's on the softer side non-con wise, but IDK about that. There's a good amount of straight up non-con, and a lot of manipulation. Primarily, this one is about a nervous youngbloom learning to be an Affini, and a living weapon learning to be human.

Of course, if you have anything for us to base recommendations on, we can offer an entirely different slate of fics. You can honestly click on anything on the first like 3 pages sorted by Kudos and find something excellent, and there's plenty of gems all throughout the tag.

[thewertsearch]

Oh, it's just Tinkerbull writing MEOW.

Unlike Rose's lavender cipher, Tavros isn't authoring this sequence in his signature color. Instead, his code is Doc Scratch white - a bad omen, if I ever saw one.

AA: an incomplete fragment consisting of four symbols AA: comprising the first word of a binary refrain

A binary refrain, implying the existence of a TOCK Player. Does each code constitute half of MEOW, or has Doc Scratch's genome been spliced with something else entirely?

AA: a pair of sounds emerging from the belly of a fabled tyrants menace

That would be the crocodile from Peter Pupa Pan.

Come to think of it, The story of Hook's crocodile draws some possibly-unintentional parallels to Homestuck's current arc. In the movie, it constantly circled Hook like a buzzard, the ominous ticking in its belly serving as a constant reminder that he was living on borrowed time.

AA: but you authored only one sound of the pair AA: i would write the other

Breath and Time, T1ck and T0ck.

What have you got cooking, Team Charge?

AA: completing the phrase of legend AA: the persisting sounds said to accompany the ultimate demise of the tyrant less an arm and an eye

These legendary injuries again. Just like in the original story, it seems that Pupa’s Hook also dies to the ticking of a clock.

In the context of the comic, this might actually be a prophecy about the death one of our Hook cosplayers – namely, Slick, Jack and Vriska. Perhaps the real reason these injuries are so common is to ensure we can't tell who this prophecy's actually about. Tyrant currently suits Jack best, but a lot can happen in four thousand pages.

AA: but even these eight characters AA: the scrawlings of charge AA: were still but half the code

Charge provides half the code, and Scourge undoubtedly provides the other. The nascent Doc Scratch is composed of four sequences, supplied by the progenitors of this group's bloodiest conflict.

It seems this code was implanted in three Prospit dreamers, and only one Derse dreamer. Sgurb's mechanics are almost universally balanced by moon, so I find this a little odd.

Immediately after the cueball incident, Vriska subconsciously authors break.

What does Terezi get, then? R3P41R?

‘BR8K H34DS.’

Team Scourge is the story of a rigged coin, and a broken 8-ball.

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[mandalhoerian]

lamb to the slaughter | leon kennedy x reader

read part 1: moth to a flame pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader summary: ❛ You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince. ❜ It's as easy as that three word sentence for Leon to undo a month of moving on from him right after he comes back from Spain. Easy as surrendering to sleep. Eagerness for his uninhibited love makes you forget he isn't one to open up like that in the first place, you should have known the moment he showed up on your doorstep on his own volition that he wasn't your Leon. He'd only come back to spirit you away. Yet, each man kills the thing he loves, as a famous poet would say. But what about when the beloved lets herself be led to the killing? word count: Almost 25K (im sorry) warnings: DARKFIC, proceed with caution. porn with plot, switch leon, yandere leon (kinda? he's infected/plaga leon), lots of smut (face sitting, dry humping, couch sex, rough sex, mirror watching kinda its a window, chained leon, blowjob, tail riding, kinda bondage with chains, creampies, no protection dont be like this kids), jealousy, angst, things go to shit, abduction, leon infects you, protectiveness, confinement, psychic connection through plagas, corruption, consensual arousal-inducing venom. you got the bad ending. lmao dont look at me. we are not seeing the pearly gates notes: 🐑 i say bad ending for a reason, you can accept this as a sequel to moth to a flame or just ignore it! 🐑 leon's appearance here is inspired by the red eyes mod + the mechanic of his superior species is built on what we saw with krauser and all the plaga leon fanart i've seen. though he only lets his tail out and nothing else. 🐑 the pressure of leon's characterization got too much so i threw it all out of the window. now everyone can be equally upset. thank you for all the love, i hope you enjoy this!

🌀 read on ao3!

Leon comes back from Spain a bit different. 

Different is the specifically chosen word here because you’re not accustomed to seeing him like this. It might be you who’s the problem here, but right off the bat something’s out of place to you.

A pattern has been broken.

No contact with him for nearly a month and he appears on your doorstep one night with a dreamy smile on his face you could only imagine a younger, more carefree version of Leon could afford as if all the weight of this world has been lifted off his shoulders, and as if he isn’t here to pick up whatever he’s left behind after your break-up. 

You’re more flabbergasted than anything. He’s absolutely glowing. Healthy. His black compression shirt leaves little to the imagination underneath that leather jacket, and the tight jeans hug his legs in just the right places, your nose picking up the whiff of some rich cologne that would have you normally salivating over him had it not been for the timing. 

A delivery to home directly from your late night daydreams, tempting as a mirage in the middle of a desert, as he intends to be — you’re acutely aware why in the hell he’s dolled himself up at night knowing you’d be either reviewing some documents for work or getting ready for bed, all in your humble, homely peasant outfit. 

It doesn’t feel good knowing what might be the reason. Feels even worse sensing something’s up. 

The thing is… When Leon decides he’s done with ghosting you after the eventful business trips that have him dropping off the face of the earth, it’s almost always in bad shape. It’s rare that he breaks a bone or two, but purple, yellow and green are his colors, along with the sunken, red, and sleep-deprived, exhausted eyes. He comes back to you like a cat seeking refuge from the storm outside, for a safe place to get some rest where he can switch off the survival mode. And you’ve learned to prepare for these rainy days he tends to make his return on. 

This man standing in front of you with take-out dangling from his hand, relaxed and confident with light in his brilliant blues, perfectly silky hair, and a well-rested, handsome face that lacks all the gloom? You almost don’t recognize him. His soft and exuberant voice as he greets you, “Hey,” might as well belong to a stranger. “I look that bad? Haven’t seen you make that face in a while.”

“No,” you refuse automatically, squinting your eyes and trying to wipe the sleep off via rubbing, shaking the initial shock and the whiplash off, your hand tightens on the side of the door. The more entertaining quips have escaped you, such as: ‘More like, haven’t seen you in a while, and that, second.’ But of course your woozy first instinct is to relieve him, and rooting for how Leon can’t look bad even on the worst of days, but that’s irrelevant now, isn’t it? “Sorry, I’m a bit loopy.”

“Ah, shit.” He raises his wrist and shakes it so the sleeve of his jacket would pull back to reveal his watch. “I didn’t realize it was this late. God I am so sorry—”

“No, it’s fine—”

“I bring offerings for your time, if it’s any consolation.” He looks hopeful. God, when has he last been this youthful? It’s blinding. “Have dinner with me?”

You would have jumped at the offer one month ago and done your best to keep him around as long as possible, especially when he’s the best you’ve seen him in a long while — but he’s supposed to be a stranger to you now, an ex. You have tried to move on already, it’s such a betrayal to your overworked heart that the desire to bask in his presence is still strong as ever. 

“Hey, um.” Ever so slightly hiding behind the frame of the door, you watch as his face falls, your hesitance telling everything you can’t put into words out loud. “It’s too late for dinner.”

It comes out weird from your mouth, maybe you should have worded it differently — it feels like it’s not dinner you’re talking about, and him staring with a wrinkled line between his eyebrows as if he’s trying to control his countenance isn’t helping. 

“Should seriously focus on trying to break old habits,” he chuckles hesitantly, a voice crack towards the end of the sentence, and you have to break eye contact. “I forget my normal isn’t normal sometimes. I’m sorry.” 

You fold. 

Not because it’s what you always do, but to get whatever he wants out of the way and get him out of your life as abruptly as he decided to randomly come back today. You want this to be over already. “I’m making an exception for tonight, okay? You can’t come here like this anymore, Leon. Please understand.”

Leon's hopeful expectation slowly fades, replaced by a disappointed understanding. His eyes, once filled with a vibrant light, now dim slightly, and the confident aura that surrounded him wavers for a moment. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself, before nodding slowly.

"I see," he says, carrying a tinge of sadness, you kick yourself inwardly for wanting to reach out and comfort him. "I didn't mean to intrude. I just... I wanted to see you again… To—to explain, I mean."

His words catch your attention, curiosity sparking a small candle light within you. Despite the whirlwind of emotions and confusion, you find yourself opening the door wider, gesturing for him to step inside.The way he visibly relaxes, shoulders deflating and the flash of an involuntary relieved, tiny smile on his face before he follows you inside makes your chest contract in endearment. 

This is a grown man you decided to let go. This grown man walked out on you. This grown man made you lose years of your life. This grown man doesn’t need your protection, you shouldn’t want to hide him in your ribcage, you’d be taking in a fish instead of a bird. 

The aroma of the take-out food fills the room, teasing your senses and reminding you of all the shared meals and late-night conversations you used to have. Memories flood your mind, threatening to break down the walls you had carefully built to protect yourself.

God, it hurts. He brought your favorite that he doesn’t like all that much. 

You go ahead and settle at the dining table, the take-out boxes placed between you and where he usually sits — where he used to sit whenever he came over, your base instinct embarrasses you. And as you open the containers, you look back to see what’s taking him so long or if he’s left to wash his hands, and notice that he’s just standing there in the hall, engulfed by the shadows, looking alert in the direction of the living room. You can’t see his face. 

“Is everything alright?” you ask, weirded out by how tense he is suddenly. 

He turns to you, and the kitchen light reflects strongly in contrast from his eyes precisely because he stands in the dark, like some cat. “It… smells.”

“What?” You walk over to him, mortified, trying to pick up what he’s talking about. “Is it the floor cleaner? I changed it to lavender recently. What, you don’t like it?”

“No, you… You—” He takes a few slow steps away from you as if you said something hurtful to him, awe and betrayal taking over his features. 

“Leon,” you try to reach out, confused. 

He’s looking you up and down, the weird shock he went through transitioning into perturbance. “Who is it?”

“What are you talking about—?”

“There is someone else?” He points towards the living with his chin, a look of devastation twisting his forlorn features, arms basically flattened to his side. “You brought them here and— and—”

An icy wave of chills wash over your body. “How do you know that?”

“Because it smells.” He brings a hand up and puts it on his middle as if it’s hurting, alternating between rubbing his nose and down to his chest again, like he doesn’t know what to do with his body. “Shit.”

Leon's reaction takes you aback, his sudden accusations leaving you bewildered. This is the most ridiculous thing you ever heard, what is he, an animal?  “Smells? You smelled him?”

You can’t fathom how he could have possibly known about someone else in your life, let alone the details of their presence in your home.

He gestures with his hand and slaps it back to his side, pressing his lips into a thin line before speaking. “Wonderful.” 

Never in a million years would you have expected to see Leon get bothered by another person in your life. He just isn’t the type to react, this has happened before because of course you tried him, to see if he’d get jealous the way you did — he didn’t, something about you having the right to be with anyone you want and that he can’t stop you. This was early into your ‘arrangement’ — where the line was blurred between hanging out and sleeping together, and you were naive enough to bring the scattered, floating letters between him and you together to define the word. 

This right here has to be about something else, bitterness maybe, that you could move on from him. It gets you worked up, blood slowly heating up. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. We’re not anything, Leon. Not anymore.”

Leon's gaze hardens, and for a moment, it seems like the fragility of hurt and anger flashes and trickles in. He sharply inhales, his chest rising and falling as he tries to steady himself. "I know we're not anything." He flexes his jaw, turning his face to the side in self-inflicted disappointment. "And I’m the reason, that’s on me. But damn, it’s only been a month and I’ve been miserable while you—"

You take a step closer, looking to find the middle ground in all of this. "While I’m just going about my life.” Confusion swirls in your mind as you struggle to comprehend Leon's reaction.You hadn't anticipated such a visceral response from him. You don’t know why the next second you’re trying to smooth things over to spare him, there’s no need. But you still are doing it anyway. “And he and I are friends—"

He tilts his head, something entirely cold and hostile under unreactive stoicism squares his shoulders, it’s that perpetually uninviting face of his that scares everybody off. His nostrils flare, but his voice is low and smooth. “Friends that fuck on the couch?”

“How did you—” It’s the cold chills again. “This is getting weird. How can you know that?”

Leon's eyes narrow, and the tension in the room becomes almost palpable, your nervousness almost makes it like the blue of his irises are brighter. He drops to a low, dangerous tone, but he isn’t doing anything to be threatening, so why?—. “It’s dangerous, you know? Letting unknown guys into your home. Who knows what they have in mind? What they want to do to you?”

“Sex, Leon,” you bite back, a bull to red into your apprehension, thinking why in the hell should you be intimidated when he’s being the weird one, you still have to hear about how he knows about your relations. “We had sex. Don’t be dramatic.” 

He laughs in a way you’ve never seen before, and suddenly it’s making sense why you felt like something was wrong when you opened the door to him. Maybe he’s drunk on something different today and it’s influencing him. Different liquors have different attitudes. 

“I, on the other hand, have to still hear about how you know. Have you been spying on me?”

“I apparently should have.” 

“Excuse me?” You shake your head, trying to rationalize the situation where he is practically lacking, lost in his own head, his usual personality is currently unavailable to the call for reasons unbeknownst to you. He is a calm guy. Reasonable. You don’t get where this immaturity is coming from, anger-related or not. “Leon, you can’t just go ahead and talk lightly of invading my privacy! I don’t want to joke around right now!”

You should send him away to talk later, or both of your hearts are going to break ugly tonight.

Leon's gaze doesn't waver, his eyes narrowing with a mix of concealed pain and anger. "No, I wasn't spying on you," he retorts sharply, giving you the information you want to know. "But it's hard to miss when the person you care about moves on so quickly."

So he must have seen something? He came back from Spain earlier than you thought? Was this visit about interrogating you all along? 

You hate the way your hands warm up immediately with his admittance to caring about you, even though he will never outright say that he likes you or anything more. It’s unbelievable that’s what your heart decided to pick up on instead of literally anything else right now. 

The hall feels suffocating. It's as if the air itself has turned tar-thick. You take a step back, and escape into the kitchen, trying to gather your thoughts amidst the rising storm of confusion.

“I thought you wanted this. Why would me moving forward be a problem?”

“Because I can’t.” 

You want to yell at him. Why should that be your problem? He wanted this. You prepared yourself because he was perpetually with a suitcase in his hand, so much so you can’t imagine his visage otherwise.

Be calm about this. You’re a grown adult. 

"I don’t understand.” Hands grabbing at the handles of a chair, you spare a glance at him over your shoulder. "I thought we would give each other space, go our own ways."

A bitter laugh escapes Leon's lips, devoid of any humor. "Space? That's just another word for running away, isn't it? And haven’t you immediately found someone else to run towards? That’s how important I was to you, huh?"

The accusation stings, and you struggle to find the right words to defend yourself, his honesty coercing the affection out of you within the ice of self-preservation. "Leon, it's not like that. I’m trying to navigate my life, this isn’t me trying to get back at you or hurt you."

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration carved into every line of his face. "Well, congratulations. You succeeded anyway."

This is getting ridiculous. You don’t know how to handle the situation because he never put you in one like it in the first place. 

How are you the guilty one? How is the blame on you, now? Why? Being with him was slow torture, loving him was a doomed gambit, and now he has the gall to make you into the bad guy — for what, prioritizing yourself for once? 

The silence hangs heavily between you, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city outside. It feels as though the foundations of your bond are crumbling beneath the weight of unresolved emotions, the connection you once shared now seems fragile, teetering on the edge of irreparable damage that you’re not sure you want to let go even though it really is the best solution to let it be. You remember how you told him that break-ups don’t always have to end in fights, it seems how the afterward would be like hasn’t crossed your mind at all. 

“Ironic of you to say that,” you mumble, turning away from him with a disbelieving smile, hands on your hips. 

“What?”

“I said,” you turn around, cold anger freezing your features in a silent mask. “That’s rich coming from you. Running away, I mean. All this time I’ve known you, you’ve run away from me—” With each example you give, you take one slow step towards him. “From intimacy, from a deeper connection. I know you couldn’t help but be away for your job and that’s not the issue here.” You stop right in front of him, seething, looking up, doing your best to keep your shit together as you shake a finger at him. “But you don’t have the right to accuse me of running away.” 

He just stands there like a statue. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. As if this means nothing at all to him, forever the unaffected, desensitized man that he is. You have to flatten your lips to keep them from quivering.

“I’ve had to chase you like some race horse while you were sitting right next to me,” you jab that finger into his chest, not to get something out of him, but because the floodgates were finally open. “I have betted on losing dogs this entire relationship.” Another jab. “I let you treat me like a doormat.” Jab. “I gave you the patience and understanding some mothers wouldn’t give to their children—” And it finally ends with a slap with the back of your hand on his wall of a chest. “Because god smite me I made the mistake of falling in love—” A fucking joyful, pretty sparkle in his eyes that has his eyebrows lifting. It bloods your boil like nothing else. “—-and all of this for you to come into my home and pick a fight over who I fuck after breaking up with me?” You push him — or, rather, try to push him further back into the hall, and when it doesn’t work, raise your arm to point to the door. “Get out.”

Leon's jaw tightens as he stares at you and you see it jump, his gaze piercing through you, ablaze. He tries to grab you by the elbows but you shake him off. “Sweet girl, I—”

The nickname has you on the edge of crumbling and you ricochet back as if burned. “No, nuh-uh,” you rapidly shake your head and one hand at him, eyes burning, deliberately looking at his shoulder not to make eye contact. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. No. Just go. Get out of my house.”

The room plummets into an agonizing quietness filled by the heavy breathing you’re doing your best to stop from shaking as Leon stands there, his hand still lingering, frozen in a futile attempt to reach out to you standing in the light of the kitchen, and him in the shadows. The absoluteness of your words is the hammer of a judge about to fall on his head, sharpened by your anger and the shattered remnants of your flightless hopes. 

You never wanted this. It had ended so peacefully, why was he back as a vengeful ghost bringing the worst out of you — why now? Why?

Finally, Leon lowers his hand, his gaze falling to the floor. There's a momentary lowering of his guard that flickers across his face, a crack in the armor he usually wears. "I know I messed up, and I've been running away. But it's not because I don't care, it's because... I'm — I couldn’t give you anything. Not anything you deserved. Not everything I wanted. And I couldn’t face any of that without having to confront I needed to get out of your life," he says softly, caked with remorse and self-hatred. “Like being somewhere between life and death, I didn’t know what to do, how to move forward.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you feel your anger momentarily waver, you’ve seen the pain in his eyes before, the demons that haunt him from his past — you understand, you understand. In every reality possible, you’d understand, even when you don’t know. “I know, Leon.” The acknowledgment leaves you pained, but this time, don’t give anything in consolation, don’t justify the harmful outcomes of his escapism just so he wouldn’t be scared and pull himself back. Yes, you know. But that’s it. It has to be enough.  

“I want you to also know — I’m not that man anymore.” He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out tentatively, but you flinch away, unwilling to let him touch you, and he stands right at the threshold of shadows bleeding away into the light streaming from the room behind you. 

"Are you seriously about to tell me you changed, Leon? Really? No, I know you," you assert, your voice tinged with skepticism and a lick of frustration. Folding your arms across your chest, you wait for his response, your gaze fixed on him, brows furrowing but a slight smile souring your lips. “But I’ll humor you. Tell me, what could have possibly happened in such a short amount of time, because I’m not having it if it’s about us separating—” It’s mean, the way you outright grin at him, one small part of you regrets laughing at his face when he’s declaring he’s changed, but you can’t stop the poison from wanting to sink into his skin, from wanting to see yourself affecting him. “You, my late blooming pupa, had two whole years to break out of your cocoon. Don’t even waste your breath.”

Leon meets you head on, unfazed by your demeanor, it makes you feel like a child when you were in the right, brings sense to you that this was Leon you were trying to hurt, you knew he wouldn’t give you excuses some man after some piece of ass would — the hurt is bringing the girl out of you that wants to maim as she has been maimed, and he just stands there and takes it as if he wants to show you he’s had way worse before. It isn’t fair.

He takes a moment to steady himself, his hand unconsciously fidgeting with the edge of his jacket as he prepares to explain, raising his hands up and tracing the invisible line of the veins inside his wrist. His body language conveys a distant sense of sincerity. 

"I received a gift that opened my eyes," he confesses, his voice carrying a brooding, yet grateful significance. His eyes momentarily drift, as if lost in memories of what transpired. His fingers continue to rub along the veins, he’s recalling something, it’s not a self-soothing nervous habit that betrays his inner turmoil.

Your skepticism wavers, switched with a curious glimmer. The lamb sees the slaughterhouse and thinks it’s home again. You unfold your arms, inching closer as you invite him to elaborate. 

"It saved me. Gave me a new life. Changed me.” He pauses, looking far, far away again. “It changed everything," Leon states with a sense of conviction. He stands a little taller, his demeanor transformed by the profound impact of this revelation.

Your eyes flit in rapid blinking, captivated by his warm, honest intensity. A welcoming, pleasant surprise lingers on your face as you take in the magnitude of what he's sharing.

"Changed everything?" you question, holding back your wonder and uncertainty in fear of disappointment. Your body involuntarily leans forward, drawn in by where he’s taking this.

"Yeah. For good this time. Because I’m not… bound anymore, I’m not trapped. For the first time in forever, I know what it’s like to be truly free.” 

