#wheel of fortune switch

[foone]

So I'm hacking a Nintendo Switch game and I find this image, labeled JEFF.PNG. Weird.

So I go searching. It's a cropped version of this image:

And it's from "Ore no Imouto ga Konna ni Kawaii Wake ga Nai", or "My Little Sister Can't Be This Cute", aka Oreimo.

Wikipedia says: "The story depicts high school student Kyosuke Kosaka who discovers that his standoffish younger sister Kirino is actually an otaku with an extensive collection of moe anime and younger sister-themed eroge she has been collecting in secret. Kyosuke quickly becomes Kirino's confidant for her secret hobby."

So, yeah, it's just a crop from an light novel/manga/anime about a boy who finds out his younger sister is into incest video games.

The game I found this in?

Ubisoft's Wheel Of Fortune for the Nintendo Switch.

[soldierandawar]

somehow i got into call of duty fanfic. dont know a lick about any of what they got going on but im having a great time.

[emmeralmagnolia]

Hello everyone!

Join my brother and I while we solve some puzzles!

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[maybefae]

If you were written into a book, what would be the story? (Fictional tropes?)

Pile 1 - Pile 2- Pile 3

Remember, this is a general reading and it may not resonate for everyone or completely. Tarot is a tool to help guide but you are responsible for your actions and life, you choose your path.

Tips!

Pile 1

Tarot: King of Wands, The Tower, Three of Pentacles, Ten of Cups, Two of Swords, Five of Cups, Page of Swords, Three of Cups, Temperance, The Empress, Ten of Cups, Ace of Cups, Two of Wands, Judgement, The Sun

Oracle: The Cartographer, The Founder, The Scholar, The Captain

I am getting two versions but with the same “ending.” And I originally was gonna use the deck I picked for your pile a couple days ago but I kept shuffling and nothing was coming through so I had to use a different deck. But some of the previous cards did come through! I believe that the deck situation does actually play into the story I am getting too. 

The situation has to do with a switch in power. This story starts with a king and this king could either be your husband in this book or your father. (I’ll let you guys decide what version you like best.) 

If it was your husband, this was an arranged marriage and one you really didn’t get much of a say in. Your family could’ve needed financial help and you being married off to royalty probably helped them. You probably went through with it just so your family would be happy. But the king was selfish, wouldn’t see any other way but his. He didn’t care much about you, liked the look of you on his arm, but would bed any other woman or person he’d like because he’s king. You didn’t have room to grow during this part of the story.

However, there is a turning point where you had enough or your kingdom was in trouble with his ruling and you end up killing him. And you probably made this murder look like an accident. I do have the idea that you probably had a servant or night that helped. This knight could be a love interest that you end up with in the future. But this is your big tower moment where you then are put into power without much knowledge on how to rule. 

But the people of the kingdom as well as the workers that were for you and the King actually adored you. They knew how disgusting, selfish, and greedy the King was; they saw how the King treated you. That’s how he treated them as well! And so the workers helped you, taught you how to rule. And you did a lot of studying, independently but also getting word from around town. I’m not gonna say that it was easy being put in a position of power, but you did it as gracefully as you could. It has a lot of found family vibes. The other kingdoms may have had an issue that you actually helped your people and weren’t greedy and self-centered but there are also hints that you actually end up uniting a bunch of lands. But you did grow into a well-loved ruler.

It’s like the quote, “Is it better to be feared or to be loved?” And in your case, it’s better to be loved because the people would go to lengths to defend you and the land. They have something to be proud of. 

If you wanted a love interest, I believe you get one and I have a feeling it is the knight I picked up on earlier. Or there could be a character added later on for book two of your story.

Pile 2

Tarot: Knight of Pentacles (The Entertainer), Wheel of Fortune (Life Map), Eight of Cups, Three of Pentacles, Page of Wands (The Wanderer), Nine of Pentacles, The Tower (The Shore), King of Wands (The Protector), Five of Cups, Seven of Cups, The Hierophant (The Phoenix)

Oracle: The Pathless, The Fate, The Alchemist, The Walker, The Sentinel

So I wanna start with the fact that there are two cards about “fate” here. And there is a blatant story that is shown here. This story has to do with time travel and you, as a character, having a hard time accepting fate. 

In this story, you have a partner that you were madly in love with, as were they with you. But this could be a historical fiction where they are drafted or they sign up to go to war. And while they were deployed, they would send letters promising a future. However, you end up getting news that they died in war. And you are hysterical. You don’t want to believe it’s real and will go to whatever lengths to get them back. 

Thus, this is where the time travel part comes in. I don’t necessarily know how time travel would happen in this book but I keep getting the vision of you going through time line after time line trying to find the one where they survive and make it back from war. A time line where you both can live out the future you planned. But each one, they end up dying. And your character is supposed to accept this moment as a thing that was supposed to happen. No matter if you went back and changed something in the past, it was bound to happen anyway. It’s like you can’t change someone else’s life. Your love wasn’t wasted. And I see a being, personified death, try to tell you this and you’re just sobbing and begging death for help. But it’s like you just ask, “What am I supposed to do?” And you don’t ask how you can bring your lover back. You want to know how to live. And Death ends up telling you something, but in my vision it’s like it zoomed out and I can see the both of you. His mouth is moving while you look at him, listening to his advice. But I can’t hear it.

It reminds me of the letter a soldier wrote to his lover.

Pile 3

Tarot: Nine of Cups, Seven of Cups, Page of Wands, Nine of Pentacles, Nine of Swords, Two of Swords, The Star, Ace of Pentacles, King of Swords, The Hierophant. Page of Swords, Eight of Pentacles

Oracle: The Waker, The Sentinel, The Chiromancer, The Miser, The Guide

I’m getting a few books or pieces of media that can correlate: Pride and Prejudice, Little Women (Jo and Laurie in particular), and Anthony and Kate (Bridgerton).

I believe that your story revolves around the complexities of the “older sister” role. You are the character that needs to control and look after everything or else you think the world will fall apart. But there is also an energy here of high standards and “why do I need a lover if I already have everything I need?” or the anger of someone wanting to come in, love and take care of you but you get angry because you have had to do it all by yourself. The anger of wanting this person when you needed them but now you don’t anymore, so fuck off. 

This pile is definitely for the enemies-to-lovers fanatics. There is an energy here of one-sided feelings but it’s more that your character does like this person but the unchecked/unhealed anger overrides all good feelings. This story is a journey of letting go and letting yourself be loved despite how uncomfortable and scary it is. The female rage, the anger of the older sibling…figuring out how to deal with the anger, letting go of control now that you don’t need to live in survival mode anymore. It’s the older version of you protecting a younger version of you, protecting your heart…

The love interest is charming. They can come off cocky and a flirt but may say things the wrong way which makes you “hate” this person. You think they’re a town bicycle, everyone gets a ride with them. But they truly do have feelings for you. They like the chase and fall deeper in love with you the more they have to work to break down your walls so you can see how serious they are. There could be events in the book where they come around to help and they could be the only ones that do come around to help you when everyone else is blind to your struggles and pain. And over the course of the book, you see that and finally take down your wall, slowly, brick-by-brick. And even if they like the chase, they don’t lose feelings when they finally get to hold you in their arms. They are completely serious, completely in love with you. And you get to have the safe home you’ve always dreamt of in the end. They are your defenders, even though they know you can handle yourself. The slow burn was worth it, I promise. 

Decks Used:  Ophida Rosa Tarot by Leila and Olive, The Rider-Waite Tarot Deck, The Citadel: A Fantasy Oracle by Fez Inkwright, Ethereal Visions Illuminated Tarot Deck by Matt Hughes Dividers: @inklore

[11cupids-tarot11]

How would your future spouse treat you on your moon cycle? <3

I was having such bad cramps when this question suddenly hit me and I figured we'd all love to know, right? Even though I get very cranky and like to be alone during my time of the month hehe.

1 -> 2

3 -> 4

Pile 1- Wheel of fortune, queen of wands, queen of swords.

So this person will literally try to pamper you, whatever that may look like for you. I'm hearing they'll respect all of your boundaries and will grant all of your wishes, they're very supportive. I'm hearing they don't like seeing you in pain and they understand how uncomfortable this time frame is for you.

I think this person is naturally caring and easily can read human emotions and they're giving therapists vibes tbh like they could work in that field or maybe for some I'm picking up on massage therapists, this person just seems like they know humans enough like maybe they studied it or it could just means they've studied you so well they know what you need (I said 'want' at first but was directed to switch it to 'need'. Someone's fs here likes being in charge lol) . Either way, I think they'd love to be your massage therapist around this time. I'm hearing anything to make you feel good.

THEY WILL LITERALLY TREAT YOU LIKE A QUEEN, pamper you, spoil you.

I'm hearing for some, around your moon cycle you get mood swings maybe? Your entire energy changes enough for this person to catch on and they'll know before/when you're on your period because of this. Maybe you're usually very chill and calm and around this time you're just more cranky than usual like me lol and your person will try very hard to just make sure your okay and not taking their head off? Lol, the way your person talks is very funny, they're very funny and so so sweet!

I think this person will treat you so well simply because they love you, you're their baby and they respect you so much. You're literally their queen. They love you so so much 😍 they want me to leave this rose emoji for you 🌹 (I think they're very giving, it's just in their nature 😭)

Other messages- my sweet girl, lots of chocolate and warm towels, hugs and I'm picking up on those who would rather be left alone for moments at a time they understand, they'll check up on you occasionally and will still be very affectionate (u can't refuse their hugs I'm hearing no escape lol 🤣😭 they're very cute. I think they like compliments? They might blush and smile a lot?) The type to randomly kiss ur forehead or cheek when ur literally just ✨chillin✨ just because.

Let me know how it resonates in the comments below! Leave a suggestion for the next pick a pile!

Pile 2- Ace of swords, temperance, the fool and the hermit.

So I think this person actually doesn't know much about a women's cycle, I think for a specific few they're the only child or maybe they just didn't grow up around a lot of feminine energy so this just isn't their field but I'm hearing they'd try damn hard to make sure everything's okay!

They'd follow your lead on this, like they prefer to maybe watch you from afar during this time? Like sometimes they don't know if they should bother or if they could help at all so they'll probably just straight up ask if there's anything they can do. This person isn't immature about it, but they do feel a bit awkward during those days? (I'm actually dying at ur person, they hardly know how to describe anything?)

Okay, for example, say you're having very bad stomach cramps and you've been in bed all day complaining, they would probably let you stay in bed as long as you'd like and would peek their head in the doorway to silently check up on you because they don't know if they should disturb you or not.

I think they'd love it if you just told them or ask for anything you need, I think they'd rather you rest and use them as a servant 😜 (ur person wanted me to add that, they felt very serious until now? I'm dying) until you feel better, they'll try different approaches tho, I don't think it'll always be this awkward. I think when you two have been together for awhile they'll pick up. I think then they'd mix up their own home remedies, and their own strategies by now, they're not very specific on what this could be or what it could look like because I think this person doesn't really want you to know?

They really want you to feel cared for and like they're there for you as much as possible so they're constantly thinking of new ideas for you!

This is not an 18+ reading and take it how it resonates but I think a very selective few wouldn't mind having intercourse on their moon cycle? 👀

Let me know how it resonates in the comments below! Leave a suggestion for the next pick a pile!

Pile 3- Death, Ace of coins, The tower, Page of wands

This pile feels different, I was getting the energy of your person being shy and excited to have their turn for the reading 🤣 maybe this person isn't someone who you see romantically at first, could be a roommate a friend but you do know this person or they will come into your life at some point and you guys will have some kind of friendship from the start. It's giving secret admirer tho.

With the death card I'm thinking y'all could've just made it official, it feels like this is something new to them. Maybe it makes them feel a step closer to you? They think it's very cool you're trusting them enough at a time like this. They really value it.

