#they tear him apart like wet tissue paper

[wintergrofyuri]

i talk a lot about voice yaoi. but lets talk a little bit about princess yuri shall we

burned/drowned grey. i like to call them browned butter. they rotate in my mind CONstantly im not going to lie. the quintessential princess yuri to me

spectre/damsel. alright im gonna be honest i have no explanation for this one. i just think they're neat. dont look at me ok.

witch/adversary. adversary teaches her actual self defense. doggirl/catgirl. ad throws her at their enemies like a catgirl shaped shuriken.

fury/wraith. me and my girlfriend saw you from across the bar and we really hate your vibe. we're going to kill you now.

tower/eye of the needle. can two shit brickhouses really fall in love. these overpowered women seek to find out.

nightmare/razor. just two scary bitches. nightmare would get such a huge kick out of razor's sword bones. they play tennis with the long quiet (they are the ball).

adversary/razor. two beautiful women beating the shit out of each other. what more could you ask for.

if you have any more please feel free to tell me i love women

[buckyalpine]

Catch Me If You Can AU

Remember this? (Mob Bucky x single mom police officer reader) Which lead to a part 2 and a part 3? Here is a lil drabble for that AU. For context if you don’t feel like reading all three parts: Mob Bucky falls in love with the pretty police officer who has been on his ass for ages. Not to mention she has a son, 8 year old Jordan, who sees Bucky as a hero no less. After a little kidnapping, a little flirting and going full on protective mode when her shitty ex tries to come back around, Buck finally gets to call her his. She’s a little hesitant at first but she falls for his baby blues and sweet charm. Here’s what happens a little while after you’ve been together. So much emotional fluff. 

-

“What is it J” Bucky curiously inspected the box that was placed onto his lap with a little bow tied on the top, wrapped up with carefully selected colorful paper. Jordan had spent the entire night shifting through different colors he thought Bucky would like and redoing the taping until it was perfect, hardly getting a wink of sleep, too excited for morning to come. 

“Open it!” Jordan grinned, though his heart was beating erratically on the inside, holding his breath when Bucky picked up the box again. The mob boss had taken the month off for Jordan’s 10th birthday, insisting they would do whatever he wanted but your son insisted he just wanted to spend time together. Still, Bucky pulled out all the stops, leaving a mountain of gifts in Jordan's room from him alone. Breakfast was filled with pancakes, every topping imaginable, fresh croissants, pastries and milkshakes along with a very hungry Steve, Sam and Peter. You were all still seated at the table finishing up while Jordan looked at Bucky intently. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one getting you presents” Bucky snorted while you watched him carefully unwrap the ribbon before gently taking the wrapping paper apart revealing a plain white cardboard box with an envelope taped onto the front.

“Should I read this or see what’s inside first?” Bucky asked curiously. 

“Uh-You can read the letter first” Jordan peeked up, hoping to hide his anxiousness while Bucky took out the paper, unfolding a hand written letter. 

Dear Dad,

I talked to mommy about this and this is what I want for my birthday. I thought it would wait till Christmas but I really wanted it now. 

No pressure, you can always say no but I hope you’ll say yes.

Love,

Jordan

Bucky’s brows furrowed, looking at the documents inside the box, his entire world stopping as he read the words printed on the paper. 

“J?”

Jordan shuffled on his feet nervously, afraid to meet Bucky’s eyes, only looking up when Bucky reached out to gently squeeze his hand. 

“Are-are you sure?”

“I’m sure” Jordan whispered, missing the tears that streamed down Bucky’s face, pulling the little one into his chest, kissing the top of his head. “So you’ll sign it? You’ll adopt me?” Jordan looked up hopefully while Bucky let out a wet chuckle. 

“Y’know you’re already mine, right? I want this but these are just papers. I love you no matter what” Bucky said firmly, meaning every word. You bit your lip to keep from sobbing seeing your two favorite boys attached at the hip while Bucky signed the document, still keeping a protective arm around Jordan. Jordan silently nodded, letting out a sniffle before squeezing Bucky tightly, feeling safer than ever. You giggled to yourself, seeing Bucky’s usual hard ass men discreetly wiping their eyes with Steve doing the worst job. 

“G-get it together” Sam hissed, swallowing tightly, scrunching his nose in an attempt to keep from sniffling again while Steve rolled his eyes, no longer trying to hold back as the first whimper escaped. Then a full on sob. Peter hadn’t bothered trying to put up a front at all, loudly blowing his nose into a tissue. 

“Mommy, look!” he took he sheet and held it up proudly for you all to see to see, while Bucky pulled you in, kissing you sweetly. 

“Thank you” You whispered just for Bucky to hear, melting into his touch as he silently squeezed your hip. 

“Best. Birthday. Ever” Jordan stated, clutching the paper to his chest while Bucky grinned proudly, deciding he’d have a conversation with his son soon about asking his mommy to marry him. “Just one more thing”

“What else do you want baby, daddy already got you everything and more” You ruffled Jordan’s hair, your son thinking for a moment before his eyes lit up. 

“A brother” Jordan shrugged innocently while Bucky smirked, giving you a wink when no one was looking. 

“Oh, he can make that happen right now” Sam cackled, already seeing the feral look on Bucky’s face while you shook your head, ignoring the way your stomach flipped at the thought. 

“Really? Or a sister” Jordan smiled, just wanting a sibling to play with. “I’m okay with either” 

“Jordan-” 

“Shhh, let’s give our son what he wants” You were about to question his request when Bucky immediately hushed you, giving Steve a pointed look, his best friend nodding understandingly.

“Sooo how about we go on some roller coasters all day so we can give your mommy and daddy some time to get you that” Steve grinned while Sam wiggled his eyebrows a you both, your son already half way out of the dining room, off to get ready. 

“That sounds like a great plan” Bucky let his hands slide down to your hips, pulling your body flush against his. 

“You’re a menace” You bit back a shy smile while Bucky hugged you tightly from behind, seconds away from throwing you over his shoulder. 

“M’your menace baby” He cooed, his heart still full over getting to officially call Jordan his, “C’mon, we can’t keep J waiting” 

“You sure about this?” You asked, squeaking when he lifted you in his arms, taking you straight to bed as soon as they heard the front door shut, leaving the house completely empty.

“Very sure. Now come here, my son gets whatever he wants” Bucky practically pounced on you, making you giggle as he peppered you with kisses, throwing you on the bed. “Let’s make a baby, mama” 

[sacredwrath]

P8. A little extra suffering as a treat

Torture, stress position, salt in the wounds, suicidal ideation, death wish, medical inaccuracies, confusion/ delirium, dissociation, surrealism, touch starvation

The man leaves him there. Adrian tries to not fall apart immediately. He tries to acclimate to the pain. Feel it as just another sensation in his body.

"It's just pain," he mutters to himself "just pain, just pain... you can deal with pain" but he can't. He never can.

Before long he's whimpering, trying to hold in sobs, but not for vanity's sake this time. Every tiny movement sends sharp crystals burrowing into his wounds, aggravating the burned flesh. If he lets himself cry now he won't be able to handle the pain of it.

He can't take anymore

Since when has that mattered?

Can't do anything to make it worse.

Uncaring tears slip down his cheeks despite himself

His muscles ache. It's only been what? Like five minutes? He has no idea. He'll start shaking soon, jerking as his muscles cramp up. Cracks, now fissures in his composure, let in ice cold panic. It rises, choking off his air. Pathetic, powerless, helpless-

Stop

Where is he?

Brick walls, cracked cement, he digs the sharp edge of his chipped molar into his tongue

It's been an eternity, or maybe an hour? Less? How long is the man going to leave him like this? Part of him shouts in his head, warning him how unsafe this is. It's too far, too far for a stress position, he can't plan to leave him like this for long. Can he? But the man doesn't know what he's doing, he's new to this, and doesn't care if Adrian dies.

For the first time since coming here, he wishes he'd just thrown himself off the bridge. What's wrong with him? He knew this would happen. Of course it would. He needed it to. It hurts.

Agony throbs in time with the beating of his heart, pulling his focus back to his body. His muscles are trembling now, salt crystals tearing into the ruined flesh of his knees and shins. He can feel the crystals disolving in blood.

He tries to pull away, to escape it even if just for a second, heaving himself into the air. The relief is minimal, and soon the strain on his battered ribs force him to relax.

As his knees make contact with the salt again he can't suppress the noise that claws its way from his throat. He wishes the man would've just shot him in the street.

Soon, he's trembling in earnest, salt shredding his resistance like wet tissue paper, turning his whimpers to tortured sobs. It's not real crying. He knows that by now, but he lets his body have its release anyway.

He loses himself in screams.

Shrieking in mad, useless abandon, flaying his throat raw.

Another eternity passes before he realizes he's no longer choking on sobs. He's just choking. Air burns his lungs and his vocal cords refuse to cooperate. Each breath wheezes in and out of him in quick rapid gasps. He tries to slow down, but it feels like there isn't enough air in the room.

"Thank you," He whimpers soundlessly "thank you, thank you, thank you..." the familiar light headed feeling of his body giving up soothes him into black oblivion.

...

He's lost again.

Where is he?

Wandering somewhere dark. It burns.

It hurts.

But it always hurts

Please! He begs silently. Please, please...

He doesn't know who he's begging or for what, but he lets the word form a mantra in his head, chanting it over and over between bouts of obliterating agony.

Each wave unmakes him anew, leaving him raw and spinning

Where is he?

He can't find it. But what was he looking for again?

He desperately snatches at fragments of thought, but they slip through his fingers, burning him even as they dissolve to mist

He's slipping again.

He must be.

It hurts

Consciousness eludes him, but so does peaceful nothingness. He floats somewhere in between, expelled and anchored to himself by pain.

Please-

Where is he?

He can't find it.

Centuries pass.

He feels cool hands. He follows them

There's a voice too, but it speaks an unintelligible language. He tries to listen, but only meaningless noises filter down to his hell

It hurts the closer he gets

But the hands become arms and he feels himself pressed against another body.

It hurts

He clings to it

Please...

The arms leave him, and he cries out

A cool hand against his burning forehead.

Soothing, almost gentle

Then it's gone too, leaving him alone again in the dark with his pain.

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Tag list: @whumpacabra @turn-the-tables-on-them @kiichu @whatwhump

[froggibus]

Pretty Pink Paper - Satoru Gojo

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f! reader (fem pronouns + has a pussy)

Genre: smut/NSFW

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: your boyfriend has a gift for you & he can’t wait to use it

CW: collaring, sub/dom dynamics, choking, soft dom! gojo, praise, finger sucking, possessiveness, ownership?, oral (m! receiving), face fucking, deep throating, fingering, mating press, cervix fucking, unprotected sex, overstimulation, breeding if you squint

Kinktober Masterlist

Your eyes practically glitter as Gojo presents the package to you. The box is perfectly square, wrapped in shiny pink paper and adorned with a gold bow. You kick your feet in excitement, reaching out for it.

Gojo hands it to you and you spend a few seconds examining it, holding it up to your ear and shaking it. It makes no sound, probably stuffed to the brim in equally shiny tissue paper.

“C’mon,” he gives you a lopsided grin, “open it.”

His blue eyes fall on your fingers as you slowly peel apart the bow. You pull the paper apart delicately and remove the lid from the box. Just as you predicted, it’s stuffed full of gold tissue paper.

You tear through it quickly, growing impatient to see your gift. Your jaw almost drops when you see the long piece of pink leather inside.

“Do you like it?”

You grab the collar out of the box, examining it. It’s a pretty light pink with a small silver circle on the front. You run your fingers along the soft leather and the padding inside.

“It’s beautiful,” you grin at him and throw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, baby.”

He wraps his arms around you, fingers trailing down to cup your ass. “So,” he whispers in your ear, voice dropping to that familiar commanding tone. “How about we try it out?”

The minute his voice drops, it’s like a switch has flicked within you. You squeeze your thighs together and nod, looking away from him bashfully. You hold out the collar for him to take.

His long fingers brush the warm skin of your neck, lingering just a second too long as he reaches around to fasten it to your neck. The leather is soft against your skin, just tight enough that you feel secure but can still breathe just fine.

He pulls away and admires you, grinning from ear to ear. “So pretty,” he coos and brushes his thumb across your lip.

You let out a slight whimper, opening your mouth to let his thumb in your mouth. He gently pushes it through your lips and onto your tongue. You suck on it, rolling your tongue around his skin.

He pushes another finger into your mouth, pushing them as far back into your mouth as they’ll go. You hold them on your tongue, squeezing your eyes shut and focusing only on sucking them. You used to gag from this but he’s trained you well enough that it’s become a rarity.