“Oh…” You begin to speak, but words escape you. He is uninhibited, truly elated, that soft smile on his face doesn’t carry the anxiety of what comes next. This is a first for Leon Kennedy. When you remember you mocked what might have happened to him, it fills you with shame. So, something truly wonderful did happen — could happen. It has to do with his job, that much you know. No wonder he’s insisting things have changed, what he does for a living is what haunts him like a shadow, after all, you couldn’t be more aware of that. “I’m… I’m happy for you, then, Leon. I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re not wrong for doubting me. I did.” He looks down at his arms, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I believed I had changed before, you know — had been changed, whatever you wanna call it... Because I had to," Leon admits with introspection. He pauses, searching for the right words to convey the depth of his experience. 

"Then someone I know told me no, you haven't, you just think you have. And both of those options are worse than each other in retrospect, don't get me wrong,” his voice cracks slightly, revealing the conflict within him. There's a flicker of nostalgia and longing. 

He takes a steadying breath, his eyes locked onto yours, conveying a yearning for understanding. This is the most open he’s been with you, the most you’ve seen of him, you’re hypnotized.

"I envy who I was in 1998, but I don't want to be him. The me one month ago is superior, but he was miserable and fucking blind," Leon confesses, the air around him somehow gravitating towards him, becoming hard to breathe because of how hard he’s frowning. Self-deprecating. And his eyes are on you again, back to the moment. “You wanna know how I know I’m different now? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

He steps forward, into the kitchen, into the light, and shadows dance on his face, and you know what this is — the cat has decided he wants pets, seeking to butt his head into you to initiate contact, and you step backward with the sudden panic sinking in your stomach, but he keeps advancing the more you back off. 

“I’m not afraid anymore,” he rasps, and you make a small sound at the back of your throat. “Not afraid of what I want. Not afraid of wanting. Not afraid of what comes next.”

“Leon—” you interrupt, hands shooting forward, hovering just between you two, feeling his body heat, but terrified of touching him in fear of what might ignite inside you if you do. 

But he catches both your hands, intertwining your fingers and pinning them on two sides of you on the counter the moment your hips hit the lip of it, and you’re immediately steaming underneath your skin, shutting your eyes and turning your face away as his body snuggles in, flush against you. 

“It’s pathetic, the person I used to be—” he breathes, a gentle invitation, a subtle beckoning, though his words are harsh, he’s uttering them so sweetly like it’s a love letter to you, and hot wind from his words licks the side of your face, you can feel the feathery touch of his lips moving a hair’s breadth from your cheek. Your heartbeat is hammering. “He would have bitten his tongue and gone right back home to lick his wounds. Never see you again. He would think it’s what’s best for you, that he’s protecting you this way.”

You swallow, and he chases the motion, head following the movement. His nose caresses the column of your neck, the sigh that escapes his lips echoes the hidden depth of his desires, an unspoken language of pining. 

Your breath catches in your throat as Leon's increasing body heat and tantalizing weight knead and melt you like dough, his words moving you from within, his proximity creating a charged volume that crackles with tension and desire you were fighting so hard to deny. Every fiber of your being is acutely aware of his presence, his warmth pressing against you, and the raw defenselessness he's revealing. 

You missed this. You missed this. You missed this. 

The blood coursing through your veins sings to him, sings for him, and you’re alive again after one month of absolute emptiness, and hate him for doing this to you.

Love him for coming back. 

His grip on your hands tightens, and you can feel the tremor in his touch, mirroring the intensity of his emotions. “Look at me.” 

You know you don’t want to, because if you were to see him right now, what he’s showing, what he’s finally allowing you to see, you wouldn’t know how to look away ever again — don’t want to hurt.

Your own heart races in response, fear and anticipation swirling within you. And he places his knuckles on your chin, gently guiding you to face him, “Don’t look away.”

Your glazed over eyes lock with his in a moment that feels suspended in time.

"Leon..." you murmur with a blend of longing and caution. The weight of unspoken possibilities bursts in color in the air between you, begging for acknowledgment.

He nuzzles closer, his lips grazing your skin with feather-light touches. Your body reacts instinctively, a tremble washing through you as his sigh tickles your neck. It's as if the world around you fades away, leaving only the magnetic pull between you, drawing you inexorably closer. It’s sweetness so intense it’s trying to hold back the bitterness, a muzzle on a hungry dog’s jaw. 

His voice, a whisper against your ear, is temptation, a pied piper. "I don't want to make the same mistakes anymore. I can't keep denying what I truly want, what my heart desires. I can’t lose you. I’m not losing you. Not like this. Please."

The admission electrifies the mood. Time stands still as you process everything, mind foggy, your own desires intertwining with his. It's a precarious precipice you find yourselves on, teetering between the past and the mirage of a future, between fear and the possibility of something more.

“That’s awfully self-centered,” you laugh weakly, not knowing if this is you unable to look away from his lips or unable to bring yourself to meet his gaze. “What if it’s too late? What if that ship has already sailed?”

He nudges your nose with his, bringing his forehead to rest against yours. “You don’t want me? Look into my eyes when you tell me, then.”

In that moment, you make a choice. With an upsurge of courage, you do as he asks, searching his need-darkened patience waiting for you, and you let your guard down. Closing the remaining space between, your lips find his in a tender yet fervent kiss, an unspoken consent that verbalizes everything. 

God, you want this man with all your being. One moment of vulnerability, the confirmation you needed for so long from him was enough to melt all your walls down and conquer without war — the things you let him do to you… 

What was tenderness from you ricochets back from him as desperation, he licks into your mouth like a man starved, and a sigh shudders from Leon, you feel it roll through his entire body. He catches your waist in a tight, unyielding grip, his touch conveying a scared need to hold on to you, as if to make sure you're real, and not a fleeting dream. 

“Fuck, I want you so bad. Never wanted more in my goddamn life.” The pent-up tension and unspoken emotions flow between you, igniting a flame that burns brightly, dispelling any doubts or regrets. “Let me have you. Please, let me have you.”

“Give me half of you, and I’ll give you half of me.” His lips, soft and warm, melded with yours in a passionate embrace, separate with a wet pop. “How’s that for a start?”

Leon's lips attempt to dip into yours again, but he wavers to a panting stop, leaving a lingering, ticklish warmth in their wake. His declaration, filled with a mix of intoxication and determination, spills forth. “‘ll give you all of me,” he mutters, his kisses raining down upon your skin in a frenzy of affection. “—Give you all my love. Want all of yours, too.” 

Love. He said love. 

Someone must have hit you over the head, you feel like it, all breath is knocked out of your lungs.

Leon pulls back only inches when he feels you freeze in his arms, and you see it in his eyes — he doesn’t try to hide it… 

And you realize, you’ve seen the ghost of this look before, the shyer one, the more apprehensive, curt one that was prone to hiding away. The pure adoration on his face makes him look younger, like a whole other man. 

Yet, you ask. It’s all you’ve ever wanted from him, only a passing acknowledgement and you’re a sunflower bending over backwards with the first rays of the sun. "You love me?"

Your stomach does a summersault at feeling his heart miss a beat.  "Y... yes?" he stutters, his voice rising. "Yeah."

All that romantic talk. All the insane things he said, and it’s scary to him when the word is spelled out loud. 

The room goes completely noiseless for a moment, your ribcage might as well explode at this point, and then he lets out an audible sigh, trying to calm himself down. "Is that so strange to you?" he adds. "Is that... something you... don't want?"

He knows what you feel. Known it all along, danced around it for both your sakes. Yet, he’s still asking — exposing that defenseless underbelly of his that reveals he thinks he’s unlovable, not worth it, skeptic that someone could want him in that way. 

His eyes stay locked with yours, but some of his confidence seems to have drained away. All that's left is his look of pure, unbridled infatuation, and the expression of genuine, unwavering honesty.

Your mouth seems to have gone dry, heartbeat picking up, stomach swirling, looking at him like he's out of this world, eyes flying everywhere on his face. No words come to mind for a good while. It’s a slow blooming flower at first, but the beaming of your smile takes him aback. “It’s all I wanted,” you practically exhale. 

He makes a small noise of relief and chokes out a smile. 

As your lips mold together again, a new symphony of sensations unfolds. His kiss has the devotion of held-back hunger, lips seeking and exploring every contour of yours, and you surrender completely. To how he desires you, to the intoxicating pull between you, letting your inhibitions fall away. There is only the searing heat of his touch, the intoxicating sweet taste of his mouth, the mint from an already discarded gum and something uniquely Leon, and the synchronization of your combined breaths.

He moves downwards to take nip at the corner of your mouth and then your chin, a soft hum escapes from deep within you, a testament to the overwhelming pleasure he makes you feel by the littlest of sensualities.

“Leon…” Your hands find their way to his tousled hair and a waft of his shampoo fills your nose, you pull him closer, yearning for more of him. The room fills with the heady scent of desire, starting to pool deep in your stomach drop by drop.

He bites down on your jaw, knowing just how to make it pleasurable and not hurt, and you gasp out loud. “Sweet girl, my sweet girl,” he chants. His lips find their way to the sensitive skin of your neck, trailing a path of feverish kisses and gentle nips. “My sweet girl.” Each sensation sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body, leaving you rasping and yearning for more. 

You arch into him. His hands, now guided by a primal instinct, roam freely over your body. They explore every curve and dip, tracing the contours of your silhouette as if committing every inch to memory. Fingers dance along your spine, leaving a trail of delicious shivers in their wake, before finding solace in the small of your back. 

With a firm yet gentle grip, he lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the counter, the cool surface contrasts with the scorching heat that burns even your palms up as he slots between your legs immediately afterwards. 

With a delicate yet possessive grip, his hands glide along your upper thighs, and a needy warmth trickles down to the crevice he grinds his crotch against, the roughness of his jeans delectable against where you need him. 

Your own hands, emboldened, mirror his actions, eagerly exploring the planes of his chest, nails dragging through the fabric. Overwrought fingers interchange between pulling on his leather jacket and the compression shirt that hugs him so tight it won't stretch. “Get this off."

A low growl reverberates deep in Leon's chest as your hands keep hungrily tugging at his clothing, seeking to peel away the layers that separate you. “In the kitchen? That impatient for me?” 

Ah, he’s trying to embarrass you. Not going to work. “Shut up you hypocrite, you made me come on your thigh in broad daylight, in the kitchen.”

“I don’t remember you complaining,” he grins against your lips, and you feel him grow bigger, straining against the cage of his jeans. “God, you were so fucking hot using me like that. Want to see you more — pleasure yourself more — in front of me. I was about to make a mess of my pants like some teenager, just looking at you and,” he rocks both of you upwards as he babbles, and your hands glide down to cradle his flaming neck, your eyes closing, head spinning with his words. “Your pussy on me, shit. I still feel it.”

“Stop running your mouth and get these off then,” you half-heartedly order, not at all an attempt to hide how turned on you are and practically dying to feel him already. 

He opts to tease, “What the lady wants, the lady gets,” like he’s only doing it because you asked him to, but he willingly complies, his movements hinting to be fueled by a shared hunger and a desire to feel your touch against his bare skin.

The leather jacket slides off his shoulders, revealing the sculpted contours of his chest, accentuated by the tight shirt that clings to him. And in one motion, that’s also off, you don’t even get to watch how his muscles ripple and flex, but your hands are on him right after, groaning at just how high his body temperature is, how wildly his heart is beating underneath your palm.

Your mind short-circuits at something foreign wiggling underneath your palms on his chest and not at the way he’s sucking red flowers on the underside of your thrown back chin. 

Your mind can be playing tricks on you, because you swear you can feel something move underneath his skin that’s not tendons, but before you can dwell on it, his lips, now free from their exploration of your neck, capture yours once more in a searing kiss, filled with a soulful need, an unspoken plea for more, as if he wants to consume every ounce of you. 

“Can’t believe kissing alone feels this good,” he says. “I could just do this all day. Have you on my lap, underneath me, above me, and just.” Your lips are teasingly bitten and tugged on. “Have this to myself.”

As his hands continue their tantalizing journey along your thighs, inching higher, you find yourself surrendering to the exquisite sensations. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, craving more friction as the restlessness grows tighter. 

The hardness of his crotch presses against the heat between your legs, creating a delicious ache that demands to be satisfied. He hisses and sighs into your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t wait. Hold on to me.” 

Leon has his arms locked tight around your legs clamped on his legs the next second, and begins to carry you out the kitchen as you hold onto his shoulders, once again in awe of how easy it is for him to manhandle you like this without at least grunting. 

You think he’s taking you to your bedroom and worrying if you left it too messy, but where you find yourself sprawled on your back instead, is the fucking couch in your living. 

The couch your one night stand had his way with you on. 

You sense a subtle shift in the currents of his shadowy gaze bearing down on you, in the flicker of his eyes, in the tightening of his jaw, that you glimpse a revelation you have not anticipated hidden beneath layers of charm and composure, the shifting of tectonic plates beneath calm waters. It’s uncharted territory. A dormant beast awoken from slumber, his demeanor betrays an unfamiliar greedy intensity that enthralls you. Once soft, subtle adoring nature of his, now holds a smidge of territorial longing, as if he yearned to claim you as his own, to wrap you in the cocoon of his desires, the undercurrent untamed, raw, unfamiliar — both to you and him. You’re no stranger to his intensity, his passion, but this is foreign to you. 

With surprised anticipation, you laugh to hide the nervousness. “I didn’t know you could be jealous.”

“I didn’t know I was capable of it either.” His big palm comes down on your stomach, fingers fanned out, and it drifts up as if he’s just taking you in, with some pressure sinking into you, and your shirt rides up because of it, exposing your stomach all the way to the beginnings of your lower ribs. “Of this much need to monopolize.” 

He hooks a strong arm around your waist and tugs you a bit up to meet his descending mouth to your revealed abdomen, leaving wet kisses and kitten bites all over, teasing by faking you out that he’ll go higher to play with your aching breasts, the tip of his nose touching the bottom curve of one and then going lower. Either way, it’s your loss, heat keeps pooling in the ever-so-hungry pit as your panties become uncomfortable already. He knows how to build you up.  “It’s so ugly in my head right now because of this goddamn smell—and all I think is what I’m looking at right now was seen by another man. Wanna fucking tear into you to get rid of it.”

You quip, “Does he smell that bad?” amused, an attempt to distract yourself from how easy he has you, hands finding his hair again and tugging, eliciting muffled groans from Leon, but the promise of roughness thrills you, the shiver going through you perking your nipples up. You honestly didn’t know he had this much of a sensitive nose up until today, goes to show how little of himself he showed you in the past. 

“He reeks.” He drags his blunt nails through the line of your waist soothing it with feathery, tickling, lazy strokes of faint pleasuring zaps as he bucks into your clothed core, drawing hisses and gasps from both of you. The rough zipper line of his jeans accentuated by his hardness hits just the right spot, you could do this forever — gosh, you have a wet spot in your panties, it feels gross but it’s so warm and it’s so good — 

Oh you love the way his eyes darken, the way his voice deepens ever so slightly when things you never thought would come from him in a million years are sent your way, goosebumps awaken all over you at the, god, you can’t believe you’re saying possessiveness. “We could, you know, get it reupholstered. If you’re paying for it—” 

“I have a better idea,” A devilish smirk curls at the corners of Leon's lips as he lifts his head from your abdomen, eyes glinting. His grip on your waist shifts to the waistband of your pants, teasingly tracing the edge. “How about instead I reclaim it so you won’t be able to sit on it ever again without getting so hot and bothered by what I did to you here. Hm?”

His touch sends invigorating currents coursing through your body, pooling desire between your thighs. You arch your back, wordlessly urging him to continue. and he kneads your hips, digging into your flesh with a delicious pressure. “I’ll make my sweet girl so fucked out stupid she forgets any touch that came before me.” He squeezes once and your cunt just throbs. “Only remembers my name.”

Fucking hell. 

"But if it bothers her, I'll consider reupholstering," he continues, a hint of playfulness there. "She’ll just have to pay in other ways."

A mischievous gleam dances in your eyes as you match his playful banter. "Oh, I have a feeling I can think of a few ways to make it worth your while," you purr, your fingers still tangled in his strands, urging him to bring his lips back to yours.

“That right?” Leon's chuckle reverberates through his chest, vibrating against your skin. He leaves a trail of heat and moisture on your stomach as he climbs up, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss, his tongue exploring the depths of your mouth with a fervor matched only by his growing desire.

His heat washes over you, and your breath hitches as you struggle to control the rising tide of need, and you can’t stop the small whine from escaping when he tempts. “How would she like it?” with hooded eyes, you see him imagining — thinking, living the filth out in his brain and not hiding it from you at all. The thought of being completely consumed by him, of surrendering to his desires, sends a torrent of suspense coursing through your veins.

With deliberate slowness, his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants, grazing over the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen, and you nod fervently, wanting Leon to stop with the leisurely approach and just fucking throw you around or bury his fingers into your pussy already — “Use your words sweet girl.” He chuckles when he sees the delicately restrained agitation of yours, his touch is both gentle and possessive, his fingertips tracing maddening circles that dangle you over promised pleasure.

His piercing stare ensnares you, a captivating force that renders you powerless. His inquiry lingers, emphasized by his almost restlessly eager fingers massaging your skin, akin to a tantalizing vow of sensual delight. In this very instant, a revelation dawns upon you—Leon's unchained greed does not arise from insecurity alone; rather, they stem from an unquenchable thirst to know you’re his, to conquer every fragment of your being and eliminate any shadow of uncertainty.

In a flurry of emotions, your words spill forth, infused with a potent blend of yearning and submission. “Take me, I want you to take me. Wanna feel only you…” Succumbing to the irresistible yearning surging through your veins, you surrender yourself to the overwhelming craving that courses within you. “Any way you want.”

His jaw falls open slightly in shock, like the shape of language has left him, hold stilling around you in an iron grip — the way his cheekbones get slightly pinked gets you bucking up to him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smile, extending your arms at him like you’re asking for a hug. “Make me forget however you like.”

His chest expands with the big breath he sucks in, a guttural growl escaping his throat, a primal sound that makes him feel almost inhuman with another trick of the light that makes his veins appear darker, dancing, almost, as he pulls you up, leaves you dizzy with how quick he reverses your positions, it’s his back on the plush cushions now, one knee bent a little bit and you on top of him, straddling his lap. He’s looking up at you, and you flash to how you had him exactly that way before he left for Spain.

“Sit on my face.”

You blink a couple times. “What?”

His fingers catch the band of your pants and underwear. “I want you to ride my face.” The small grin that breaks out on his face after licking his lips is downright sinful. “Wanna be fucking suffocated by you.”

“Will you be alright—”

“It’s nothing to me,” The persuasion is nonchalant, like he has experience being waterboarded and it’s something trivial. “I said I’d make you remember me whenever you sit on this couch, didn’t I?” 

His request is bold, ramming the boundaries of your comfort zone, there’s the fear of crushing him and there’s the embarrassment of how he’d receive your weight, yet overcome by the part of you that craves to fulfill his desires, overtaken by how he always wants to give pleasure and not take it. 

You slowly rise from his lap, and he momentarily releases you from his hold. Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the waistband of your pants, undoing them and sliding them down your legs, along with your underwear, his dilated pupils are fixated on the silvery thread of your arousal stretching. Your heartbeat quickens, a flush heating your body up at the deep assertion of, “Attagirl. Come here.”

With a deep sigh, you find the courage to surrender to the experience, encouraged by how much he seems to want this. You shift your position, allowing him to steer you to straddle his face, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his head. Your core hovers tantalizingly close to his waiting mouth, aching for the pleasure he promises to deliver. 

Not knowing when his hand sneakily crawled between your legs, you are caught by surprise when he drags a finger through your slit, gathering the moisture and spreading it around. “This all for me?”

“Hmmm,” you confirm, heartbeat shooting straight downwards, pulsing against his finger. “All for you.”

“Don’t be shy, take a seat,” A deep rumble vibrates in his chest, he’s looking drunk already, and you twitch upwards with the way hits your wetness, then, he’s massaging the tension of your thighs holding your body up. “All of your weight, sweet girl. Don’t hold back. Just sit. I promise I’ll make you feel so good, it’ll feel so good, just—” He raises his head to lick an galvanizing stripe right where you want him and you moan, the experience all the more elevated by being able to see how his eyes flutter close as if he’s feeling in and the focused pinch of his eyebrows. 

Trembling legs weakened by his begging, you begin to lower yourself onto him, the searing, wet warmth of his breath against your sensitive, aching folds making you gasp. His hands guide you and you hold onto his bulging biceps, his touch firm yet gentle as he helps you find the perfect angle, anchoring you in place. 

“Le – ah! Leo—n!” You can’t even arch off from the couch when his mouth dives into your tender cunt, only able to throw your head back and tremor in place because he has you in an iron grip against him, fingers sinking into the plush of your hips the moment he hears the stutter of your sweet whining. 

He hums, and you feel the vibrations reverberate inside you, mouth hanging open when his tongue delves in, as well. 

“So good — shit…” You fall forward, hands finding purchase on the armrest of the couch, your nails digging into the fabric as his skilled tongue dances against your most sensitive parts, exploring and teasing with an expertise that leaves you respiring, a particularly shocking jolt of ache striking and leaving your vision with dancing stars when he gently nips at your clit with his teeth, your hips spasming, but unable to even squirm in peace because he won’t let you move away from him. “That! That — ah, yes, yes!”

He is just delighted and it shows in his excited panting when it gets you to start rocking your hips in sync with him, and after a while, falling back and letting you take control of the pace. 

He traces delicate patterns against your most intimate parts, setting a pattern and then breaking it, building you up and pulling you back down, teasing and exploring with a fervent hunger. “That’s perfect — yes, Leon, you’re making me feel so good, you’re — hmm! —”

The groaning moan is swallowed by an even prettier whine when you pull on his hair, it wasn’t the intention to get him to do this, you were just particularly feeling good, but you try again, and he shudders this time, a more restrained version of the sound, you swear, literally makes you gush. 