I think they'll be the type to really go all in, ask you probably 20x a day "What do you need?" I saw that scene from Aladdin, when the genie is explaining how tired he is of being in the lamp and he's like "What do you need?Poof! What do you need? Poof!"

This person is trying to charm you and maybe show you they really care for you by doing this, I'm hearing 365 days a year they'll be like this tho, not only when you're on your moon cycle. I think they want you to be vulnerable with them or can't wait to see more vulnerable sides of you.

Let me know how it resonates in the comments below! Leave a suggestion for the next pick a pile!

Pile 4- The moon, Kight of coins, Temperance, Kight of swords.

My pile 4's energy is different, I think this person could be older than you? This person overall isn't someone who's very cuddly or could even be very hard to read so moments like these really show that side of them in their own way?

For example, say you ran out of pads but your stomach hurts too bad to go get them yourself, your person wouldn't be thrilled to shop in the women's section but for YOU they will, they'll go get your pads and make sure they're the right size and everything (I'm hearing he'll literally call you and ask what size he should get).

They're very serious when it comes to you, they have dedication and it shows in the oddest ways possible.

So for your time of the month they'd be very chill about, the other piles felt all jittery and nervous like they were scared to mess up but your person is smart, he'll break down those walls for you, if you just want to cuddle in bed they'll hold you as long as you like. I'm hearing they're actually kind of "softer" at the right times (I'm sorry I can't think of a better word right now)

You'll love how this person will treat you and your needs and I'm hearing symptoms as well, they're very comfortable and reliable. He's like your big giant teddy bear! 🧸

Let me know how it resonates in the comments below! Leave a suggestion for the next pick a pile!

[cozycottagetarot]

Your First 'Argument' With Them

Notes:

This rather light hearted (save one pile) reading explores the cause and resolution of your first significant argument/fight/tiff with your person.

The energies for you and your person could be potentially switched. For a few piles it felt like the reaction could belong to swapped between the two of you.

This was one of those readings where a lot of info only sorted itself out as I did each section so you really have to stick with me on this one haha.

There's some brief language in pile 3 & 4.

This reading is for entertainment purposes only! ✨

LINKS: Reading Masterlist | Dividers | Ko-Fi | Patreon | Paid Readings — Open 🫧

Pile 1

The Incident/Cause 

Cards: Two of Swords, The World, Queen of Swords, The Chariot 

Your first argument with your person is around a significant and potentially life changing decision that needs to be made. The decision can shape how you two move forward and close out a cycle but the conflict arises because you two have two opposing opinions or desires. There are a lot of different scenarios here however, so keep in mind the details will vary greatly from person to person. It could also be that one person is hesitant while the other is more self-assured. The other scenario I’m picking up on is maybe you (could be them) feel pressured by a time frame in what the decision needs to be made. Another situation that comes to me is being given an ultimatum. In general there’s an energy of stalling and needing to get moving. Sneaky ten of swords was hiding out in the deck! The vibes could be off and hurtful words exchanged. It could be a situation that makes or breaks the relationship.

The Resolution 

Cards: Ace of Wands, Five of Wands, Seven of Wands reversed, Three of Cups, Three of Pentacles 

This might get worse before it reaches a fiery climax and gets better. Quite honestly your person may become more intolerable and you might find yourself fighting to keep your cool. I don’t get a really intense fight though, just being majorly annoyed. You may both turn to your friends to get advice/help or a third party may help you both resolve the conflict. 

In the end, you and your person will try to come up with a solution that works for both of you. They may or may not confess their feelings for you… it depends on your relationship.

Curious about their reaction, your reaction, and the long-term impact on your relationship? 🌟 Dive into the details in the extended version, available to all tiers on my Patreon! 💖✨ Don't miss out! 🌠

Pile 2

The Incident/Cause 

Cards: Knight of Pentacles, The Lovers, Temperance, Knight of Swords, The Patient Witch, The Magician

The relationship is moving too slowly for someone. One person is comfortable with the pace and the other is like – “okay, um, what are we doing”. The relationship could be what each of you desires but one of you is more laid back and the other is a go-getter… very driven. I’m also getting a cancelled date and one person keeps saying “I want more”. Someone is spoiled by or wants to be spoiled with the other’s love and intention! The other person gives everything, just you know… slowly!

The Resolution 

Cards: Ten of Wands, Page of Swords, Good Luck (Wheel of Fortune) Five of Wands, Ten of Cups 

You two will eventually decide to stop making things so difficult for yourselves. You're only clashing because you can’t see you have to actively figure things out together. The resolution is that things will pick up the pace. It will require you both to turn within though as it seems like the resolution is internal work that in the end pushes you two forward. 

For one of you, it’s about opening up and being vulnerable while for the other it’s about realising you’re allowed to receive. Kind of like the disconnect comes from lack of give and take (it’s there but imbalance). So once that is realised internally it can create a more secure and faster-moving flow. 

Curious about their reaction, your reaction, and the long-term impact on your relationship? 🌟 Dive into the details in the extended version, available to all tiers on my Patreon! 💖✨ Don't miss out! 🌠

Pile 3

The Incident/Cause 

Cards: The Sun, Ace of Wands, King of Pentacles, The Chariot, Seven of Pentacles 

*If you were drawn to pile two I highly suggest checking that out!

I’ve been fighting for my life on this one Pile 3. I kept doing this pile looking for the source of the first (major) argument or even disagreement but the story wasn’t adding up to anything bad. You two may be a couple that works through disconnects (cause at the point that’s all I can call it) right away. The other piles had arguments with breaks but I get that vibe of you two always working to be on the same page or at least understand each other in the moment. 

But I still need to give you something so I decided to focus on the causes of general conflicts between you two. 

You two may have conflicts/disconnects over expectations of what your lives should look like and even that seems super mild. It’s like ‘maybe life should look like XYZ → but oh wait I’m actually happy with what I have’… you two may have to shed the stories you’ve been told and keep working on what you have together and individually because you’re happy. 

You guys might also be slow to get together as a couple. It felt like a waiting game in one of the previous pulls. Like you’re both hurt from previous experiences but also sure about your feelings for each other but unsure they’re reciprocated. So it’s a ‘will they won’t they’ kind of thing. You may run the risk of being “the one that got away”. 

How Are Conflicts Resolved

Cards: Ace of Cups, Five of Swords, Seven of Wands, Ten of Wands, Seven of Cups 

Conflicts may be so rare and few that you guys would definitely take it to heart. But I’m getting “I choose you you this lifetime and the next”. You two make a conscious decision to be in it together forever. You resolve conflicts through curiosity and a desire to understand each other. It’s like ‘this is the love of my life’ and “I don’t care, we’re getting through this together”. You naturally seek to understand each other and hold one another accountable. 

Curious about their reaction, your reaction, and the long-term impact on your relationship? 🌟 Dive into the details in the extended version, available to all tiers on my Patreon! 💖✨ Don't miss out! 🌠

Pile 4

‼️ Before you read: This pile has a theme of self confidence and possible anxiety/mental health issues.

The Incident/Cause 

Cards:  Queen of Wands reversed,m Ace of Wands, Good Luck Charm, Nine of Wands, Ten of Swords, Strength 

This feels a bit messy (post-reading– but not really lol)…  someone could have some self-confidence issues here. There’s also some energy of preferring to be alone rather than out with/around other people. 

This fight was ‘bound’ to happen, but at the same time, it’s in your hands? It’s more of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It also has this vibe of being manageable to out of control and needing intervention.  Someone, (likely you but this is one of those piles where the roles could be reversed), could have significant trauma or some anxiety/mental health issues going on. 

Self-love is the issue and it causes a lot of worrying and isolation. It’s so hard to articulate this ‘softly’ which makes it even more challenging. Let's say Person A struggles but Person B can’t see why. In B’s eyes, A is the most gorgeous, passionate, fun, loving person ever. A and B may bicker a lot about the topic but I see this tension swelling and some hurtful things might be said. I think you two may also end up either taking space or separating for a little bit (like days more than weeks). 

The Resolution 

Cards: Page of Swords, Seven of Wands, Knight of Cups, Three of Swords, Queen of Swords, The Chariot 

Your person is going to want to hear your story. You two could end up having a bit of a heart-to-heart. They’re going to work with you to help you get yourself back to a good place again (so supporting you being your own rescuer). They’ll be your accountability partner and cheerleader along the way, standing by your side as you learn to step into your power again. It might happen faster than you think it will, but it doesn’t mean you won’t falter. But when you do you’ll bounce back quicker.

Curious about their reaction, your reaction, and the long-term impact on your relationship? 🌟 Dive into the details in the extended version, available to all tiers on my Patreon! 💖✨ Don't miss out! 🌠

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/ Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

Plus One

Galas were exactly what you expected. It was a room full of rich, middle-aged people talking about the latest upper-class gossip with the most divine food. It would usually make anyone not from the dazzling world of the Gotham elite shiver and shake. 

Fortunately, you weren’t just anyone. You were the nanny for Bruce Wayne.

The week before, Mr. Wayne had informed you that you would be attending the gala with him. At first, you were thrilled and honored to be invited along, but the dream of catching a rich man was cut short when Mr. Wayne added you would be watching Dick and Cassandra. Luckily, you loved the two kids like they were your own, so it caused you little grief. 

“What about the other kids?” You had asked. 

Bruce spared you a passive glance as he tended to some papers in front of him. “I have a rule that the kids can’t join a gala before age ten. And, please, don’t try to bring the younger ones. The kids already understand this rule. In any case, they don’t want to go half of the time.”

You scoffed, telling Mr. Wayne that you weren’t planning on bringing the rest of the kids despite that being exactly the case. Luckily, he had taken some measurements to dissuade you from doing so, i.e. promising you more days off. 

The younger kids moaned and groaned about not going when they heard that you were going to be there, and Mr. Wayne was only able to soothe them over with a promise to Disney World during spring break. Then, the day came for the gala and the only ones ready were Mr. Wayne and you. 

“Sir,” Alfred had said, coming into the foyer where you and Bruce had been waiting for Cassandra and Dick. “Master Dick and Miss Cassandra have changed their minds about the gala.”

“What?” Bruce said, going to call them down before you stopped him. 

“You said it yourself, Mr. Wayne, half the time the kids don’t want to go.” You started to take your coat off in anticipation of having to stay with the children.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked. 

“Someone has to watch the kids,” You said, going to hand your coat to Alfred, but he didn’t take it. 

Alfred spoke pointedly to his charge. “Master Bruce, I can take care of the children, I did it before and I don’t mind doing it again.”

“I…” Bruce began, pausing to look at you before nodding. “I mean, you’re already dressed and I’m out a plus one. Plus two, actually.”

You grinned, shrugging your coat back on as you followed him out the door. 

And that’s how you ended up sitting with the Gotham elite telling another one of your long, intriguing tales. Bruce, looking at you from across the room, was surprised at how well you managed to acclimate yourself to the setting. Usually, when new folks entered the closed-off upper class of Gotham it was like throwing a person in a starving lion’s den. Somehow, you had managed to befriend the lion. 

Bruce was too busy watching you to see Harvey saunter up to him, eyes switching between his friend and you. Harv could understand why his friend was staring. You were beautiful, sitting there so poised in a perfect-fitting blue dress as you charmed your way with the small crowd around you. 

With a small smile, he finally addressed Bruce, “Something caught your eye?” 

Bruce didn’t seem surprised by Harvey’s sudden appearance. “Not exactly. I’m more impressed by just how well she’s doing, and that she’s not embarrassing me.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Harvey admitted.

Bruce shrugged, trying to be dismissive. “I’m her boss. I don’t think I’m meant to be too nice.”

“She watches your kids, so I’d be careful.” 

Bruce chuckled and shook his head, eyes going back to you. The longer Harvey watched his friend, he could see the wheels turning in his head. There was something Bruce didn’t want to admit, but it was stuck there behind his eyes. 

Harvey, always the one to create his own amusement where it wasn’t provided, leaned in to ask, “So, is it okay if I ask her to dance?”