He groans. “You look so pretty sucking on my fingers. My little slut…look at you.”

You moan around his fingers, trying to take more into your mouth. You want to feel him at the back of your throat, you want more.

“Wearing that damn collar,” he pulls his fingers out and smears your saliva across your mouth, “showing everyone how much of a slut you are for me, how you belong to me.”

His words have you dripping wet, rocking your hips against the bed. Gojo pulls away, watching you desperately whine and hump the sheets.

“Aw, pretty girl,” he stands up in front of you, discarding his belt and jeans on the floor. “Patience, hm?

You look at his cock in pure admiration, eyes watching his hand as he strokes it to life. Precum rolls down the tip and you lick your lips in anticipation.

Gojo presses it against your tongue, smearing his precum all over. You whimper but stay perfectly still. You know well enough by now how he likes to take his time with your mouth.

He slowly shoves himself into your mouth, stretching your jaw. You close your lips around him and start to suck, bobbing your head up and down his length. Gojo groans, hooking his fingers into the silver loop at the front of your collar.

He uses the collar as leverage to fuck your mouth, pulling you forwards and shoving his cock deeper at the same time. He hits the back of your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut, digging your nails into the back of his thighs.

He holds himself there for a minute, the back of the collar pressing against your neck and cutting off your air even more than his cock is.

“Good girl,” he groans, releasing you. He pulls his cock out entirely and lets you catch your breath.

You gasp for breath, your throat aching from how he fucked it. You swallow hard, staring up at him through your lashes.

He leans in and kisses you, a sloppy string of saliva connecting you when he pulls away. “You’ve been so good for me today, I think you deserve a treat.”

You nod your head and bite your lip, letting him lay you back on the bed. He makes quick work of your bottoms, replacing the fabric of your panties with the palm of his hand. You shiver from his touch, arching your back into him.

His thumb rubs across your clit, sending jolts through your body. You call his name desperately, trying to grind against his hand. Gojo gets the idea and slips one of his long fingers into your hole.

“So wet already,” he grins teasingly, planting a kiss to your hip bone. “You must really like that collar…”

He dips another finger into your drooling hole, curling them both inside of you. They dig into your spongy walls, your pussy gushing around his wrist in turn. He pushes them up to the knuckle everytime, shoving them in and out so fast that your slick flies out every time.

“Toru!” You whine, staring up at him with wet eyes, “I need more. I-I need you.”

His blue eyes glisten in delight and the man nods, throwing your ankles over his shoulders. Your hips ache from this position but you know it’ll be more than worth it when he’s pounding into you.

He scrapes the tip of his cock against your clit, rubbing it through your folds the lube himself with your juices. You whimper and flinch from every touch, incoherent pleads falling off your lips.

His cock slips into you easily, stretching you out with every inch. He’s about average in girth, but he’s so long you can feel him up against your womb. He’s so eager it only takes a few seconds to bottom out, the head of his cock pressing up against your cervix.

He stays put for a second, admiring you lying beneath him. He pushes your shirt up to expose your chest, thumb lovingly brushing over one of your nipples.

“P-please,” you squirm, “please move!”

Gojo doesn’t have to hear it twice. He starts thrusting into you at a steady pace, fully pushing himself into your pussy every time. With every thrust his cock bullies into your cervix, your walls spasming around him.

He reaches down and rubs your clit, knowing you’re going to cum soon. He pounds into you, pressing a hand down on your stomach. That’s all it takes for you to cum, juices soaking the hair at the base of his cock.

Your orgasm doesn’t stop Gojo from approaching his own, though. He grabs your neck, hand covering the pink fabric of your collar. His other hand grips your hip, fucking you up and down his cock viciously.

Your pussy is so sensitive, your whole body overheating. You shiver with every thrust, your stomach tying itself up in knots again. Gojo leans in, folding you in half and driving himself deeper.

“I’m gonna cum, babygirl,” he grunts. “Gonna fill you up. You’d like that, hm?”

You nod, “fill me up, ‘Toru. I’m all yours.”

Gojo’s pace gets quicker but his thrusts get sloppier, and you know it won’t be long til he cums. A few more lazy thrusts and he’s cumming inside of you, pushing himself up to your cervix to pump his cum inside of you.

You whine, the feeling of his hot cum in your womb sending you over the edge. Gojo holds you as you cum, soothing your spasming muscles until you start to come down from your high.

He plants a soft kiss from your temple, propping himself up next to you. “I think we need a leash.”

[thornsnvultures]

loners and lovers

vampire!eddie munson x plus size!reader

cw: smut (18+ minors dni), biting, blood sucking, p in v sex, creampie, <1k w

a/n: for @mantorokk-writes 🖤

-----

Hot, breathy moans punctuated by the wet slapping of skin against skin echoes down an empty alleyway behind Eddie’s latest haunt. He’d picked this place specifically for its clientele. Transients, low lifes. Loners like himself looking for respite from their miserable lives.

Except for you. You stood out. Called to him in a way no one else had in a long time. He knew the moment he saw you that you weren’t the right pick. You looked like someone with family, with friends, if that constantly buzzing phone in your hand was anything to go by.

It was a mistake approaching you, even more so enthralling you into turning off that incessant device and following him out the back door. There was only so much his powers of persuasion could do. For the completely sober it was near impossible. It’s why he stuck to addicts, easier prey and a second hand high. You’d had maybe one drink? Eddie shouldn’t have been able to take you into an alley alone with a man you’d never met. Not someone like you. But you went like a moth to a flame. It would unsettle him if he had the heart to care.

No, part of you wanted him too. Wanted the danger and deadly seduction he offered. You arched and moaned when he pinned you to the dirty brick wall and kissed you like a man starved. And he was starved. It had been too long since the last time, but he had a willing victim in you. You, who leaned into his touch, his cold, dead fingers caressing your plump flesh.

His elongated nails dug into your hip. You only leaned into him more, craving the pain he inflicted. His dick twitched and filled at the thought of how you’d react when his fangs tore into your throat. Would you cry and scream? Would you moan and melt into his touch? He hoped you would. He may not have a heart but he knew what it was to crave and be craved. And he wanted you to want him with everything you had. Even for these few moments in the dark and dank.

Eddie spun you around, and pushed you up against the wall. With your front pressed to the bricks he nudged your feet apart with his boots. If he wasn't so starved, if he was anyone or anywhere else, he would fall to his knees and worship your cunt just like this, spread open and pushed out for for him to bury his face in and get lost for hours. But his hunger clawed at his throat, demanded it be satiated with your blood, not your juices.

He hurriedly knocked his belt out of the way and slid his pants down just enough to pull out his aching cock. It throbbed in his hand as Eddie pushed up the edge of your tight black dress. Your panties were easily torn off, like tissue paper against his claws, and in the next breath he was inside you. Eddie had to cover your shout of surprise with his hand over your mouth. He was in but you were so fucking tight, gripping his cock head like a vice. It took a few moments for you to adjust to his girth, panting around his fingers all the while.

"That's it, sweetheart. Take it. Take me in deep," he whispered in your ear. "Just wanna make you feel good. Let me in so I can make you feel good."

Your whines and the way your pussy fluttered around him let him know you were ready, you could take it. So he gave it to you, and hard. His hips slapping against your ass as he filled you over and over again.

Eddie couldn't wait any longer, the hot beat of your pulse was right there under your skin, calling to him like a beacon.

"I'm sorry, love," Eddie whispered and turned your head with his hand still on your mouth. With your neck exposed he lunged. Puncturing you at the same time he fucked into you, hitting that spot inside you with his cock that made you cry out. Only now you were crying from his fangs buried deep in your throat. Tears fell from your eyes as he drank but your moans didn't stop.

Eddie didn't stop either. His hips hammering into you at a brutal pace, the hand not on your face moved from your hip to your clit and, careful of his nails, rubbed you even further into a frenzy until you were coming around his cock, squeezing out the little bit of life he had left, until he was coming too.

Before he got greedy and took too much, Eddie pulled his fangs free. He pulled out his spent cock, admiring the way his come dribbled down your leg for a moment before righting your dress. He wanted to lick it clean, but your thrall would wear off soon and Eddie couldn't be around for that. He'd have to leave town sooner rather than later. As soon as he got you home safely. He'd make sure you forgot all about him. And hope he could do the same for you.

---

--

-

🖤

[ficyorick]

bad ending bonus material - ch 3.5

good morning bad enders!!!!!!! as i mentioned an ao3, i have to skip this weeks update bc im on a work trip BUT in preparation for this break i wrote a little bit of bonus material :) it's canon within the world of BE, takes place after chapter 3. specifically it's the morning after the, erm, drink sesh. it's from homelander's POV and it is also his first time interacting with kessler :^) except he doesnt know. that its kessler. hoho. 3k words, trigger warnings would be emetophobia + extensive suicide discussion. and everything else attached to bad ending already

Waking up basically clinging to a toilet had to be a new low for him, even in this new life of lows he was currently living. Homelander blinked sluggishly, his eyes rolling from one side to the other before his eyelids drooped again. His legs felt numb after having supported his slumped, half-sitting pose for God knows how long. A deep ache had settled in his knees, a dull burn that already felt like one of those lingering pains he would have to deal with for a while.

His mouth tasted vile, like a combination of every unpleasant flavor he could think of, mashed together and spread all over his tongue in a thick film.

He didn't want to move, but he had to. With a soft grunt, Homelander finally pushed himself away from the bowl, slumped lower on his thighs, and opened his eyes again. The visual onslaught of things and objects merely existing around him made him regret that decision immediately. He pressed both palms to his face with another exhausted noise—an unfamiliar sensation of a dull, pounding pain bloomed behind his eyes. 

For a brief second, he wondered if Butcher had finally done it. Poisoned him and left him to die on a bathroom floor. In a way, that would have been more dignified than having to live with the fact that he was having the first hangover of his life.

Jesus, why would anyone put themselves through that willingly? He'd heard stories about the concept and always just smiled politely at the silly limits others had to live with. Madelyn always got insanely irritable if she had too much wine at a party—but at least she was fun and bubbly the night before. Homelander didn’t feel particularly fun and bubbly last night. He swallowed; his sore throat protested sharply. Shifting a little, he made an attempt to fix his uncomfortable position, and for some reason, his entire body let out a rustling noise.

Right. He removed his hands, feeling the stale bathroom air sting his already wet eyes. The bootleg Homelander costume was still clinging to him, still so embarrassingly cheap and—disgusting. There was no other way to describe it. It was just disgusting to him. He hated it. The only thought he could formulate on the topic was the need to rip it off—maybe alongside his skin.

He was going to take it off. He had to take it off. While Butcher wasn't here. He'd rather be naked than continue to wear this insult. Homelander tugged at the collar, expecting to be able to rip it like tissue paper, but the plastic only stretched under his pull.

"Fuck…" he wheezed, a little pathetic note in his voice. Climbing to his knees, he tried to tug at it with both hands—but just like he couldn't manage to cause even a little bit of pain to Butcher the night before, he couldn't even tear this thing apart. Something lurched violently inside him again, and he swayed on his knees, shocked by the sudden twist in his guts. Then he launched himself at the toilet in front of him, another wave of bile forcing its way up his throat.

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Every part of his body—from the shiny plastic wrap on his skin to the foam on his thighs and now his insides—another wave of vomit shoved itself up, fighting him. But he couldn't bear down and stop it, just like he couldn't rip cheap fabric apart, just like he couldn't even choke anyone to death anymore. Just like he couldn't stop Butcher from picking him up like he weighed nothing at all. He was just cheap foam, all over, inside too. Cheap foam soaked in vomit, sweat, and tears.

And he used to be marble.

Another strained noise, hot liquid squeezing itself out of his stomach and up his throat. He tried to relax, tried to just stop thinking about it like Butcher had instructed him yesterday—but it felt wrong. He was supposed to be calling the shots here, but now he was out of control, at the mercy of this body that was never going to feel like his body again.

He glared up, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. Butcher did this to him. And now he wasn't even fucking here. He took whatever he wanted last night and left him here.

Homelander shuddered violently as he finally managed to catch his breath between the waves of nausea. He gripped the toilet seat, managing to furrow his brows despite the utter exhaustion he felt. Picked him up, touched him wherever he wanted, and now he wasn't even here. Wanted a spectacle, but then he wasn't even fucking watching. What was the point? One final spit down the toilet, and Homelander pushed himself away, wiping his face on the rustling costume.

His mouth tasted even worse now. He sniffed again, doing his best to ignore another twisting sensation in his stomach. His shaking hand reached out to press the little handle, flushing the toilet. Fuck. He still had to free himself from the costume, and he just had to hope this attempt wouldn't trigger another fit of nausea.