“You sound — you sound so pretty moaning from making me feel good— So pretty—” You can’ complete the sentence as he sucks on your clit, only able to babble. “So pretty, so pretty…!”

You absolutely weren't expecting being accidentally called pretty would be the final straw to start palming himself against his jeans and fucking dry hump his hand, leaving only one hand to hold you down, and he wraps his entire arm around your waist to staple you to his mouth, you feel the veins and the flexing muscles on your skin from how much strength he’s using, and it’s enough to heighten the throb in your cunt.. 

“You’re gonna come in your pants from eating me out?” The bucking of your hips becomes harsher, faster, the coil in your stomach tightening just from seeing his blissful mien and urgency of his hip thrusts, walls contracting around his tongue. “That’s so fucking sexy—”

The pleasure builds, spiraling higher and higher, each flick of his tongue sending you higher and higher, his ability to read just when you get close is exquisite, and you enjoy him slowing you down, each flick and swirl of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy, but not quite getting you there, his own hand matching that pace and edging himself on, as well. 

The world narrows down to the sensations between your legs, the sound of your own moans building in speed and pitch mingling with his fervency, a blast of heat building deep within you unexpectedly fast, like dropping from the peak of a roller coaster, a wildfire spreading. “So close, so close, so close so closesoclose!”

You cry out his name as your pleasure crescendos, he holds your gaze the entire time through it, an explosion of sensation that engulfs you in waves of ecstasy, your voice mingling with his muffled groans of satisfaction against your sensitive flesh, body oscillating with pleasure, every nerve ending electrified by the intoxicating completion Leon provides — and he laps everything up, 

He does not give you one single break. 

The next second, you’re knocked on your back, and then flipped on your stomach like a ragdoll, and he shoves you up toward the other armrest of the couch until you have to hold onto it and hold yourself up — and you have to, from how much your thighs are trembling. You don’t even have the time to look back after hearing the frantic fumbling of his zipper being pulled down before feeling his rock-hard length gliding through your puffed and abused cunt, and a pained whine shakes your body as you snap your knees shut. “Leon—Leon—I can’t—”

“You can,” he coats himself in your dripping wetness, and you’ve accidentally created more friction for him by snapping your legs together, he’s just dragging himself against you, not entering, but pushing strong enough that it gets you to shake and squirm to get away, but he hooks one arm across your torso and grips your shoulder, pulling you up so your back is flush against his sweaty, burning chest. He extends an arm and places his hand just beside yours for support. “You’re so perfect taking everything I give you. My sweet girl, always so good to me, so gorgeous — just look at you.”

He gently nudges your chin up to get you to look at something, and —

You are looking straight at the reflection of yourself in the window ahead, Leon’s chin on your other shoulder, he is also staring, watching you there — both of you look so fucked out already. 

He seems to be in a more of a drunken daze than you are, his hair is so sexily messed up as if it was deliberately styled, the fact that it was you has you clenching around nothing. You hiss when the head of his cock slips in momentarily, only to slip out as he keeps the motion of sliding back and forth,  teasing, edging, your moans become softer, yelp-ushered, and shorter.  

“Look how pretty you are,” he nips at your earlobe, looking straight into your eyes in the window. You see the raw desire etched across your face, the sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, and the unbridled lust that courses through your veins — the sight of yourself, lost in the throes of passion, sends a rush of arousal through you. 

He begins to bite and suckle at your neck and shoulder as the edging persists, the tension within you, yet again, beginning to stretch beyond belief without a snap at horizon, your whole body is quivering at how fast it’s coming down on you. 

“I’m gonna— Leo–n, please, please—!”

You’re teetering on the edge of ruin, the need for release becoming all-consuming. You cling to his well-built, thick arm holding you to his chest, seeking an anchor amidst the overwhelming pleasure. A particularly sharp bite at the most meaty part of your shoulder makes you cry out and he begins mumbling in your ear, needy, and keeps up the same pace just for your pleasure even though he sounds so needy. “Come for me, I want it, pretty girl, come on, give it to me—” 

With a final plunge, Leon relinquishes the tease and thrusts deep inside you, filling you completely to the hilt, and your vision goes completely white as pleasure crashes over you in a wave of intensity, your body attempting to thrash around with the force of your orgasm, his chest shudders at your strangled cry. 

He stays buried deep within your convulsing walls and just breathes and softly hisses as you come down from your high, following you as you fall forward to rest your head on your forearms on the armrest. 

He plants kisses on the ball of your shoulder, trailing a line all the way to the other one, and then coming back to your nape. “You okay?”

You whine in response, completely blissed, and feel him jump inside you.

He sighs with force. “Don’t rile me up like that just yet.”

“‘m not doin’ ‘nything…”

“You don’t know what you do to me.” His chest rumbles from how thick and deep his voice lowers, albeit in affection. “You could be watering flowers or something and I’d go out of my mind for you.”

You weakly sputter in laughter, heart expanding nonetheless. “Watering flowers?”

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Couldn’t you have chosen something mundanely and unconsciously sexy. Like, I don’t know, sitting and reading a book?”

He scoffs, but you can tell he’s tiredly endeared. “Reading is sexy to you?”

“Well. You squint your eyes and clearly need glasses but the concentration is definitely hot.”

“I don’t need glasses.”

“You do. Leon, baby, you squint when you’re trying to read—”

“Maybe because I’m trying to understand what I read—”

“You don’t understand anything you read, then? Because you do it all the time.”

“That’s ridiculous, I’ve never had a problem with my vision.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, sure, dumb jock of mine.”

He responds with one singular fast and shallow thrust, testing the waters, lips curling up against your shoulder at the sweet sound rising from you. “You must have gotten the rest you needed if you’re sassing me.” 

“Fuck—” you hiss at the stretch, so delicious, stings so good. “Leon, can we just—”

“No,” He presses you forward, squishing you, and one of your hands digs into the armrest and the other one on his forearm that lines like a special pillow just for you to bury your head in. Your teary eyes accuse him in the window, your mind playing tricks on you again and makes it seem like they flash a deep red at you like some demon in your imagination. “Eyes on the window, watch me.”

He starts torturously slow, setting a lazy ebb and flow, the tip of his cock aimed to hit your G-spot every time he inches into you, his fingers are curled underneath your chin and still making you watch, but you can only look at how feral he is marking your neck like he’s some vampire, sucking and popping noises spreading around your body in ripples, and behind your tears, you can see the red eyes still on yours.   

“Faster,” you sob, feeling like you’re about to pass out from yet another building orgasm but know ultimately that’s not going to happen and it’s just how well he wrecks you. 

He moans obscenely into your ear, completing that with a delighted hiss as your nails mark his forearm laced with defined veins. “Gonna come for me again, huh? How many minutes has it been, and you’re gushing already? Are you just that perverted or is it me?”

“Yes, you, it’s you.” You throw your head back and rest it on his shoulder, and he lowers the fingers on your chin to hold you by the throat against him, putting slight pressure with at the two sides of your neck — not cutting your airway, but the blood flow to your brain, plunging you into cloud-soft, pleasure-fueled fuzziness.

“Inside?” he asks for permission, strained. His thrusts pick up, not shallow, but brutal all the way, and so do your whimpers. “Can I—” 

You can imagine the sensation of the warmth of him spilling into you. You’re so thankful for actively looking for hook-ups before this and getting on birth control for it. “Yeah, inside, come inside me—”

He bites down again, it has to be a new favorite thing for him, and he reaches down to circle your clit, pressing and playing, gentle and then sharp. 

You feel a familiar fullness growing, and clench yourself up, it makes Leon hiss. “Bathroom—” you choke, panicked. “We have to stop, I have to—”

He doubles the finger on your clit and you squeak, squeezing your thighs together — something’s coming and he keeps hitting that spot over and over and over again — you’re going to fucking wet yourself — “Leon, I’m serious, I’m gonna—”

“It’s not what you think it is,” he says, reassuring, caring, peppering kisses everywhere.

How is he so sure! 

“No, no, I can’t— Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon!”

Third time, third time it’s something else, you can’t, you can’t—

“You can.” He grunts, smothering your squirming by his weight. “Go ahead sweet girl, just like that. You’re doing wonderful, I got you. Let it go. Let it come.”

You hear the brief spray of something, the trickle of liquid between your thighs and the intermittent whining of his as he comes inside, but you swear you fucking pass out for a good fifteen seconds from how the coil of pleasure detonates in your core and shatters your consciousness in a foggy haze.

You fucking squirted. 

Didn’t even know you could do that. 

He made you because he was jealous.   

“Asshole,” you cry-mumble, trembling like a leaf. “My couch.”

He just laughs. His eyes are still glowing red in the window’s reflection. 

You’re too sleepy for this.

You’re dreaming that you’re Leon. 

It’s a weird nightmarish vision bleeding pulsating black at the edges probably fueled by imagining him as a mean demon ravishing you yesterday. 

One moment you’re looking down at yourself suffering in your sleep at the backseat of a car, head resting on his lap, some blond man even buffer than Leon is driving the car, you can see the outline of a scar at the side of his face and you call him Major Krauser; and the other you’re intensely gazing at yourself in the bathroom mirror, eyes are still red, but this time, there are dark veins mapping all over your body, all over your face, and they’re pulling back and moving.

You startle awake to an unfamiliar bedroom, a dull ache in your chest, weak and absolutely sick to your stomach that it feels like your guts are restlessly moving around. 

“The hell?” Just where are you right now? This isn’t your home. “Leon? Leon!”

Soft, muted hues adorn the walls, casting a serene ambiance that envelops the room, but you’re far from calm, the tight feeling in your chest pushing up into your lungs. Gentle lighting, emanating from carefully placed fixtures, are dancing upon the surfaces, creating a mockingly soothing ambiance with a faint scent of cleanliness, mingling with freshness.

You are on the plush bed, adorned with crisp linens and plump pillows, the centerpiece of the room, with bedside tables holding the essentials within arm's reach. Ahead is a cozy seating area with its comfortable armchairs and a snug loveseat and a work desk, strategically positioned near a well-lit window or a dedicated reading lamp. This awfully looks like a hotel room. 

He emerges from a door, and you see the glimpse of a bathroom behind him before he shuts it behind him. “Hey, you’re awake.”

The anxiety of the gap in your memory dissipates the moment you see him.

“And confused, where is this? Why don’t I remember getting here?” You grimace and prop your body to sit up, pressing the heel of your hand to where your heart is, his eyes flicker to the motion, eyebrows dropping down. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, faintly smiling, trying to hide his worry. “You were sleeping.”

You reach for the bottle of water sitting on the bedside table to your right. “And why did you feel the need to bring me somewhere while I was asleep?”

He eerily looks mysterious for a second. “You remember me talking about the gift I was given?”

“Yeah..?” 

“I’ve shared it with you.” 

“Oh-kay…” God, that water was heavenly. You weren’t aware that you were parched. “Is that why I feel sick? Did we go out last night and get blackout drunk or something, is that it?” 

“You feel sick?” You stop playing with the plastic bottle when his face hardens. “You shouldn’t be hurting, why…”

“Can we dial it back a little?” You raise your hands, remembering your priorities. “Leon, where are we? I can’t be here, I need to go to work, there is this article about the Spanish guest President Graham has dropped everything to meet with today and I need to get it out—”

“I’ve called in for you. You’re good.” 

Well. 

It was truly the right call to make given just how weird you’re feeling, just on the precipice of getting badly sick, you’re grateful he took the initiative for you but it wouldn’t have been bad to be told before he did this. The newspaper could have caused big trouble. “I would have appreciated it more if you asked me first.”

Leon looks genuinely bothered, you don’t know if it’s because you’re telling him off. “Sorry about that, I had no time before—”

“Time for what?” 

“Well…” He trails off, lost in thought. “How about I start from the beginning?”

“I’m more than happy to listen, but first, where are we? Spoilers are fine.”

A voice you don’t know abruptly cuts in and makes you jump. “Spain, sweetheart. You’re in Spain.”

Why the hell is there a stranger in your room?

“Who the hell are you?” You pull the covers up even though you’re not naked and dressed in a casual outfit you have no memory of throwing on. His presence in this room feels like a security breach because you’re in bed. “Why are you — Leon, why is—“ 

“Krauser.” Leon shoots up from his seat in urgency. “I told you to—”

What he said registers suddenly. “Spain?” You’re unbelievably alert. It’s the guy you saw in your dream, driving the car. Leon calls him the same name you heard in it, as well. “Leon, who is this, what is he talking about?”

His chest puffs up in concentrated dejection, misery engulfing him as he looks at you, mute. You ask him with your eyes to tell you the random guy in your room is kidding, but he doesn’t. 

You edge closer to the other side of the bed like you’re some scared animal. “What the fuck is going on?”

The glare he gives to the guy would have scared you shitless had it not been for the shock you’re going through. “Get out.”

This isn’t a prank. 

You finally explode, hands gripping the linens in a tight ball, heart beating a mile an hour. “Listen, I would like to be spoken to! Spain? Can you please explain it to me already!”

“Your boyfriend has given you the Las Plagas parasite, and you’re here to go through the initiation ceremony, so to speak. You’re to be presented to our Lord. Sorry, kid.” A pitying chuckle. “Should have had better taste in men.”

Huh.

Huh?

The very military-looking man, with the beret and the outfit and all, says it with the most fed up and serious intonation ever that a loud, ringing, involuntary laugh comes out from you and rings in the room, but something in your stomach hurts from the force of it, so you double down in pain, gasping. Something moves in you. “What… God, fuck, ow…”

You clutch your abdomen, the pain intensifying with each passing moment. It feels as though something is writhing inside you, twisting and contorting with a sickening energy. It’s foreign. Doesn’t belong in your body, you’re about to hyperventilate. 

Your mind struggles to process the gravity of the situation unfolding before you. Spain? Parasites? Initiation ceremony? It all sounds like a macabre nightmare, but the agony coursing through your body is alarmingly real.

You don’t know when Leon moved to get to you, but he is next to you all of a sudden, supporting you, eyes widening with concern, his earlier mysterious demeanor crumbling away. He moves swiftly, his hand reaching out to prop you. "Easy, take deep breaths, it’ll pass, I promise, I’ve got you," His voice drips with something icy as the person he’s addressing changes. “You told me that shit would take away her pain.”

Major Krauser watches the scene unfold with a mixture of detachment and sympathy. His presence is imposing in his stern countenance. "I told you it would make it easier," he interjects, gruff. "The worst of it is over. Superior species process differently than the regular one."

“Can’t we just—”

Fear grips you like a vice as you try to comprehend the magnitude of what is happening. "Why... What have you done to me?" you manage to make out, wavering with both pain and confusion.

His hands move gently, yet frantically to caress your arms in attempts to comfort you through the pain. “I saved you.”

“Oh, you are gone in the head, rookie.”  

Leon looks scary, a barely contained rage just under the surface, gripping you tighter. 

Your mind races, trying to make sense of the fragmented information you've been given. It all feels like a nightmarish delusion, an absurd reality you've been thrust into.

What’s going on? Just what’s happening right now?

Gasping for oxygen, you manage to choke out a question, desperation just beneath. "What kind of sick game is this?"

Krauser, stoic and unyielding, interrupts with a dispassionate tone, his eyes fixed on you with an unsettling intensity. "It's not a game. Lord Saddler seeks vessels, chosen ones who can carry the power of Las Plagas. You were chosen, through Leon."

You reel back, disbelieving. "Chosen? Lord Saddler? Leon, what in the world—"

Leon's gaze turns somber, regret across his face. "I made a choice, so we could be together. So you would be protected." He becomes pleading. “The world is about to change forever—”

Oh what the fuck.

You begin to cough uncontrollably, slapping a palm on your mouth, whole body wrecked by the velocity of the fit.

There’s blood when you remove your hand. 

“Oh, god,” you whimper, but the spillage of blood also marks the ebbing away of the pain, it’s gradually fading.  

“Make her drink it again. It should be fine, three days have passed.” 

Major Krauser, the enigmatic man who claimed you had been infected, remains stoic but watches your distress intently before leaving the room from another door. 

Three days. Three days? You slept for three days?

“I want to go home. I want to leave.”

Leon sighs, visibly sad. “I know, sweet girl, but I can’t let you go anywhere right now.” 

“Why!” You yank away from him, crawling to put some distance between him and you. You trust Leon, you see that he is loyal to you, but can’t stop freaking out. “Then explain it to me! What the hell is Las Plagas or whatever the hell it’s called! Just what did you do to me?”

“First, you have to know I’m — I was a government agent. I work to wipe out bioweapons, the kind in Terragrigia. That’s the basic gist of it, anyways. Spain was a mission. To save the President’s daughter.”

“What.”

Throughout the long and agonizing day, you continue to plead with Leon, hoping desperately that he will release you from your confining prison. Each time, he feigns sympathy and expresses apologies, but his determination remains unyielding. The realization that the man you love has become your captor sinks its fangs deeper into your psyche, a tormenting truth that threatens to shatter your sanity.

Moved to a more luxurious room, attended to by servants who treat you as though you were some revered figure, you feel the suffocating weight of your captivity. Leon, on the other hand, freely comes and goes, moving about with an air of authority and control here in this unknown location. 

The stark contrast between your roles within this twisted dynamic only further amplifies the madness of the situation. It becomes increasingly difficult to maintain your composure when everything around you appears normal, yet you are trapped, on the verge of losing your grip on reality.

Leon's attempts to justify his actions, delivered with a soft and soothing cadence, only serve to deepen the chasm between the man you once knew and this deranged version standing before you. He speaks of a global project involving the parasitic vaccination of the entire world, claiming that he only sought to protect you and longed for your reunion in this new world order. 

According to his words, everyone will be connected through what he refers to as the Holy Body, and he brought you here to shield you from the chaos that looms outside. He even speaks of defying some enigmatic figure known as "their Lord," as if he had waged a battle for your favor against him.

It’s insane. He’s insane, but looks perfectly okay saying all of this stuff. Leon wasn’t like this one month ago, it’s Spain that changed him, the dots connect themselves — the gift that he talks about wasn’t a gift at all, he was most likely infected against his will like you were, and now believes in the batshit crazy nonsense he’s talking about like it’s gossip over tea.  

You realize quite a bit late that this is a cult because of his perfectly ordinary demeanor. He’s Leon and you trust him, and it stalls your thought process. 

You have to repeat it over and over again to process it.

Leon took you against your will, to a fucking cult. 

They even have a name for god’s sake, Los Illuminados — the ‘servants’ are cultists. It’s easy to fall into the normalcy and accept it the way Leon puts it, like some fairy tale, like telling you about news from another country. 

With the new knowledge of his past, you don’t know to be in awe of him or terrified, your whole relationship unraveling in transparent context littered between the lines as you rediscover who he is as a person and why he did the things he did — but definitely lean towards the latter the more you can’t get through to him to let this stop already, it becomes more clear to you very quick there’s a certain instability to him now that wasn’t there before, something dark as if he’s balancing himself on the razor’s edge of control, it swims closer to the surface whenever you mention you want to go home. 

The Leon you remember was gloomy at times, yes, but he was also rational, calm, and grounded. He was unyielding in the face of adversity and never subscribed to such ludicrous beliefs. The dissonance between the Leon of the past and the current incarnation, who mindlessly parrots the teachings of the cult, leaves you utterly bewildered. You struggle to reconcile the two versions, grappling with the question of who he truly is and why he committed these unthinkable acts.

In these moments, when Leon reverts into the preaching mode, his gaze becomes vacant, as if he is merely regurgitating the words he has been fed. It is only when his attention turns to your well-being that glimpses of the man you love flicker to the surface. 

The conflicting emotions within you reach a boiling point, leaving you paralyzed and unsure of how to proceed.

The gaping divide between the Leon you once cherished and this altered persona rattles your very core. Fear grips your heart as questions swirl in your mind. What now? What lies in store for you? The uncertainty looms like a dark cloud, casting shadows of doubt and despair over your fragile existence.

The answer and possible salvation comes to you in the form of a man, a mysterious figure who materializes from an entry point to the room you had no idea was there. 

The dim light casts eerie shadows on his face as he greets you with a slight bow. 

“Who are you?”

“Luis Serra, Princesita. Your only chance.” He nods, lighthearted, but you see the weight of his seriousness. “We don’t have much time. If you want to get rid of the parasite, come with me, I’ll explain on the way.”

Why do you feel like all you do is being swept with whatever current washes down your way? 

It’s bizarre to be running away — from Leon, of all people. Go with this random man number two, where? To do what? What happens to Leon, then? 

Thrown off by his sudden appearance, you try to assess the situation, searching for any signs of deception or ulterior motives. 

Despite your apprehension, something about his urgent demeanor and the glimmer of hope in his eyes instill a soft landing for trust in him, you feel that he can help you somehow — but there is the obvious elephant in the room. “What about Leon?”

“I’m doing this because he asked,” Luis replies, his words carrying a sense of loyalty and commitment. They have some sort of history you don’t know. 

Without further delay, he administers a serum, providing you with a temporary respite from the torment inflicted by the parasite Leon’s infected you with. It offers relief, albeit temporary, buying you precious time before the inevitable returns in Luis’ words.

You decide to go with him and see where this path leads, you have nothing better to do, can’t see any way out of this. 

He motions for you to follow him, leading you through a concealed passage that winds its way beneath the labyrinthine corridors of the cult's stronghold — a castle, as you’re shocked to take in. The path is bleak, the air heavy with a musty scent, but you push forward, driven by pure survival instinct to get away to safety.