“I don’t care, Harvey,” Bruce said, eyes not leaving you. 

“Then, would you care if I asked her out?” 

Harvey finally got his friend’s attention. “I’m not her father, so you don’t need my permission.”

“Oh,” He said, thinking about how risque his next words would be but decided to damn it all. “So, I can take her home tonight, too?”

“Don’t be a pig, Harv,” Bruce mumbled before throwing back the rest of his wine. When the waiter passed, he quickly replaced it with another. 

Harvey took that as his cue to go over to you. Upon his approach, your eyes trained on him like he would be your next target for whatever you had planned. Excusing yourself, you stood up and met him halfway. Harv couldn’t say exactly why but suddenly found himself flustered. 

You held out your hand expectantly, and coyly said, “I believe you were going to ask me to dance.”

Speechless, all Harvey could do was take your hand and smile.

—

Bruce tried to watch passively, but he just didn’t like the way Harvey was using you. He might have had some qualms about your behavior, but no lady deserved to be treated like a piece of meat. Alfred had raised him better than that. 

He thought about going in to cut in, and the only thing that stopped him was the flock of women that suddenly came to him. They were all asking about you, the ‘odd’ woman who had arrived on his arm of all people. Bruce attempted to not be offended on your behalf. He only half listened as they talked at him, asking asinine questions like what it was like to be so rich and if he really did date a princess for a solid week. He did, but it wasn’t a short-term relationship he wanted to delve into when you were only twenty feet away from being sized up for the taking.

It was a little while later when Bruce looked up again to find you and Harvey missing from the dance floor. Worried that you might have fallen for the devilish suave lawyer trick Harvey tended to put on, he tore himself from the group.

Bruce stopped to ask a waiter if he had seen you leave with a man in a navy suit. “I think I saw the lady go out the side service door.”

Okay, he thought, this was a bit more concerning. Following the waiter’s directions, after tipping him a hefty hundred, he did manage to find you again. You were huddled up on yourself against the evening chill with your phone pressed up against your ear. 

“What did I tell you two about pulling hair,” You said, tone stiff with passive irritation, as you slowly paced in a circle. “You’ll go bald. So, listen to Alfred and go to bed. If I come home to you all awake no Disney.”

You turned to see Bruce standing there and pointed to the phone, mouthing that it was the kids. With a few exchanges of light threats followed by some sweet soothing did you finally end the call. 

“Kids, am I right?” You huffed, hands on your hips. “What’re you out here for, anyway? Last I saw you, you were entertaining some ladies.”

Bruce leaned against the wall, reaching into his suit pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and said, “Didn’t think it would be appropriate if you stepped out with Harvey.”

“Him, hah!” You snickered, holding your hand out for a cigarette. “I had him pegged right from the moment he was crossing the dance floor that he wasn’t thinking with the right head. Guess it was a bad idea for me to accept his offer for a date, but oh well.”

Before Bruce could reach for a lighter you were already pulling one from your little handbag. You lit your cigarette before stepping close to light his. He told himself the cigarette was taking his breath away and not the smell of your perfume. 

“What was that phone call about,” Bruce asked, wanting to fill his mind with something other than you. 

You blew out some smoke, smiling as you explained, “I decided to check on the kids, and, it turns out, Tim and Jason have some sort of beef going on.”

“I think Jason didn’t like it all too much when I brought Tim home—made him feel like a replacement.” Bruce was smiling a little despite how sad the story sounded. “We’re working it out.” 

“I couldn’t tell,” You sarcastically remarked, side-eyeing him. It was easy for Bruce to say they were ‘working it out’ because you did all the work. You drew in another puff before looking at the cigarette in your hand again. “Hey, what’re you doin’ carrying these around? You seem too tight-laced to smoke.”

“What’re you doing asking so many questions,” Bruce meant to say playfully, but it sounded too defensive. Before you could rebuff, he added, “I took them away from Dickie.”

You gasped. “No.”

Bruce was grinning now, thinking about it. Alfred had caught Dick and Jason smoking behind the garage one day, and, boy, did they get the lecture of a lifetime. He had forgotten about the pack, having thrown it into the glove box of his car, until he ran into a particularly rough night at a gala. Now, he’d gone through most of the pack. 

You shook your head. “That boy is something else.”

“I know,” Bruce said. “I love him to bits. All of them.”

“I know,” You said quietly, looking up at Bruce through those long lashes. 

Damnit, you were beautiful. Shaking his head, Bruce threw the last bit of his cigarette to the ground before offering you his hand. 

“Let’s go back in, hm? If we’re out here too long they’ll assume I have you hiked up against the wall.”

You rolled your eyes and said cheekily, “A girl can dream.”

Bruce snickered as he tried the door, but it didn’t budge. 

Damn, he realized he’d just locked the two of you out of his own gala.

[hot-astrology]

The Aqaurius Mind: Pluto in Aquarius, Age of Aqaurius, and 2024

The recent events surrounding Katt Williams have stirred my interest, though this event barely scratches the surface of the cosmic workings. The year 2024 portends a great unraveling, as deciphered through its numerology (8) : the influence of Pluto looms over this year, with its placement in Aquarius.

This year's fixed energies signal transformation (Aquarius and Scorpio) and raw power (Taurus and Leo), with Uranus and Jupiter in Taurus and Pluto in Aquarius. The impact of the fixed signs will be significant and profound.

Saturn's presence in Pisces heralds a great awakening. ;I am reminded of my own natal Saturn in the 12th house, which imbues this area of spirituality with discipline and authenticity.Saturn brings discipline and realness to this area of spirituality. And this is what we will see happening for those who are already tapped in. For those who are not this is another great chance similar to 2020 to awaken.

Turning to Vedic astrology, Saturn is positioned in Aquarius this year. In 2020, this was such a huge alignment the only difference is there won't be a great conjunction. But I could see similar potency already. With certain things being spoken about, and if you haven't heard. It's because the government (Saturn) is trying to hide (pisces) a lot of this information away from society. We are fully in the age of aquarius, and things will only continue to get exposed. And no matter how much certain authorities try to hide or stop it. It won't stop until the FULL truth is revealed. No matter how many people are killed, and etc. More and more will keep popping up until the mission is done.

Now switching to tarot, because this is how I connect a lot of my dots. The 21st card (The world card); This card consists of a lion (leo), an eagle (scorpio), a human (Aqaurius), and a bull (Taurus) We see all of these energies being pulled towards us. The world card is the very last card in the tarot deck and represents completion. Now, I would like to turn this over to venuz because he knows more about the cycles and years and stuff. But, I do, I want to also talk about the 10th card in tarot. This is the wheel of fortune. This card signifies karma, destiny, and fate. The cycle of life. This card also resembles the world card but not in a way where things are ending. It shows how life goes on & on. This card also has The Lion, The Bull, The Human, and The Eagle. The four corners of the world/ The angels of the four directions. We see how that number 4 is so significant. These are cycles, and fixed is the last stage. Beyonce was right, America really does have a problem...... The Seal has been broken. ☺ Now, to you venuz.

Cycles......Yes, cycles! Everything evolves in cycles and changes, it's only so long you can stay in the same scenario or comfort zone without chaos knocking at your door. Aquarius is all about change and revolutionizing its surroundings and its people. This energy is at its boiling point. Every 20 years there's a recurrent cycle of same-aged groups with specific behaviors that change. So, if you add 3 more cycles to that it will be a 4 cycle switch, which every generation would affect the other. When the 80-year mark comes around it is a crucial period. Everything is done in cycles, it doesn't matter what it is. Saturn in Pisces will materialize everything you think of, or focus on. This will also bring about what you have been hiding, and not speaking. Thoughts of your subconscious will be brought to the surface, and some will have to face those fears. For Example, Katt Williams has known all of these lies, secrets, backstabbing, cheating, phony, and false allegations, so it's being materialized. All his thoughts, dreams, and deep-rooted issues about other comedians came out to the forefront without any care. As he spoke and exposed their behaviors in front of millions (mass 11th house) and demanded a change (pluto). This calls on the energy of Pluto in Aquarius.

Pluto in Aquarius loves erratic behavior and unexpected scenarios. Pluto comes with a punch and is at full throttle here. Many people are outspoken now and about change and freedom. Aquarius is all revolutionary and Pluto is a generational planet so change is bound to come. This is just the beginning of this world being destroyed and reconstructed into a new and profound system that isn't in line with these new powerful souls. This makes an 80-year period. 10 more years from now will make 90 years which is energy 9 which will be the completion of a major cycle. 8 is just the transformation period and reconstructing period, everything and everyone who wasn't living in their own essence and misusing their fortune, fame and financial abundance in a non conducive manner will reverse roles and be exposed for their inequality.

Like gorgeous Moon Devi said they're trying to hide what they're up to but Saturn in Pisces is revealing everything they have been hiding. So everyone wakes up to all those lies, takes off the rose-colored glasses, no more fantasy land, and is in a delusional state of mind. Pluto in Aquarius will allow everyone to have a voice and speak up, change what's not right, and stand for something even if you never did your whole life. If you were born in this era or if you were born to still be alive in this era get ready for the showdown. If watched in Living Color, this movie promises to be a captivating experience, delivering the answers to long-standing questions and revealing hidden truths. It has the potential to evoke personal fears, making them tangible and forcing introspection. It's a crucial time for everyone, not just celebrities or elites, to focus on self-healing, purification of the soul, and actualizing personal aspirations. Astrologically, the influence of Aquarius, which rules the 11th house of hopes and aspirations, and Pluto provides the necessary impetus to transform negative situations into positive ones, for oneself and the greater good.

However you envision your world to be, you will get the results in this transit. Imagine yourself as a kid at the art table, and you have a box of crayons, an blank piece of paper. The teacher tells you to draw your new world. How would you create it? Would it consist of peace, prosperity, and love? Then she says," Stand up in front of the class, and explain what your world looks like." You say it out loud in front of the class with conviction and power. Then you close your eyes and watch it manifest right before you, VOILA!!! 

From two aqaurius/uranus dominant spirits, ~ Prinz Venuz & Moon Devi

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭

𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔: 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐳 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐳 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢

[foone]

So it turns out if you leave the tutorial for Wheel of Fortune (2017, Switch) waiting on a keypress for a couple hours on a slightly inaccurate emulator, it causes the human model animations to desync. Which is... interesting. Slightly scary.

[theholypeanut]

HIORI YO X GRUMPY AND SUNSHINE

Peanut's Wheel of Fortune Event

Plot: Hiori, The Ice Prince, and you, the school Sunshine: you couldn't be more different - and yet, it works, your friendship. Or should we call it what it is: two dum dums in love.

CW: 2k words, Hiori tsundereeee (fight me), clueless!reader not getting any signs,two idiots in love, friends to lovers, stupid x even more stupid, teasing, flirting, reader loves gacha, fluff, gn!reader, Hiori has game at the end, pulling uno reverse on reader

Event Masterlist

On the first day of high school, you sat next to Hiori. When you saw him for the first time, your immediate thought was how extremely gorgeous his face was: he looked like a precious porcelain doll. He was so beautiful, that, to be honest, for the first month you wondered if he was just a tomboy who refused to wear a girl's uniform. He never talked to anyone, just sat on his Nintendo Switch or looked through the window his headphones on. You barely exchanged a word during the first semester.

But after a certain incident just before the summer holidays, your approach changed. It was a hot day, you could almost feel your uniform melting into your skin, and you just wanted to die. You already had a reputation at school for being the "sunshine" of the class, always cheerful and loud, cracking jokes and sometimes talking back to the teacher in a way that made the whole class burst out laughing. Even though you sat next to Hiori most of the time, he was probably the person you talked to the least - not by choice, he just seemed to ignore you on purpose. At first the girls in the class tried to get close to him, obviously smitten by his beautiful face and promising football career, but when he barely noticed them and rudely ignored their attempts, they let it go and it fuelled his reputation as the „Ice Prince”. But you didn't mind. To be fair, apart from being a quiet person, Hiori was never really mean to anyone. He was not a bad person. You chose not to bother him, not to push him out of his comfort zone, and he ignored you. 