The door to the bathroom creaked open. Homelander froze, his hands pausing an inch away from the plastic collar of the sick joke he was wearing.

Butcher was standing in the doorframe, watching him with mild interest. Like he didn't expect to still see him down there, or maybe see him at all. Like it was overall kind of silly that Homelander was here.

His dark eyes swept around the bathroom. Then he let out an unsurprised grunt.

"There it is." He approached the bathroom sink, picking something up. Homelander squinted his eyes just a tiny bit, too surprised by his sudden arrival to react properly—not that he knew what that reaction should have been. Butcher helpfully held up the object in his hand, letting him see it better. "Left you in here with a knife. Can you believe that? Untied, too."

He laughed, a weird sort of laugh.

Homelander felt his lips part, a question he wanted to ask but couldn’t even think how to begin formulating. Butcher didn’t give him time to think about it; he just stepped closer, and embarrassingly, Homelander found himself tensing up.

"You didn’t even notice, huh?" Butcher waved the knife in his hand, giving it a tiny, playful wiggle. "Didn’t notice a little gift?"

Homelander debated saying he was too busy puking his guts out after Butcher pumped him full of booze against his will—but he could save that remark for the time when there wasn't a sharp blade in Butcher's hand, right above him. Sure, all of that made him angry. But not angry enough to deal with any new cuts on his body. His already exhausted stomach protested weakly at the mere possibility of seeing his own blood.

"I wonder what you would have done with it if you knew," Butcher mused, now toying with the blade, slowly moving it from one hand to the other. It looked like he was clapping with it—just without a noise. Lazily applauding the crumpled-up man before him. "Slice your wrists?"

Homelander just blinked up at him. Wetly.

"In case you get another chance to do that—" Butcher was suddenly squatting down right in front of him, moving fast. Too fast for his usual worn-out, exhausted pace. Homelander twitched, leaving his dignity behind in the toilet bowl, and pushed himself away until his back hit the bathtub.

"Don't touch me." He tried to snarl, but all he managed was a hoarse croak.

"Am I fucking touching you? C'mon, I have a lesson for you." Butcher laughed again, the same kind of laughter he couldn't categorize. He knew the safe laughs; he knew the dangerous ones—but he didn't know what this one meant. It just felt—mean, as childish as it sounded in Homelander's head. "Pay attention."

Butcher rolled up a sleeve of his dark coat. Homelander only now noticed he seemed ready to leave—his combat boots on, the car keys jingling somewhere in his pocket. No, he couldn't afford to get distracted by little details like that. Not with a knife so close in his personal space. He forced himself to focus on Butcher's actions. The other man seemed invigorated, a complete opposite of his usual sluggish pace. Or maybe he was still giddy about what he'd done to him the night before. Butcher finished rolling up the sleeve, revealing the pale underside of his arm.

He grinned at Homelander.

Then he pressed the tip of the knife to the little dip of skin underneath his palm. Homelander blinked slowly at the bead of black ink that bubbled up to the surface. It swelled, then lazily rolled down to one side. Butcher's grin only got wider, black gums and white teeth.

And then he dug deep and pulled the knife toward himself.

Homelander felt his eyes open wide, not sure why. Maybe surprise, maybe longing. He hadn't seen blood that belonged to anyone else but him in a while.

The knife went up to the inner side of his elbow, a thick line of black opening underneath the slicing motion. The sweet-sick rotting scent made Homelander's stomach twist yet again. He stared up at Butcher, attempting to find his eyes—and maybe an explanation behind the self-mauling. 

The explanation came immediately in the form of another low chuckle: "It's down the road, not across the street. You ever heard of that saying?" 

Homelander just wordlessly shook his head. 

"Ahhh, 'course you haven't. Never had to pay attention to that sort of stuff before, right?" Butcher laughed again, an easy sound, making his shoulders shake a little and making the blood ooze out of his opened wound like thick icing drops. "But you talk a big game about wanting to die and you don't even know the basics."

The cut in Butcher's forearm was sealing itself already, brimming with movement underneath his skin. It looked like there were worms nestling in it, disturbed by the light that just reached them and quickly sealing the wound closed. In just a few seconds, there was no trace of it left, save for the few black streaks of blood following gravity down.

"But hey, now you know." Butcher rolled down his sleeve, not bothering to wipe off the ink on his skin. He found Homelander's gaze, the dark and amused eyes meeting his cautious stare. "So next time you find a knife—" He held it up in front of his face. Homelander leaned back, but the wet blade followed, stopping just an inch away from the tip of his nose. His eyes had to strain to focus on the sharp, fine end of it. "—you'll know what to do, right?"

Again, his stomach lurched, but this time no hot bile flooded his mouth. It was just a cold, numbing sensation; his heart sank to follow it down.

"You're—" Homelander finally managed to find his words again. 

"—sick, deranged," Butcher finished for him. He sounded—off. Like there was a mismatch between his voice and his words, two puzzle pieces being smashed together despite not fitting. He sounded so weird that it was setting off an instinct in Homelander's brain he didn't even know he possessed. Butcher continued, clearly unaware of his own discordance: "I know. You're like a broken fucking record."

He was standing up now, cleaning the knife on the side of his coat and tucking it into his back pocket. Homelander didn't relax, remaining pressed against the bathtub.

A few days into his captivity, he told himself that all of this was just a matter of getting used to it. He was going to adjust, and then he could start thinking about how to get out (in any way possible). But day after day, Butcher created a brand-new version of the Bad Room, leaving no space for adaptation. All he could do was endure, endure, endure.

He was getting sick of it. If there was a breaking point to all of this, he felt like it was on the horizon. Maybe then Butcher would move on, at the very least. 

Move on to Ryan, he reminded himself. And curled his fingers into tight fists pressed against the floor. Jesus, the kid didn't even know what his own dad was going through—and he probably wouldn't even care. Homelander could easily imagine Ryan getting jealous of the fact that his dad got to hang out with Butcher in a cool cabin and bemoaning the fact that he didn't get invited. Butcher could do no wrong—and Homelander was the bad guy in any scenario, no matter what.

The breaking point on the horizon seemed so much closer all of a sudden. The breaking point next door, maybe. 

The bathroom was quiet while Homelander busied himself with torturing himself with his thoughts, no outside help necessary. Butcher was clearly thinking something through as well as he stared at him in silence, one eyebrow raised. And then he just asked: "What could possibly be so interesting about you? Especially now?"

Homelander scoffed. He glared up: "I don't know, you tell me. You seemed plenty interested last night."

Butcher smiled, a hint of respect in his eyes now that he finally bit back. And an absolute lack of shame, despite the previous events, despite the brief panic in his eyes before he abandoned him in this bathroom. He acted as if nothing happened, as if this morning came to someone else than the two of them. Butcher just casually nodded at him, pointing at the door behind him:

"Get up. Take that clown shit off. Put on some normal clothes.” 

Homelander felt his entire face burn. He wanted to rip off Butcher's hand, specifically the one that was on his back last night. And feed it to him. Just shove it down his throat until he swallowed or choked on it, no real preference. Anything that ended with him twitching and gurgling on the bathroom floor, legs kicking uselessly as he stood over him, watching him die.

"C'mon man." Butcher gestured at him again, urging him to get moving like he was livestock. "You look like a fucking bachelorette party attraction. A cheap one too, they should put you on a Vegas party bus."

Homelander stared at him and let out a little desperate laugh. If all of this was just a joke to Butcher, he might as well join in on it. Then he got up, ready to do whatever was going to make Butcher leave the cabin faster. His captor smiled pleasantly, another expression he'd never seen him make, and then he ushered Homelander into the main room of the cabin. He followed (like livestock).

"Where are your normal clothes?" Butcher glanced back at him.

Homelander just shrugged. He wouldn't call them normal; he found them insulting as well. But he would take the fucking Jimmy Buffet shirt over wearing this fucking parody of who he used to be.

"So helpful. Heel." Butcher pointed at him, the gesture nonchalant and casual. Homelander balked. Then decided he was too tired to react. He just waited for Butcher to look through a bunch of drawers and boxes until he returned with the t-shirt and everything else. And zip-ties, of course. 

"Get dressed. I gotta get your carrier ready." Butcher pushed the cotton bundle into his arms and then sighed, as if he was being made to do this unimaginably boring and awkward chore of giving him clothes and pushing a few bottles of water between the bars of the cage while Homelander stripped without a word.

It turned out it was much easier to get out of the costume by the intended way of using the zipper instead of ripping it apart. He had to abandon the idea of destroying it—because that was something he didn't get to do anymore. He didn't get to kill, he didn't get to hurt, he didn't get to rip. He didn't get to stop, he didn't get to defend himself. There was nothing left for him, except getting through it.

Butcher thankfully didn't treat him to another sarcastic comment as he changed into his usual prisoner clothes. Didn't move any closer, either. He approached only when Homelander was fully clothed, zip-ties ready to go. Homelander just sighed through his nose and formed the usual X with his wrists. Butcher rewarded him with another languid smile, securing the loop around them.

He kicked the door to the cage open. "In you go. Daddy will be back in a few days."

Homelander went in, just like he would go into the oven, into the Bad Room, onto that Vought debut stage. Butcher continued to smile as he watched him settle on the floor in the usual sleeping spot. He followed right after, a new set of zip-ties to go around his ankles. Homelander couldn't withhold a scowl; he was hoping he would've forgotten about the bottom pair as well.

Butcher read his face perfectly and mocked him with a little pout: "Wouldn't want to spoil you. I know how it is—I give you a finger, you take a hand." 

God forbid he got to piss standing up instead of kneeling in front of the bucket. But Homelander didn't say that—yet another strategic decision on his part. Butcher secured the last loop of plastic around his limbs but didn't get up just yet, squatting in front of him—a repeat of the mere moments ago in the bathroom. Homelander stilled, protectively.

Butcher pulled out the familiar back pocket knife, staring at it like he was seeing it for the first time all over again.

"I should leave this with you," he mused, suddenly completely fascinated by his new idea. Butcher glanced at him, then at the knife, then at him again—considering.

Homelander looked at the blade as well. For some reason, he didn't even want to imagine its weight in his hand.

"It would be kinda funny, right?" Butcher asked him. "If I did that."

"Hilarious." Homelander muttered, dropping his gaze to a random spot on the floor. 

"Yeah." Butcher agreed by laughing his new, annoying laugh. But then he hid the knife in his pocket yet again and gave him a little sarcastic salute before locking the cage door and hanging the keys back on the wall. "You know where the bucket is. In case you need to throw up again."

Homelander didn't bother acknowledging him.

"See ya, Vought boy." Butcher threw one last goodbye over his shoulder. 

Homelander just sighed as the door to the cabin opened and closed, at least two pairs of locks clicking behind Butcher. 

"Fuck." He murmured, his palms covering his face, lips brushing against the fresh new zip-ties. Another few more empty, mind-numbing days.

At least this time, he was relieved to be left alone.

[shedontsmelltoogooddarious]

ChromeskullxOC smut.

I wrote more smut between Chromeskull and my own character Black, who you find in my comic here;

They're my favorite ship at the moment and I have no shame in it.

“Why wasn’t I informed of your deal?” 

“Because it’s still my organization, piggy.” 

The larger man sighed, leaning back into his leather bound seat as he held a glass of scotch. Black was a boss, the CEO of his own criminal enterprise, and now he shared it with his husband. He pinched the bridge of his non-existent nose, growling softly. “Our marriage isn’t just for looks, Jesse, we made a binding contract between ourselves and I must be aware of all of your deals.” 

WIth that said, he took a sip of his drink before eyeing Chrome’s scarred face- wanting to crash his lips against the pair on it, but instead he leaned forwards. “The Rossi family won’t play nice, you must be aware of that, if you needed more space for your career, then you should have come to me.” 

As he spoke, Jesse was internally laughing. By now, Black should have known his place below him. Silently, Jesse maneuvered himself onto Black’s lap, grabbing the collar of his opened shirt as he snarled; “You talk as if you’re above me, Boris, but I own your big ass whether you like it or not.” 

He pinned his husband to the chair as his mangled face was merely centimeters away from his, pulling out a blade from his suit jacket as he held it to Black’s throat. “Know your place, piggy-”

 Its razored edge bit into his skin, blood seeping as it stained his pristine white shirt. Black growled in annoyance, grabbing Jesse’s face and crashing his lips against his own- the blade going deeper yet as he growled in pleasure. His long dark tongue snaked into Chromeskull’s mouth, pressing against his own as it trailed down his throat. At first, he tried to  pull his head away but Black shoved him back into place. 