Luis starts explaining not too much into your journey, hushed, he has all the answers you needed in the first place, quick to the point. "Las Plagas are ancient organisms with a malevolent sentience. They infest and control their hosts, erode their will and sanity. They were made to be… weapons to be harnessed by Los Illuminados. Those who succumb to it become pawns of their leader, Saddler, carry out his agenda. Slaves to his will. They don’t have their minds intact, just flesh prisons to obey his orders."

Your first thought is of Leon, the horrible sinking feeling unspun in your stomach. 

Luis knows what you’re thinking. “Leon… and his buddy Krauser are exceptions. They possess what’s called the superior species, newly engineered.” He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head at the same time, like he’s contemplating a good business deal. “That means free will. To a degree. Their parasites are connected to Saddler, so their bodies can be controlled, but not their minds. Not entirely. They’re not like the inferior ganados. That’s why he was able to seek you out with his own volition.” 

The realization that Leon is trapped within this nightmare strikes you like a blow, your heart sinking with each passing moment. "He isn't controlled?" you inquire, hope blossoming in your chest. "Can you save him too?"

Luis's response is filled with regret, his eyes reflecting a sorrowful truth. "I'm afraid he's beyond saving," he confesses. "The procedure I have can only remove newly hatched eggs, and Leon... well, he's already been consumed by this darkness."

The words reverberate through your mind, the horror of the situation fraying your soul. "But... I can't just abandon him!" you protest, determination and anguish trying to overpower one another.

"You'll be gone forever too if you don't," Luis warns. "It's now or never. If you hesitate, if he catches even a hint of your trail, it will be over."

“You said you were helping me because he told you to.”

“Before he was lost, yes, he made a final wish.” Luis softens, and you realize he’s grieving, too. “He told me to take you as far away as possible from him if he ever were to try and get you involved in this mess. Because he would never do that to you in his right mind, so he said. A total romantic underneath all that ice, eh?”

He would never do that to you in his right mind… 

You flash back to three days ago, to his words, to how he said he loved you, all his adoring, the broken dam of affection and how he didn’t hold back anymore. 

He wouldn’t have decided to go through with opening up to you like that had it not been for the parasite’s influence? 

Uncertainty dangles heavy as you fight with the bitter reality you thought was a dream come true, the heart-wrenching realization that the man you love has been ensnared by the very darkness he sought to protect you from — that only giving into it broke his control of keeping away from you emotionally.

Regret etches itself onto Luis's face as he observes your inner turmoil. "I'm truly sorry, Princesita," he offers with empathy. 

The moment hangs suspended, an agonizing choice looming before you, as you weigh the love you hold for Leon against the desperate need to escape the clutches of this cult. 

You don’t want to leave Leon, even when there’s something clearly wrong with him that can’t be fixed, but on the other hand… 

“Can you honestly tell me he isn’t the man I know?”

“He is less and more.” His tentativeness bleeds into the clearest possible simplification he’s able to give you.. “But isn’t the same.” 

“So what do we do? What should I do?”

You still cannot wrap your head around your whole world flipping upside down, can’t comprehend you have to leave Leon behind, you barely processed him being an agent. You’re stalling. Hesitating. And deep down in your heart, you know why. It’s because you don’t want to go. 

Leon is still Leon. 

But you’re terrified. 

 "The choice is ultimately yours to make. But I implore you to consider your own well-being and the chance to break free. I know that’s what he truly wanted."

“I—”

But as you open your mouth to respond, a sudden, excruciating pain shoots through your head, causing you to cry out in agony. It feels as if someone has driven a searing spike into your skull, rendering you momentarily incapacitated. Your body crumples, and you find yourself on your knees, clutching your head, desperately trying to block out the piercing ringing in your ears.

Amidst the torment, your consciousness is abruptly whisked away, transported to an ethereal realm. It is a dream-like state, observing the world through the lens of another's mind. The golden chandeliers cast a cascade of shimmering light upon turning corners and ornate doors, as the person you are connected to races frantically through the maze-like passages.

The frenzied movement abruptly halts, and your vision pulsates in tandem with the rapid beat of a heart. It’s Leon’s voice echoing through the recesses of your mind, a hidden depth of anger and desperation at the heart of his control. "I feel you," he utters, a slight tremble of heartbreak. "You're in here. I know you're listening. Where are you? Why did you leave?"

Realization dawns upon you, a profound understanding that you are inhabiting Leon's thoughts, sharing his fears and confusion. The sheer intensity of the experience overwhelms you, and you cry out, "No, make it stop!" Your consciousness briefly returns to the physical realm, tears streaming down your face, the pain of the connection too much to bear. "It hurts!"

The ethereal realm engulfs you once more, Leon's emotional turmoil swirling around you. His voice billows with remorse and longing. "It might... Things might have escalated a bit too quickly," he confesses, his tone laden with regret. "It's my fault, I got too cocky, too impatient. But I never wanted to scare you off. I only ever wanted to keep you safe. You have to trust me and open your eyes so I can do that, sweet girl, okay? I'll come get you. We’ll talk it out. You can’t run."

Confusion intertwines with the pain coursing through your being. Leon's words perplex you, as if there is a hidden meaning beneath his pleas. "My eyes?" you utter, the question hanging, unanswered.

Luis gets so loud that you’re brought back to your location for a split second. “Shit. Do not open your eyes!”

Leon hears what he says somehow — and it suddenly comes to you that if you’re in his head, he is also in your head. “Luis. I should have known.”

You feel a sharp pinch at the side of your neck that cannot even compete with the tremendous headache, and the vision begins to crumble, Leon getting fainter — his presence fading away, the last you hear of him is a furious and equally anguished, “Goddamnit, no!” before everything goes black.  

Luis detects the stirring of your consciousness before you do, and as your awareness is brought back from the dormant state you were in, he calls to you in the darkness surrounding everything. “Don’t open your eyes yet.”

You shift around, feeling the coolness of a rough surface against your back and the firmness of the stone floor beneath you. The silence is broken by a peculiar sound—an unsettling symphony of metallic echoes. Chains. Accompanied by Luis’ feet shuffling around, they slither across the ground, you can almost envision their length, extending and coiling, like serpents of iron, their echoes intertwine, creating an eerie melody because you can’t see them. 

“What are you doing?”

Luis's response is calm and purposeful. "Setting the scene," he explains. The sound of nails being hammered into stone with an underlying jingle punctuates his words, causing you to jump in surprise. "For Lancelot seeking his Guinevere."

The pieces start to come together, albeit slowly. "You want to trap him," you realize.

Luis acknowledges your understanding. "Wonderful, Princesita," he praises. "You catch on fast. Leon is connected to you somehow, and we can't progress if he sees through your eyes. So, we need to create an illusion."

Confusion and concern overflow as you question the feasibility of their plan. "But Leon is... He could be listening right now."

Luis dismisses your worries. "Do you feel that he is sharing your head at the moment?" he asks. The uncertainty in your response betrays your lack of knowledge. "Ey, you'd know," he asserts. "That means he isn't present. Perfect."

Doubts linger in your mind as you consider the risks. "Will it work? He's... well, I recently learned he's an agent. I don't think it'll be easy."

"Whose side are you on?" he teases, playful. But when he senses your unease, he quickly reassures you. "No worries, I get it. He's better with the ladies, I've learned."

You can't help but feel a pang of guilt. "Luis..."

He brushes off your concerns with understanding. "I'm almost done here. He's supposed to think you're alone, so you can't look at me when I tell you to open your eyes. I'll be hiding. Don't talk to me, don't acknowledge me, just wait."

Curiosity gets the better of you as you ask, "How are you going to..."

Luis's response is concise and determined. "It won’t be me who’s doing it. It will be you. I will be your distraction.” You hear his footsteps approaching, and something small but heavy being placed on the floor just beside you, hidden from your line of sight. “You’ll hide when he arrives, and when the time comes, I want you to shoot. Don’t worry, it’s a tranquilizer gun. Wish me luck so he won’t kill me on sight, eh?”

It doesn’t take long for him to signal you. 

You open your eyes, the darkness giving way to dimly lit surroundings. The scene before you is carefully arranged, meticulously designed to deceive. The chains that previously echoed through the room now come into view, hanging ominously from the winch on the ceiling, you follow the line with your eyes to see the other end is secured to the stone wall by a circle of nails. The clinks and clanks reverberate, amplifying the tension.

Luis is nowhere to be seen, but his presence lingers, a silent reassurance that you're not alone.

In the deafening silence, doubt gnaws at you, and you question the madness of your current circumstances. 

You’re unsure of what you truly desire, unable to look over how you really just found yourself going along with Luis's plan, not because it feels right, but because your mind is clouded, unable to think clearly. You feel like a reluctant child, accepting the path laid before you simply because it seems to be the only option available.

Uncertainty presses heavily upon you as you contemplate the impending encounter with Leon. Fear grips your thoughts, entwining with the deep-rooted emotions you still harbor for him. Despite the revelations and warnings about his true nature, your heart remains entangled in a web of love and trust, the idea of seeing him again evokes a conflicting mishmash of longing and apprehension. 

You find yourself yearning for his presence, against the knowledge that he is not the same person you once knew when the mere thought of his return conjures a happy expectation of hope within you, a desperate desire to be whisked away from the nightmarish reality that has unfolded — deep, deep down, you pine for him to be the savior, the one who can shield you from the horrors of this supernatural ordeal he inflicted upon you himself.

Yet, simultaneous fear engulfs your soul, you question your own liability, knowing that you still trust him, still harbor the potential to be swayed by his words and actions. The thought terrifies you, the notion that you might have readily agreed to his plans had he presented them differently, had he explained the sinister truth of the parasite in a more inviting manner. It's a terrifying realization, the awareness of your own susceptibility to his influence, and despite everything, he’s the only anchor you can hold on to not be swept away into that chaos. 

You want him to enter the room, to make everything right again, tell you all of this is a nightmare you made up in your head because in the real world you still miss him, and at the same time you also fear what his arrival may entail.

As if attuned to your thoughts, a prickle in your mind disrupts your musings—a subtle trickle of awareness, the sensation of being watched by an invisible presence sharing the same space as you.

So you wait, your heart pounding in your chest, the weight of the impending confrontation with Leon bearing down on you. Every second feels like an eternity as you strain to listen for any sign of his approach. The air grows heavy with anticipation, and your senses are on high alert.

Suddenly, a noise echoes through the chamber, a faint, careful creak of a door opening. Your breath catches in your throat, he was so deadly silent infiltrating the building this basement is in, and you scramble to crouch and hide behind stacked boxes facing his direction, praying to god he hasn’t heard you. 

His eyes search the room in  a hardened gaze, a mask of determination, scanning every corner, every shadow with professional coldness. 

Leon cuts through the silence, as if he’s been hurt by you somehow. "Come on, I know you’re here, you don’t need to hide from me, I’m just here to talk.. Don’t be afraid of me.”

Your heart aches at the sound of his voice, you fight back tears, reminding yourself that this is necessary, for both his sake and your own — you can’t crumble right now, absolutely dreading what actually hearing him out would do to you. 

Luis emerges from where he’s hiding, unknowingly coming to your rescue, stepping forward with calculated confidence. "Looking for someone, Leon?" he asks, dripping amused intrigue.

"Where is she?" Leon demands, and you’ve never heard him like that before — that bone-chillingly cold and intimidating, menacing, low tone is downright terrifying. 

“Not even a hola for your old friend?” 

Leon fucking pulls a gun on him and your heart jumps to your throat. “Where. is. she?”

Luis raises his hands in a placating gesture, a sly smile playing on his lips. "No need for violence, my friend. I'm here to help."

Leon's grip on his weapon tightens, his suspicion evident. "I don’t need your help anymore. Tell me where she is."

Luis chuckles softly with a trace of mischief. "Ah, the stubbornness of a man in love. But I'm afraid your Princesita is in another castle."

Anger flashes in Leon's eyes, his frustration mounting. "Don’t bullshit me Luis, I know she’s here. What are you up to?"

Luis takes a step closer, sympathetic as much as he’s purposeful. "I've done what you asked of me. She's safer without you." 

Leon's face contorts with disbelief and fury, threatening to consume him. "Safer? You have no idea what you’re talking about. There is no safer place on earth right now than by my side. The world's about to go shit. The President is down, and the impending mass vaccination is nothing but a precursor to chaos. Do you think this is some deranged lover’s obsession? No."

With hopeless resoluteness, Leon continues to pour out his frustrations and fears. "Someone, be it the WHO, Terrasave, or the BSAA, someone will eventually expose the truth about the parasite spreading through medicines. And when that happens, all hell will break loose — do you understand the scale of what I’m talking about? The illusion of a smooth and controlled resolution is nothing more than a lie, and we both damn well know it."

Emotions wash over Leon, leaving him vehement and exposed, self-deprecating, raw. "I may have failed in my mission, and I may have failed everyone, but I refuse to let her become a mindless puppet like those villagers and cultists. I won't let her perish chasing scope after scope for news articles that’ll get her killed. She's all I have left." His voice quivers with a defeated tenacity and desperation, he shakes his gun at Luis. "So yes, I made a choice. It's the right one. It's the only one. A choice where I can be with her, where she can stay safe. A choice where I become the monster, but I can’t care less about the consequences anymore. So, get out of my way, Luis, and take that getaway chopper of Ada's while I'm still giving you the chance. That a good deal?"

“What happens when Saddler loses?” Luis sighs through his nose, totally unaffected by all that talk. “What happens if you die on that hill?”

His question lingers for a moment before Leon responds, less baleful and more mournful, even accompanied with a strange sense of happiness. "I know the end. As long as I get to die in her arms, it doesn't matter."

In that instant, something within you snaps. The anguished anger and the raw empathy you feel for Leon flow through your veins, overpowering any rational thought. Without hesitation, you make a decision that feels both natural and inevitable — to shoot the tranquilizer. 

You pull the trigger, the dart finding its mark with an unsettling precision, and time slows as you watch it puncture his skin, him flinching with a hand clamping around the dart and yanking it out, his wide, red eyes finding yours as you stand up, the realization dawning in his eyes. 

You want to cry when it’s relief and happiness that comes first to him upon seeing you as if on instinct, and confusion and hurt wash over his features next as he sees what’s in your hands. It's a sight that cuts through your heart. He staggers, toward you, his body fighting against the encroaching numbness, as if defying the very fate that befalls him. With outstretched arms, he reaches for you, fingers trembling, yearning for connection amidst the sense of betrayal. 

Yet, despite his desperate efforts, his strength fails him. His legs give way beneath him, and he tumbles to the ground, his reach falling short. You watch, your heart splitting in two, as he crumples in a heap of confusion. His fingers graze at where your presence is, a touch that never finds its mark.

In the waning moments before unconsciousness claims him, his eyes search yours, pleading for answers that you struggle to provide. You stand rooted to the spot, grappling with guilt and anguish, questioning the validity of your actions, second-guessing the choices that have led to this heartbreaking scene.

As Leon finally succumbs to the claim of the tranquilizer, his body surrendering to the oblivion of unconsciousness, you're left with your final commitment, crystal clear. 

Your heart was set on this from the start. You were just too scared to admit it. 

You’ll stay with him in this darkness.

Leon’s all alone here, knows he’s doomed by the narrative, can’t leave — and all he thought throughout that was you and what would happen to you. 

You can’t leave this man in the solitude of tragedy, with the first ever selfishness of his was seeking you out despite himself to protect you. No moment has solidified his love for you more than this. How he thinks of you tremendously. 

You can’t not love this man. You can’t bring yourself to obey his wishes and abandon him.

The lamb doesn’t want to leave the slaughterhouse. 

With a heavy yet determined tone, you utter the words that seal your fate. "Go, Luis."

Luis protests, filled with concern and a touch of reluctance. "You can’t—"

Tears well up in your eyes as you gaze at Leon's unconscious form, lying helpless on the cold ground. The depth of your emotions overwhelms you, but you gather your resolve. "I can't abandon him now. Not after everything he's been through. He needs someone by his side."

Luis hesitates, torn between honoring your wishes and his genuine concern for your well-being, making a final attempt to persuade you. "I understand your heartache, but you're risking everything for him. Are you sure about this? There's so much at stake — you’ll become just like him, you know? You’ll never be able to leave Los Illuminados and go back to your old life."

“You don’t get it do you? It’s true that I'm scared, Luis. Scared of what lies ahead, the stuff you’ve talked about is straight out of a dystopian novel. But I'm more scared of losing him in all of this.” It haunts you how he said it doesn’t matter if he gets to die in your arms, no regard for his own well-being and health. Leon has never cared for himself enough, that much you know, but to think his entire system has collapsed like this, to the point where he’s let himself go entirely and came to you while wounded… It’s something you can’t turn a blind eye to. A cry for help you can’t ignore. “He looked for me in this chaos. Underneath all of the excuses of protection, Leon’s just scared. He doesn’t want to be alone.” You can’t look away now that you’ve seen everything. “I can’t go back anyway after knowing this. I’d never forgive myself. It's better to face whatever’s coming with him, no matter what horrors it holds.”

“There’s absolutely nothing I can do to change your mind?”

The fact that he’s set on doing this and looking out for you until the last second because he has promised Leon and is truly concerned warms your heart up. “You really should catch that ride before it’s too late.” 

“You’re making a mistake.” His concern mingles with a touch of admiration for your unwavering will. “But he’s hell of a lucky bastard to have you by his side throughout it all. This is the sacrifice of your life, I’m not joking. And I hope it’ll be worth it.”

He’s not like you, and that’s okay. You actually admire and envy his sense of self-preservation overweighs his loyalty and promise to Leon, that’s how a normal person should be. But the situation is far from normal, and you’re infected by a mind-altering parasite for fuck’s sake, and you’re not even sure you’re going through the quarter of what Leon has. 

“Thank you Luis.” Touched by his understanding, you reach out and take Luis's hand, gratitude shining through. “For everything.”

A somber atmosphere settles in the room as Luis grows more melancholic. He takes a deep breath before making his final request. "Before I go, there's one last thing I want to ask. Considering we don't know how he’ll react when he wakes up, I think it's best to be cautious. We should chain him up, just to be safe. I don't want him accidentally hurting you in his confused state."

You hesitate, unsure about the idea of restraining Leon, but Luis's earnestness compels you to consider it. "I don't think he would ever harm me..."

Luis interrupts gently. "Oye, let me worry about that, Las Plagas is unpredictable and dangerous. Do me this favor, it’s the least you can do to pay me back, yeah? A little caution won't hurt. And if Leon questions it, you can blame me. I can handle it from a safe distance out of his reach in the comfort of my luxury ride."

With Luis's words echoing in your mind, both of you set to work, struggling like you’re trying to roll a boulder up a hill with the weight of Leon's unconscious body. The effort is tremendous, sweat pouring down your faces as you maneuver his unexpectedly heavy frame. 

Exhausted from the strenuous task, Luis hands you the key, his face flushed with exertion as you finally finish securing Leon in chains. The room is filled with a heavy silence, punctuated only by the sound of your own labored breaths.

As the unvoiced question of what happens now makes itself known between you two, caught in the tension between Luis’ desire to stay and the necessity of his departure. His words come out disconnected, hesitant, obviously having an awkwardness that comes from bidding farewell under such circumstances. "Well..." he begins, trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. "It was a pleasure to know you, Princesita." His smile is half-hearted, betraying the mixed emotions within him. "I hope we never have to meet again."

The unexpected humor in his remark catches you off guard, and a genuine laugh escapes your lips, the sound reverberating through the room, mingling with the faint clinking of the chains as Leon stirs behind you, his presence a constant reminder of what you’ve decided to get yourself into.

Luis's insistence breaks through the brief moment of levity as he implores you, his eyes flicking between you and Leon's kneeling form. "Take care of him," he urges, a sense of responsibility coloring his words. "And yourself."

You offer him a reassuring smile, endlessly thankful for his guidance in getting you to realize Leon’s perspective. "Will do. You too, Luis," you respond, nothing but warmth in your heart for him as you acknowledge his efforts. "Don't feel bad about not being able to help us, please? You've done all you can."

He nods once, his features a blend of bittersweet defeat and acceptance. With a final glance, he retreats into the shadows, his presence fading away. The room feels emptier without him, and sadness washes over you, a stab of guilt for potentially failing him now that you are left alone with your thoughts and the finality of the decision you have made.

The room remains shrouded in an eerie silence, broken only by the faint sound of Leon's steady breaths and the gentle rattling of the chains that bind him. 

Your gaze inevitably falls upon him, bound and unconscious before you. 

The sight of him, held captive by the chains, elicits strange emotions that defy explanation. There is an undeniable allure that emanates from his restrained form, drawing you in despite the chaos that surrounds you. It is a conflicting blend of fascination and revulsion, a cocktail of sensations that confound your senses. You should be consumed by panic, overwhelmed by the dire circumstances and the looming threat of the parasite within you. Yet, in this moment, a strange calm settles within your being. Is it the influence of the parasite that dulls your anxieties, or is it a resolute acceptance of the path you have chosen?

Despite the restraints that hold him captive, there is an undeniable attractiveness that surrounds him, gluing your eyes to the sight before you.

Kneeling on the floor, Leon’s muscular physique is accentuated by the susceptible position he finds himself in, the chains tightly holding his wrists above his head, rendering him defenseless and at your mercy. His sculpted arms, stretched taut and slightly strained, display the evidence of his strength even in his helpless state, veins beneath his skin appear more pronounced, as if awakened by the touch of captivity and the strain of gravity. His tousled locks of blond hair cling to his forehead and darken in shade where they meet with sweat, adding to his prettiness. Even in his unconsciousness, there is a magnetism that emanates from his chiseled features — strong jawline, cheekbones, and glistening lips that have known both determination and tenderness. The pinch of his eyebrows low over his eyes adds a touch of rugged toughness, contrasting with the vulnerability imposed upon him by the chains. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, betraying the calmness of his unconscious state. Light and shadow dance across his defined torso, revealing the slopes and curves that bear witness to his physical prowess. 