But this time, as you lay down on your desk during your break, as you always do, you couldn't help but take a long look at your classmate. He was playing a game on a console, with headphones on. His eyelashes were ridiculously long, and his features were so delicate that he looked like a flower, like a...

"You're not very subtle, are you?" You heard his voice as you noticed Hiori taking off his headphones. He looked at you with a visible frown. You made eye contact, feeling like a summer heat was already scrambling your brain, getting rid of any possible embarrassment. „Have anyone told you you look like a periwinkle?” He blinked. „Like… what?”

„A flower. You look like this pretty blue flowers you can sometimes see in botanical gardens.”

He sat there, stunned, his expression hard to read. Without an answer from him, still with your face on the desk, you didn't look away. 

„Honestly I didn’t know people as pretty as you are even real” you said without thinking, seeing that his face getting visibly red. He looked away, which made your heart beat a little faster. Was he...?

"Did the sun fry your brain?" He mumbled, trying his best to stay out of your sight. But you knew what you saw. Hiori Yo, an Ice Prince, was blushing. And that was the moment, you made an unconscious decision, to start actively bother him for the rest of your high school career: if it meant seeing that expression again.

And that was also a beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

In your second year of high school, you ended up in the same class again, seemingly thrown together by fate. Everyone at school speculated that you two had been dating for months, The Sunshine and The Ice Prince: isn’t it the cutest combination? Hiori never bothered to explain that you were not dating, and at best you were "very close friends". This was because of two things: firstly, you were his close friend, but every now and then he doubted that he was yours. You were always so bright and smiling, so nice to everyone, with so many friends wherever you went. Sometimes he wondered if something happened to you, or if you were in trouble, would he be the first person you'd call? He wanted that to be the case, but he couldn't be sure, which made him... jealous. And that was the second reason: Hiori Yo, the Ice Prince, would never, ever admit that he never denied having a relationship with you, because he simply wished it to be true. Was he stupid? Naive? Maybe. But to be honest with himself, he couldn't imagine not falling in love with you. 

What was even more annoying, though, was that you couldn't have been more dense. Hiori was never the type to show his affection in a straightforward way, but he had his moments: he helped you when you were struggling with heavy things, he helped you with quests in a game (you started to get into it just to have more topics to talk about), he bought wired headphones just so he could listen to music with you: nothing. You just smile and comment on what a softie he is, which makes him blush, and you can't take a damn hint. You were hopeless. Sometimes he felt you liked him back, just by the teasing words you said or the casual touch of his hair (the day you tucked his hair behind his ear without warning is still fresh in his mind and makes his heart skip a beat before he falls asleep). The worst part was when he was embarrassed, all Hiori could come up with was some mean or sarcastic comment. But you read so many romance mangas, how could you not understand that? The day Hiori saw a random guy from the basketball team confessing to you was the day he decided he had to do something. You politely rejected that clown, but that didn't let the blue-haired prince relax for long. The idea of confessing scared him, but the thought of you seeing someone else made his heart sink. However, he knew far more about you than any other boy ever could: and he planned to use that to his advantage. If he was too embarrassed to confess, perhaps he could charm you into falling for him and confessing first? The plan wasn't that simple, but it was worth a try.

When you got back to class, having answered all the embarrassing questions about your confession, you sat next to Hiori with a sigh of relief. On days like that, you were grateful for how cold Hiori was. He wouldn't even look at you, let alone ask for all the details about the poor basketball boy. But to your surprise, in the middle of the lesson, you felt a small piece of paper slip close to your hand.  "Are you free after school today?" It was written in familiar handwriting. You smiled.  "I'm always available for you" you drew a tiny heart at the end. Since last year, of course, you enjoyed teasing Hiori with flirtatious lines whenever you got the chance. At this point you couldn't even stop yourself if you tried, it was like breathing.  "There's a new gacha machine in the arcade. Want to go?" He wrote back, not even blushing at your message. A bit disappointing, but Hiori rarely invited you first, if you ever hung out it was at your initiative, so you were still excited. Not to mention that you really enjoyed gachas. "It's a date" you wrote back without thinking any further.  You couldn’t hide your excitement for the rest of the day.

When you came out of the school gate, you looked at your friend. 

"It's something new that you don't have football training today" he just looked away when he heard your words.  "Practice was cancelled" he mumbled in a tone that clearly showed the conversation was over. You walked in silence for a longer second before he started: "So... the basketball guy, huh?" He changed the subject, which only made you sigh. 

"Please, don't even start. I'm not even sure what that guy's name is. I don't think we've spoken more than once. It's embarrassing."

Hiori looked at you carefully. 

"Yes, but have you ever thought that maybe that's enough?"

You looked at him in surprise.

"Enough for what?" You raised your eyebrow.

"To fall in love with you" he said without looking away. No matter how you looked at it, Hiori was a different person today. Saying something like that in such a serious tone and not looking away in embarrassment did not seem like him. He never really wanted to talk about romance or love. Just games and football. He left you speechless until you saw the entrance to the familiar arcade. 

It was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday evening, and at certain points you had to squeeze in between sweaty boys of all ages. You felt someone grab your hand. Before you could scream 'pervert', you realised it was only the blue-haired boy. 

"Don't get lost" he said in a neutral tone and pulled you out of the crowd. The gacha area was still mostly occupied, but the target audience had changed drastically: now you were surrounded by teenage girls. Hiori pointed to one of the machines further back. As you followed in that direction, you gasped in surprise. 

"No way!" You said as you approached the machine. It was one of your favourite series of all time, one of those niche things that were not popular enough to deserve a proper merch. Still holding your hand, Hiori, finally a little embarrassed, handed you a coin. For a second, you seriously considered that maybe you had forgotten your own birthday, because everything felt too perfect. 

"Are you going to get one too?" You asked, spinning the wheel to get your beloved little trinket. 

"What?" He asked, distracted. 

"We should get matching ones" you said with a smile, taking the ball out. „I’ve always wanted to have matching keychains”

He smiled softly and took another coin out of his pocket. "You better not cry later that mine's cuter" he teased. 

It felt so wholesome and cosy, just perfect. The bickering, the teasing, the little gestures he made to you always made you feel warm inside. And here you are, laughing and comparing the keychains you got, so close you could smell the detergent on his uniform. You were much more aware of his presence because you couldn't help but feel shy, Hiori still holding your hand all the time. You tried to remember the last time you did it, but your mind just went blank: it was the first time you had held hands since you became friends. And even more surprisingly, on his own initiative. But you couldn't complain. Considering his constant training, you expected his hands to be more calloused, but they were soft and large, and you just realised that you really wished this moment wouldn't end. „Do you want to get out of here?” His voice brought you back down to earth. You raised an eyebrow.

"Where do you want to go?" You asked, moving towards the exit. To your surprise, he grinned. 

"Where would you like to go? It's your date as much as mine" he said calmly.  "Good question, would you like to get something to eat? There's this…" you stopped, processing his words. You turned to face him, only to notice that he was looking away awkwardly. "You…" you started, not knowing where to go with the sentence. You felt your face grow hot.

"If you don't want this to be a date, maybe you should let go of my hand, you know" he said, still avoiding your eyes. You two must look so ridiculous: two people, holding hands, avoiding each other's eyes, all blushing. After you didn't answer, the blue-haired boy started to gently pull his hand away from yours, which only made you grip it tighter. 

"Stop it" you said, unable to control how red your face was. You cleared your throat. "Let's get some ramen, shall we?" 

Hiori finally looked at you, with the softest eyes. Too bad you were still too embarrassed to look back and notice. 

"Sounds perfect to me."

[kaladinsspear]

Self indulgent fluffy modern Shakadolin AU. Because I love them.

* Kaladin is ex army. One of those people who was special forces and therefore “officially” sat on his butt and did nothing for all 6 years of his service. He didn’t of course, but his entire file is redacted so he gets nothing. No disability (how could he have ptsd? He was ���never deployed”) no VA support, no GI bill, nothing.

* He is now working for Amazon as a delivery driver while he goes to school. He started premed, but ended up switching to psychology. He’s especially interested in the body/mind connection. Not necessarily medication (though, he does support its use when needed) but more things like diet, sleep, exercise, and how your physical health affects your mental/emotional health.

* He volunteers at the local animal shelter where he takes dogs on hikes each week. This is how he met Syl.

* Syl is a Veterinarian. She volunteers at the local animal shelter as well, and the two quickly became close friends. They currently share an apartment.

* They tried dating for about a week (heteronormativity ya know?) but decided that it wasn’t for them. They love each other deeply and would consider each other life partners, but they don’t love each other romantically.

* Shallan works at one of those “paint with me” art studios. She has a degree in….drawing? (Sorry! I don’t know what the specializations are in art school!) and takes commissions for technical illustrations on the side.

* She loves the Wheel of Time series and has a thriving fan art instagram and tumblr.

* She met Jasna when she was in school. Jasna was her history professor and quickly became her mentor. Somewhere between a mother and older sister with a little bit of a crush thrown in. Not that Shallan would ever actually want to be in a romantic relationship with Jasna, but she so pretty, and smart, and opinionated, and bold, and…… ya know?

* Jasna is the one who introduced her to Adolin, and he and Shallan hit it off right away.

* They dated for about 3 years before getting married. They are sickeningly adorable.

* Adolin served in the military as well because it was family tradition, but didn’t make the career out of it that was expected of him.

* Adolin was a Marine, and his service is on record. He gets a nice GI bill which he is using to study physical therapy.

* Turns out, Adolin and Kaladin go to the same school.

* At first they are kind of indifferent to each other, but soon bond over shared military experience and an interest in whole body health.

* Adolin introduces Kaladin to Shallan and the two hit it off super well.

* Fortunately, they are all adults who know how to talk to each other and Shallan and Adolin have discussed polyamory before, all be it in hypothetical terms.

* Adolin is actually the one to bring it up to Kaladin, just to make sure Kaladin doesn’t feel pressured or sneaky. All 3 of them have a conversation about what a relationship might look like, and they decide to try it out.

* Turns out, it works great for them. Kaladin and Adolin have a delightful bromance thing going on. They probably wouldn’t have gotten together without Shallan, but they love each other deeply and enjoy their relationship.

* Shallan and Syl are super close as well, and they enjoy drawing together and discussing the Wheel of Time.

* Syl and Adolin get super into cosplay and make fantastic creations together.

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ chris redfield x reader, 15K

⸺ psychological horror, graphic descriptions of violence

⸺ summary: Sent on a mission to neutralize a bioweapon, Chris Redfield and his team find themselves trapped in an endless loop of death on a remote island. Each day brings new horrors—and along with it the only constant, you, the lone survivor, remembering along with him.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @leonw4nter @misonesaturou @sparrowguardian

The low hum of the boat’s engine thrums beneath Chris’s boots, steady and monotonous, like a heartbeat too tired to falter, saltwater spraying from the bow as the craft slices through gray-blue waves, flinging cold beads of seawater onto his gear. He leans against the cold metal railing, the steel vibrating under his weight, and squints through the dense fog cloaking the horizon. The island waits ahead—silent, still—its jagged cliffs rising like broken teeth from the sea.

“Fortunate Son” pops and crackles out of the radio, opening chords bleeding into the hum of the engine. Chris drags a gloved hand down his jaw, rough with days-old stubble, and exhales slowly through his nose. The music nestles deep under his skin, familiar in a way that makes his scalp itch, some bone-deep part of him waiting for something else—something different—to fill the air.

He glances toward the helm where Rodriguez, their comms officer, grips the wheel with one hand, her other drumming lazily against the console. “Ugh, this song?” she mutters, not bothering to look up. “You’d think they’d switch it up now and then.”