Jesse found himself bound to his lover, his cock throbbing as he grinded against Black’s swollen crotch, teasing him while his throat grew accustomed to its current abuse. Silently, he made work of undoing Black’s belt and opening his pants with one hand, before reaching in and sliding his fingers into his wet pussy, feeling it quiver and squeeze itself tight around them. Its owner needily grinded closer, dark claws tears burying themselves into Jesse’s back. “I hate you.” 

Black growled into Jesse’s ear, having retracted his tongue to allow his partner to gasp for air. 

“Good, because its about time you know your place, piggy.” 

Jesse shoved himself into Black suddenly, fiercely thrusting as it gave no time for the man to prepare. His large legs shook with Jesse grabbing his thighs and bruising the insides, pulling his husband closer yet. The sudden pain turned to fiery warmth as he bucked his hips with each thrust Jesse gave, the smaller man nearly drowning in his thighs. He was big, stronger and inhuman, who could easily tear his human lover apart like tissue paper- but Jesse loved that, he loved using this monster as a vessel to breed, and he loved knowing that he owns him. His back arched as his cocked swelled, his hot seed exploding deep within Black, causing him to growl Jesse’s name over and over. A clawed hand went for that chromatic mask, tearing it completely off and tossing it to the side.

“You know I hate that fucking thing covering your face.” Black purred, feeling Jesse still inside him as it was his turn to be on top, pushing Jesse into their large couch as he held him close. Chrome frowned for a moment, feeling his sensitive flesh exposed. But soon found himself blushing as Black gave soft kisses across his face, admiring his scarred disfigured flesh, before rubbing his “nose” against Jesse’s. “You know I find you handsome without it.” He allowed himself to be soft for a moment, to be exposed as he leaned into Black's face and kissed his lips back, feeling his cheeks caressed by his husband's big, pale hands. 

“You do?”

He asked, before sighing softly, letting himself be smothered by his generous body. “Yes, that's my Jesse under there, of course I find Chromeskull fun but I like the guy more behind him.”

Black smirked, kissing his lips once more before suddenly raising his brows; “By the way, you're gonna be a daddy again.” 

Jesse's eyes widened. 

“I fucking love you-” was all Jesse could get out before tackeling his husband once more as they both thudded to the floor.

[midnightraine131]

Love Letters from the Skies to the West Coast Chapter 6 - Leap of Faith

Pairing: Armin Arlert/Annie Leonhart Cover art by: @klaradraws Tags: Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Teenage Love, Awkward First Times, Slow Burn, POV Armin Arlert, Bottom Armin Arlert, Wet Dreams Warning: R18 contains sensitive topics Summary: They say the most judgmental people are those who attend church on Sundays. Despite growing up in a Christian household, Armin Arlert felt overburdened by the pile of ministry activities assigned to him. So he made a pact with himself to never follow in his father's footsteps and become a pastor. With the goal of saving enough money to persuade his parents to let him move to another state after high school, he started accepting paid essay projects in school in secret. Everything in Armin's busy life seemed manageable until he met Annie Leonhart, a Californian girl whose parents had moved her against her will to Vermont. Upon discovering Armin's secret business, Annie approached him with a unique request- to write love letters for a long-distance lover. To craft the perfect love letters, she would help Armin embark on a journey of firsts— his first kiss, first hug, first date, and first everything in a relationship.

Dear Love,   How are you? How is everyone in Vermont? It feels like forever since I last laid eyes on your handsome face. I ache to feel your lips on mine under the moonlight, with my fingers trembling as they trace your cheek. I am writing this letter on the train somewhere in Ohio, unsure if this letter will ever find its way to you. We're hopping from town to town, praying for a safe haven where nobody cares about who we are. My mother and I had probably reached Louisiana by the time you opened this letter. It tears me apart knowing you might not even get the chance to write back. I yearn for your presence, my love, especially in these turbulent times. Here's hoping that in a few years, fate brings us back together, closing the chasm of distance between our hearts.   I love you and I’m writing this with all the love in my heart.   Yours forever darling, Brigitte Wilhelm Richter  

Hitch flipped the envelope, her tired green eyes examining the small piece of paper that had turned brittle and yellowish over time. She read, “To Stephen Arlert.” Carefully, she placed the letters back inside the box, looking up at the ceiling, digesting the contents of the letter in her mind. She commented, “I can’t believe sixteen-year-olds could write this kind of letter back in the day.”

Armin hummed, laying down on his stomach as he plucked a strand of hair from Hitch’s armpit. “Those were the letters my great-grandma sent to my great-grandpa during the war. And PS! Grandpa told me his mother was older than his father. According to him, she told everyone that she was sixteen by the time they met when her family moved here to the States from Germany— when in reality she was twenty-one.”

“Oh really? Okay, if someone dares to pull that lie off, it’s gonna be jail time in our generation,” Hitch retorted, adjusting her crop top cami to cover the upper half of her already exposed tummy.

“I know. I mean, what else can they do? It’s 1944,” Armin said, wiping the tweezer with a tissue before signaling Hitch to move to the other side so he could work on her left armpit.

The ash blonde shifted her position on the bed, twisting the white sheets on her back. The door to Armin’s room was left wide open, as his mother instructed before both teenagers climbed up to his room. Armin rolled his eyes, thinking as if they would do something more than they were allowed to.

Armin had texted Annie the night before about Hitch staying over to finish all the activities they had to prepare for the camp.

Annie: Oh, caramel drizzle girl will be taking my spot on your bed?

Armin: No, she has no plans to sleep tonight and I guess I’m part of her plans too. How’s Arnie?

Annie: I left her in Levi’s care while we were away for the weekend. Hange said she introduced Arnie to her other kittens so she would have playmates while staying in their house. They look like they're getting along well.

Annie sent a video of their kitten playing with a small pingpong ball with other kittens. Arnie’s look had drastically changed since the time Armin took her home. Her fur had finally turned pure white, like the color of clouds, as if she were a cotton ball running around with other kittens. Armin smiled while watching the video.

Armin: She’s so cute! Anyway, I can’t wait to see you at the camp tomorrow, Annie.

Annie: Good night.

Armin debated inside his head whether to reply to her last message, but eventually, he decided to leave it read. He didn’t want her to assume that he was desperate to invite her into the church.

Hitch placed their phones together on the nightstand so they wouldn’t distract them while they worked throughout the night. It was about three in the morning when they finished all the tasks, but as both thought of themselves as geniuses, they both agreed to completely brush off the thought of resting since it would only take two hours before Armin’s mom woke up to prepare breakfast for them.

“So, you’re telling me someone commissions you to write love letters?” Hitch continued, closing her eyes while she talked. “Doesn’t he have the balls to write his feelings of his own?”

“Why would you assume it’s a boy? Anyway, it’s a hundred bucks each letter, so I have no reason to say no,” Armin shrugged his shoulders.

“Because… you said… the name of the recipient is Mina Carolina.” Hitch’s eyes flew open after the realization. “Oh, now I get it. This person is a ‘she’ who likes girls.”

Armin nodded, feeling his heart ripping apart. He was as shocked as she was when Annie mentioned the name of the person she wanted to write letters to.

“How do you always get yourself involved with gay women? I mean, Ymir? Historia?” Hitch elaborated, unintentionally rubbing salt into the wound. Armin decided not to tell her what happened to them, so he hid the pain upon hearing their names.

“I just want to help her, Hitch.”

Armin’s eyes glanced lazily at the clock. 5:15 am. He sighed before refocusing his attention on his task on Hitch’s armpits, but his eyes landed on her cleavage instead. She had pulled her cami too low, exposing a part of her chest. Hitch was indeed beautiful with a body type every boy his age would fantasize about, but Armin didn’t feel that way. He was completely self-aware that she didn’t give him the same feeling he got when Annie was around.

Maybe he likes gay women?

Armin suddenly flinched, startled at the thought. He accidentally pinched Hitch’s skin with the tweezer, causing the ash blonde to squeal in pain.

“What the heck, Armin! Are you trying to rip my skin off?” Hitch jumped to her feet and ran to the mirror to check her armpit. There was a small part of her skin where the tweezer had left a soft pink mark. She massaged it with her fingers.

“I’m sorry!” Armin immediately apologized. “I’ll be careful this time. Just three more strands left, then I’m done.” He signaled for her to come back to his bed, which Hitch complied with, though she was glaring at him while he smiled.

“If you do it one more time, I will stab you with that tweezer.”

“That’s so un-Christian of you,” Armin teased.

No, it’s rather un-Christian of him to be infatuated with a girl who likes girls, and it’s driving him crazy internally. Armin used every fiber of his being not to think about it, to convince himself that it’s not appropriate.

Not long after he plucked the last strand, they both heard one of the phones on the nightstand vibrate. Not knowing whose phone it was, both teenagers exchanged glances, mentally challenging each other.

Hitch's reflexes were always faster than the blond boy's, so she flipped him down onto the bed before jumping toward the nightstand. Her actions shook Armin, but he wasn't the type to give up easily, so he wrapped his arms around her thin waist and pulled her backward. Her hands gripped tightly on the bed sheets, but it didn’t help her stay in place. She heard a loud thud on the carpeted floor when Armin jumped over her body to take his phone.

Panting, Armin unlocked his phone to check for messages, the faint light of the screen illuminating his face.

Defeated, Hitch crawled to the nightstand to take her phone, finding no messages in it. “You’re a boy! You should be a little gentle with girls like me, geez!” she ranted.

“You started it!” Armin chuckled.

Hitch knew that chuckle came from a different reason. Growing up with Armin, she knew he didn’t usually smile with a sparkle in his eyes without a reason. It must be the person who texted him, and Hitch would kill to know the person behind that smile.

Like a vicious animal, she jumped onto him, causing him to yelp from the unexpected attack as he was dragged to the floor with the taller girl’s body. Her weight pinned him to the floor. Their bodies were so close to each other that if someone caught them in this position, one might mistake them for doing something inappropriate. But…

He is dense.

She is naïve.

And in their awareness, they just fight like siblings.

“Who texted you? Show me. Show me!” Hitch shook him like a little girl wanting a toy.

“Alright! Alright! It’s just Eren!” Armin turned his phone directly into Hitch’s face, her eyes squinting at the sudden burst of light.

Eren: Armin, can I borrow your power bank? I can’t find mine, and mom is nagging like crazy!

Hitch read out loud before clicking her tongue. “How disappointing,” she muttered before hearing Armin’s mother call out from the kitchen. “Kids! Breakfast is ready!”

Armin watched the ash blonde stand on her feet, dust off her clothes, and leave to go downstairs. He, still lying on the floor, quickly looked back at his phone to check the message before smiling again.

Annie: Good morning, Tiger.

Armin hugged his phone to his chest as he stared at the ceiling, letting himself drown in his feelings.

Oh Lord, why did he have to feel this way about the wrong person?

“Armin, honey?” his mother called again.

“Yes, mom. I’m coming!”

-Read more on Ao3-

[joviepog]

Sorry I haven't been as active. I haven't had a good week at all so I'm trying to not project on people but here's an idea because I'm currently crying (⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠)

Wilbur comforting reader when they're crying (because of stress, events that have happened, being made fun of, anything along these lines)

Totally alright if not, and please don't jump on me immediately and start comforting me ❤️

I feel like Wilbur would be the best comforter. <3

Hard days.

Who: Wilbur x reader

Pronouns: non mentioned

Warnings: Crying, cursing, mention of anxiety

Requests: @ax-y10

Anything else: Sorry that this took so long! Hope u liked the end results!

-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-

You sat in your room, looking at all the papers in front of you. The room felt suffocating and the more you sat there, the more you wanted to give up.

You checked the clock behind you, resting your arm on the chair as you turned around.

1 am.

You let out an exhausted sigh and looked back at your work.

The papers from your boss that he had made you do. You hated him. You hated work. You hated yourself.

Why was it always your fault that your boss forgot to pay the bank?

Why was it so hard for your coworkers to just be nice?

Why was it so hard for your parents to be supportive for once?

You could feel the tears starting to flow out of your eyes as you looked at your work. Your boss was using you again. Knowing you needed the money, he always made you do his work for him. And if you missed one thing? You would be threatened to be fired.

Your coworkers made fun of you for everything! Your coworkers even made fun of you for not having your own apartment!

Which you really didn’t mind since your roommate was the kindest person alive.

Not to mentioned your parents.

They were always worried for you because of your anxiety but for some reason, they never believed in you.

God how you wished they would just leave you alone.

We cant anyone just understand?

‘I cant do this anymore..’

you kept thinking. you put your head down on your desk and let the tears flow down.

Your breath was wavering and your eyes were closed. You didnt want to think about them. You didnt want to be a pushover. You didnt want to do this anymore.