It is an unintended pull that arises from the juxtaposition of strength and exposure, dominance and surrender. The image of Leon bound and kneeling, his arms raised and secured by the unyielding chains, creates a powerful visual dichotomy — a captivating blend of control and submitting, strength and fragility.

You didn’t know you were into BDSM. Is this what it is? Why the hell does he look so mouth watering in chains to you when there are more dire matters to feel about — you are being a giant pervert about an unconscious man. Sympathy, desire, and protectiveness intertwine, blurring the lines between what is right and what is alluring. In this moment, you are both drawn to his physical presence and compelled to ensure his well-being, torn between the magic of his bound form and the urge to set him free to not let your thoughts run further.

You have no idea how much time passes before Leon's eyes flutter open, blinking away the haze of unconsciousness, and you stand up from where you were sitting, hands clasped before you in an anxious gesture, fearing his reaction. Panic briefly flashes across his face when the drowsiness clears enough for him to notice he’s bound by heavy chains, his arms held aloft and his movements restricted — the harsh tug on the chains makes you jump and that’s how he spots you standing nearby, concern etched on your features.

"You’re okay," Leon breaks the silence, his words a murmured astonishment. It's not a question, nor is it a statement of certainty. It's an observation imbued with gratitude. He's taken aback, as if his mind is struggling to comprehend that you are here with him at all. That’s the first thing he worries about? That’s what he cares about? “You stayed.”

The corner of your lips tugs upward in a soft, bittersweet smile. "Yeah, I did," you reply. The way he looks at you, as if you hold a small piece of his shattered world together, tugs at your heartstrings.

Leon’s more wary and threat-seeking when he brings up the stranger. “Luis?”  

You start playing with your fingers. "He left.” A pause. “It was my decision.” 

He sits up straighter, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Is… that so?”

It’s so bizarre having a serious conversation with him in chains now that you’re living it. “I’m… I’m sorry for the chains, I, Luis, uh—”

“No, I get it.” He says it like it’s a given and he doesn’t mind it — and that’s when you’re reminded again that he’s a specially trained agent, that’s where the attitude weirdly used to these kinds of things has to come from. “I haven’t given you a reason to trust me.” He gazes at you, his eyes betraying remorsefully hidden emotions, voice dropping down to a low whisper. “Yet you stayed anyway even when I’m like this. I never thought... I never expected anyone would ever, for me… You know.”

Your heart is a soaked towel and he has just wrenched it dry. The way he sees himself physically hurts. "I couldn't leave you, Leon.” You sniffle, head shaking as you confess, revealing your devotion. “I could never leave you."

He reaches out, his restrained hands straining against the chains, as if longing to touch you, to reassure you of his own unwavering devotion. But all he can offer is his words. "That’s all I’ve been terrified of," he admits. It stays unknown to you if the subject of the sentence is you leaving him or you not leaving him. "Ever since I caught myself falling for you, that’s what all this has been about and — this shit inside me amplifies the worst in me, and you’re still here. Damnit.” 

Tears well up in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you refuse to let them fall. "Leon, you are not alone in this." You want to kiss away all worries and fears he keeps to himself, now in front of you in all of their intricate, overthought glory. "I made this choice because I believe in you. I believe in us."

His gaze intensifies, searching you for any trace of doubt or unease. But all he finds is unwavering faith, and a love that refuses to be shaken. "I don't deserve you," he murmurs,  barely above a whisper. All of a sudden, the tiredness you know all so well pushes down on him. "Not after everything."

A soft smile graces your lips, a gentle warmth spreading through your entire being. Luis is wrong. He is definitely wrong — this is Leon, and he’ll always be Leon. "And I don’t deserve your love." He immediately looks like he’s going to disagree on the spot, but you don’t give him the chance. "But here we are anyway. I'm here, no matter what. I’ve made my choice. If you’ll have me too—"

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. "I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe," he vows, engraved with purpose. Just the way he says it could be added to a resume, the self-confidence and intentness of a professional in his field behind the power. "I'll prove to you that I can be the person you deserve."

"Leon, I already know the person you are. And I'm not going anywhere."

Leon's widened gaze inflames, breathing becoming more labored as he hangs his head down and nods a couple times while hiding his face from you. “Okay.”

You didn’t expect that to make you burst out laughing, and his head shoots up when he hears your laughter echoing in the chamber. “Sorry,” you cover your mouth, turning around to not let him see and think you’re mocking him. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you.” You manage to turn it down to snickering, screaming at yourself to stop already. “It’s just… that was so unironically you and… God, help. I don’t know why this is so funny to me—”

“Okay...”

“Stop! Stop saying okay.” You laugh again at his intonation, pushing the back of your hand against your nose. “That’s all you can say?”

Some sort of fascination surfaces beneath his stoic mask, like he’s someone who’s hearing the birds chirp for the first time. “Actually, I have a lot to say, but…” You watch him rise, his height allowing him to hold his chained wrists on his waist level. He reaches out with his shackled hands, beckoning you to come to his side, yearning for a connection, “You’re too far away for it.”

You jokingly tease. “Will you be a good boy?”

It has an immediate effect on him, sweet adoration stains into something suggestive, lingering between you like a charged current, and you can feel the shift in his demeanor, the warning tilt of his head, the faint red shine swallowing the blue of his eyes, the chains rattling as he grabs onto them in a tight, restrained grip, body tensing, a coiled energy barely contained. 

As his voice emerges in a single, sharp syllable, a low and husky whisper, “Don’t,” it sends a shiver all over your body. The words are measured, deliberate, and carry an undertow of caution that both entices and warns. It's a dark invitation. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

It’s not just you. 

You’re both fucked up. 

And you take a step closer, closing the distance between you, your heart pounding in your chest, and he watches you like a hawk. “I’m just asking a question.”

His eyes glow with an intense crimson hue in response, piercing through the dim light, making you halt when there’s only about five feet left between you and him. Black veins spread across his skin like intricate patterns of ancient curses, marking him up. And extending from his lower back, a large scorpion-like tail emerges, its barbed stinger poised in the air, and just as how the spine is a series of individual vertebrae, small bones stacked one upon the other, his tail too is articulated, allowing it to curl like a snake, curving and undulating with an eerie grace, almost as if it has a life of its own.

It dances through the air, floating towards you, its presence both beguiling and unsettling. You watch, apprehensive and curious, as Leon manipulates his tail, rotating it to show you every angle. As he nudges you gently with it, an unexpected tenderness shines through his alien appearance. "It won't hurt you," he emphasizes, a soothing reassurance. He looks like a creature plucked from the pages of a fantastical novel, but his care for you remains undeniable. "Try touching it."

You observe the chitinous exoskeleton, marveling at its texture and the otherworldly allure it possesses. "Will you feel it?" you ask, a snap of fidget in your curiosity.

Leon's eyes meet yours, a flicker of a mischievous smile playing at the corner of his lips. "That's a dangerous thing to want, don't you think?" His words carry a double meaning, an underlying invitation to explore the depths of desire that lies beneath the surface. In that moment, you realize you've unknowingly become a participant in his intricate game, a delicate dance of discovering boundaries.

"Leon, half-insect or not, I would want every part of you," you confess, unapologetically honest and smoking with desire. A swelling of boldness overtakes you, fueled by a mix of desire and affection. You take a step closer, your hand reaching out to grasp his tail. The texture surprises you—smooth and warm, defying the expectations of a creature born from nightmares. Leon's tail jerks slightly in response to your touch, the connection between you both sending a jolt of static through where you’re touching, and he is momentarily stunned, his ardor momentarily subdued by your unabashed declaration. “I want you, always.”

"Alright, alright. You made your point," he interrupts, a flicker of bashfulness visible beneath his attempt to maintain a composed facade. The teasing spark in his eyes is replaced by a rare sentiment, his emotions laid bare before you. "Well. " Some sort of self-consciousness fogs his expression as he looks down. "Though I do feel the same,"  he concedes, pink creeping across his cheeks.

But you're not finished. You close the remaining distance between you, your eyes locked with his. "Leon, I love you." You pour your heart into those three words, stronger, unmoving, louder, hoping he understands the depth of your affection if he hasn’t gotten it yet.

He looks away for a brief moment, his gaze fixated on something indiscernible, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. "Yeah," he mumbles softly, almost lost in the space between you.

Undeterred, you reach out to gently grasp his face, turning his gaze back to meet yours. "I love you," you repeat, scolding him that he’s not taking you seriously. You want him to hear it, to understand the magnitude of your feelings.

A flicker of surprise crosses his features, quickly replaced by something akin to relief, leaning into your touch as if you’re the coolness he needs on a hot summer day. He likes hearing it from you, that much is clear, but the unfamiliarity of the sentiment leaves him momentarily at a loss for words. "Okay," he finally responds, his voice a soft affirmation.

You're about to reprimand him, demanding that he say the words you long to hear in return before you unchain him. But before you can voice your frustration, a sudden wave of dizziness crashes over you, throwing your world into disarray. Your vision blurs, the room spinning and tilting on its axis. You desperately blink, hoping to clear your sight, but the disorientation only worsens. The force of gravity seems to intensify, tugging at your stomach and weakening your legs, causing you to stumble forward. The pain strikes you with a merciless blow, knocking you off balance and into Leon's waiting arms. Your hands, once cradling his face, now find purchase on his shoulders for support.

"Hey!" The weight of your limp body causes Leon to follow you down, sinking to his knees just as you do. However, the chains that bind his arms above his head prevent him from fully supporting your torso. In a swift motion, he maneuvers his tail to secure your body against his, stopping you from falling backward. Your head lolls on his shoulder, basically shaking against him.

"Hang in there, come on," he pleads, trying to reach you. "Talk to me, what's happening?"

Struggling to keep the pain under a manageable level, you reply briefly, not wanting to talk. "I don't know... Felt… dizzy..."

"Shit, okay," he curses softly, his concern deepening. "Does it hurt?"

You just make a curt sound, wanting him to let it go and keep yourself from flopping like a fish out of water on the ground from how it’s ripping you apart. 

“I gotta know if it does. Can you tell me?”

You’re suffering, how does he not see? Does he need verbal affirmation that badly?

“Yeah,” you say behind gritted teeth. “Sure does.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to sting you, alright? Only a drop of venom into your bloodstream,” he explains as merciful and comforting as he’s able in your state.  “You’ll feel a pinch but it’ll relax you. It might put you in an… aroused state because of your parasite, but you’ll no longer feel pain — it’ll feel good. I’ll take care of you.”

The mention of the potential side effects of whatever he wants to do to you makes your brow furrow in confusion, but there's no time to dwell on it. The pain has become unbearable, hacking at your every thought. "I'll feel good?" you question, dying for any kind of escape from the burning.

"Yeah," Leon affirms, a tenderness that reaches deep into your soul. "You'll feel good."

A stream of questions floods your mind, but Leon interrupts before you can voice them. "Not now," he interjects, pressing the syllables with more stress and emphasis. "Will you let me take care of you?"

His distress resonates with your own need for relief. "Yes," you respond without hesitation. "Yes, okay. This pain is killing me, just do it."

With a swift movement, his scorpion-like tail hovers near your exposed nape, its barbed stinger poised and ready.

"I promise, it'll be over soon," Leon whispers, dead set on his goal. "Just hold on."

The venomous tip of his tail makes contact with your skin and a sharp pinch sends a jolt of sensation through your body, but the initial pain subsides almost instantly, replaced by a soothing coolness that spreads from the injection site. It's an odd sensation, the venom working its way through your bloodstream, numbing the pain and replacing it with a peculiar mix of relaxation and heightened sensitivity.

A soft exhale is pulled from your lips as the effects continue taking hold, the relief washing over you like a gentle wave, and you melt against Leon, wrapping yourself around him, having automatically sought him out on pure instinct. He carefully adjusts his sitting and goes down on the balls of his feet to allow you to crawl on him, ensuring you're comfortable, his tail retracting to support your back for a more comfortable embrace.

"You're doing great," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody amidst the chaos. "Just let it take effect, I’m here."

The heaviness in your limbs dissipates, replaced by a newfound lightness, as if a mass has been lifted from your body. The world around you becomes hazy, the edges blurred as the arousal Leon had warned about intertwines with the relief spreading through your veins, 

It begins with a tingling warmth that spreads across your limbs, akin to tiny sparks dancing on your flesh, and then, the heat gradually intensifies, caressing your senses with a gentle yet invigorating burn that awakens every nerve ending. But amidst the rising warmth, the usual wave of the venom’s coolness follows, like a frosty breath gently kissing your skin. The burn and the coolness entwine, creating an annoying race of who gets to be on top. The heat stimulates your awareness, drawing attention to how good it feels to have Leon’s strong body against you, how you would like more, how you want to explore this new form of his as he’s ribboned up like a present before you; but simultaneously, the coolness acts as a tranquil connection to reality, tempering the fiery sensations with its gentle touch.

Leon’s unique smell underneath your nose pours into your circulation from your heaving lungs, you snuggle in to get more of his scent, in the crook of his neck, right behind his ear… You can’t help but rub your head against it like it could somehow pass to your own body — it’s all instinct, the space of your head pleasantly misty, the feeling of only wanting to get closer wiggling enthusiastically inside. You notice your hands are on the move later, running up his sides and his back, only when you feel the ripple of bumps on his spine following your fingers gliding up and down as if responding to your touch. 

“Leon…” He sucks in a sibilant sound when your nails run down his back, momentarily shivering against you. “Leon…”

“Yes, I’m here.” It’s his tail that cuddles you against him because his hands are unavailable. “What do you need, sweet girl, hm?”

How do you say you want to fuck his brains out and do as you wish with him as he’s chained when he can’t retaliate, and how turned on you’re getting by the minute? “I need you.”

You hear the chains rattle and glance up briefly to see his hands balled up in the restraints. “How do you need me?”

His tendency to take things slow and enjoy the augmentation of need as it builds up is a formidable adversary to the you of the present, the frustration is testing the limits of your endurance. There’s something carnal in the way you want him right now, eating away at your patience for playing games with him. 

You rise on your knees still framing the outside of his thighs, and taking advantage of the small difference of height it gives you, yank his hair back to make Leon look up at you, his eyebrows arch upward in an arc, the ascent giving away the shock, and his mouth falls agape, lips parting to release a whispered exclamation “I don’t need this dirty talk, I want your dick in my throat.” You stare him down, catching your reflection in his red eyes and see that the same blight webbing him up is also infesting you, shining in your eyes in the same shade of crimson as his. You simply don’t care. “Is that a satisfying answer?”  

His chin lowers, leering lascivious, and you swear the veins on his face become a more prominent shade of black. “Jesus Christ.” He yanks on the chains, the harsh sound higher in pitch with the power behind it. “Gimme the key.”

“Nooooot gonna.” He leans towards you when you scooch away from his lap, but is unable to chase you fully. You fixate on his crotch, mouth watering, throat anticipating taking in his shape, phantom soreness reminding you what’s coming. You reach out to his thighs and place your palms on his knees, running them up awfully slow, feeling the rigidifying limbs under your touch. 

“Huh? Hey, what do you mean—” He’s stuck between trying to get up and staying that way for you. “What, you’re not untying me?”

“Shut up, I’m in heat right now.” You pop the button of his jeans and bring down the zipper, palming his half-hard bulge above his underwear. “Stop complaining.”

His hips jolt up into your hand, eyes fleetingly rolling behind his head from the satisfying contact, and his cock continues to swell up in your hand, straining against the confines of his briefs. “I’m not complaining — ”

You yank his underwear down, his head popping free and dangling, you bring the underwear underneath his hips along with his jeans with a little help from him rising up and allowing them to slide down better. “You brought this on me, so I’ll feel good the way I want to. Stop. Talking.” 

Chuckling in an underestimating mirth, he’s in the middle of saying, “Yes, ma’am—” mockingly when you lift the edge of his top up to shove the crumpled fabric into his mouth, exposing the carved dips and curves of his chest and stomach. He’s rendered shellshocked for only a second before he lukewarmly glares at you, that’s how you know he doesn’t hate it and only acts like he does. That interested swishing of his tail would be enough to break the chains, but he doesn’t attempt it at all. A silent communication passes between you two, that this is an extension of the role-reversal sex you had the day he left for Spain, and he makes it clear he’s down for whatever you want to do with him. 

Without breaking eye contact, you kiss down his chest and the pads of your fingertips glide along his heated, soft and firm skin, and slow down when you reach the plane of his pronounced abs that tense with each lick and open-mouthed nibble from you, the tautness increasing when the way down from his navel and the path you follow along the veins end up becoming torturously unhurried. 

He has to breathe from his nose, and you pick up where he is on the scale of impatience from his control breaking for it to seep into how sharp or deep they become 

You decide to go on your stomach for now,  letting him remain perched, the coldness filtering into your clothes from the ground not really all that important compared to drinking in all of Leon’s crumpled microexpressions. 

A satisfied noise rises from him as you take him into your hand and give a couple pumps and purposefully stick your tongue out to let your spit dribble considerably on it for better slip and slide, he’s starting to get red in the face. 

And when he thinks it’s about to start with the usual opening of getting him in the mood by the standard jerk-off and the buildup from there, you catch him off-guard by taking him all the way into your throat in one go, concentrating to keep your gagging and choking at a manageable bodily response that won’t make you recoil and start coughing — and surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt, whatever’s in that stinger of his is making everything feel different, you are actually scratching an itch at the back of your throat with Leon and it feels so fucking good to give him head and hearing him respond so eagerly to it. 

The sound he makes despite holding his shirt up with his mouth is choked and powerful as his hips jerk forward and pushes into your mouth, his guttural whine stutters from Leon as you swallow around him. He can’t talk and respond or tell you how you’re doing, but all the pretty noises, from gruff groans, to desperate humming, and restrained moaning tell you all about how he’s feeling. 

You run your nails along the skin underneath his naval and the muscles there jump, the bobbing of your head picking up unexpectedly as you’re literally working to rip his climax off, and he doesn’t feel it sneak up on him, breathing getting more rapid and panicked at how fast you’re wrenching it out of his dick and unconscious shallow thrusts meeting your movements right in the middle — you know exactly when he’s about to come from the slight swell of his dick in down your fluttering esophagus and the tightening of his stomach. 

That’s when you stop and take him out with an audible pop, your lips puffed and red, eyes teary. It twitches before slapping against him and his shirt falls from his teeth in an agonized and disappointed groan as his hips stutter forward in an attempt to search for friction, the fucking saliva trail connecting his lips to the fabric makes your heartbeat swoop downwards. “Why? I was right there!—”

You bat your eyelashes at him, blowing cold air on his denied arousal. “I know, baby.”

“You…” His lips draw back in the middle of a low sound at you gripping his base and giving the head kitten licks, alternating between swirling your tongue around and focusing on sucking the tip only. “Ah, what the fuck.” Your tongue delves into the slit of his head and precum gushes forward, his teeth are exposed in a breathy sharp hiss and a jolt.  “Yeah, that’s it… Shit.” 

The view of his fat chest and his strained, sweat-glistening strong neck swallowing is divine, you pick up the momentum again just to see him get worked up enough to throw his head back for the sight of his striking Adam’s apple, the black veins are doing something else to you that has your insides flipping.

You catch the glimpse of his tail swishing in the air, curling at tandem with your movements. You try taking all of him again to see how it’ll move and the sudden stop and trill has you wanting some friction between your legs. “Fuu—ck, your mouth is a vision, full of me.”

You lick along the bigger vein trailing up under his cock. “Does it feel that good?”

He only nods and thrums a small shudder, but you don’t let him off the leash just yet. “How easy.” Leon’s eyes snap open at the audacity. “Being chained and played with like this…” You give him a particularly harsh pump and the chains jangle because of his sudden tug. “Letting it happen because you want it so much. Desperate to be fucked.”

The degradation alone gets him to pulsate in your hand a couple times, his brow wrinkles as if he’s suffering. “You like this.” You drag a sluggardly strong grip up his weeping cock and his tail whips the ground. “Say it.”

His muscles tense and release, creating a rhythmic movement beneath the surface of his groin upon your teeth getting into the mix. “Shit — I love it.” His arms flex, causing his shackles to rattle. “Everything you do — everything you do to me feels amazing. Keep going, nearly there, I’m about to—”

You hum around him, and he clearly feels the vibrations, rising his hips in an unbelievably hot fluid movement and cursing under his breath, ruby-stained eyes glassy and feverish and mouth thinned and bit from inside. His thighs caging you begin to shake, and you’re made aware he’s close again. 

And this time, it’s him who knows you’ll pull back when he needs it the most. “Oh no, you don’t.” 

Something coils around your torso and pins you in place so his dick can’t slip out of your mouth, you struggle for air and attempt to pull back, but Leon barges in on your alarm, hoarse and gravelly. “Easy, it’s just me, don’t worry.”

Your hands grasp to the fabric of the jeans on the inside of his thighs, finally able to comprehend he used his tail to bind you — surprisingly gentle yet immovable, it doesn’t suffocate you, nor hurt you in any way. 

Mouth still around him, you look up to see he’s watching you, possessing a smoldering zeal, hunger a glint on a knife’s edge, shadow of a sly smile dances upon his lips, a knowing smirk, a sense of assuredness amplifying how he has you, one that reveals all that he’s thinking and claims control from your hands. With every heavy breath he takes, his chest rises and falls, revealing the heightened state of his arousal, and it seems his irises glow a shade darker crimson, a pulsating energy radiating from him, a palpable magnetism that ignites a fire within your own being.

“I’m going to move us around, stay still.” 