Chris doesn’t respond. His fingers tap against his thigh, the rhythm in perfect sync with Rodriguez’s drumming—before he notices and clenches his hand into a fist. Behind him, the faintest murmurs rise from the rest of his team, huddled around a portable game board, plastic pieces clattering onto its surface while the boat bobs over choppy waves. He doesn't turn to see what they're playing.

Beside him, Morgan adjusts the strap of her rifle across her chest and nudges his boot with her own. “You good, Redfield?” she asks, breath misting in the cold air. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Chris says, but the words scrape his throat, as if he’s spit them out a hundred times already. He shifts his stance, rolling his shoulders, but the tension pressing down on him doesn’t lift. He catches himself staring at the water—the foam curling and folding away in the boat’s wake, every ripple as identical as the last.

Morgan grins. “Yeah, I bet you are, big guy. Just another day for you, right? A nice and easy snatch-and-grab in paradise." She gestures to the island before her, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Who knew viruses could afford a place like this these days?"

Something twists in Chris’s gut, sharp and cold. He presses his lips into a thin line and looks away, clenching his jaw so tight he feels the pressure in his temples. The island looms larger now, jagged cliffs towering above the restless sea, their sharp edges softened by the heavy fog. He leans farther over the railing, letting the sting of cold spray bite his skin, hoping to settle whatever prickle of unease skittered through him. He doesn't know why; he has no reason to feel off about this mission—if anything, it's one of their easier jobs, taking less than a week, from departure to return. And nothing that warranted bringing their usual firepower.

It still feels wrong. Everything about this fucking place feels wrong. He should be light-hearted, eager even, as much as he can be for any mission that doesn’t involve him running headlong into warzones. But the only thing rising from the pit of his stomach is a persistent buzz of anxiety, like an engine rumbling idly underneath him. Waiting for him to drive. To crash. To do something.

Rodriguez twists the volume knob, and the lyrics kick in: “Some folks are born silver spoon in hand. Lord, don't they help themselves, Lord...” The chords curl around Chris’s thoughts like a noose. The song shouldn’t bother him—it’s just music—but it does. It scratches at something buried deep, a memory he can’t reach.

He grips the railing tighter until his gloves creak.

“Can’t say I’m a fan of this island getaway though," Morgan continues as if sensing he needs more than silence to ground himself, her own apprehension masked under wry humor. She glances around the boat, noting their less-than-impressive weaponry collection. "Whole place feels cursed. Shouldn't we be packing bigger guns than this?"

"Didn't expect anything other than some lousy security," Rodriguez answers from the helm, finally looking up from her screens. "All intel says they don't have much here—just a lab. Can't exactly fit giant bioweapons on an island this tiny."

Chris doesn’t respond. The mission brief was simple: secure the island, contain the bioweapon, rescue survivors. Standard stuff. But the closer they get, the heavier the air feels—as if the island knows they’re coming. He glances over his shoulder at the others. Rodriguez stays focused on the helm. Morgan checks her weapon, steady and sure. Scrader and Kashiwabara are still at the gameboard. None of them seem uneasy at all—yet Chris feels like something bad is about to happen.

“Land in five,” Rodriguez calls, steering them closer.

Chris straightens, rolling his shoulders again, but the tension clings to him like wet clothes. The motion feels too smooth, too rehearsed. His muscles move, but it’s like he’s watching from a distance, as if the actions aren’t his own.

He rubs his hands together, trying to warm his fingers, but the cold clings to him. His boots scrape the deck as he turns toward the island. The cliffs loom high, sheer and jagged, silhouetted against the dull gray sky.

Something flickers along the shore—a shadow slipping between the rocks, quick and subtle. Chris blinks, his hand twitching toward his sidearm, but the shadow’s already gone, swallowed by the mist. His pulse kicks up, fast and uneven, and he clenches his jaw until the pressure aches. Nothing’s there. Nothing’s supposed to be there.

The boat rises on a swell, the motor groaning under the strain. Morgan shifts beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “You sure you’re good?” she asks again, quieter this time.

Chris flexes his hands, jaw tight. “Yeah.” The lie scrapes the back of his throat like broken glass.

He faces the island, fog swirling at the edges of the shoreline. The black rocks gleam under the mist, jagged shapes rising from the waves like the bones of a drowned giant. His breath steams in the cold air, and he exhales slowly, watching the vapor drift away like a ghost.

The closer they get, the more everything feels... off. Not wrong, exactly—just misaligned, as though someone took a familiar scene and shifted it a few degrees. Every step, every breath feels rehearsed, like watching himself move through a memory he can’t place.

Morgan nudges his shoulder, offering a crooked grin. “Then try not to look so grim, Redfield. We’ll be in and out before you know it.”

Chris doesn’t answer. His gaze stays locked on the shoreline, where the rocks glisten under the mist like obsidian teeth, the water beating against them, each wave curling exactly the same way as the last.

Rodriguez calls out, “Touchdown in one!” The motor cuts back, the boat slowing as they approach the shore.

Chris shifts again, fingers twitching at his side, an itch just under the surface. He knows the feeling—the uneasy crawl of a mission about to go wrong—but this one digs deeper, like he’s already in the middle of something he hasn’t even started.

The boat slices through the final layer of mist, revealing the shore beyond. The rocks seem sharper now, the shadows thicker, they almost settle low in his gut.

The boat rocks gently as it grinds against the shore with a dull scrape of metal on wet stone. The engine sputters to silence, leaving only the soft slap of waves lapping against the rocks and the low hum of static from the radio, now too faint to make out the lyrics of “Fortunate Son.” Rodriguez kills the ignition with a flick of her wrist, and for a moment, the stillness is too sharp, as if the island has exhaled and is waiting for them to take its first breath.

Chris steps off the boat, his boots sinking into the wet sand with a dull squelch. The ground feels colder than it should, the kind of cold that seeps through the soles of his boots and creeps up his legs. He pauses for a moment, shifting his weight as his eyes sweep across the shore. The sand glistens unnaturally under the muted daylight, slick and heavy, as though it’s been soaked through—not by water, but by blood. It stretches across the shore like a spiderweb, reaching far beyond what little Chris can see, leading all the way to the base of the cliffs, where dark tendrils stretch like veins under pale, glistening skin.

Kashiwabara and Scrader pack away their board game, Scrader grumbling under his breath about the interrupted match. Kash throws a lazy grin in Chris’s direction, tucking a black pawn into the pocket of his vest. “Two more rounds, and I would’ve wiped the floor with him.”

“In your dreams,” Scrader mutters, hopping off the boat and landing with a soft splash in the shallow water. He shakes out his boot with a grimace, as if the cold sea is more offense than inconvenience.

Chris doesn’t bother with their banter, eyes already scanning the shoreline. The rocks gleam black under the fog, slick and sharp as broken glass, surrounded by patches of dark, wet sand. The whole place feels too quiet—no birds, no wind, just the faint trickle of seawater winding through cracks in the rocks.

Rodriguez jumps down next, radio clipped to her shoulder, static fizzing softly as she adjusts the frequency. She squints toward the line of trees beyond the beach. They’re crooked, gnarled trunks bending at strange angles, the earth beneath them seems to be shifted just slightly out of place. Chris’s jaw tightens, the skin at the back of his neck prickling.

Morgan is last, boots hitting the ground with a crunch. She clicks the safety on her rifle, her dark eyes already sweeping the treeline. “Fuckass vibes in here," she whispers, not taking her attention from the silent forest. "Not even any guard dogs or shit—what did they do, just leave their new pet unprotected? No warning signs or anything? Just... nothing?"

Chris is squinting, there’s no wind, but the trees inland sway faintly.

“Spread out, stay close,” he says, keeping it low but firm. His breath clouds in front of him, swirling into the damp air. He adjusts his grip on his weapon, fingers flexing over the cold steel. “We stick to the mission—find the facility, contain the bioweapon, extract survivors.”

Everyone nods their assent, weapons raised and ready.

Kash throws a mock salute, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, boss man. Wouldn't wanna miss out on that fat paycheck." He winks, clearly unaffected by Chris's solemn expression. Scrader smacks him hard over the back of the head, rolling his eyes and drawing a string of curses from his teammate.

Chris moves forward, leading the team inland. The sand beneath his boots feels unnaturally cold, clinging to his soles like it’s been soaked through with ice water. A crunch here, a squelch there—the ground is inconsistent, like it hasn’t decided if it wants to be mud or stone.

They push past the beach, stepping onto the narrow path winding between the twisted trees. The fog clings to the branches, heavy and damp, an old gayze wrapping them. Chris notices how the mist seems to shift around them, parting slightly as they walk through but knitting itself back together once they pass, he doesn't like that the island is closing the door behind them. Not one bit.

Scrader kicks a rock into the underbrush and mutters under his breath, “What is this, Silent Hill?” His voice sounds too loud, as if the island is swallowing every other sound except theirs.

Rodriguez fiddles with her radio again, her brows knitting as more static pours from the speaker. “Getting nothing,” she says, irritation sharp in her voice. She slaps the side of the radio, but the static doesn’t change.

A flicker of movement catches his eye to the right—just a shadow shifting between the trunks, gone before he can focus on it. His grip tightens on his rifle. “Eyes open,” he warns, the words instinctive, falling from his lips without thought.

The team falls quiet, weapons raised a fraction higher. The air presses in closer. Chris swears the fog grows thicker the further they walk, wrapping tighter around the crooked trees, smothering the world just a little more.

They round a bend, and Chris’s boot sinks into a patch of loose earth. He stops, shifting his weight, feeling the ground give way beneath him. For a moment, he sees it—a handprint, pressed deep into the soil, still fresh. Or... maybe not a handprint exactly. Something close. He blinks, and it’s gone, just wet earth under his boot.

“You good, Redfield?” Morgan’s voice snaps him back, and he shakes his head, to clear the strange fog creeping into his mind.

He follows her gaze toward his feet, his throat tightening when he sees a trail of scuffs carved into the dirt, jagged lines dragging sideways across the path. Blood smeared against the earth. Fresh.

No one speaks as they continue, wary footsteps heavy through the muck. Chris feels that cold uneasiness creeping up his spine again. He didn’t see any animals earlier—none of the usual sign of wildlife. No birds. No wind. Not even bugs crawling through the trees or flies buzzing overhead, none of those annoying sounds you always get in places like this. Just silence.

They keep moving, the team falling into uneasy silence. Even Kash stays quiet, his usual cockiness evaporated in the strange atmosphere of the island. The path narrows further as they approach the edge of the forest, where the twisted branches form an arch overhead, like a doorway carved into the landscape.

Chris pauses just before the arch, scanning the shadows ahead. Something moves again at the edge of his vision—a blur of motion that disappears when he tries to follow it. It’s starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a pattern.

“We’re close,” he says, though he isn’t sure how he knows that.

Morgan steps up beside him, her gaze flicking to the crooked trees. “You ever seen anything like this?” she whispers, her breath curling in the cold air.

Chris shakes his head. “No. But we keep moving.”

Rodriguez mutters something under her breath and taps the side of her radio again. The static shifts—just for a moment—and Chris swears he hears something buried beneath it. A voice? A whisper? It vanishes before he can make sense of it.

They step through the arch, and the air changes—thicker, colder, as if they’ve crossed some invisible threshold. Chris tightens his grip on his rifle.

Ahead, just visible through the thinning fog, the facility looms, half-buried under layers of creeping moss and cracked stone. The windows are dark, shattered in places, and the walls are streaked with something that might have been blood, long dried and blackened.

Kash and Morgan move to either side of the entrance, rifles raised, eyes scanning the darkened hall beyond. A flicker of light sparks from inside, some kind of electrical short still clinging to life, but it only adds to the eerie stillness. Chris gives a quick signal—two fingers forward—and they step inside, boots echoing softly on the cracked tile floor.

The interior is worse than he expected. The walls are stained, some with dark streaks that look suspiciously like dried blood, others covered in grime and moss that’s crept in through the broken windows. Scratches mar the walls in long, jagged lines, as if something—or someone—had clawed at them in a desperate attempt to escape. The lights overhead flicker, casting brief, dim glows that make the shadows stretch and twist in unnatural ways.