You didn’t want to-

There was a knock on the door and your breath hitched

“YN? Everything alright in there?”

You stayed silent

“I made you your favorite drink. I think i got it right this time!”

He chuckled before pausing.

“I’m going to open the door okay?”

This is when you freaked out. your head shot up and your heartbeat quickened.

“Wait! Wilbur, no!”

He opened the door and you wiped away the tears.

His eyes widened as he looked at you. You probably looked horrible.

He sighed and gave you a soft, loving smile.

He placed the steaming cup on the desk and kneeled next to you. He scanned the papers and frowned as he saw the wet spots from the teardrops.

“Yn..”

You were quick to interrupt him.

“I’m fine Wilbur! Thanks for the drink!”

You cringed at the voice crack and he laughed.

Your eyebrow shot up and you couldn’t hide the confusion.

“W-what?”

He cleared his throat, “You suck at this.”

“At what?”

“At lying.”

He grabbed your hands and you gasped at how warm his hands were.

You go up with him and he sat you on the bed.

“I’ll be right back okay?”

You nodded as you grabbed the blanket and covered yourself up.

He gave you a smile and walked out the room.

You closed your eyes and ignored the tears that kept wanting to come out of your eyes.

He came back with some tissues and you smiled at him.

He put them down next to you and sat down next to you.

He didnt say a word; he just hugged you.

He took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You couldn’t help but do the same.

You sank into his hug allowing yourself to cry in his arms.

He hummed a small tune as you cried.

You muttered out hopeless words, asking him why he was helping.

You asked him over and over again but he didn’t give a clear answer. Instead, he said. “Relax. Breath.” So, you did.

He kept humming and you kept taking deep breaths.

Thiswent on for a while.

Actually, you didnt even know how long that went on for. But soon, Wilbur fell asleep.

He was still hugging you. Arms wrapped around you protectively.

You and stopped crying and you had calmed down by the time you realized that it was late.

You tried to get out of Wilbur’s arms to get back to work but he just hugged you tighter. This is when it hit you.

A blush appeared on your face and your heartbeat became quick.

“Wilbur i need to work.”

He pulled you closer.

“No.”

You laughed.

“I do Wil.”

He shook his head softly, “No.”

“Wil-“

He interrupted you, “As your roommate, I’m not allowing you to go.”

“Wilbur I’m going to get fired. You know i cant-“ You started to argue back but he cut you off once more.

“We can worry about that tomorrow, love. Sleep.”You blushed and you hoped that he didnt hear your heartbeat.

“Right… thank you Wil.” He hummed a ‘you’re welcome.’ Before you hear the soft snoring.

You giggled before going to sleep.

Maybe i can do this?

-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-ꨄ-

[charcuteriecrab]

Please Don't Leave Me (Part 4)

A Resident Evil fic request

For @leonisdumbasallhell

Rating: M

Contains: blood, strong language, description of injuries, bodily fluids

Tags: Married Chreon, Infection, Major Character Injury

Word Count: 1692

Part 4/? Part 1 <-Previous | Next ->

Chris closed the bedroom door behind him slowly, the moist rag in hand. It had already warmed due to Leon’s hot forehead and felt humid in his bare palm, somehow feeling sticky against Chris’s dry skin. He didn’t want to leave Leon for any reason, but the man’s temperature needed to come down and this was the only way he knew how to help, especially if the anti-fever medication wasn’t working. He would go ask Rebecca for one once Leon fell back asleep.

He stepped into the bathroom, the white lights making his skin seem paler than it was, and it made him picture his husband’s white, black-streaked face when he found him by those docks. 

He shivered, moving to the sink.

The room was simple, but it was cozy. He could see remnants of the space being lived in, a half-full trash can filled with tissues and paper towels, a cabinet with worn dark grey paint where the handles hung, and he even could see a glimpse of what he assumed was a beard grooming kit peeking out from one of the metal shelves. A shower with various hair and body products stood in the back corner next to the toilet and the sink was by the door. It wasn’t a huge room, but bigger than the one in his own home. He was once again grateful that whoever lived here was willing to lend them their home but also wished that he was back in their own home, caring for his husband in the comfort of their shared apartment.

Chris turned the faucet handle cold, waiting a second for the water to cool. Hopefully, this would help Leon feel a little better. He was worried about the other symptoms that Rebecca had mentioned, especially nausea. Earlier, Chris saw the man swallowing and clenching his jaw a lot, almost as if he was trying to keep something down. Maybe he would grab a bin later just in case.

Once the faucet ran cold enough for his liking, he soaked the small rag, wringing it out only a little so that it didn’t drip all over the floor and potentially leak water into Leon’s eyes. Nodding to himself, he left the room and headed back to Leon.

He was just about to open the bedroom door when a choked cry of pain followed by a wet splatter against the floorboards sent his heart plummeting. Shit. Leon must have vomited. He opened the door quickly, remembering too late Lee’s light sensitivity, and stepped into the room.

Leon lay half on his side, looking like he fell and couldn’t get back up and shaking like a leaf, gasping for air. "Oh shit, Leon ." He rushed to his side, avoiding the too-dark puddle on the floor with his heart in his throat, the familiar bitter tang of vomit doing nothing for his own stomach. Grabbing his stilled-webbed face with both hands, he rubbed the man’s cheeks softly, heart pumping wildly. "Hey, baby, you okay?" 

A whine came from him, and mismatched pupils turned to Chris, sweat streaming down his temples, and Chris took this moment to move the man back onto the pillows, hoping it would help him breathe easier.

"Lee, honey, can you hear me?" he murmured, worried at the lack of a response. The man groaned and Chris let out a sound of distress. This wasn’t good. His fever was too high. It had only been a few hours at most since he was infected. He inhaled shakily, willing himself to calm down. Leon needed him. "I-I'm going to call Rebecca," Chris said, tears pooling in his eyes threatening to fall. Leon looked so pale, his body too hot under his ministrations. "Your fever's getting too high."

Leon continued gasping, brow furrowed. He looked like he was in agony and it took everything in Chris not to start crying. He fumbled with his belt, reaching for his communicator and pulling it out. He rang Rebecca, too scared to leave Leon’s side right now. Peeking at the monitor, he saw that his husband’s temperature was 102.9 and it sent his stomach rolling. That was not good. 

With a little jingle, Rebecca responded, “Chris? Is there something wrong?” Her voice came out quick, worry lacing each word.

“It’s Leon—his temperature is 102.9 and he just vomited something dark,” Chris gasped out before looking back at Leon and realizing that he had passed out, mouth hanging open, and his eyes widened. “I don’t know what to do. He’s unconscious right now.” He reached for the man’s neck, searching for his pulse despite the monitors at his side measuring his heart rate; he needed to feel it for himself. Leon’s heartbeat was too fast, veins thrumming wildly against Chris’s fingertips.

There was a rustling sound over the speaker. “Okay. I’m coming. Go grab some ice in bags, we can use it to bring his temperature down. I’ll bring some anti-fever medication.”

Chris nodded, forgetting Rebecca couldn’t hear him. “Okay, please hurry.” He squeezed Leon’s hand once before rushing out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.

The fridge had an ice maker in the freezer, thank God, so he pulled out the tray, hands shaking so hard he nearly dropped it. He placed it on the counter and started searching for bags, opening drawers and cabinets manically until he found the one he was looking for, nearly crying for joy. Gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt, he moved to the ice and started shoving them into three large baggies, hoping it would be enough. There were three main pulse points, right? He couldn’t remember, his panic cutting off all attempts at thinking.

Just as he finished, Rebecca ran up the stairs, two syringes in hand and Chris let out a breath, a small amount of his fear dissipating. “I’ve got them,” she said, and Chris lifted his ice bags in response. 

They rushed up the stairs and to the bedroom, Chris immediately moving to hold Leon’s hand and Rebecca on the other side by the monitors. They turned on the light so they could see what they were doing easier, and Chris blanched at how bad his husband looked. Sweat and tears fell from his face, even when unconscious, and a deep red flush sat at the top of his cheeks, contrasting against his pale skin and dark lines. In the light, he could see a sheen of sweat coating every part of his exposed skin, and his shirt was nearly completely soaked with it. He looked horrible, breathing shallowly and Chris swore it was more whistly than before, sounding more like a wheeze than he wanted. He rubbed his thumb against the man’s moist unbandaged hand, setting the bags of ice off to the side as he waited for Rebecca’s instructions.

“We need to strip him, get his fever down. He’s getting too hot too fast.” she finally said, inspecting her syringes, and Chris nodded. “Then put those bags under his armpits and groin. You can move the sheet to cover him, I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

Chris knew Leon would hate being left naked, so he was glad to do so. Happy that he had a task, he began the process of removing Leon’s clothing, first his blue jeans and boxers since that was easy, sparing a glance to make sure Rebecca wasn’t looking when exposing the man, then moving to his sweat-soaked shirt once he was covered with the sheet. Getting Leon’s injured arm through the sleeve wasn’t going to be easy, so he opted to carefully cut it off with his combat knife, the blade having been cleaned after their mission by one of the other team members, Chris didn’t pay attention to who it was. Leon was going to be pissed that he ruined his shirt but he didn’t care. He would buy him a new one. Once the shirt was gone, he placed the ice in the spots Rebecca asked, growing more concerned at the heatwaves coming off his body he swore he could see.

In an instant, Rebecca injected both of the syringes into Leon’s neck, exhaling as the fluid flowed into his body. “Those should help. One was for the nausea, one for the fever.” She sat down at the edge of the bed, posture deflating, and stared at the computer monitor, watching it intently. “Hopefully his fever goes down in the next hour, otherwise we might have to take him to the nearest BSAA base.”

The BSAA? Why not a normal hospital? He asked Rebecca that, growing more worried. The nearest one was too far away for comfort. It would take them at least an hour by helicopter.

Rebecca turned to him, frowning. “You think we can take him anywhere looking like this?” She gestured to the man’s body.

With all his clothing gone, it was almost sickening to see the dark veins that marred his face were also visible throughout his entire body. Chris swallowed, wincing. She was right. A normal hospital wouldn’t know how to deal with this. He was just worried the BSAA would just shoot him right away. Despite the fact that a lot of the infections they dealt with could be cured or reversed if caught early, many people still couldn’t stop their instincts to kill an infected person on sight. He didn’t necessarily blame them, having seen his fair share of monsters and horrors to keep him awake at night, but killing someone who could have been saved for no reason…it was horrific in its own right.

He immediately thought of Leon being forced to kill President Benford during the China Incident as they liked to call it. Leon didn’t have a choice then, it was either kill him or let another innocent person die, and his instincts won that day. He knew it still gave his husband nightmares. He never forgave himself, no matter how many times Chris told him it wasn’t his fault. 

“And what if his fever goes too high on the journey?” Chris said, already knowing the answer.

Rebecca didn’t respond.

[tovaicas]

I think the reason I get so hung up on estinien’s writing in hw is bc his flatness as a character actively hinders his role and narrative as the mirror to nidhogg, especially for non-drg wols

like we see niddhog’s rage up close and personal, and it’s one of the things hw does really really well; his anger is justified but destructive, both to himself and to his family. his own anger tears his family apart, metaphorically and physically. he is unable to be reasoned with, lashing out any anyone (friend and foe) who tries; this is even echoed in hraesvelgr, who’s own anger makes him unreasonably stubborn and unwilling to listen to reason, and both refuse to acknowledge the truth that (most) ishgardians are willing and ready to put down the sword and are actively fighting a small civil war with the main instigators of the DSW to do so even when it’s put right in front of their faces. even midgardsormr is initially unwilling to listen to your pleas. I cannot overstate how much of a huge theme that ‘anger is a healthy emotion but self-destructive in excess’ is in hw.

estinien is meant to be niddhog’s mirror down to the bone; he’s suffered a massive personal tragedy just like niddhog has that blinds him to the truth around him. arr!estinien in drg quests is a dick, as you’d expect, but by the time he comes back to main character status for hw he’s mellowed out considerably and that’s kind of a shame.

he’s a little hung up on his views abt dravanians, but that’s expected for a man who has suffered from niddhog as he has and has been retraumatized by his training as a drg, and he’s actually pretty reasonable besides. he disagrees a lot with ysayle but it’s always civil; he’s not stubbornly arguing with her to the point where he’s the problem and it’s actually uncomfortable, he’s just more or less ‘well I disagree with that’ and leaves it at that, and even the things he is stubborn abt alphinaud agrees with. he’s not pushing the wol/alphinaud/ysayle away because of his seething anger, he’s able to be reasoned with and is civil and is mostly just There and vibing. he doesn’t immediately refuse to believe the fact that the narrative he was taught because it upends his entire worldview and sense of self, he just shrugs and moves on because the story demands it. he doesn’t turn his anger on the church for lying to him and forcing him to constantly relieve the worst days of his life, he’s just There. here because the story demands he is. he doesn’t have a moment where his anger overtakes him and that’s why he’s weak to niddhog’s influence, hw just demands he be possessed now.

hw is so afraid to make him an actually unlikeable person, even just for a while, which is a shame bc it’s a direct theme of the storyline. estinien mellowing out after hw hits like wet tissue paper because he simply wasn’t an angry character beforehand.