He makes sure to remove his erection from your mouth without hurting you before it’s with a natural predator’s grace he rises and stands up, his tail maneuvering you around to sit on your knees right in front of him, and you can only gape as he wraps the excess of chains around his wrists so they don’t get in the way, his forearms and biceps pop like they belong to a god like this. 

“Pretty mouth, waiting just for me.” At this height, he’s able to reach down and run a thumb along your bottom lip and push in, rubbing through the length of your tongue, fascinated.  

The giant appendage, then, unwinds around you, but much to your astonishment, doesn’t slither away, the thinnest end sneaking its way between your thighs instead and your legs clamp around it, but the drag forward defying your refusal has you squeaking. God, the jointed nature of it, like some weirdly shaped anal beads, is acting as periodic zaps moving against your heated sex. It even has the strength to fucking lift you up. Your panties are going to be ruined at this rate. “Leon, what—”

“Wanna make you feel good too.” You’re boosted up when it gives you a particularly harsh press, stars shooting everywhere in your vision with the delicious press not just focusing on one area, but rolling through your clit and dipping to make your entrance contract. “I’ll move it, you focus on taking me.”

Fuck, this is basically the thigh riding from before but on another level, that’s so hot —  

His manacled hands wrap around the angry red of his cock, the size of his hands so titillating fisting the length. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth, is that okay?”

You reflexively swallow, mouth watering instantly. “Please. Please.”

“Such a good girl, begging for my cock down your throat. I can’t refuse when you plead like that.” He rewards you by a rich thrust of his tail forward, your eyes closing in delight, you’re sure that a wet spot is forming with all that moving around. “Open up.” 

You obey and loosen your jaw as much as you can to let him set the pace, hands grabbing on the moving appendage between your legs in preparation to be used like some glory hole, but unlike your aggressive start from before, Leon is much more deliberate and unhurried in bottoming out, your head is swimming in a sea of dizzyingly gratifying smog, white and blanked out as he pleasures you through it. 

You get so lost in it that he sharply hisses and caresses your forehead with shaking hands and has to warn, “No teeth, sweet girl. Relax… Yeah, just like that. You’re doing so well, so perfect, making me feel so good.” 

You don’t mean to mewl around him the way you do, but his praises are so sweet as if he’s always getting his dick sucked for the first time, makes you feel appreciated, makes you feel special. 

Tears are streaming down your face, saliva drooling down your chin, you’re sure you’re gonna have a sore throat after this, and that sight would be ugly and messy to you, something you wouldn’t want to show anyone, needlessly embarassing, but it spurs Leon on, he craves prettying you up as he says, loves that you become a mess just for him — and you had missed all of that being a sign of neediness before all this. He loves the feeling of being special just as you do, loves that he’s able to get you filthy like this. 

“Shit — can’t believe I get to have this forever, now… Never thought… Never—” He breathily laughs, the sound turning into a wanton growl as your throat constricts through his drawn-out, unrushed thrusts. He’s babbling like a man in a confessional, speed beginning to pick up, the movement of his tail also reflecting the frenetic climb, sending your snowballing itch spiraling into completion. “Don’t care what happens anymore — don’t care, don’t care, only need this—sah, fuck!”  

His hands hastily rest on top of your hand to keep you in place and you whine and squeal, his stretch digging impossibly further down, a long groan echoing in the chamber at the same time of something metallic shattering and falling off with incredible strength, Leon’s hips twitching in place with your nose buried deep in the fuzz of hair at the base of his cock. Waves of warm spurts drizzle down your esophagus, and you don’t taste anything, but have a go at swallowing on instinct, and it coerces a strained, debauched moan out of him. 

His tail moves to pull you away from him and you sit back on your heels, shaking more so from your impending orgasm being pulled right under your feet like a rug because of the abrupt halt of the rhythm, unable to stop the coughing, wrapping a hand around your throat for dampening the soreness, and before you know it, his lips have taken the place of your hand, smothering your neck and your face with kisses. 

“You did so good. A fucking angel of sin — for me only.” He doesn’t hesitate to entwine his tongue with yours tenderly as if it’s a honeyed treat to lap up, his gratitude and enthusiasm running high as before. The way he speaks into your mouth gets you pressing your legs together to ease the painful, sweet throbbing between your legs. “You were amazing, sucked the soul out of me, holy shit.”

A whiny, “Leon,” and a tug on his shirt is all he needs to know you need him.  

“I know sweet girl, I have you.” His tail sneaks around your waist again, loose in case of your refusal. In the corner of your eye, you see the winch fastening the chains on the ceiling is squashed on the floor, yet his hands are still bound. “You trust me to make you feel good, right?”

“Yes, always.”

“You can say no if you don’t like this.” The sensation of being moved so easily by something alien is frightening as much as it’s arousing when it’s coming from Leon, your anticipation is about to drip down your legs at his tail gently propelling you up to stand on both feet steadily and turning you around so your back is facing Leon. You are bent down from the waist, and the fear of falling makes you jump, but the appendage is fully supporting you, almost making you float, you could stand on your tiptoes with full body weight and you wouldn’t crash on your forehead. “Is this alright?”

You are about to break down in a series of tremors from how much this is turning you on. “Yeah.”

His hands run along your tailbone. “I’m going to chain your wrists behind your waist. That okay?”

“Fuck. Yes.”

“Tell me if it’s too tight.” He doesn’t need to reach for your hands, you align them to rest on your waist on top of each other. He does adjust them a bit and sets you straight after you crane your neck to take a good look at what he’s doing — you’re only able to get a single frame of him unwinding some of the restraints around his wrists to bind them around yours, affectively connecting both your shackled wrists together in a short line of chain. One of his hands grabs and tugs, securing his tail around your torso a bit better at the same time. “How is that? Any discomfort?”

“It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Can you please just fuck me already, I’m about to die.”

He lets you go to slide two fingers up your clothed pussy, your folds quite literally pulsing at the contact. “It’s burning up —- you want to brand me, huh?”

You don’t indulge in his running mouth, just wanting to enjoy the fiery pleasure his fondling fingers light in their wake. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” He switches to pulling your pants down together with your panties, but not all the way down, making it hang in the middle of the most supple part of your thighs, efficaciously getting them to act as yet another restraint, this time, around your legs so you won’t be able to part them. Two digits easily slide inside and you yelp, held in place mercilessly. “Fuck,” he says, faintly, a subdued composure, the voice going straight to your pussy and making you clench over his fingers. “You eat me up so eagerly. That hungry, sweet girl?”

Your head’s tingling and buzzing from all that rush of blood in this position, everything gets more overwhelming when you bow your head. You just want him inside you. “Please…”

 You pitifully moan at the loss of your fingers, and the brief squeeze of his tail is comforting. “I’ll relieve you.” The replacement of his bulbous tip running through your lower lips is enough stimulation for your toes to curl inside your shoes. 

You’re shaking with the release of your anticipation, and he curses. “Fuck, you’re sucking me in.” The same chain that binds you both rattles when he grabs your bound wrists, your eyes widening at how his tail also simultaneously pulls you towards him to sink into his girthy length, working together with his hips. 

He’s working you. Using you. Manhandling you, drilling you into him like he’s using a fleshlight as he pleases and everything feels so euphoric, your mind descending into a foggy, floaty bliss despite the tears of instant gratification; the whole burden of responsibility, decision-making, and external pressures melt away and only he exists, and the ecstasy Leon’s spoon-feeding you.

He checks in on you, pulling on your binds, voice tight. “Feel good, sweet girl?” 

“I wa—” You hiccup, followed by a trembling whimper, wanting something for your neglected clit, you can’t reach the threshold like this, you keep rising but not enough. “I wanna come, please, let me—”

“Sshh.” His tail is circling you, like a snake twisting around its prey, and you don’t get it at first that he’s getting more of it into the grip for the fat and curling part of his stinger to be able to reach and roll over your unattended, swollen nub. 

Your mind is so sunken into the pleasure you can’t even worry about the barbed part getting near your vulnerable parts, but he’s an expert at making it knead just the way that gets you uninhibitedly screaming. “I got you, I got you.”

Your legs collapse beneath you, his tail carrying your entire weight as your climax fractures within you unexpectedly, not even taking some time to grow and spread and take time aching — it just explodes, making your body convulse in aftershock shudders, unable to contain your palpitating sobs. 

“Ah, Jesus Christ, fuck!—” The clamp of your cunt around Leon also dropkicks him into his own orgasm, shooting straight into your cervix. He rams into you a couple times before he bottoms out to the hilt, his chained hands having yours in a death-grip, staying like that until the twitching of his cock subsides and he starts going soft. 

When you come to next, the chains are completely gone, broken and shattered on the floor, even. Your clothes are straightened and he sits cross-legged on the ground, his back to a wall, and you’re on his lap, tightly hugged by him, still struggling to catch your breath. The view of his muscular arms around your waist is a delight, as always. 

“I feel disgusting,” you say. A sense of discomfort washes over you, amplified by the lingering physical sensations of sweat and fluids. Your face contorts with a mix of satisfaction and unease, the need to cleanse yourself from the stickiness that clings to your skin uncomfortable.

“I think that was amazing.”

You snort. “Not that — I mean, I want to take a bath, everything feels so sticky.”

Leon plants a kiss to the side of your head. “I’ll take you.” 

He probably means somewhere you can clean yourself, but you can’t help but ask. “Take me where?” 

He pulls you in to snuggle better, resting his forehead on your shoulder, tired but playful. “Well, there’s this castle.” 

He still hasn’t told you all that much about what’s going to happen. There is no salvation from the parasite inside you anymore, it has its home in you, but you know you’re not a captive, not when you share the same chains as him. “After our visit, can I—can we return home, then?”

“I…” The sentence dies as it starts. “I don’t think that’s possible. Not for a while.”

“Because you won’t let me?”

“Because I don’t know what Saddler will want with you.”

He knew the consequences. 

Something inside you makes you change your mind — no, he chose the lesser of two evils for you knowing what was coming. 

You can’t bring yourself to blame him, this was meant to happen — you were meant for this gift, meant for this fate, to carry this creature, share it with him. You feel less doubtful and sure of this now, feel the same red of Leon’s eyes, the black of his veins, you shoulder the agony together. 

Your common sense gives a last breath as it fades into non-existence. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

He chuckles, shielded and spiteful. “Yeah.”

“But you still wanted me by your side.”

“I was worried.”

“You were lonely.” He succumbs into a muzzled silence, and you try to reach out once again. “At least we’re together, right?” 

“Yeah… Together in this hell.” You don’t get to see what kind of face he’s making. His deep voice is raspy, and despite his contrition, he’s holding onto you tighter than before. Failure is a shame upon him, and he doesn’t let himself be comforted. “I’m sorry for bringing you down with me.”

“I’d burn for you, anyway. I don’t care.”

He’s brusque and uncompromising. “I wouldn’t let you burn.”

“Then I’d burn with you.” You turn in his lap to look him right in the eyes — his red meets your red. “Together in this hell, right?”

Lambs to the slaughter. 

[trappedinafantasy37]

Let's talk a little bit about Minthara and her oath real quick. Now, a question that I have seen pop-up in a few places between Reddit, Tiktok, and even Tumblr, is how the in the hells Minthara isn't already an oathbreaker. Well, I have 3 potential theories as to why that is.

Because it is merely a game mechanic and Larian did not want your only potential paladin to be an oathbreaker upon recruitment.

Her original oath to Lolth never broke because she never willingly joined the Absolute and her oath to the Absolute was made under false pretenses.

When she joins your group, she makes a new oath in your name instead.

Personally, I think that Minthara's oath is actually a mixture of 2 and 3. Yes, it is possible for a paladin to have multiple oaths at the same time. It just isn't a recommended practice in tabletop DnD because they can sometimes contradict each other, some oaths will straight up break other oaths, or the players just are unable to manage them properly. In this case, I do believe that Minthara has two oaths, one to Lolth and one to you.

I have not been able to find any reference to how paladin oaths work when the paladin is being coerced or mind controlled. But from what I have read in DnD lore, when a paladin makes an oath they have to do so willingly, deliberately, and consciously. None of those things occurred for Minthara when she took up her oath to the Absolute which is why it did not break her oath to Lolth (because it otherwise would have as she would have been sworn to destroy the Absolute for Lolth). And, technically speaking, the god that the oath is sworn to cannot go in and break the oath. Only the paladin can break their own oath. I only think gods can revoke divinity from their clerics. So, even if Lolth was truly pissed at Minthara, Lolth herself cannot just break Minthara's oath. That is something only Minthara can do. Minthara's original oath to Lolth still being intact is not necessarily indicative that she still has Lolth's favor, it just means she hasn't yet broken the terms of that oath. Even a crisis of faith (which Minthara is going through) won't break the paladin's oath either.

Another thing that is important to note is that as of 5e, a paladin actually does not need to make their oaths in the name of a god or before a god as their divinity is powered solely by the oath itself. Paladins are able to just summon divine smites and other holy based powers by sheer force of will and conviction (which is pretty damn sexy if you ask me). I mean, oathbreaker paladins still have access to divinity as well. Of course, paladins can still make an oath in the name of a god and most typically do, it's just that gods are not the source of power behind that oath. An oath is nothing but a vow, a promise that the paladin makes *to* a god, not the other way around. It does not even need that gods approval. So Lolth abandoning Minthara will also not break Minthara's oath either because Lolth is not the one who made an oath to Minthara.

So, it is very much possible that when Minthara joins your group, she does make a new oath in your name as oaths don't need gods. But, Minthara herself does not actually know how to live her life without having some kind of god figure so she just kinda puts you in that spot for the time being. I mean, she literally prayed to multiple gods and you were the one that answered. Which is also one of the many reasons why she does to along with what you want to do (even if she disagrees) because the oath she made to you would keep herself in check and keep her from acting against you. Minthara already is a very loyal person, but if you have any doubts on Minthara's loyalty, just keep in mind that she is quite literally oath bound to do whatever you tell her to do and will not betray you.

Minthara also never goes out of her way to become an oathbreaker, even after you free her from the Absolute. To be precise, you have to command her to break her oath. And of course, she will do so willingly knowing the consequences. Despite her oath being broken, she will still abide by the tenants of that oath. But she does enjoy the freedom that comes with being an oathbreaker and now nothing will hold her back from achieving her goals. However, she also says she does not know if her oath will still stand when all the nonsense with the Absolute is resolved and she even implies that if you do take the Absolute, she will no longer have an Oath of Vengeance, but an Oath of Conquest (which I think fits her better than vengeance if I'm being honest).

Minthara also makes quite a few suggestions to you that would actually break you oath if you are a paladin. Such as making an oath to Gortash, or making certain choices in regards to the vampire spawn. But, Minthara never does any of these things herself and I think that is purposeful. She knows these actions are oathbreaking type of actions. She attempts to orchestrate a fight between Dame Aylin and the wizard knowing fully well that it will break Aylin's oath. And she really wants you to go snitch on the wizard (although I just think it's because of her disdain for wizards rather than her being a little scoundrel to mess with Aylin's oath).

She is very very careful to keep herself in the position that she is because she doesn't want to be an oathbreaker initially. She is also very careful to tell you to do all these things. The language that she uses in regards to her oaths are also very important. Her original oath to Lolth would have her sworn to destroy the Absolute. But, we also know that Minthara very much has other ideas for the Absolute that do not involve destroying it (but oaths only break from oath breaking actions, not oath breaking thoughts). And her oath to you, she very specifically says that she is sworn to destroy all those who serve the Absolute, which is not exactly the same kind of oath she has with Lolth.

But, there is only one instance in this game in which Minthara will willingly become an oathbreaker and you do not have to command her to be one and that is if and only if you claim the brain. Her choosing not to destroy the brain when she had the opportunity to breaks her oath to Lolth. Now, the oath that she makes to you is where it becomes very very tricky. The oath she made to you, she specifically uses the language to "destroy all those who serve the Absolute". Her oath gets broken to you because she has become someone who serves the Absolute. But, there's more than that. If you become the Absolute, you also enthrall all your other companions which would make them servants of the Absolute and she also does not destroy them. Ironically, her choosing to serve you as the Absolute, breaks the oath she made to you because she has gone back on what she said she was going to do in your name. But most importantly, she chose not to get vengeance for herself.

Her oath to you was never to help you become the Absolute. Her oath was specifically to assist you with destroying the Absolute and all those who serve it. Her choosing not to destroy the Absolute and everyone who serves it, breaks both of her oaths. So, the Minthara that greets you at the gallows is now an oathbreaker. But, as I mentioned earlier, Minthara has already expressed the notion of taking up a completely different oath if you were to claim the Absolute. She helped you become the Absolute, knowing it was going to break her oath, and she had the intention of immediately replacing it with an Oath of Conquest, making her the first official paladin of the Absolute.

The fact that she wants you to become Absolute at all and that she prefers being an oathbreaker is why I read her as a canon oathbreaker. But she will never break her oath out of betrayal, but because of loyalty and devotion. She breaks her oath trying to make you as powerful as you can be. I have also discussed previously that her devotion is her fatal flaw and her choosing to remain devoted to you could potentially get her back in the same position you found her (that is if you betray her and choose to use the Absolute to reenthrall her). Her becoming solely devoted to you officially removes any and all ties she has to Lolth. But it causes Minthara to remain stagnant in which she doesn't learn anything, she doesn't change at all, and she doesn't grow.

She will live the rest of her life devoted to someone that isn't herself and act in the name of someone that isn't herself. She will live the rest of her life helping you achieve your goals and ambitions and what she wants is kinda secondary to all that because she has propped you up on a pedestal. She has always lived her life in service of a god and she does not know how not to. Many of the things that she has done in her life are not because she wanted to do them, but because she had the burden of expectations either from Lolth, from her family, or from Menzoberranzan culture and her oath kept her bound to these expectations. And she is falling back into that cycle with you because you failed to show her that there was another way and that she could be devoted to herself. You failed to show her that she does not need a god and she can indeed choose for herself.

[ravengards-rogue]

i think it's interesting that astarion has a tendency towards apathy. or at least, on the surface - this is the identity that he believes suits him best. that his roguishness and selfishness and otherwise immoral character is all born from apathy. it's always a song and dance, a show of who can care less. i can't speak much of astarion pre-spawn but post-cazador there is always this bitter cat-and-mouse game.

nothing matters except me. nothing matters except my safety, and the only reason it's worth concern is as it pertains to me. i do think some part of that's genuine. i think 200 years of vile abuse does that to someone and astarion, without debate, was once a very shitty person.

but then, astarion gets company. meets people who are annoying and heroic and silly and empathetic. he meets you - someone who is at some point willing to give his agency back to it, or has some interest in maintaining it. someone who at a baseline just respects him as an autonomous being. and then the mask of apathy, very quickly falls apart. the apathy, the anger, the bitterness - it's all there. it's still there, even when there's someone who cares for him.

but admidst the ending world there's. someone. just someone. and that's as little as it really takes to break astarion in such a particular way. and then you come to realize that he is actually so inconceivably far from infallible. there's something quite pathetic to him. to all of him. underneath of all that is such gripping and miserable loneliness that all it takes for him to care or want is something as basic as respect - you start to think of him very differently.

you see him for what he is which is afraid. always. perpetually. ingrained deep into his bones, terrified. the mask of apathy is worn with the explicit purpose of redircection. if astarion can convince you that he cares for nothing but himself, maybe he can convince himself too. maybe you won't notice all the ways in which he is broken down. maybe you won't notice the way he lingers in hugs and the way his voice breaks trying to assure you want him. maybe if astarion wins at this - nothing will be taken from him.

maybe, maybe - if astarion can play at apathy he can convince himself he doesn't want you love him at all. not once. he can convince himself that the warm feeling of your hands and the self-assured firmness of your love isn't something he wants to fall back on. maybe he can convince himself he'll move on when he outlives you.

maybe if astarion never shows that it all matters to him so much nothing will be taken from him again. what a poor defense mechanism though, really - because all of it seems to matter to him so much

[maximumzombiecreator]

Nothing sours me on a crunchy game faster than when the GM is expected to patch over rules and balance problems.

I understand the appeal of designing the game with a fast and loose approach, knowing that everything ultimately has to pass through a human brain that can make adjustments and judgments. But for me this comes back to the question: why am I playing a crunchy game in the first place?

For me, one of the big reasons is that crunchy games facilitate paraplay. By paraplay I mean the play-around-play, the parts of playing a game that happen outside of running the actual session. (I've also heard this called "lonely fun" but I don't like that term, because very often there are big communities for this, and it isn't really lonely at all.)

Most of my social hobbies have some form of this. Wargames have building and painting and buying miniatures, multiplayer videogames have streams to watch and builds to learn, card games have deck building and tuning, etc.

For GMs, almost every game has paraplay, since prep can be a form of this. But for players, crunchy games give them something to do away from the table. Theory-crafting communities, fiddling with character builds, browsing lists of spells and feats, all these things give engaged players a way to engage with the game even when they're not at the table. There are a lot of players for whom this is a lot of fun!

Except…

If the game doesn't actually have balance, if it allows things to just be broken and require the GM to patch them, then these players will bring the product of their paraplay to the table and be told "no, that doesn't work, actually" and then find out that they weren't actually having fun during their paraplay. They were just wasting their time. They'll disconnect from that side of the game (if they don't disconnect from the game entirely), and then you're saddled with a bunch of rules and mechanics that aren't producing what is, from my perspective, one of the primary payoffs. Not to mention cultivating a resentment not between the player and the game, but between the player and the GM who ruined their paraplay fun.

I got no use for that.

[lobautumny]

Alright, guess this toy's gonna talk about Palworld, because it's seen Discourse™️ start to crop up about how "supporting the game is immoral because it's stealing designs from Pokemon!"