Chris moves forward, the faint sound of his breathing the only thing grounding him. His eyes scan the hallway, sweeping from corner to corner. Every door they pass is ajar, some hanging off their hinges, others splintered at the edges. He motions for the others to spread out, and they do so with silent efficiency, weapons trained on the darkness beyond.

“Kash, left,” he orders quietly, keeping his voice low. “Scrader, cover the rear. Rodriguez, keep that radio quiet until we’re sure.”

The team moves like clockwork, their boots barely making a sound on the filthy floor. The air inside the facility is stale, thick with the smell of mildew and something faintly metallic. Chris steps carefully over a rusted piece of machinery, broken beyond repair, and his eyes narrow at the sight of frayed wires sparking weakly from the wall. This place was abandoned, but not long enough for everything to be dead. There was life here—recently.

They pass a room on the right, the door hanging wide open. Inside, lab equipment is scattered haphazardly, beakers tipped over, and papers crumpled on the floor. It looks like someone left in a hurry, but not everyone made it out. Chris takes a quick glance, noting the overturned chairs and a faint smear of something dark along the floor, but he presses on. Something tells him the answers are further inside.

As they move deeper into the facility, the temperature drops. The cold seeps into his skin, settling in his bones, and Chris feels his muscles tighten against the chill. There’s a tension in the air now, thick and suffocating, and it feels like the walls themselves are closing in. His eyes flick toward the faint glimmers of movement at the edges of the room—the wind, maybe, or the remnants of some faulty ventilation system—but they feel too purposeful.

He pauses at the end of a long corridor, eyes narrowing. A lab door sits half-closed ahead, light spilling faintly from the crack beneath it, casting eerie shadows along the floor. He motions for the team to hold position, his own steps slow as he approaches the door. There’s something here—he can feel it in the way the air pulls tighter with each breath, the way the silence presses against his eardrums.

Chris reaches the door, his hand settling on the rough metal surface, and nudges it open with the barrel of his rifle. It swings slowly, creaking loudly in the stillness, revealing a small lab-like room inside. Tables covered in scattered documents and broken equipment clutter the space, some of it sparking faintly, as if whatever happened here short-circuited everything.

And in the center of the room, seated on an overturned crate, you.

Chris freezes. For a second, his mind blanks, his body tensing, unsure whether to raise his weapon or stand down. You look haggard—your clothes are stained with dirt, your hair matted, skin pale—but there’s no sign of injury. Just exhaustion, etched deep into your features, like you’ve been awake far too long. But what catches his attention is your eyes. They’re sharp, not frantic, but calm, like you’ve seen too much and have already come to terms with it.

For a second, Chris doesn’t move, his hand hovering near his sidearm. He feels a strange pull, something about you that seems familiar—though he knows, logically, you’re a stranger. It’s a nagging sensation, as though he’s met you before, though he knows he hasn’t.

“You found me,” you say, your voice soft, hoarse from disuse. The words hang in the air for a moment, and Chris blinks, his brain struggling to catch up to the moment.

His rifle dips slightly, just a fraction, before he catches himself and brings it back up. “On your feet. Hands where I can see them," he orders. His voice echoes through the quiet, hanging like smoke between you.

But instead of flinching or scrambling back like a cornered animal, you nod slowly, eyes flicking to his gun, then to him, like you understand. Chris hesitates, his grip tightening on the rifle, before gesturing for you to rise. You stand smoothly, as if your back didn't press against an iron cabinet seconds ago. When you move, it's precise and calculated, showing none of the shakiness of a wounded survivor who's spent days hiding from a biological threat. You move like an professional; smooth, cool, collected—like nothing rattles you.

"Take four steps forward and turn slowly toward me, palms up."

You do so without hesitation or argument, hands up and facing him, though not in defense or submission. Instead, they hang loosely at your sides, almost casually. If you're scared by his stance or gruff mannerisms, it doesn't show. No sweat beads along your hairline. No tremor trembles through your fingers. Nothing. Like standing opposite a machine rather than a human being.

"Are you a researcher here?"

"No," you answer simply. Flatly. Like a recording.

A survivor. Someone they experimented on, probably. He drops his guard, shoulders dropping marginally, yet remains vigilant. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

He watches carefully as you shake your head, scrutinizing you. Tries to read into any flinch. Any ticks. Anything. But finds none. Could be PTSD, he thinks. Maybe you've gone non-verbal because of the stress. There’s no tension in your posture, no wild-eyed desperation, just a quiet stillness, like you’ve already accepted whatever comes next.

Behind him, Morgan and Rodriguez enter, weapons raised, the barrel of Morgan’s rifle pointing directly at you. “Survivor?” Morgan asks, glancing toward Chris with a raised brow.

“Looks like it,” Chris murmurs, though his tone is uncertain. His gaze doesn’t leave you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if studying him in return. “You’re with the rescue team, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, lowering his rifle just enough to ease the tension from his grip. There’s no reason to feel this way—no reason for the strange warmth curling in his chest—but it’s there, and it unsettles him more than the shadows clinging to the walls.

Rodriguez steps closer, radio crackling against her shoulder. “How the hell did you survive all this?”

You glance toward her, and for the first time, a flicker of something passes across your face—a faint smile, thin and brittle, like it doesn’t quite belong. “Lucky, I guess.”

Kash snorts, clearly unimpressed, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he looks at Chris, eyebrows raised in silent question, as if to say: You buying this?

Morgan snorts softly, though the sound is more nervous than amused. “Good thing for us. Come on. Let's get you home." She reaches out toward you, fingers curling in invitation.

You give her another small smile—soft, tired, and just a little sad. “Yeah,” you say, your tone light, but there’s something underneath it. Something that sounds like: We’ll see.

“You’re the only one?”

You nod once. “As far as I know.”

“We’re getting you out of here,” Chris says, though the words feel hollow even as they leave his lips. He’s trying to pull the situation back into something he can control, something that fits within the parameters of the mission he ran a hundred times through his mind in the hours before arriving.

You nod, your eyes still sharp, still watching. “I figured you’d say that.”

The facility stretches out ahead of them, a labyrinth of crumbling hallways, walls coated in grime and streaked with stains that tell stories no one wants to hear. The overhead lights flicker erratically, buzzing like dying insects, casting long shadows that stretch and writhe across the cracked tile. The air smells of metal and damp rot, thick enough that Chris can taste it at the back of his throat. The deeper they go, the worse it gets—familiar odors intertwined with the faint tang of chemicals and mold that grow heavier with each step.

Chris scans the darkened hall ahead, the beam from his flashlight reflecting off the dirty windows. His boots scuff lightly on the filthy floor, leaving trails through the layers of grime and dust that cling to every inch of this place. You walk next to him, in his peripheral vision, silent and watchful, following without complaint or questions, even after seeing the others dead.

Ahead, a door hangs open, but just slightly—enough to let the shadows bleed through the gap. A faint smell wafts from the crack, metallic and sharp.

Rodriguez taps her radio, the static still faintly hissing from it. "This place is dead. No signal coming through at all."

"EMP blast," you mutter, so quietly Chris almost misses it.

"Must've fried the entire base's electronics," she continues, unaware that you spoke.

Behind him, Kash clears his throat, glancing toward Chris with a raised brow, then to you. "You seem awfully calm considering what happened here," he comments. Your expression doesn't change, blank and steady and patient. Impassive. Unnerving. "Were you expecting us? Or someone else?"

You stay quiet for several seconds, and Chris can practically hear his teammates holding their breath, waiting for an explanation. When you finally speak, it's soft, subdued. "Nobody should ever be here."

The lights overhead flicker again, casting long, wavering shadows across the corridor. As they pass through a junction, Chris catches a glimpse of something off to the left—a smear of blood, stark against the pale wall. He pauses, motioning for the team to halt. His heart rate ticks up, just enough to feel it in his temples.

He approaches the stain, eyes narrowing. It’s fresh. Too fresh. But there’s something strange about it—it doesn’t match any typical spatter pattern. It’s too erratic, almost like someone dragged their hand along the wall, fingers trailing, struggling, but... not quite right. He brushes the edge of the blood with his gloved fingers. It feels sticky, still warm.

Scrader peers over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. "That’s not old. There’s someone else here."

Chris nods but doesn’t respond. He already knows. Someone—or something—is here. But what unnerves him more is your reaction—or lack of one.

"Do you know what made this? Any information is helpful," Morgan says, gentle, but with the bite of urgency at the end. You shrug wordlessly, looking at her as if searching for the source. Morgan turns back toward Chris, clearly unhappy, but falls silent. She knows better than anyone how important intel is on a mission, but this isn't exactly normal protocol either.

They move deeper into the facility, going the other way this time. Every door they pass seems wrong—some are locked from the inside, others hang open, but the rooms beyond are trashed, like someone—or something—raged through them in a panic. Chris notices how the floor in some areas is smeared with more blood, but there are no bodies, no signs of struggle except for the scattered papers and broken glass. It’s as though everyone disappeared, leaving behind the aftermath.

A door to their left hangs off its hinges, the metal twisted, as if wrenched open from the inside. Blood spatters the wall, jagged streaks that don’t match any normal pattern—like someone was dragged backward through the doorway, kicking and thrashing. Scrader leans closer, examining the stains, his brow furrowed. “These... don’t look fresh, but they’re not old either.”

Kash glances over his shoulder toward Chris, jerking his head toward you. “You sure about this one, boss?” he asks, voice low enough to avoid carrying through the hollow corridor. There’s a sharpness to his tone now—skeptical, edged with unease.

Chris’s jaw tightens. He knows the question is fair—hell, he’s been asking himself the same thing. Nothing about this situation makes sense, least of all the strange sense of ease you seem to carry. But it’s the way Kash says it, as though he expects Chris to already know the answer, that bothers him.

“I’ve got it covered,” Chris replies, sharper than he intended. The words come too quickly, like muscle memory—like he’s said them before, more times than he can count.

Kash gives him a look, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t push. “If you say so.”

You pause ahead of them, standing in front of a door with a rusted keypad, the display cracked but faintly glowing. Without hesitation, you reach for the keypad and punch in a code. The lock clicks open with a mechanical hiss, and the door swings inward with a slow groan.

Chris feels his team tense behind him, their hands tightening on their weapons. He knows what they’re thinking: How the hell do you know the code? But no one says it aloud—not yet. He steps forward, gesturing for Rodriguez to cover the rear as they move inside.

The room beyond is worse. The lights flicker dimly, revealing lab equipment strewn across the floor, smashed monitors still blinking weakly with error messages, and a tangle of wires hanging from the ceiling like veins. Papers are scattered everywhere—reports scribbled in frantic handwriting, pages ripped from notebooks, some of them stained with dark, crusted smears.

Chris crouches by a nearby desk, his gloved hand brushing across a torn piece of paper. It’s covered in scrawled words—half of them illegible, the rest a jumbled mess of warnings: Don’t trust them. It’s already inside. We were wrong. Everyone’s compromised.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the paper crumpling slightly in his grip.

“Place went to hell in a hurry,” Morgan murmurs, her voice tight with unease. She nudges an overturned chair with her boot, the legs scraping loudly across the floor, making everyone flinch. “Shit. Sorry, my bad."

Rodriguez stops at a nearby console, brushing dust off the screen. It’s cracked, but faint images flicker on the surface, distorted by static. She tries a few commands, her fingers tapping quickly across the keys, but the system groans in protest before fizzling out entirely. "Looks like some of the logs were wiped," she mutters, stepping back in frustration.

Chris watches you out of the corner of his eye as you step closer to one of the doors. Your fingers graze the edge of the frame, and for a brief second, you almost look... thoughtful.

The door creaks open, revealing another lab—this one in a worse state than the others. Broken equipment litters the floor, glass shards crunching under their boots as they step inside. The walls are covered in frantic writing, scribbled across the paint in what looks like charcoal or... blood. The words don’t make sense—half-scrawled thoughts, equations, fragments of sentences.