[wariodemambo]

The sound of ceramic screeching against the ground can be heard from outside as Gold drags in a life-sized Bulbasaur planter, full of garlic flowers planted in the soil within. The flowers bloom yellow and purple--- just like his dad's color scheme.

After pushing and prodding the planter into position, Gold stares up at Wario with his autistic eye sockets. "Happy Father's Day."

He was about to go into a long, long rant about dragging in plants from the outside. Across the apartment floor. Which we was definitely about to lose his security deposit for. At least, until his attention snaps to the autistic little fucker's eye sockets.

... To which he burst into tears. At least they didn't have to worry about watering that plant anytime soon! Wario was doing a good job.

❝ YOU-A CONSIDER ME YOUR-A--- YOUR-- ❞ He's kind of late to this realization, but there isn't a more perfect storm to get the point across. He snatched a paper towel as a tissue. You can't just. Gold! GOLD!! ❝ YOUR PAPA??? YOUR PADRE??? ❞

GHHHHHHHHHHGHGHGH. Hey, Gold. Do you like hugs? Because he's locking you into one of the tightest hugs he's ever given. Good thing Gold couldn't die again, because a regular person would have lost their breath. He's still sobbing, and getting Gold's hoodie all wet, but there's traces of laughter in there as well.

❝ WHEN DID YOU GHHH. HOW DID. GH>? ?!?!? ?!? ❞

... Give him a second.

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril: 22. SHADOW OF FORMER SELF - evil au (sin & scel)

@whumpril - 22. Infection

A soft tissue brushed my skin. I wavered, plunged into the limbo between awareness and sleep. Everything felt foggy, nauseous almost, but I didn’t fight the uncomfortable sensation. The dim light that painted my eyelids in red couldn’t convince me to open my eyes. I knew that only pain awaited me beyond the fog; pain and regrets I couldn’t escape. This place, as empty as it was, seemed heavenly next to it.

The brushing came back. It wasn’t hard, nor particularly insistent, but the sensation nagged me. It broke through the fog I had carefully cocooned myself in, tearing the weak walls apart as easily as thin paper. It slid towards my wings, coming dangerously close to the place that pulsed and burned ever since-

I flinched away from the touch, fully awake now. My eyes opened wide and my heart raced under the shot of adrenaline the contact with the oversensitive place had triggered. I sprung to  my feet, disoriented.

“...ulkt,” someone was calling. “...alm…own, Sinv…t”

My ears perked up and I focused on the voice. It was gentle and familiar, rousing back old forgotten memories of pain and chains, mixed with a bittersweet happiness. My muscles tensed upon hearing it, however, gearing up for a fight, and for all it was my only anchor in a reeling world of nauseous swirl, I couldn’t seem to feel at peace with it. 

“...infection…can’t hear… …ulkt?”

A purplish hand reached towards me, trying to make the touch come back and I hissed, teeth ready to snap. They gave me time, after that, time to make sense of the world of fire that parasitized my senses, time to track down the thorny road of my last memories. Waves of heat bloomed in my veins like tides, each attempt to gather focus slipping from my fingers faster than sand, irritating and coarse as it left deep gashes in my mind. 

Bits by bits I managed to gather where I was - the rebellion -, who was with me - Scélérat, a medic - and why - an infection was slowly spreading from my wings. I shut my eyes close, fist clenching, desperate to escape that last thought, and the truth behind it.

They were gone.

As my brain kickstarted into awareness, I bitterly missed the heavenly bliss my previous disoriented state offered me. Pain, both mental and physical, was my only wall between true suffering now. The Dark dance was different around me, changed as I had been, rendered frail by powerlessness yet stronger for the absence of care.

It was out of my reach however, and only my faltering vision warned me of Scélérat’s coming back. 

“Sinvulkt,” he said, a clean rag in hand, “we need to finish to wash and dress your wound. Will you let us?” he asked, as if I have any choice in the matter.

I could see more questions in his eyes. ‘What happened? Why wasn’t the unhealed surgery scar not already dressed when I came in? Why had I done nothing about it until I collapsed?’

The truth was, as soon as the shuttle had jumped to hyperspace and Solanna was asleep, I had removed every bandage I could find. I had torn them apart in rage, pulled whatever feathers had the misfortune of not being slick with blood, and collapsed on the piloting seat. I couldn’t care less about infection setting in- not when the future didn’t go beyond dropping Solanna and Rema’s message at the rebellion, then getting in a last fight before letting the rebels kill me.

Never could I have guessed they would choose to heal me, a Sith, whose blood covered hand had killed hundreds of their members. But then, Scélérat’s actions had always been weirdly unpredictable for all his simplicity.

I nodded at him, and blocked my joints when he came uncomfortably nearer, lest my fever-fizzled mind misguidedly attempted to run away. I allowed him to place the wet rag on my twisted feathers, knowing indulging him cost much less than resisting. Whatever he did didn’t matter, however, for we both knew it was only a matter of time before a vengeful rebel struck, or Kedrick’s men finished me off.

I couldn’t imagine a life where the clouds weren’t at my fingertips.

Surely, it meant the future offered only death.

Scélérat’s mind was calm, and his touch was soothing; long ago, it would surely have the same effect on me as Flock preening did, relaxing my limbs into a puddle mess. These days were far away however, and all I could feel was my enemy's presenceenemy presence next to me while I was vulnerable, like sandpapers on my mind shield, as I gathered speckles of iron will not to flinch away from it. 

Soon enough at least, the fever tiredness won over hyper-awareness, and my thoughts faded back into the swirling fog. Solanna was safe, Rema’s message had been passed on, and no ill-intent corrupted the persons in the room. Scélérat’s gentle touch lulled me, rearranging feathers, numbing phantom pains in the part that was gone.

I’d be angry surely, when I’d properly wake up, about the weakness I allowed there. I’d be angry and hurt, struggling to run back to this limbo between wake and sleep, only mildly successful thanks to Aheka’s cradle and the rebels' healing. It was a matter of the future, however, and as the future didn’t exist, it was not a matter I needed to care about. 

My eyelids fell, heavy, as I sank into the warm touch.

Tomorrow was another day.

[paragonrobits]

“Leave. Now.”

Doctor Zelin swallowed, feeling an unaccustomed spike of nauseating fear. Across from him, almost half a dozen towering beings that vaguely reminded him of a mix of crocodiles with turtles started down. Their faces were broad, the muscles heavy on the jawline (cybernetically enhanced, not biologically inborn), their backs massive humps covered in thick, articulated shells that moved with their motions for a surprising degree of flexibility. Even the smallest was nearly twice as wide as any human, and the largest several heads taller than him.

It was hard to read their flat, unemotive faces. The body language was tense, and their eyes were narrowed in open dislike.

He swallowed. “We’re here to help.”

The leader of the aliens, the one who had spoken, growled and took a step forward. The ground shook under their weight, and the doctor had a brief moment of sudden realization that if the approaching alien was so inclined, they could rip him apart as easily as he himself might tear apart wet tissue paper.

The air trembled with the potential for that very kind of sudden violence, and the fear was not entirely from his own side.

“We don’t want you here, human.” The leader of the aliens spoke now, more calmly, but with great effort. “We have told you this, repeatedly. We told you this when we denied your offers, we told you this when you put it up for legislation, and we told you when we denied permission to land, and you landed anyway.”

The doctor raised his hands beseechingly. In the back of his mind, he thought: It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It was going to be easy. We were supposed to help people.

Out loud he said, “Listen, please! We’re doctors, medical specialists! We’re not here to conquer or spread any kind of propaganda or put you under any kind of influence!”

The alien leader made a short, disbelieving rumble. It conveyed, I’ll believe it when I see it. The doctor winced; already humanity had developed a very bad reputation of essentially being hegemonic colonizers, though he hoped it hadn’t been on purpose. No doubt some blocs of human interest wanted the galaxy in thrall to humanity, either viewing their own cultures as subordinate and lesser than human dominance or simply reliant on humanity for everything.

Resentment, he realized at last. Even the most well meant of dominance is still dominance, and its child was resentment.

The alien leader leaned in. “Two dozen of my people,” they said.

The doctor winced.

They stared at each other.

The doctor broke the silence. “That was an accident-”

The alien leader stepped forward again. “You killed two dozen people with your negligence, recklessness, and flagrant arrogance.” They forced calm on themselves and spoke again. “You came here with your tools and your procedures and your knowledge, and cut my people open to reorder them in healthy ways, but somehow you neglected to consider the incredibly basic fact that WE’RE NOT FUCKING HUMAN. Our biologies are completely different and all you did was find new ways to murder us. Out of sentiment. Out of pity. Out of thinking you’re so much damn better than us that of course we can’t possibly take care of ourselves!”

The doctor swallowed and looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said, and it was all he could think to say.

The alien growled. “Ask the dead if ‘sorry’ means a damn thing.” They learned forward, the doctor knowing that he had lost the argument completely. “Now, to use a phrase I think your people coined: fuck OFF.”

They left, soon after.

Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.

[hibewriter]

The Price We Pay

Masterlist Read it on AO3

Shadow & Bone | Darklina | 2.8K | E

Tags: Dubious Consent, Cuckholding, Divorce (Not darklina)

Two Months After It Happened

Malyen never would’ve suggested it. Never would’ve imagined trying it if he knew it would end here. If he knew that he’d be sitting in the lawyers' office, staring blankly at the papers before him. Black ink never looked so daunting. Leaden weight as he read over the contents. He didn’t know much about legalese. Hell, he wasn’t even sure his lawyer was well versed in distinct demands. Checks she didn’t need, half of everything he owned, the house, their dog. They were all going to be hers at the end of the day. Her signature is perfect,  looping and slanted at the bottom of the document, a final goodbye. A slap that said you did this to yourself.  

The worst part was that she was right. Fifteen years, gone. And he had no one to blame but himself. He sighed as the lawyer shoved the box of tissues his way. The nameless man probably saw it a hundred times. Grown men crying, felled by the women they thought would love them forever. Was Malyen one of those men? Destroyed by a woman’s straying eye? Or was he merely the harbinger of his destruction? Cause after all. It was his idea. Hell, it was his final gift to her. It made sense it would tear them apart. 

The Night It Happened

"Bend over Alina, right here." 

She didn't even know which way to bend. The darkness caused by the blindfold cast over her eyes made everything so hazy . It was disorienting until her hands found purchase on the edge of something solid, something wooden. Malyen's strong hand pressed delicately in between her shoulder blades, and she sighed, allowing the soft nudge to lay her square onto the surface. The cool wood rubbed roughly against her breast, already cold from the freezing room Mal had taken her to. Was this their anniversary surprise? Why did he blindfold her? Couldn't the room have been warmer? 

"Mal–"

"Shhh, Lina, stay still. Don't move." 

She heard a rustle, footsteps thudding in whatever room they were in. Drumming her fingers in anticipation of whatever it was that was next. Her breath hitched when a finger slid down her spine, her fingers stilling as she waited. Mal was not normally this forward. Never so… slow . The finger turned into two, then three, then a whole hand, caressing the small of her back, before sliding slowly over the swell of her ass. 

She bit her lip, knowing the movements were leaving goosebumps. Knowing he could probably see. Smooth soft caresses of her skin left a trail of fire in their wake. He hadn't even really begun yet. The hand left her, and she whimpered, gripping the edge of whatever surface she was on, before the finger returned, this time running down the crack, a gust of wind expelling from her as it circled her puckered hole, before continuing downward. Through the burgeoning wetness, to place feather-light circles on her clit. 

She couldn't help it. The moan that escaped her mouth was met with the reward of pressure. Real pressure as the finger pressed firmer into her clit. It wasn't until she felt the finger switch with a thumb, a finger slipping inside her and causing her to cry out, that she realized. 

This was not Mal. 

They'd been together fifteen years. Ever since high school ended they'd been sleeping together and he never touched her like this. Not even on their wedding night. Soft and slow as it was supposed to be, ramped into a feverish passion. He was done before midnight. But this…whoever, was perfectly fine taking his time. Perfectly fine adding a second finger to the one already enveloped in her slick heat, slowly pumping away, stretching her, savoring her. 