Now look, this toy's not about to sit here and tell you that all of the monster designs in Palworld are completely original and the game isn't, on some level, a bootleg. Obviously a lot of the designs are bootleg pokemon. That's not the point it wants to get at. The point is that it doesn't really matter.

First of all, nobody is being hurt by Palworld having knockoff pokemon among the ranks of its monsters. Game Freak is not some tiny indie developer struggling to make ends meet having their work unfairly co-opted by a big, bad corporation. Pokemon is, in fact, the largest, most profitable media franchise of all time, and Palworld is an indie game. The reason that something like this would hypothetically be scummy/shitty is if someone were taking someone else's work, changing it slightly, claiming it as their own, and thus depriving the original creator of credit/visibility that they should've had. But that literally can't happen here, because everyone already knows what Pokemon is. So unless it gets found that they're stealing designs from fakemon artists or something (there was one alleged instance, but it seems to have just been a coincidence of two different people having the idea of "what if Chimecho but with big, bulky arms?"), Palworld is hurting nobody through having bootleg designs, so the moral argument against the game falls flat.

With that out of the way, there's a much more interesting topic to discuss here: Why is it that when someone's fangame gets C&D'd, everyone immediately jumps to the creator's support, accurately assessing that our copyright system is broken and primarily serves to hurt independent artists, but the moment a developer makes the changes necessary to make sure their fangame doesn't get hit with a C&D (and to allow them to make money off of it), it's suddenly bad and cringe and unoriginal?

The argument that "Palworld is lazy and unoriginal and therefore bad because the monster designs are too similar to Pokemon's designs" is something that this toy would be willing to hear out if Palworld were a turn-based singles-format RPG with similar systems/overall structure to those found in Pokemon games, but, uh. It isn't. It's a third-person shooter with monster-catching mechanics and, like, Factorio-ass automation and base-building, from what this toy can tell. And it doesn't know if the game is good, as someone who has not played it (or even really seen gameplay of it), but it can absolutely tell you that the game's not lazy.

Sure, they could have done more to make the monster designs feel more unique, and that's absolutely a valid criticism for the game. This toy doesn't want to come across like it's saying otherwise. It just wants people to recognize that that's kind of a nitpick when the game is, on a mechanical and genre level, something completely different from anything any Pokemon game ever has been or ever will be, and that nobody would be complaining about laziness or a lack of originality if this came out as a fangame literally just using actual pokemon. In that reality, people would've been popping off at how high-effort it is, actually. And like, even putting money aside, this game literally could not exist as a fangame. A while back, someone uploaded some videos on Youtube showcasing a fangame they were developing that was an FPS where the enemies were pokemon. They got hit with a C&D and their Youtube account was terminated within a couple days of the videos being uploaded. The game was not monetized, and in fact, never even had a download link, to this toy's recollection. Palworld would have suffered the same exact fate if it wasn't its own IP.

[the-sage-libriomancer]

Shigure's relationship with Kyo drives me crazy. he doesn't hate Kyo in the slightest - in fact, he pities Kyo, and not in the condescending "oh you poor little boy, cursed to be a horrible, disgusting monster" sort of way that everyone else does. Shigure pities Kyo for the reason he should be pitied: he's just a kid caught up in a system so inhumane it can't possibly be survived without some seriously unhealthy coping mechanisms.

and it drives me crazy because - listen, Shigure is the only zodiac member who's emotionally aware enough to see the other zodiac members as exactly what they are. he knows Yuki is a severely traumatized kid who projects all of his self-hatred on a single convenient target. he knows Akito is really a scared little girl with a raging god complex (literally) and no concept of a healthy relationship. and he knows Kyo is a regular-ass human being who doesn't deserve to be locked up for the rest of his life just because some arbitrary system says so. he KNOWS it's stupid. he KNOWS it's ridiculous and unfair. and he has to share a house with Kyo knowing that Kyo is living with a sword over his head, hating himself and hating others in perfect tandem because he has no other way of coping with the insane amounts of negativity he's had to deal with his entire life.

but the thing about Shigure is that he KNOWS all of this, and the same time he doesn't really CARE. he feels sorry for Kyo, but an apathetic sort of pity, a disinterested "this is how it is. such a shame." sort of pity. in some ways he's worse than the other zodiacs because he DOES see Kyo as a person, someone he likes being around even, but he still considers Kyo below his attention because all his focus is on Akito and breaking the curse. and sure, once the curse is broken Kyo will theoretically be set free with the rest of them, but that's more of a coincidental side effect than anything. despite being in a much more dangerous and precarious mental space AND comfortably in Shigure's reach, Kyo is about as much a priority for Shigure as Ritsu or Momiji.

and it drives me CRAZY because i think Shigure does start actively caring about Kyo as the series goes on, but it's hard to tell when that happens and to what extent. when Kazuma told Shigure he planned to reveal Kyo's true form and Shigure said he was going too far - whose sake was it for? was Shigure trying to protect Kyo, who would be hideously traumatized/emotionally scarred by such a cruel betrayal? was he trying to protect Kyo and Tohru's relationship, which was still formulating and might, under such severe testing, ultimately end up damaged beyond repair? was he only trying to protect Tohru, who wasn't ready to be burdened by such a horrible aspect of the curse so soon, or perhaps simply didn't deserve it? or was it all for the sake of himself, trying to protect his still-forming plans of using Tohru's positive effect on the Sohmas to break the curse?

Shigure cares about Kyo, but they're not close and Kyo clearly isn't a priority. he treats Kyo like a person - offering him genuine advice, teasing him like he teases anyone else, even speaking up on his behalf once or twice - and yet he's too entrenched in the long game to spare much active interest in Kyo. for a very long time, he doesn't care about Kyo the way he cares about Yuki or Tohru, and it's never made clear when exactly that changed. and the thing that gets me about this whole situation is that right from the start, Shigure is in a position where he can meet Kyo at his level - as equals, just one human being to another - but he doesn't, because Shigure is a chessmaster, Shigure is someone who observes and calculates, Shigure never steps in unless one of his chess pieces makes a wrong move and he absolutely has to.

it drives me crazy. Shigure drives me crazy. this series drives me so so crazy.

[chaifootsteps]

tbh one thing i liked about the instas that i dont think the series will bring back is him wearing casual clothes outside of work. the concept of a gay male sinner from the 1940s embracing modern day fashion from the current era because of how cute it is without anyone caring because its hell, (with the implication he mightve been doing this for decades beforehand before he came to the hotel,) is just really cool concept to me :3 it gave him a fashion identity outside of his sex work (something the show really doesnt do at all,) and it let him explore a more cutesty side to his character, but in a really natural way! i also just liked it because most of the sinners we saw tended to stick to dressing from their era, which made angel stand out more.

but this isnt present at all in the series, and even weirder, the one time he has a chance to put on pajamas in episode 2 like the girls have, where hes alone in his room with fat nuggets, he doesnt. maybe we wouldve had time for that if there wasn't a joke dedicated to showing how tone deaf and christian charlies morals are for the bisexual daughter of lucifer morningstar.

all the clothes he wears, there's more of a focus of his outfits from posion rather then anywhere else. i hardly see as much fanart of that stupid ugly ripped finale suit, as much as i see fanart of the latex suit angel wears while singing about being unable to help swallowing poison. either that, or the outfit he wears while dancing with val. love the fluffy spider butt, but cmon. we can get an angel dust design thats more spider in a natural way, but we can't see him wear casual clothes when he isnt working? or even see him in a full suit? (i really miss the purple suit from the instas, no stupid pink stripes, full suit for both arms, and his boobs were out w his tie instead of being hidden away like they are in the finale, which was perfect for his character </3)

him wearing clothes separate to his identity as a pornstar also helped him reclaim some of his freedom under his contract, obviously being unable to choose what val makes him wear on set. that's what angel dusts actions reflected in the instas and the comics too. (the "work shit" box comes to mind, i hate that borderline on screen rape is fine for an amazon funded show, but a box of dildos is too much,) even the addict mv shows this, with angel wearing just a pink sweater and some purple shorts when laying with cherri. or even just the casual, but cute outfit he wears when he blows up that club with her.

its just one of the few things that made him feel human, especially when fashion is bound to change in so many ways when youve been in hell for 77 years like he has. this part of his character being missing (along with the implication he even has a life outside of his work in the series; pilot ad was coping with work with hard drugs, being an teasing asshole as a defensive mechanism, getting into turf wars and murdering mafia goons. but still dresses cute and gets to be cute w his friends in his own time! series ad is coping by self destructing and letting people drug and fuck him so he'll be "broken" but then gets better by going out once after being waterboarded at work, only to not relax and be a mom to a joke character at a club called fucking consent,) is one of the reasons im still bitter about the instas being nuked. but not the only reason.

viv will always takes the credit for them anyway, no matter if she feels they do or not, because her fanbase isn't smart enough to realize someone else wrote these stories they still love. even if theyll be the first one to remind you they arent canon, because the creator said they arent. but my honest to god confession is that sometimes the instagrams feel more like the canon hazbin hotel to me, even months after s1 dropped, simply due to the nuance and detail it has compared to the actual series. it wasnt perfect, but you could tell there was passion there- passion that now, only the leads are allowed to put in hazbin so their favorite character can get more screentime and attention.

Thank you, Anon, for this absolutely beautiful writeup. It was true, seeing the difference between the outfits Val forced him into versus the outfits he chose to wear on his own time was one of the most interesting aspects of Instagram Angel Dust. It was a more safe-for-work extension of the "work shit" dildoes that didn't make it to Amazon Prime (while his graphic on-screen gang rape did) and it was powerful.

Of course, there are practical logistical reasons why cartoon characters wear the same outfit, but if only one character in HH was going to have a big wardrobe, it absolutely should have been Angel. But of course it wasn't, because as far as Viv and Raph were concerned, the only Angel outfits that mattered were the ones that fed into their shared fetish.

[burntblueberrywaffles]

the desperate anidala bitches shall rejoice, because i come offering a second rec list 😌 /lh

My Anidala/Vaderdala rec list! (part 2)

You can find the first rec list here!

sorry I took so long this got buried way down in my drafts but it's finally out 🫡

some of these are not complete so do check chapter count and pls dont yell at me asdfhgkjfh

Modern AUs

The Bet

Anakin's had a crush on Padmé since fourth grade, and after putting up with his pining for seven years, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka are finally stepping in and making a bet that he can't ask her to junior prom in the spring. Meanwhile, Padmé is realizing that Anakin isn't as annoying as she'd always thought. In fact, her feelings towards him are starting to go in quite the opposite direction...

Snow Place Like Home

For genre-typical convoluted reasons involving ill-timed blizzards, Padmé is forced to spend the holidays at Anakin's house. Anakin isn't as upset about his boss staying with him for Christmas as he probably should be.

Second Chances

When Luke Amidala and Leia Skywalker meet at summer camp, they're shocked to discover that they're long-lost twins. The logical next step? Getting their estranged parents back together.

I usually avoid Parent traps AU just because I dislike it as a setup, but when it comes to Anidala a bitch is desperate, and this was a cute and fun one, I really enjoyed it!

Lemon

“What other secret fantasies do I have that are glaring neon signs for you?” Anakin asks. “You’re conflicted,” Padmé says, “because on one hand you want to be a very good boy for me, but on the other you want to misbehave so I have a reason to punish you.” He blows out a plume of smoke and taps the ash off his cigarette. “You know, I really thought you were a nerd. I thought I'd have to be like, ‘Hey, how about you tie me up sometime.' Get you into this stuff little by little. But no, you’re diving right in like we met on a BDSM subreddit or something.” Or: Padmé has car problems. Thankfully she knows a good mechanic.

normally, I probably never would have checked out this fic, (mommy kink is just not my thing) but as previously stated, A BITCH WAS DESPERATE and you know what it actually slapped 😌

Rebound

Padmé Naberrie has just been broken up with. She wasn't prepared for a night out with her girls to find her a rebound. She certainly wasn't prepared for Anakin Skywalker.

Sith-Raised Anakin

the inevitable end of dancing with the devil

"Maybe it was too crass to compare the devil to such a creature—Lord Vader wasn’t the devil, he was worse." Senator Amidala was undoubtedly one of the most respected and adored public servants to walk the galaxy. Lord Vader was not. Vaderdala AU. Arranged Marriage AU

A Worthy Sacrifice

Chancellor Palpatine has dropped the act and decided to rule the galaxy openly as Darth Sidious. His reign wouldn’t be half as successful without his unhinged attack dog Darth Vader, a much rumoured warbringer who appears in black robes with a saber red as blood and brings even the strongest revolutionaries to their knees. Padmé is not only fighting for her home country but the freedom of the known regions and she is desperate to turn the tides of this war which is why she agrees to the deal Sidious offers her: A child with this favourite Sith Lord in exchange for her home: Naboo.

This is one of my favourite fics with this trope!

Pearl in My Head

Padmé's just starting her career as a Senator when she attracts some unwanted attention from the Emperor, who has decided on a very different role for her in the Empire. [empire already exists, arranged marriage/forced proximity au! loosely follows some aotc/rots events]

What Was I Made For?

Darth Vader was not a man made for love, but this was not love. Or, Basically, Padme and Vader are friends with benefits, but she's so nice to him that it makes him question his entire existence.

FOR YOUR LOVE (i’ll do whatever you want)

𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐢’𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 He gave her that devilish smirk of his. The one that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. “I’ll give you what you want.” OR, A rare moment of intimacy happens for Padmé and Anakin – whose relationship is strictly carnal.

I have yet to read the second chapter (will get on that when I get out of the snowbaird hole lol) but I really enjoyed the first one!

Vaderdala

love me, love me (like you used to do) 

In which Vader fails to capture his son, but gains a daughter, his wife, another pair of twins... and the past.

this fic was SO GOOD holy shit literally made me feral when i fiorst read it

Love Like Ghosts

There are very few people who know the location of the Rebel Alliance’s base on Naboo. Even fewer who know the names of any of the people who work there. So when Padmé gets up on a cold morning, the windows frosted and harsh wind rattling the doors of the large house that’s been the headquarters of the Alliance for nearly two decades, to see a package with her name on it sitting on the doorstep, her heart stops in her chest.

loved this fic but as a heads up it doesn't provide "they get back together" closure so be ready for that

news of old by @ineedausernamel829

Padme is a member of the rebel alliance. During a mission, her past relationships with darth Vader comes to light

No vaderdala interactions, but exploration of the relationship through Padme talking about it - It’s so so good

Sad Vaderdala hours

Imperial Socialite

In a timeline where Darth Vader doesn't face immolation and Padmé Amidala lives, their marriage continues in a form that is at once far more honest and deeply dysfunctional. Though Padmé tries to remain within the Imperial Senate, the trauma of her husband's betrayal--and the apparent deaths of her children--force her into early retirement. Too much of a liability to aid the emerging Rebel cause directly, Padmé seeks out new avenues of defying the Empire: by leveraging her connection to Vader to mess with the Imperial Elites of Coruscant.

it could be sweet

an interconnected collection of stories based on the idea of what would have happened if Padmé had lived. (aka me finally writing down my self-indulgent vaderdala daydreams aka me living my best life)

This series is so good in a "rip my heart out of my chest and steps on it" way

all joy sucked dry

Her husband had fallen, her life’s work had crumbled, and her own babies were strangers to her. But she didn’t even care, and that was the worst part. Or: Padme deals with postpartum depression, and Vader is ill-equipped to help her

Others

Across the Seas

Padmé Amidala - the daughter of the royal governor of Jamaica - never expected her life to be much more than it already was. Her routine is to dress in her finest clothes, put on a pretty face, and ensure she is presentable to not only the people but to the many men attempting to court her. However, Padmé's world is flipped around when pirates attack, and the young woman finds herself in the company of their fearsome, brash, (dashing) Captain. Initially sickened by the roughish man, Padmé will quickly learn there is so much more to the mysterious Captain Skywalker. A pirate's life for me

The pirate AU I didn’t know I needed. So good

Right & Wrong

After they watch a holoshow that portrays reprehensible content, Anakin unwittingly reveals the concerning way Chancellor Palpatine acts towards him. Padmé will not let anyone harm her husband — and she’ll make this Obi-Wan, the Jedi Council, and even the whole galaxy’s problem if she needs to.

when the grooming is actually adressed >>

cestrum nocturnum

Summer on Naboo, the Clone Wars have yet to begin, and Anakin is tasked with protecting Senator Amidala after an attempt is made on her life. It's too bad that every moment with her has him in agony, and every moment apart is even worse—especially after that night in the courtyard ... Or: Anakin spends a torturous time on Naboo in the company of the person he loves because he doesn't know how to tell her his true feelings.

Naboo smut 🤭

And that's it! if anyone has recommendations for a fic that isn't in either of my rec lists, please let me know! I am so so desperate I need my anidala fix

Since I was deep into the Star Wars hole and desperate, I’ve also been reading non-Anidala/non-Anidala centric fics about Darth Vader/Anakin/the Skywalker family, so I will be posting a rec list for that soon! (When i say soon it can mean anything from a day to months, my brain is not always great at tasks, if anyone wants to be notified when I do post it lmk and I’ll tag you ❤️)

[zeravmeta]

It's kind of intersting where you are saying this is a wake up call to recgonizing fgo's subpar gameplay because on my side it's very much just "we don't like servant coins" for the most part. Heck the fact that nobody has gotten to point of realizing you can do all this with three stars which lasengle active making five stars worse is another werid development. I've only seen only a few comments talking about if you're f2p these things aren't really relevant. Not that I don't agree fgo biggest weakness is that once you get burn out on the gameplay outside of few boss battles you aren't getting any enthuism back imo. And currently the only thing lasenagle does it just repeatedly buffing units through different ways rather than introduce unique gameplay meachnics that go against the normal grind set like Eli quest and Grailfront(In my personal opinion I think the greatest issuse is the fact that doing these things would equlivant of having a consistent ongoing event that need to be updated and I think you need a whole team for that for speicifcally that.) But the fact people angry more express that they care enough about the gameplay to get angry about the lack of acess to it because of basically a pay wall or well I haven't seen many people connect the dots to the gameplay itself being at fault. Also i couldn't tell from reblog what did they backpeddle again? It seems like they were already planing to revise the servant coin distrabustion and the fact they are expressing they openly said going to give the coins back and with eases adds more to the idea than takes away imo.

I kind of wanna address these points a bit just to make a larger point abt why this anniversary and the servant coins thing rings hollow and sour for a bunch:

I wouldn't say 'wake up call' is the right words, but rather 'this was the straw that broke the camels back'. As broken as FGOs gameplay is, something i will begrudgingly credit it for is that all content IS clearable even by low rarity units. Even the hardest challenge quests from things like fest events or certain story fights can be cleared from a full 3* and lower + 5* friend support comp. So of course, then begs the question: If gameplay isn't the main reason to summon (unless you're a tierlist slave for efficient farm comps for Some Reason), why summon at all?

Well, for your faves, of course. FGO gives you a ton of resources and shiny buttons and knobs to make numbers on your blorbo higher, meaning that the whole point of these extra resources is just to sink into a favorite character and get to experience the story with this talking png on hand to be your friend/lover/hater/slash/etc.

Servant Coins were a broken whale mechanic on inception due to being strictly gacha dependent, not only in how you acquire servant coins but in how little return there is for getting said servants. Summoning for a 5* is already infamously terrible, but not only do you need them for grailing above Level 100, but also for append skills? Realistically, the only reason to go for these resource sinks *is* for faves, and in fairness some dedicated players/whales save a whole bunch of sq just for their one/two favorite guys (regardless of if they actually get them lol, you can save over 1K+ and still not even get a single rate up servant). It's very likely that some of these people Did save all their sq to then have all the necessary servant coins to ultimate max their favorite guy.

but to then ask even more from them, to sink even more into the most infamous gacha in all gachas just to maybe have a chance to marginally improve them? That was just a slap in the face. Mind you, a lot of people talk about how these latest appends are actually the most gameplay defining in how they can lower skill cool downs, which is def a huge buff compared to other appends/stat buffs and even skill buffs, but that type of discussion misses the point that this was one of the greediest changes ever done, especially for a game whose base gameplay hasn't really been improved, optimized, or significantly changed in any way.

You can tell even the devs knew that Servant coins were a broken greed mechanic from inception, since they had retroactive refunds for 4-5* servants (but not 3*s. grr) and from the outcry of this anni they walked back some of the changes and even gave out a second overall refund of servant coins, but ultimately this is another bandaid solution to the core issue: FGOs gameplay just isnt fun.

People put up with FGOs gameplay to get to read FGOs story, and we're just at the point where it's not getting to be worth it anymore. The visual novel masquerading as a gacha is being killed by its own status as a gacha.

The truly frustrating thing is that there *are* legitimate ways of playing FGO which CAN be fun, specifically challenge quests and Grail Fronts. Those are the two types of play that actually make FGO's gameplay work to an extent, and yet these types of changes are just never made in any permanent way. Past boss fights are locked forever, previously cleared challenge quests are lost forever, they just do not repeat these gameplay opportunities, and this goes hand in hand with another issue, one which I would say is the true root of all FGO's problems:

They fucking lock past story content

When me and other mutuals are heeing and haawing about having event reruns/a compendium, it's not just to talk about FGOs story being good, because it is! It's to make it so that newbies aren't fucking locked out of the MAIN GODDAMN REASON TO EVEN PLAY THIS GAME. IMPORTANT STORY CRITICAL EVENTS LIKE THE KNK COLLAB, GUDAGUDA EVENTS AND MORE ARE JUST LOST FOREVER TO YOUTUBE STORY COMPILATIONS BECAUSE THE BASE GAME DOES NOT HAVE ANY SORT OF COMPENDIUM FOR THESE PAST EVENTS.