Morgan sweeps her rifle across the room, her posture tense. "This looks like someone lost their damn mind." She steps closer to the wall, reading a few of the broken phrases aloud. "They keep putting me back. There's no way out. We can never leave. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you." Her voice trails off as she follows one line of words, skirting around a stain that glistens sickly under the weak lights. "You'll find your own cage soon enough..."

Then, something shifts in the hallway behind—a sound, faint but sharp, like claws skittering over metal. Chris freezes, motioning for the team to stay back. His pulse pounds hard against his temples, steady and measured, as his mind flips through the possibilities.

They take another step, pressed against the walls on each side of the door—and the hallway seems to breathe, the lights flickering wildly, the air snapping with sudden tension. A shape bursts from the shadows, moving too fast to register fully, all limbs and jagged edges, a blur of exposed sinew and warped muscle.

Before anyone can react, it’s on Scrader, who is the closest.

The creature slams into him with bone-crushing force, knocking him off his feet and dragging him into the darkness. A guttural, inhuman shriek pierces the air, followed by the wet, ripping sound of flesh tearing from bone. Scrader’s scream cuts off abruptly, replaced by the sound of thrashing and something breaking—something inside him.

"No!” Morgan’s voice cracks as she lurches forward, but Chris throws out an arm, holding her back.

Chris raises his rifle and fires, the muzzle flash lighting the corridor in brief, stuttering bursts. Rodriguez and Kashiwabara join in, their rounds tearing into the creature, but it moves too fast, a slithering mass of claws and unnatural joints that twist and bend in ways a body shouldn’t. The bullets rip through it, but it doesn’t stop—it doesn’t even slow.

““He’s gone!” he barks, trying to pull her focus back, though the words feel meaningless. His throat burns with frustration—he knows it’s already too late, but his mind refuses to accept it.

The creature tosses what’s left of Scrader aside, his body hitting the wall with a sickening thud, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Blood pools beneath him, spreading thick and dark, filling the cracks in the floor.

Chris’s heart slams in his chest. He grits his teeth, forces his focus forward. "Stay together!" he shouts, pivoting toward the creature as it coils in the shadows, readying for its next move. "Cover the hall!" His voice shakes, but there’s no time to steady it.

The thing emerges again, flesh splitting and reforming with each lurch forward, as though its body hasn’t yet decided what shape it wants to take. It smells of copper and decay, and its claws drag over the floor, leaving trails in the concrete. It doesn’t just move toward them—it hunts.

Rodriguez unloads her mag, the rounds striking wetly, but the creature absorbs the hits with ease, tendrils of muscle knitting together just as fast as they tear apart. "It’s not stopping!" she shouts, panic rising in her voice.

Chris fires again—center mass—but there is no mass, only movement, chaos wrapped in sinew and skin. He curses under his breath, shifting his stance as the thing barrels toward them. "Rodriguez, move back! Keep your distance!"

It lunges—too fast—and catches Morgan by the leg, yanking her off her feet and dragging her down. She screams, kicking wildly, the sound raw and desperate. Chris grabs her under the arms, hauling her backward with all his strength, but the creature’s claws sink deep, tearing into muscle, scraping bone. Blood sprays, warm and slick, and Chris grunts from the effort of pulling her free.

Morgan gasps, her breath stuttering as she grips his vest, fingers clawing at him in desperation. "Help me!" she pleads, eyes wide with panic. "Help! Help! No! Aaaaaaarhhhghh!" Chris pulls harder, every muscle in his body straining—but the creature won’t let go.

"Rodriguez, give me cover!" he shouts, teeth gritted, but Rodriguez’s shots do nothing. The thing moves like smoke, relentless, inevitable.

Morgan’s scream cuts short as the creature jerks her away from Chris’s grasp. Her body snaps under the force, bones cracking loudly, folding in on themselves. Chris lunges after her, shouting her name, but all that answers him is the wet, crunching sound of her body being pulled apart.

Chris stumbles back, hands slick with blood—hers, his own—and the creature twists toward him next, its jagged face splitting open to reveal a maw lined with teeth that shouldn’t exist.

Chris pulls the trigger again, the rounds doing nothing but punctuating the sound of his own desperation. "Rodriguez, Kashiwabara! Fall back!"

He turns toward you, panic swelling in his chest. "Run!"

And suddenly, he can run no longer; his boots slide in puddles of something thicker than water — viscera splashing everywhere, entrails strewn all over the floor. There's no way to process everything at once — he's forced to focus on what matters most: where the thing came from and how to get to safety, until the creature lashes out, wrapping one clawed limb around his ankle, and yanks, throwing him to the ground. Its ragged features split open like a blooming flower, exposing rows of needle-like teeth. Chris hears screaming somewhere close by — it sounds familiar, but he can't place who it belongs to — and realizes, belatedly, that he's making the noise himself.

Somehow, amidst all this chaos, he finds you again, meeting your gaze through blurred vision. Time slows as he stares up at you, the world around him fading away. All that remains is his terror and your sadness, echoing between them. Then, his eyes begin to adjust — you've taken a step forward. Why aren't you running? Chris knows he told you to go. He opens his mouth, but words won't come out; they're stuck inside, fighting for space against the terror threatening to burst from his lungs. He tries desperately to pull free, but the thing drags him backward. The edges of his vision darken. Everything spins — he can feel consciousness slipping away. He tries to fight it, but exhaustion has always been stronger than willpower. So he gives in, letting darkness envelope him like an old friend.

Chris jolts upright, gasping for air, the sound of rushing water filling his ears. His heart pounds, ribs tight against the sudden shock of consciousness, lungs dragging in ragged breaths. He blinks, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and tries to slow his breathing. His hands feel clammy, his muscles tense, coiled and ready for a fight. But there’s no danger.

The engine hums beneath his feet, and the air smells of salt.Salt stings his skin, and cold wind cuts across his face. His boots scrape against the boat’s metal deck as the engine hums beneath him, steady and low. His gloved hands grip the edges of the seat to steady himself, feeling the slight sway of the boat as it cuts through the waves. Everything smells of seawater, oil, and wet rope.

Rodriguez’s fingers tap against the console at the helm. "Fortunate Son" scratches through the radio, the familiar chords unfurling across the open sea. It digs into his skull, buzzing beneath his thoughts, chasing away the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to his mind. His pulse thunders in his ears, disjointed, like it’s tripping over itself trying to make sense of the moment.

The boat rocks again, jarring him forward. His chest tightens—too real. The deck beneath him hums, the cold metal biting through the knees of his tactical pants. Water churns below, white foam licking at the sides. His heartbeat drums harder, loud enough that he can feel it pulsing at his temples, throbbing like a second pulse.

His team, the hallway, the creature—it all surges back, vivid and brutal. Scrader’s bones snapping, Morgan’s screams, blood pooling across the filthy tiles, warm and dark, like spilled paint. Chris fights down the acid boiling in his throat, forcing himself to focus. Breathe. Control.

The slick wetness of blood—his blood—pooling between his fingers. He remembers the weight of the creature as it tore through him, the searing pain, and the sensation of the floor rushing toward him.

He blinks hard, gripping the edges of the boat until his knuckles whiten beneath the leather of his gloves. His body feels intact—no open wounds, no broken ribs, no blood drenching his clothes. He died. He knows he did. But here he is—alive, breathing, whole. The cold wind bites into his skin again, and the radio hums with the familiar chords of "Fortunate Son."

Rodriguez glances back at him from the helm, eyebrows raised. “Ugh, this song? You’d think they’d switch it up now and then.”

Chris stares at her, the words slow to catch up to the moment. His hands shake slightly, still gripping the seat too tight. The hum of the engine, the waves slapping against the hull, Rodriguez’s casual glance—it’s the same. Exactly the same.

Kash sits a few feet away, tapping a black pawn between his fingers, his grin easy and familiar. Scrader flips through a dog-eared field manual, his lips moving faintly as he reads aloud to himself. Morgan rests in the seat opposite Chris, shoulders relaxed, her brow knitted in thought, but alive. Alive. Her leg twitches where it hangs off the side of the bench, tapping along to the beat.

"You good, Redfield?" Morgan calls out, peering at him curiously. "You're quiet."

If he says that he’s fine, then what happens?

Yeah, I bet you are, big guy. Just another day for you, right, he remembers her saying. Will it be repeated? Like a fucking broken record?

"I'm fine," he says, watching closely.

"Yeah, I bet you are, big guy. Just another day for you, right? A nice and easy snatch-and-grab in paradise." She gestures to all around. "Who knew viruses could afford a place like this these days?"

Chris’s pulse kicks harder, blood rushing in his ears, the sound loud enough to drown out the music, but not loud enough to drown out his unease.

His hands twitch toward his rifle, fingers tightening over the grip. He shifts his weight, trying to shake off the sense of dread that’s latched onto him. He knows where they’re going—the cliffs, the fog, the shattered doors waiting for them ahead. He can already picture the way the shoreline will look when they arrive—the black rocks slick with seawater, blood on the shore like veins, the crooked trees leaning toward them, the heavy silence that will drape over the air like a net.

His head drops slightly, the tension between his shoulder blades turning into a dull ache. It’s happening again. The thought rolls through him slowly, ice settling deeper into his chest with every passing second. His heart races, too fast, too uneven, as though his body is trying to warn him of something he already knows.

Rodriguez nudges the throttle forward, the boat picking up speed as the island appears through the fog—sharp cliffs and crooked branches clawing at the sky.

Chris grips his rifle tighter. He knows those rocks. He knows those cliffs. He knows the way they’ll dock, the way his boots will crunch against the damp sand, the way the air will hang heavy around them as they move inland. He knows the sting of the cold on his face, the sound of Morgan cracking a joke about the mission, Kash’s cocky grin, Scrader’s quiet grumbling—and he knows, more than anything, how this ends. With blood. With screams. With the creature’s claws tearing through flesh and bone.

His throat tightens, and he forces himself to stand. The motion feels too fluid, too easy—like muscle memory etched into the marrow of his bones. He plants his boots on the deck and grips the railing, the cold metal grounding him for a moment. His breath clouds the air, sharp and shallow. His heartbeat feels off, every thud out of sync with the world around him.

Morgan leans closer, her smile soft but curious. “Seriously, Redfield. What’s eating at you?”

Chris opens his mouth to answer, but the words catch on his tongue. He knows how this plays out. He’s already lived it.

“Land in five,” Rodriguez calls over her shoulder.

The boat skims across the surface of the water, its engine humming steadily. Waves break against the rocky shore, the mist hovering above the water like smoke from a distant fire. Cliffs loom ahead, shrouded in a thick fog that makes everything blurry and indistinct. And, beyond the cliffs, hidden in the dense woods, waits the facility—a dark shadow amidst twisted trunks and tangled branches.

Rodriguez’s voice crackles through the still air, the words sliding into place like they’ve done before. "Touchdown in one."

“We’re sticking together this time,” he snaps, cutting off their chatter. "No lingering around doorways. No breaking formation."

The others exchange glances, confused but not worried. Their faces are too easy, too certain that this is just another mission.

Kash arches a brow. "Boss man is in a mood today. That serious?"

There isn't enough oxygen on this damn boat to feed his lungs. But if he can convince them this time... If he can keep them alive, keep them together... maybe things will turn out different. Maybe they won't end up torn to pieces or killed by whatever creatures await in that lab. It's possible. There's a chance.

"Fan out. Scrader, you’ve got rear security. Morgan, point with me. Kash, Rodriguez—flanks tight." His voice is low, clipped, every syllable locked down into the strict cadence that only years in the field could hammer into muscle memory.

The team snaps into formation without a word. The thuds of their boots on sand and stone fall into perfect sync, not a single beat off. Chris scans the treeline as they advance, every nerve on high alert. The crooked trees loom ahead, their twisted trunks bending toward the facility beyond, stretching over the path as if they’ve grown to shield something waiting inside. The fog drapes heavy, thicker than before, curling between the jagged rocks like old smoke.