Her hips pressed back on their own accord. Rewarded by a soft hand on her hip, guiding her to fuck herself on those fingers. She barely registered the sounds coming out of her, fingers gripping the wood desperately as the pace increased. She pressed her forehead down, willing over the cool of the wood to help her as she felt the third finger enter her. A choke on her breath as whoever this was continued to pummel her. Was it an angel? She wondered if the saints would ever be so kind. It had to be a devil. 

Devil it was. The rising crescendo of her peak came toward her like a stalker in the night, creeping steadily forward as the mystery man behind her played her like a fiddle. Each note he tore out of her was a testament to the sins of God as she begged. For more or less she couldn't be sure,  but the hand seemed to. Circling her bud tauntingly, silently willing her to just let go . And she did.  A soft tidal wave gushed from her as she felt her body sag against the wood, boneless and light as the fingers coaxed her through her orgasm, soft strokes as they slowly removed themselves until there was but one. 

The hand on her hip left, and she heard the distinct sound of a zipper, a buckle? The swishing of fabric before she felt it. The head of the stranger's cock dragged along her slit as he took his hand away. A soft groan filled the room, as she could only imagine him tasting her on his fingers. She whimpered at the sound, wiggling her hips slightly backward to try and entice his favor. 

Smack!

The sound reverberated through the room, the sting on her ass, the message clear. Not until I say so . She shouldn't whine. Shouldn't want this stranger to hit her again, to press into her. Yet when his hands found her hips again, holding her steady, she could help the pant, the soft moan that came as he rocked the head into her. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck too big too big too big . All her brain could think as the thickness of the stranger slowly rocked, inch by inch, into her waiting heat. Shallow thrust as this demon made it fit. She swore. She'd never felt so full. Never felt like this before so when his fingers, the ones soaked in saliva and her came and pressed against her clit, she all but came again. Clenched tight around him as she hoped she made whoever this was, feel , just as out of control as her. 

"Fuck…" the low gruff voice, deeper than Mal's, finally spoke holding her hips to his. Her ears perked as they both stood still. She wanted to hear it again. Hear his voice in a way that made sense. She knew that timber. The cadence. But it wasn't until he pulled back, nearly all his cock with him that she nearly cried, the whimpers from her mouth unstoppable until he pushed back in. A harsh thrust pushed her further into the desk. If his hands didn't leave a mark the wood would. 

It was on the second thrust that the blindfold was ripped off. The room was hazy, but as her eyes came to focus she realized she was looking into a mirror, bent over the armoire of a hotel suite, looking into her husband's boss's eyes as he fucked into her with zeal. Her mouth hung open, moans escaping her as she reached behind her, grasping his hand as he continued the sharp thrust into her. Aleksander Morozova was fucking her. If she'd had any more wherewithal to look around she would've noticed her husband, sitting with his cock in his hand as Aleksander defiled his wife. And she wanted it. 

"I won't bother asking you who's cock you like more, Ms. Orestev. " He murmured, finally pulling her up so their shoulders touched. He used his free hand to palm her breast, smirking as her body shook.

 "You're so sensitive for me, when's the last time your husband made you cum like this?"She shook her head, crying out as he pinched her nipple. 

"N-never." She moaned, Aleksander smirking against her skin. She watched in their reflection as he toyed with her. Fucking her like she was a sleeve made for him. 

"Hear that Malyen? This is how you should be fucking your wife." She started, looking around to see Mal, his face unreadable as he palmed himself. She bit her lip, she should apologize, but Aleksander gave a particularly harsh thrust, and she nearly cried, her free hand tangling in his hair. 

"Such a pretty wife. See Malyen," Aleksander taunted, pistoning in her, hitting a spot that knocked her breath away. "She's such a perfect slut for me. And you squandered that for… what is it? Fifteen years today?" Though he wasn't talking to her she nodded. He smirked, stilling and watching as her face contorted into dissatisfaction. She tried to move her hips, fuck herself back on the cock inside her. She should feel embarrassed. Ashamed at trying to chase pleasure from the only person in the room she wasn't supposed to be loyal to. But she wasn't. She just wanted him to never stop. 

But he pulled out, turning her around to face him. She was putty in his arms as he picked her up, setting her on the armoire. Her legs instinctively parted as he stood between them, her lips turning red as he entered her again. 

"Look at that cock-drunk look Malyen," he said. How was his voice so calm? "I'd bet she'd leave you right now, if I asked her to." He nodded, a smirk befalling his lips as she nodded with him. "Maybe I should. Would you like that, solnishko? " She bit her lips, moaning as he dipped a hand to where they were joined, fingers brushing her clit. 

"Wait, Aleksander we didn't talk about –" It almost looked like Mal was going to rise up from the chair, trying to put an end to this. 

"Shush Maylen." Aleksander effortlessly turned them, cock still in her as he lowered them to the hotel bed. He took her legs, smooth to his touch, and hoisted them on his shoulders. The smile of the devil on his lips as her hands flew to his stomach, nails scraping the toned skin as he thrust again. Was he deeper? She felt as though he were in her throat, her cunt clenching deliciously around him as he restarted his brutal pace. 

"This is what fucking your wife should be Maylen." His voice finally gave way to grunts as he pistoned his hips. "Fuck –" a curse like any other as he leaned forward, bending her in half as he began to kiss her earnestly. Her mind went blank, hands tangling in the silky strands of his hair as she felt it coming. That wave, held back by a tightening coil, is ready to be released. He pulled away from her as she came, her cunt a vice on his cock as he fucked her through it. Her mouth parted, eyes delirious as he continued. 

" Saints , Maylen, your wife looks so fucking beautiful when she comes. Maybe I should come inside her, yeah? Give her that baby you've been trying for?" Aleksander hissed, clutching her hips with a grip she knew would bruise. 

"Tell me, Alina," he grunted, fucking into her. "Do you want it? Want my cum in your pussy?" She was gasping, his question like lead in the room. Maylen looked sick. It felt like an eternity, before he slapped her, smirk widening as she bit her lip, her eyes glossy as her cunt reflexively tightened. "I know you loved that solnishko , but I asked a question." 

"Please– fuck. Please, Sasha , give me your babies." She broke, her back arching as he pumped with renewed vigor. She didn't even notice Mal standing. Didn't notice as he began to pace, trying to ignore what was about to happen. After all, it wasn't like he could stop it. Even as Aleksandar's movements became choppy, he pressed on her little nub again. As she cried another orgasm. Mal couldn't look. Not when Aleksander roared his completion. Not when his wife let another man fall on top of her. Their sweaty bodies were still linked together by a now softening cock. He heard the sloppy kisses, the lazy way Aleksander touched and calmed his wife. 

It wasn't until the tears fell from his eyes that Aleksander pulled out his wife. The naked man took a pause, pushing the spend that had begun to leak back into the well-fucked cunt of Maylen's wife, a soft smirk on his face. Maylen flinched when he felt Aleksander's hand clasp his back. 

"I think we can all agree that I'm going to be fucking your wife from now on, right Maylen?" Mal looked from his boss, the man who owned everything, to his wife, a dazzled look on her face of bliss. One he'd never been able to give her. He hung his head in shame, wincing at the laugh Aleksander let out. "You don't have permission yet to leave Maylen, I need to teach you just a few more things." 

__

One Month Before It Happened

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The knocking was so soft Aleksander wondered if he dreamt it.  He swirled the whiskey glass, watching as the amber liquid slid delicately up the walls of the glass before tumbling down. A tiny wave. A rock in the ocean.  But the taps came again, and he sighed, looking at the clock above the door. 6:25 PM . All his workers should've already gone home, yet he had a caller at this hour. One night of peace wasn't enough. 

"Come in."

The door creaked open as if it were burdened by the caller. Slow and groaning, protesting its use. But Aleksander merely sipped his whiskey, watching as the worker…what was his name? Maylen? No. Malyen. Watched as Malyen entered, a nervous wreck as he crossed the large office to stand in front of the desk. 

"Malyen," Aleksander kept his face cool and controlled as he watched the low employee nod, confirming that he got the name correct. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

The man before him cleared his throat, wringing his hands together. Aleksander noted the calloused fingers, nails a tad too long for proper wear. His poor wife. A man's hands shouldn't scrape. 

"I'd like to ask a favor, sir." Malyen coughed, running his hands through his hair. Did the boy ever stop fidgeting? "It's personal. For my wife."

Aleksander raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. Few employees ever dared ask for personal favors. Genya, a long-time friend, would occasionally ask him to pick up her daughter should he keep her late with work, and he would oblige. Ivan asked if he would like to be a groomsman at his wedding. But again, a long-time friend. Malyen was…hell did he even know what department Malyen was in? Accounting? Quality Control? But Aleks merely gestured to the seat in front of him, an invitation to sit. 

"Speak your mind Malyen." He leaned back casually, hand slipping under the desk to bring up another glass. He did not head to the man's shake of the head, simply sliding the glass into his hand once he sat. "Whatever it is, the drink shall help your nerves." 

He didn't expect the boy to down it in one gulp. It was sipping whiskey. One of his older ones, from 1935. But, he supposed the man was nervous. The effect took a minute, the two sitting in silence before Malyen finally spoke. 

"I want you to fuck my wife." 

Aleksander didn't try to stop the abrupt laugh that left his mouth. He watched Malyen's eyes grow wide before he took another sip of whiskey. He poured them both another two fingers from his decanter, almost ignoring what Malyen said, letting the dim lighting of the office serve as a blanket in their conversation.  

"And why, praytell, would I do that?" Aleksander mused. He had plenty of reasons why. Company picnics with Malyen's wife's baking. Orestev written neatly in sharpie over the tape on containers lids. Bright sundresses that hugged her form. He may not know much about Malyen, but his wife had long ago been on his periphery. “Your wife –”

“Alina.” Malyen surged forward, hands gripping the edge of the expensive desk. “She um, deserves a good night, right? And I –” Malyen blushed, eyes no longer meeting Aleksander’s. It took a lot not to smirk. Not to laugh. A man was afraid he can’t please his wife. No. Malyen was a man who knew he couldn’t please his wife. And he’d come to Aleksander. 

“What makes you think I’d fuck your wife Malyen?” Aleksander put his glass down, intertwining his fingers as he leaned back in his chair. Suddenly Malyen sat stock still, his back straightening and a determined look coming over his features. Aleksander’s eyebrow raised, this employee was hot and cold. 

“You haven’t said no yet.” 

Silence. Aleksander’s heady gaze watched the confidence dissipate.

“Okay,” Aleksander smirked at the shock that crossed Malyen’s face. 

“Okay?” 

“Yes. I’ll fuck your wife Malyen.”

Malyen should’ve known to run then. But instead, he shook the man’s hand and sealed his fate.

[midori-laboratories]

Frozen Ashes: Chapter 1 - Sanguine Standard I

Book 3 of The Calendula Chronicles.

Story synopsis: Albert Wesker molded his captive into the perfect, pliable bait for taking out Rockfort Island's paramilitary facility, and cracking open the Ashford family’s secrets. But who’s really in control, once chaos breaks out?

The stakes have never been higher for Marigold, but she may not be fast enough to save everyone.

Book 3 of the Calendula Chronicles series. Written as the other side of The Antarctica Incident.

Chapter summary: The mission kicks off, and the pieces move into place. 'Alan Green' is introduced in the first chapter of Paper Tigers.

December 25, 1998 - somewhere in the eastern United States

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot…” Alan Green smiled at the radio. For all this country seemed to establish Christmas’ dominion the instant Halloween ended, they were always so very ready to rush on to the next thing.

Old acquaintances, indeed. Marigold Ashford, the woman who’d given him his job at Umbrella back in 1969, had looked as fresh as she had twenty years ago. When they’d spoken a few weeks back, it seemed all of that Ashford cunning had been left equally intact.

It was Christmas evening. The corporation was officially on holiday, but no one strayed far from their phones even today. There was too much on the line…and not everyone on the board was happy with some of the choices made for this first mission following the destruction of Raccoon CIty.

Alan and the board may have made the overtures to Wesker to switch sides, but a snake was still a snake. He’d bear close monitoring.

Alan had read the file on Marigold, fascinated. What had happened with Dr. Marcus. The slow progression of her condition, culminating in her ‘death’ back in 1981. The scant list of people known to have been targeted by Ms. Ashford, and their symptoms - as well as their fates.

Never did it occur to him that he himself had been one of those targets, once upon a time. Why would he? He’d led a charmed life. His cousin had held a childish grudge at Ms. Ashford’s success once upon a time, but Maxwell’s choices had likely caught up with him.

Something about that thought felt off. Alan shook his head. Nerves, that was all.