Event Archives just WORK. You can look at so many modern gachas these days and see that they all have event compendiums for events they will not rerun, and the reason is simple: FGO popularized the idea of using a gacha to tell a story, so gachas put more stonks into their writing and dont limit that Very Critical Component Of Why People Would Play Their Game To Begin With.

But for some fucking reason, FGO just does not. Really think about this for a moment: People have put up with a near decade of terrible gameplay and corporate gacha greed just to read FGO's story. It's fucking good! But that's just not gonna be enough anymore when Type Moon is now using their fucking Das Rheingold of gacha money to make new/remake vns. For all that people talk about FGO story burnout, I flat out disagree: People do want more FGO story, Samurai Remnant is a huge fucking testament to that and a major component of why I want an FGO console release, to be FREE from its gacha ball and chain.

People just don't want to have to put up with a terrible gacha system anymore to experience that good story.

[jaegeraether]

Sunsets and footballers (Part 79)

Alexia Putellas x Character (35) - Ridley Part One

Masterlist (other parts here)

((**4.5k**))

This is PART ONE of TWO for Ridley. You DO NOT have to read this! This is simply me getting out what's been in my head for a while about Ridley and her darker side and military ties. Although this one isn't bad at all, part two will be a lot more graphic and morally grey.

Any Australian military mentions such as squadron types and specialties are 100% real and researched.

Feel free to skip these two Ridley parts as you won't be missing anything in the main story. :)

RIDLEY POV PART ONE

Ridley’s body was thrown into the straps of her five-point harness relentlessly. She was sitting in the jump seat of a C17 – a last minute military aircraft she’d caught from London to Dubai. She just needed to escape. To get far away from her in the hopes that it would stop her from hurting Alexia. She wasn’t too concerned with hurting herself.

“The CAT is easing, Commander,” came the voice of the pilot through her head set. “We’re almost through it.”

CAT – Clear Air Turbulence. Ridley was tired, but she couldn’t sleep. She was seated in the cargo hold which was devoid of any other human except herself. “Copy.”

The flight was 7 hours long, and most of it she’d spent staring a thousand-yard stare into that void of the cargo hold just thinking about her. Alexia. The way she’d whispered, moaned, begged for her. The way she felt, the way she tasted and fucking moved with her. Her sounds when she whimpered, when she’d was pushed to her limits… when she came. It had broken Ridley, like she knew it would. How could she ever want anything less than all of her after that? No, she deserved more. She deserved the whole fucking world, and not the monster she was. Alexia had no idea what she was getting herself into with her, and she needed to protect her from herself.

They landed at 2pm local time and she caught a lift into town with one of the senior ranked officers on base. Ridley was known in the military world, and she’d been around. Met a lot of people. Worked hard and climbed the ranks. She was respected for her accomplishments, and now could come and go as she pleased, as she held such a high security clearance.

“Are you sure, Commander?” The officer asked.

Ridley nodded. “Here is perfect. Thanks for the lift.”

“Give us a call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

He left and she waited for him to do so. Only when he was gone did she jump on public transport to get to where she was actually going. She was used to frequenting Dubai for a few reasons, one of which being that it was central and in her line of work, that was essential.

She exited the train and moved over to the bus line, making sure she wasn’t followed as she went. Always aware. Always watching. Avoiding cameras and drawing attention. The bus moved through six stops and she stepped off just before the doors closed. From there she walked to her destination, stopping at a café on the way to pick up some sweets. A popular local sweet dish in Dubai that she loved was knafeh, which she bought along with filled donuts which were a must.

She paid for her items, adding a bottle of water to the list and was off down the street. She arrived at her destination at around 2:45pm and stopped outside, looking up at it. It was a mechanic shop. And not just any mechanics, the best in town. Anyone who knew Dubai knew that expensive cars were a given. Almost everyone had one. And this was the place they all fought for bookings at.

She walked into the open floor planned warehouse which was lined down the outer edges with cars on different levels, each getting work done, and each more expensive than the last. Ferrari, Lamborghini, Aston Martin, Bugatti, Maserati, Rolls Royce. She walked through and acknowledged each nod she received from the people who worked there. She came upon the office of the owner and knocked twice, opening before he answered.

“Ridley!” The voice boomed. Ali was a rich man, though not the egotistical type. In fact, he was rather the opposite. Most of the money he made went straight back into humanitarian efforts and other philanthropic endeavours.

She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek as she placed the knafeh on his desk in front of him.

“For you.”

He hummed as he looked her up and down. “You seem different…” he said in a strong Arabic accent.

Of course she did. She was fucking heartbroken. Grieving. In love with Alexia and forcing herself to break her heart. Plus, she hadn’t slept in 46 hours and had been wearing the same clothes she’d thrown on hastily as she’d left her in bed 9 hours ago.

“I haven’t slept in a few days.”

“No, no. There’s something else…” he murmured, still wondering. Eventually he gave up like people usually did. Ridley was a closed book. “But alas, I think I’m tired myself. I’m guessing you’re here for that?” He asked, gesturing to the wall.

She nodded.

“I was told you weren’t coming. Are you staying for long?”

“Unsure.”

“You’re welcome as long as you’d like. Anything you need.”

Anything you need. She heard that during almost every conversation when she was in Dubai. Another reason she enjoyed the place so much.

He smiled as he opened the box and she forced herself to give one in return. It’s not that she didn’t want to – just that it was difficult to fake any sort of positive emotion at this point.

Ridley turned and moved through the second door in his office. The one that was barely used. It led to the part of the warehouse that no one was allowed to enter except Ali and a select few individuals. The individuals she was there to meet.

She entered to the darkened part of the warehouse and was greeted by four heads turning towards her with the majority of their expressions showing they were caught off guard. All except the one person standing. The big guy.

He stood in front of the trio with a projector behind him, and his hands held behind his back with discipline. Beckett. That's what everybody else called him. That or Lieutenant. To her, he was Becks.

The trio sat casually in front of him, their chairs met with desks either side for their notes and food. Their faces spread into grins as she approached, placing the donuts on the table.

“Oh no, she’s here! Fucking knew this was another BOHICA,” said the little guy known as Fuzzy. His real name was Kaupa and he was SASR for Australian Army. They all were. Together, the group was made up the Fourth Squadron of the Special Air Service Regiment, though the government had never acknowledged their existence, nor ever would.

To the public, there were four official Squadrons. The 1st, 2nd and 3rd were sabre Squadrons, made up of 20 troopers with differing expertise, and they rotated through counter terrorism/special recovery and warfighting/reconnassaince. Then there was the 152nd Squadron designed for electronic warfare and to support the sabre squadrons. There were more, of course, though these four were the basis of the SASR for Australia and were always closely supported by the Australian Secret Intelligent Service for any of their missions and activities.

Their fourth squadron was not the usual. Instead of five of each in their special fields, there was one of each. And they were the best.

First, there was the little guy, Fuzzy. He was called Fuzzy because he was born in Papua New Guinea and during WW2, the Australian soldiers in PNG named the locals the ‘Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels’ as they helped them, cared for them, gave them medical attention in support. Kaupa fit that description. He was a little loose cannon, though the best when it came to his specialty. Mountaineering and jungle warfare. You’d never even know he was there until you were dead.

The next was a typical Australian guy named Williams, though they called him Wombat. Short for eats, shits and leaves. Crass, but true. He never settled down and never slept with the same woman twice. The typical womaniser, though Ridley loved him. He was unapologetically himself and he was well aware of his shortcomings. You had to be a bit of a nutcase to be in their profession. His specialty was Airborne. He could pilot anything like Ridley, and she’d met him when they were in the Air Force together, prior to their being poached by the SASR.

The last of the trio was a woman named Morgan. Her nickname though, was Duce, short for Medusa. Why? Because she could level a man with a gaze and wasn’t there to fuck around. She was the toughest of the trio. Her specialty was Mobility. That was ground movements, land movements, logistics, terrain and sniping.

She grinned at Ridley who returned it without a second thought. These were her family away from family. The people she trusted with her life. Though she trusted no one beyond the big guy. Becks. His specialty was Water. Scuba diving, water raids, submarines, etc. They ran the Squadron together for some time and although she held a higher rank in the Air Force, they both held the same in the Army and refused to be made higher. They didn’t want a desk job or to be put in command of more platoons and squadrons. No, their job was perfect and to be quite honest, she doubted that anyone could replace any single one of them. That’s why they were so successful. That’s why everybody in that dark side of the world knew them, and yet the public never would. They did the terrible things so that people could live their lives in peace and a blind happiness.

“You always think it’s a BOHICA,” Ridley murmured as she stood next to Duce. The woman wrapped an arm around her waist and smirked up at her.

“We both know Fuzzy loves a bit of bending over and taking it.”

BOHICA: Army slang for ‘Bend over here it comes again’ i.e. we’re being fucked.

“Now, now, there’s no problem with swinging both ways,” Wombat teased with a wink. He wasn’t just a womaniser for women, that one. Wombat loved everybody.

“I didn’t think you were coming for this one, Wings.” Becks said from the front. The others went quiet. He was very well respected. They both were. And he was the only one who called her that.

She shrugged. “I was bored. Besides, I figured you’d all need the help.”

“Oh no she didn’t.” Wombat challenged and stood.

“Bad idea bad idea, Romeo will smack you down,” Fuzzy said – wanting to see the result.

“Need help huh?” He fake challenged again.

Ridley stepped forwards and got close to him. Real close. The one thing he couldn’t control with her was his dick, and she had never, nor would she ever have done anything past a friendly touch with him. So now with her so close, he froze and as her lips closed in on his, she swept his leg and shoved him hard in the chest, forcing him to fall hard on his ass on the chair.

“Keep dreaming, Wombat.”

He grinned and stuck his hands up in surrender.

Ridley took her seat near Duce and put her attention back on Becks. “The floor is yours.”

Becks started presenting their mission again, throwing her a pack to read through.

“Here’s the finer details, the basis of it is that we’ve had a task we need to complete tonight. The son of one of the biggest political figures in Dubai needs recovering. His father is of vital importance to the current political stability in the middle east. He keeps the peace between Dubai and the western countries, including Australia.”

“Where is the son?”

“Taken hostage by Somali pirates. They’re using him as a bargaining chip to have his father cut the relationship between the middle east and western countries, and also money. Lots of money.”

He wasn’t saying the full story and she knew it. “Spit it out, Becks.”

He studied her face with a neutral expression before he spoke. “Cumar has him.”

Fuck.

Cumar was one of the largest crime lords in Somalia. Up until this point, they hadn’t managed to capture or kill him. Though he had killed one of their own. One of the pilots she and Wombat had trained with. He’d killed him right in front of her as she hung from the fucking ceiling, beaten and bloody. She was lucky the group had found her in time. She had more than a few scars from that incident. That was the last time she’d disappeared from Alexia.

Cumar, however, had escaped. He was currently the most wanted man on the globe.

She turned and looked at Wombat whose jaw was locking and unlocking. James was his friend too. It was difficult to not involve emotions.

“This is not revenge,” Becks said, reading their minds. “This is an overdue extraction. He’s been with him for two weeks now.”

“Two weeks? Where the fuck are the SAS? Why didn’t they handle this?” Wombat growled. He had a point; they had a lot more riding on it.

“They’re stuck in the Ukrainian conflict, and the uprising in the middle east at the moment between Palestine and Israel.”

“Seals?”

“They tried. They lost contact with them before they even reached his base and the yanks received some… prizes in return.”

Body parts.

Cumar.

“They believe this to be impossible. They want the best.”

Silence again. They were an interesting group of personalities, though they all had that intellectual and professional persona when it was serious.

“You wouldn’t look so confident without a plan..” Ridley murmured.

“This is mainly mobility so Duce has made a plan and we need to expand on it and see if it’s viable.” They nodded. “Duce?”

They switched places, Duce taking the front and Becks sitting in the seat near Ridley. He put a hand on her shoulder briefly. That’s the most physical affection he tended to show, though it meant everything.

“I’ve been liaising closely with ASIS and we believe his location to be here,” she said, pointing to an area on the map. She spoke of the location, identified the hazards and from the intelligence they were given, where their security were posted. They all listened carefully, adding their expertise here and there to overcome each of the potential issues that were already onsite or that may arise at some point as they made their detailed extraction plan. As they were talking – Ridley knew that coming here had been the right choice. Sure, she hadn’t slept in two days, but this… this was distracting. It was the only thing that could have distracted her from the thought of Alexia.. the softness of her skin… the feel of her hands tangled with her own as she fucked her from-

“Romes?”

Ridley looked up and Duce smiled. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were tired.”

“Mmnhmn.”

“We were talking about this. This is where we believe the Seals had an issue. They chuted in but their carrier was spotted and fired upon. From there, they were already dead, it was just a matter of picking them off when they touched ground. There’s this strip here that we’ve noted which may potentially be large enough to land at…”

“If their carrier was spotted then engine noise is our other issue,” Wombat said before turning to Ridley. “Can we glide in?”

Wombat was a fucking good pilot. But he knew what he was asking was dangerous and beyond anything he’d done before. Ridley had much more experience testing the limitations of aircraft and maximising the efficiency of an aircraft within the relative airflow.

She stood and Duce automatically stepped aside. Ridley pulled up the live map of the landing strip, she checked the wind, the cloud levels, the distance to the first potential group of people who may hear them. She’d need to shut down engines early… though from the look of the air pressure and wind…

“It’s dangerous. It has the potential to go very, very wrong. But it’s not impossible. With the weight of everybody here… we can use a plane small enough for the strip. It’s a full moon with direct contact to the strip so we will have okay visibility without lights when we go engines out. We can pull lighting just as we come down to flare, the trees will cover it by then. The biggest issue is getting an aircraft with an incredibly high aspect ratio. Think gliders… with an engine.”

“What’s the range needed?” Wombat asked.

“If we get approval to base and depart from Mandy Bay… the round trip will be around 1000 nautical miles.”

“So… bladder tank.”

She nodded. “Definitely. We’ll calculate the fuel needed for the return before we land and dump the excess fuel for weight as we glide in.”

“Do we have contacts in Kenya?” Becks asked.

“I do,” Wombat nodded. “I have a guy who’ll have the aircraft we need. I’ll make a call.”

Becks nodded and turned back to Ridley. “We can do this?”

“I’ll need to monitor every and all weather changes, but for now, it will work. The strip is north east facing, directly into the forecasted wind. It’s also almost the perfect amount of headwind for the direction we hit it, and it’ll give us a bit of leeway too. Cumar’s location is north. It’ll be hard to hear us as we’ll be downwind of where they are. I’m thinking we can switch off the engine a little later than anticipated because of it. It may end up being a bit of a crash landing, though, depending.”

Duce chuckled and Fuzzy scoffed. “It’s all been crash landings with Wombat since you’ve changed to coming and going as you please. How’s life as a civvy?”

Civvy – a civilian. She rolled her eyes and ignored the attempt to get a reaction from her.

“Happy with the risk?” She asked.

Becks nodded and stood, offering a hand. He wasn’t big on physical affection, though this was a treat. She clapped hands with his large, rough one.

“I’m glad you’re here, Wings.” He was the only one to call her Wings, and she the only one to call him Becks. Their own little way of showing their respect.

“Me too,” she smiled. She was glad she’d come, knowing that she was the only one who could land this.

“But you’re sleeping on the cargo plane before we arrive.”

To anyone else, they would have taken that as an order. Although she’d moved to part time, coming and going when she wanted, it still didn’t take away her rank or the respect they had for her. Beckett always treated her like an equal, although he was technically the sole squadron leader now. She listened to him talk about sleep though, and she knew it was coming from a caring place. He wanted her safe. And the group. Fatigue was a liability.

“Wilco.”

An hour later, they were on another military aircraft to Kenya. Ridley had found a medevac stretcher and had settled there with her jacket over her eyes. She slept through the flight and only woke as they touched down. The landing gear hit the runway and she jolted upright automatically awake. Fuzzy looked at her and gave a somewhat sad smile. They all tended to have those reactions, after what they’d seen. And although the PTSD was mild and well managed with therapy – they all knew they were stuck with it for the rest of their lives.

They stepped outside to a bright moonlit night at the US military base of Mandy Bay, Kenya. Flying backwards, they’d gained an hour, as it was only 8pm. They were greeted by officers and taken straight to their prep room. Ridley and Wombat detoured on their way to scout the plane they were to use and made sure it was satisfactory for the job.

“Happy?” He asked as he inspected a prop.

She nodded from her place under the wing. “This will work.”

“How much fuel, Commander?” The US officer asked from his ladder. He was filling the bladder tank in the back of the aircraft.

“Hold five. And move it more central for our weight and balance. We can’t have an aft centre of gravity with the structure of this.”

“Yes, Commander.”

 As he and another soldier moved the bladder tank more central under Wombat’s supervision, Ridley took out her tablet and double and triple checked her flight plans with the updated forecast of winds and weather.

“I need full wing tanks and that bladder with an extra 280 litres. I’m going in to prep. Standby in case the winds change before we leave.”

“Affirm - full wing tanks and 280 litres in the bladder.”

Their prep took hours – as it should. They were very, very thorough. It was rare they were ever caught out by surprises or unplanned events. They collected their packs, their weapons, and ran through their strategies with updated intelligence. Whatever happened – they didn’t exist. She wondered what Alexia and Blue would be told if she weren’t to come back. If she were to be killed. To be fair, she just wanted them both safe and happy. And then her will would provide the extra cushion of financial support for them.

Their off-blocks time was 10pm. They flew straight north, following the coast as the moon reflected the waves below. They flew high enough to not be heard, yet low enough to not be seen. There was a single road that ran across the border of Kenya, into Somalia and towards their target. It looked empty from above, yet they all knew better. There were definitely more of Cumar’s people checkpointing the road. Duce had intelligence on a few areas to expect them should they have to escape via road, though not all of them.

Being stuck in a situation where they couldn’t be seen or heard to approach, it meant they needed to conduct a non-conventional approach to the landing strip over water. This was to avoid the noise over the land. Ridley dropped them low over the ocean and joined an extended base for the strip. In the moonlight, they spotted it, but barely.

“Engines out is final.” She reminded. “We won’t be attempting to restart and we will be landing, regardless.”

“Affirm,” Wombat agreed from the right seat.

As they approached the height of engine out, he started to read her airspeed and altitude. This was the most difficult part by far.

“On spec… on spec… plus 4 on slope… plus 7 on slope… plus 10 on slope…”

Ridley had purposely increased her approach speed to compensate for the upcoming lack of power.

“Plus 15, plus 50…. 200 above engine out… plus 20, plus 80… 100 above engine out… 50 above engine out.”

“Established. Engines out.” She directed.

“Copy – engines out. Engine 1…”

Wombat shut down the first engine and Ridley compensated for the yaw with her foot pressed hard into the rudder.

“Feather engine 1.”

“Feathering engine 1…” The pressure needed from her leg eased as it feathered. “Engine 1 feathered. Engine 2 out…” He said with his hand on the second throttle.

“Affirm, engine 2 out.”

Wombat shut down the second engine, cutting the mixture and all went silent. They were gliding.

She compensated for the tiniest bit of yaw before, “Feather engine 2.”

“Feathering engine 2…” The need for rudder was eliminated until it was just to account for the wind. “Engine 2 feathered.”

“Gliding, lights out.”

“On speed, 50 below.”

He read her speeds and altitudes all the way down the approach, as was usual for a multi-crew environment. She checked her fuel and was satisfied with the remaining amount.

“Dump the bladder.”

Becks, Fuzzy and Duce dumped the bladder tank from the aircraft which made it lighter and put her back on slope.

“On spec.”

She’d adjusted perfectly for the engine outs and the weight loss from the bladder, and she could hear it in Wombat’s voice.

“Wind 030 at 15.”

She’d noticed the wind had shifted to a slight crosswind, though it was manageable. It was more difficult with a high aspect ratio of course. Longer wings means more area for the crosswind to push, though she worked the rudder and ailerons to crab into the landing strip.

“300 above. On spec…. minimums…”

“Continue.”

“200 above on spec. Lights on?”

“No until the flare,” she murmured. The trees were lower than she’d expected, and didn’t want to risk the lights being seen. “Lights at 70.”

“Affirm.”

“100 above.”

They were only 100 feet above the ground and descending at a rate that would result in disaster. But that’s exactly where she wanted to be.

“70 feet, lights.” Wombat said – powering the lights.

Ridley had a split second of vision to flare relative to the ground. She did so and held pressure back on the yoke, not having to compensate for the wind that was now blocked by the tree line. She held back pressure until the mains touched, and slowed with brakes until she could let the nose wheel down.

“Lights off.”

“Lights off.”

They went back to darkness, moonlight only, though that was enough. Ridley made the most out of the momentum of the aircraft to roll it to the far end of the strip and pumped the right brake in stages to turn them back around near the tree line. Ready for a quick getaway.

They stopped and parked there, pulling the park brakes on. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“That was fucking extraordinary.” Duce said, speaking for the others. She leapt out first, with her pack and rifles.

Fuzzy tapped her shoulder in thanks on his way out also. “Missed you.”

Wombat gave her a grin. “You’ll always upstage me, huh?”

“Someone needs to keep you on your toes.” She shrugged as she took her headset off.

He leapt out and she went to follow suit when Becks murmured from behind her. “There will never be another you, Wings.”

The highest of Becks compliments. She didn’t have time to respond before he was out on the ground.

Ridley slipped out last, hitting the floor harder than usual with the weight of her pack. Now they were in Cumar’s territory. Any step could be their last.

All of the group were hyper focused on their surroundings and automatically took up positions where their backs were to each other, protecting each other. Regardless - Ridley hadn’t even had a chance to join when she felt a body against her back, and a knife pressed so hard into her stomach that it pierced through flesh.