Back when they’d worked together, Marigold had always had a knack for making the worst situations seem like a minor inconvenience, back when he had headed up her department at the Umbrella office in London. Finding out what she had been capable of back in October, once her identity had been declassified to the board, had been a shock. Seeing the Raccoon City footage of his old friend stalking out of that car towards half a dozen Hunters had nearly stopped his heart.

Seeing her go on to tear the pack apart like they were wet tissue paper had been another thing entirely…although it explained a few things. The manner in which she had always avoided contact in the past might not have entirely been borne out of physical shyness.

When he had finally met with Marigold on the HCF grounds a mere month earlier, that delicate, nervous little step she had taken away from him at the end had an entirely new context. Fear for the other person; she’d never harbored any fear of them.

That surge of protectiveness he’d felt at how sweetly delicate she had still looked in doing so hadn’t changed with time. His cousin’s health had taken a turn after a fit of jealousy and an aborted attempt to sully the woman’s reputation, leaving Maxwell to depart at the end of 1969 for the fairer weather across the channel, near Paris. Marigold had welcomed him to her team around the same time, treating both himself and his wife as dear, lifelong friends.

Gemma herself had been nigh inconsolable when Marigold’s “death” had been announced within the company back in early 1982. There had been a quiet service, and the attempted purge within her department, which had quickly been reversed. Later that year, he had come home to Gemma staring blankly through the front window.

He’d mentioned the purges to her, and shaken his head. “I get the oddest feeling whenever Ms. Ashford is brought up at work. It’s like a code of silence is being enforced around mentioning her name at all. The head office just dropped her name from the list of directors there - they made a quite a fuss of it.” He’d paused. “It felt like people were watching me to see how I’d react. Why does it feel like a less prominent person would have simply been erased?”

Gemma had turned when he had started speaking, eyes clearing as she contemplated her husband’s words. Most Umbrella executives were smart enough to keep the details of their work at work. Gemma, though…there was an unspoken bond of cooperation between them that went beyond the marriage bed. Moreover, Marigold had treated with Gemma as a friend, insofar as Marigold had those. “Because they would have,” she said what Alastair, now Alan in 1998, wouldn’t yet voice. “Those old families forget nothing and forgive nothing. Something went wrong.” She paused in her turn, then, “I keep having the oddest feeling. A Sword of Damocles sort of thing. I wonder if she felt the same thing and tried to shrug it off.”

That familiarity had allowed him to read her tension at that ‘first’ meeting, outside the doors of the compound. According to the file, “Placidia” had been trapped, and later hunted down like an animal by their new operative, kept docile under heavy surveillance and implicit threat.

It was still happening. Be it a cell, or an exotic zoo exhibit, the operative was still holding her like a beast whose will to run was gradually being broken. And the rest of the world had been told she had died long ago. There was a clear tension in her body language, an understanding that she was not free to leave; that failing to acquiesce would have consequences.

Then there was the family. The poor goddamned family. Young Alexia had worked briefly within the Arklay lab with their botanical lab before she had passed away. When he had told Marigold of this fact, she had looked almost physically ill. He had paused before realizing the source of her fear. “There was no way she could have known you were there, dear,” he said in a soft voice.

The company’s plan to break Umbrella’s paramilitary spine rest upon going after the one surviving relative the poor woman had left alive. When he’d gone to meet her - couching it in careful, reticent terms, always for the sake of the company - he’d gone in looking for anything, anything at all, to keep her away from the worst of it.

But she’d also had that look in her eye at their meeting. Marigold had always favoured a soft touch. That didn’t make her passive. She relied on being underestimated. That footage underlined just how much everyone had done so in the past.

And really, there was no way that Umbrella would remain blind to her survival for long. People had seen her during the evacuation. Most of those people were well versed in Umbrella’s code of silence, which benefited them now. Still…

When Marigold became that accommodating, with that look in her eye, it was always best to quietly back her, while staying the hell out of her way. So long as their objective was met, doing anything else would become a problem. The woman had always been frighteningly patient, after all.

The phone on his desk rang, and Alan sighed. Gema had gone the bed early, her spirits bright and cheery as they had been in the old days. No avoiding it, he thought, and plucked the receiver From its cradle. “Hello, Mark.” There had been a few holdovers in the HCF division board of directors when it came to their more…potent acquisitions from the Raccoon City Incident. Mark Oliver was the one corresponding directly with the recent acquisition and operative, Spencer’s traitorous whelp.

Mark was also the only one whose ambition outweighed his trepidation from the outset. The idea of hitting the heart of Umbrella’s enforcement arm when they were at their weakest had been a wet dream come true. HCF had been Mark’s pet project, but it had really begun to come alive once Wesker had accepted his overtures. Even without the trove of data, Alan had to admit that Wesker’s presence was already paying dividends.

At least, so long as the mysterious secret BOW Wesker had allegedly co-opted to their side - now identified as Marigold Ashford, of all people- could be aligned in the same direction. Mark had only known the woman by reputation, and Umbrella had done it’s work in slowly scrubbing her presence from its annals. Most who knew anything only knew that the disgraced Alexander had had a sister, and that their relationship had been distant at best.

Albert Wesker, the operative, had reported over the last several weeks that he’d determined, then refined, a means of using the woman to flush out their primary prey, rather than a direct means of attack. The logic was akin to that of a fox hunt, using her to trace the pathways in and flush out prey at once. The woman had been told that they were hitting the shipping terminal in Buenos Aires, so she’d be relatively calm until arriving on Rockfort Island; Wesker’s report had also suggested that he’d found a means to keep her pliable within manageable parameters.

The haunted look in her eye, coupled with the marks on her throat and the rumours swirling around the facility made it clear how he was getting pliability from Miss Ashford. Alan’s hand tightened on the receiver at the thought, but his voice remained cool. “Did you get confirmation on the team’s arrival at the staging grounds?”

Mark cleared his throat. “Yes, they got in last night, although the men are a bit disconcerted by the effect…the extra asset…has.” He sounded unhappy. “I’ve heard the security argument, and it’s not wrong. Keeping her on the grounds virtually unguarded would be unwise. But to send her there, of all places? Alfred Ashford fights dirty, Alan, and he won’t take prisoners.”

Alan laughed. “I’ve heard. That’s why this move is going to work. The team can soften the defenses nicely, and the boy’s tightly wound enough that just showing her face could break him. Everyone knows he’s unwell. And,” he added for emphasis, “there’s quite a family resemblance, I imagine.”

Mark huffed laughter on the other side of the line. “If I didn’t know what a sadistic bastard he was, I’d feel sorry for the lad.”

“Umbrella does nurture those traits when they can get them young,” Alan agreed.

Mark paused. “I was honestly a little surprised you went along with this, when the vote came down. You seemed a little soft on the asset, and this mission will come down on her hard when it starts in earnest.”

“It’s amazing how cooperative the asset can be when you address her by name. You realize she practically built the corporate framework Umbrella exists within? The plan is solid, if a bit…risky.” Alan let his voice grow cold. “Like you’ve said, the operative felt leaving her in place would be too great a security risk for Umbrella to pass up, and if anything could convince that madman to stand down, she could.”

Mark began to argue. “ Do you have any idea the kind of ruthless psychopaths Umbrella is run by? If they recover Placidia-“

Alan smiled. “ I may have the ghost of an idea. You realize the asset you so prize was one of them. Families should be kept together, don’t you agree? Your operative has been uncovering some fascinating intel to that effect.” He tucked the receiver into the crook of his neck. “Besides, it’s already underway. The operative left with her in containment three days ago.”

Mark sighed. “I don’t suppose I can drink myself into oblivion and wake up in three days to celebrate a glorious victory.”

“Afraid not,” Alan replied. “The Host Control Force project is live, and the corporation has hung its hat on this mission succeeding- or else, the division’s funding will be in question for next year. It’s all hands on deck for as long as the liaison takes. This is what you wanted. So do what I’m about to do: hang up, have a stiff drink with a nice cigar, and be ready for the next few days.” Alan reached for a cigar on his desk. The answering machine in the corner blinked with three missed calls. Across the pond, Poppy Higgins knew something was up. It was regrettable to leave the woman in the dark like this, but the pieces were in play now.

To Mark, he said, “We’ve played the long game this far. We can be patient a little longer.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Leaning back in his shape, he lit the cigar. He wondered, with a smirk, if Albert Wesker sensed the sword hanging by a thread above his own head.

Dec 26, 1998 - a private airfield and base near Puntas Arena, Chile

“Sir, we have reports from the first wave on Rockfort,” the mercenary whose job was to run the comms said in a subdued voice as he approached the commander. “Ashford is confirmed on the island.”

Rockfort was never going to be a soft target. Years of working in various outfits for money, slowly building up a core of experienced grunts, had taught him that. Rockfort was the dismal jewel supplying Umbrella’s paramilitary.

But Umbrella had lost a lot at Raccoon City. All those assets, labs, and a huge chunk of soldiers. Most of the remainder were stretched thin over the rest of their assets, desperately closing anything not absolutely necessary. Or, they had seen where the wind was blowing, and were getting ahead of the competition to the softest parts of the underbelly, ready to tear open.

The man he was reporting to, Albert Wesker, was in the second camp. It would have been perfect…if Alfred fucking Ashford hadn’t been present, processing new inmates when the first attack had landed.

Alfred Ashford was the sort of man who had a dozen wild and deeply contradictory rumours linked to his name. A legacy trust fund baby who happened to have a genius for military administration. A man who was barely holding on to his sanity over his dead twin sister, with a deeply sadistic streak aimed at anyone who crossed him. A skinny twig of a man who could absolutely eviscerate any marine crazy enough to take a shot at him.

The commander was calm, centered. “He survived the first volley then. War games are his element, unfortunately. He’s holding his ground?”

The mercenary blinked. This Wesker had known the madman? “Yes, sir. We’ve deployed the T-Virus, and it’s leveled the local training and prison populations He’s gotten… creative.” The mercenary offered the report he had just takes from the captain of that team. A full third of the first-wave team was already dead or injured.

Wesker took the report, scanned it, and nodded to the mercenary. “We’re still on track. Team two will draw him out; The first wave is simply softening their defenses, and evaluating weak points. There was always a chance he would be present. Looks like the rumours of his mental decline haven’t affected his ability to strategize…although his grasp on reality is about as poor as ever.”

Long experience had taught the mercenary captain not to bite back with his thoughts on a bad op, but her couldn’t help the face he made at the situation. The commander noticed and smirked. He continued to scan the document and paused. “We have a trigger to draw him out in the second phase, but I want to know who the new prisoners are. Between the black market and the attack in Paris, they could prove useful distractions. Until we’re in place, anyhow.”

Ah, yes. The trigger. The dossier for the mission had included a photo of Alfred Ashford, and a brief description of the man- including a twin who’d been lost young, which had set off the man’s spiral into instability in the first place. The woman the commander had brought…well, there was certainly a resemblance in colouring and facial structure. And the woman was…strange. She had worn tinted glasses in the first few hours she’d been on the site. She had also seemed almost drugged, following the commander closely.

The men had even odds as to whether the commander was fucking her. When a soldier had strayed too close though, she’d seemed to sharpen, directing a predatory silent focus on the person. The men had started to become uncomfortable, so she’d been moved into an empty dormitory at the edge of the camp. Later, one of the men who had strayed into her orbit and shuddered, describing her affect “like a Hunter in human skin.”

The mercenary said none of this. He only nodded with an easing of his posture. “Sir,” he said, and left the room to resume his posting.

He wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful that the second wave would be so much better equipped and prepared. But, this was the job. The commander clearly had some idea of how to break Ashford.

And it looked like their odds of success were about to go way up.

Wesker watched the captain leave, noting his look of distaste when he mentioned the trigger. Wesker had begun Marigold on a regimen of hormone patches three weeks earlier, ramping up the dosage over the last few days so as not to give her system time to adjust. It had the desired effect in maintaining a somewhat glazed compliance without significantly affecting her physical state. However, it made her more dangerous to the men around her on the base. That optimal primal state inhibited her self-control, and while she could be managed, she was never left alone with any of them.

Not when she was free to move around, and there were no other targets to be had.

The way her scent had risen during those near-incidents suggested that the patches were working in other ways as well.

Alfred’s presence on Rockfort wasn’t a surprise. It would be better to pin him down at the beginning of the venture anyhow. Wesker’s sources had shared rumors of a strange woman in a purple dress occasionally being seen around the island earlier that year. If Alexia was truly dead then, who was haunting the halls of the Rockfort palace?

He had a number of theories. They would hold until he could examine the situation for himself.

Tomorrow they would mobilize for the second wave. But for tonight, he would attend to his secret weapon.