Chris moves fast, rifle angled forward, muscles wound tight. His body feels like a machine, every movement deliberate, practiced. The brief sting of déjà vu gnaws at the edges of his brain, but he pushes it down hard—there’s no room for doubt.

“We get in, clear each room top-down,” he orders. “You see anything—anything—you report it. We do this by the book.” His voice is steady, commanding, but inside, his thoughts churn. He remembers their deaths too vividly—each scream, each snap of bone. Not this time.

Kash shifts his grip on his rifle, muttering under his breath. “What’s the point of the book when it’s fucked to hell in here?”

“Keep it locked down,” Chris snaps without looking back. “No chatter.”

Rodriguez nods once, slinging her rifle tighter to her chest. Her breath fogs in the cold air, mixing with the thick mist as they push forward along the narrow path toward the facility. “Comms are still out,” she mutters, fiddling with the radio on her vest. “Nothing but static.”

Chris clenches his jaw but says nothing. He knows what’s waiting inside. The halls, the shattered equipment, the scribbled notes on the walls. And you—sitting there, waiting again, with those same sharp, knowing eyes.

The front gate is twisted open, the metal frame rusted and warped. Scrader’s boots scrape across the broken concrete as he covers the rear. "No movement," he reports quietly, his voice low and tight. "Too quiet."

Chris halts at the entrance to the building. His hand goes up in a quick, sharp motion—fist clenched, signaling halt—and the team freezes behind him. His breath clouds the air, slow and controlled, while his eyes sweep over the ruined doorway. Cracked tile stretches beyond, glistening wet under flickering overhead lights.

He knows this place too well—every door that doesn’t sit right, every inch of blood smeared along the walls, the scratches that don't quite line up with anything human. He knows what waits at the end of this corridor, just beyond that damned door.

"Stack up," Chris orders. His voice cuts clean through the cold air, sharp as a serrated edge. "We move in tight. No room for slop. Morgan, on me."

The team falls into formation with crisp efficiency. Morgan clicks her safety off, stepping to his right, her breathing even but measured. Kash shifts his weight, uneasy but steady enough, fingers flexing on his rifle. Rodriguez’s radio hisses softly, the static filling the silence like a low hum in Chris’s skull.

Chris leans into the doorway, clearing it with a swift glance. The hallway stretches out in front of them, long and jagged, every step forward slicing deeper into his nerves. A door hangs ajar at the far end, a sliver of dim light spilling through the gap.

His jaw tightens. "Move."

They step inside with practiced ease, clearing the first room with precision—rifles sweeping corners, boots hitting tile with controlled weight. The air inside is colder than it should be, soaked with mildew and rot. A metallic tang lingers, biting at the back of Chris’s throat, setting his teeth on edge.

Each door they pass is exactly as he remembers—cracked open, blood smeared in uneven streaks, papers scattered like fallen leaves. Rodriguez nudges one with her boot, kicking a folder open. The pages inside are filled with scrawled notes—frantic handwriting that spirals off into unreadable lines, smudged by hands that were in too much of a hurry.

Morgan edges closer to Chris. "I don't like this." Her voice stays low, a breath just above a whisper. "Place feels like it's waiting for us."

"Eyes up," Chris mutters, voice low. "No gaps. I want full sectors of fire. Morgan, call out every corner we pass." His rifle stays leveled, the stock pressed tight into his shoulder. His jaw clenches so hard it feels like the tension could snap bone.

"Door ahead," Morgan reports, flicking her flashlight across the ground. "Twelve o'clock, intact but warped. Scratches all over it."

Chris's gut churns at the words. He remembers it exactly. This is where things went wrong the first time—the place where Scrader got dragged into the dark.

"Scrader, shift right," Chris barks, his mind ticking through contingencies. No one’s getting grabbed this time. "Kash, you’re second in. I want angles covered before we breach. Rodriguez, stay on my six."

"On it." Kash’s voice is sharp now, sarcasm gone as he grips his rifle tighter, eyes scanning every shadow.

They stop just outside the facility entrance, the jagged metal door warped inward, as though something large forced its way through from the other side. Scratches scar the frame, uneven but deep, gashes that look too deliberate to be accidental. The air smells of rust and stale rot, thick enough to taste. Chris gives a silent signal with two fingers, and the team falls into position.

"Morgan, breach on three," Chris orders. "Rodriguez, flash the entry. Weapons free, short bursts only."

Morgan nods once, raising her boot, and the next second she kicks the door hard. It crashes open, slamming against the wall with a metallic groan. Rodriguez is already in motion—her hand flicks out, and a flashbang arcs through the doorway.

The detonation pops bright and sharp, white light flooding the darkened room beyond, followed by the concussive thud that shakes the doorframe.

"Go!" Chris growls, pushing through the breach.

They move fast—a precise, practiced sweep through the room. Kash covers the left wall, Morgan clears the right. Rodriguez stacks behind Chris, her rifle aimed dead ahead. The beam of Chris’s flashlight sweeps the space, cutting through the lingering haze from the flashbang.

The room is wrecked. Tables overturned, equipment smashed, papers scattered across the floor. The concrete walls are stained with strange streaks—brown, dried to a flaky crust. It looks wrong. Not just abandoned, but intentionally destroyed, like someone didn’t want anything left intact.

And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged on an overturned crate, is you.

Chris’s breath catches for a moment. He freezes, mind scrambling to process what he’s seeing. You’re here again—but not exactly where you were before.

You look haggard, clothes rumpled and skin pale, the same exhaustion etched into your features—but your eyes, sharp and steady, carry a knowing glint, as though you’ve been waiting for him. You lean back slightly, hands draped over your knees, entirely too calm for the situation.

“Found me,” you say softly. There’s no fear in your voice. Just a strange resignation, like you’ve done this before. Because you have.

Chris’s grip tightens on his rifle, the cold weight pressing into his hands grounding him for a moment. His team shifts uneasily behind him, rifles raised, eyes flicking between you and the destroyed room.

"Don’t move," Morgan warns, her voice sharp and edged with suspicion.

You don’t even blink, your gaze locked on Chris. "Took you long enough."

His throat feels dry, words slow to form. It’s the same greeting, but it feels different this time—off, just enough to gnaw at him. "How do you know us?" he asks, keeping his rifle raised but his voice measured. He doesn’t have time to wonder why his chest tightens at the sound of your voice.

You tilt your head slightly, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of your lips. "I knew you would be coming."

Kash steps forward, rifle still trained on you, tension written in every movement. "This place got overrun by a bioweapon, and you’re just... sitting here? How’d you make it out?"

You shrug, eyes never leaving Chris.

Chris feels the knot in his gut tighten, but there’s no time to dwell on it. "Enough chit-chat. Rodriguez, sweep the hallways. Morgan, lock down any exits. I want this place cleared." His voice cuts through the room with authority, and the team moves without hesitation, each falling into their assigned tasks.

Morgan shoots him a glance, mistrust curling behind her eyes. "You trust them?" she asks under her breath, jerking her head toward you.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know why he trusts you, only that he does. It feels irrational, dangerous—but it’s there, steady in his gut. "They’re not a threat. We stay on mission."

Morgan gives him a hard look but doesn’t push further, slipping out to check the adjacent corridors.

Chris turns back to you, his eyes narrowing. "You remember things. What else do you know?"

You rest your elbows on your knees, leaning forward slightly. "I know what’s coming next."

"Then start talking," Chris snaps, the tension rolling off him in waves. "What are we dealing with here?"

You smile faintly, but there’s no humor in it. "It honestly depends."

A loud crash echoes from the hallway, followed by Morgan’s shout. "Movement! On me!"

Chris’s heart slams against his ribs. This is where it all went wrong the last time. "Move, now!" he barks, throwing a signal to the others. "Kash, Rodriguez, cover the exit!"

They sprint into action, rifles raised, boots slamming against the cracked concrete. The hallway beyond stretches out in a mess of flickering lights and twisted shadows. Chris knows what’s waiting—the creature, the deaths—but not this time.

This time, he’s ready.

Morgan pulls back as the shadow looms ahead, jagged limbs unfurling from the darkness. "Contact!" she shouts, firing controlled bursts into the mass of shifting sinew.

Chris positions himself at the front, rifle steady, breathing measured. "Rodriguez, crossfire! Kash, I want suppression!"

The team opens up, gunfire tearing through the corridor. Bullets slam into the creature, muscle and sinew shredding—but it doesn’t slow. It moves with terrifying precision, a predator stalking prey it knows will fall.

Chris shifts his weight, forcing Morgan out of the line of fire as the creature lunges. His rifle bucks against his shoulder, controlled bursts chewing into the thing’s torso, but it keeps coming.

"Fall back!" Chris shouts, hauling Morgan to her feet. The hallway tilts under the pressure of their movement, every second stretching too thin, every choice razor-sharp.

Rodriguez pulls out her grenade, yanking the pin with her teeth. "Frag out!"

The explosion rattles the walls, the creature slamming backward into the concrete. The shockwave ripples through Chris’s chest, but the relief is short-lived. As the smoke clears, he sees it—the thing still moves, limbs reknitting, joints popping into place.

"Go!" Chris shouts, forcing them down another hallway, feet pounding against the floor. His team follows, breaths sharp and frantic.

They hit the end of the corridor—and the ceiling caves. The twisted wreck of pipes and broken beams crashes down, pinning Rodriguez beneath it. She screams once, cut short by the sickening crunch of bone.

Chris stares, disbelief freezing him for a moment too long.

It’s happening again.

"Rodriguez is down!" Kash shouts, trying to haul the debris off her, but there’s too much. The creature is already closing in, jagged limbs scraping along the walls.

Chris pulls Kash back, heart pounding against his ribs, thoughts tripping over themselves. "She's gone! Fall back!"

This is too familiar. Too close. Rodriguez lies underneath the shattered ceiling, face contorted with pain, mouth gaping. Her hand reaches toward Chris, desperate and shaking—a plea that dies unsaid, choking on the blood seeping from her wounds. He knows what comes next, yet he can't tear himself away. He wants to pull her out of the rubble. He wants to protect her. He wants to save her, dammit—he can't let this happen. But then the beast tears into her, dragging her beneath the broken steel until her screams peter out, replaced by the sickening sound of flesh rending from bone.

Furious grief wells inside him, burning hot and intense. His hand twitches, reaching for his rifle—the urge to kill it overwhelming everything else, an impulse built from raw rage.

But before he can pull the trigger, you tug on his arm, pulling him backwards.

"This way," you whisper, jerking your head to the side. Your grip tightens when he doesn't move fast enough.

"Get moving," Chris barks, half turning toward the others.

The creature writhes through the remains of the ceiling, pulling itself forward on deformed limbs. Every piece of the thing twists together as it crawls, reforming into new shapes with each movement, muscle and bone lurching forward on uneven spikes of flesh.

"Behind you!" Morgan shouts. She fires again, muzzle flare lighting up the hall like a strobe, but the creature just drags itself onward, uncaring of the rounds tearing through its flesh. Blood sprays the floor, splattering wetly against the walls—but it doesn’t even stumble.

Chris throws himself forward, planting both hands in the small of Morgan's back and shoving—hard. They skid across the cracked tiles as the creature launches itself past. Sharp claws graze his shoulder as he tumbles aside, breath catching in his chest from the force.

Morgan rights herself quickly, rolling sideways with catlike grace. She fires twice more into the monster's back, ignoring Chris' earlier order not to waste ammo. "Yeah, fuck you too, shitface!"

The creature slithers forward, barely slowing as bullets tear into it, blood streaming down the walls. Its warped face seems to twist, cracking open to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth. A harsh growl echoes down the corridor, reverberating in Chris' ears, his teeth aching in response to the noise. He raises his rifle, bracing for the impact of the blast, but—

A blur of movement—too fast for him to track—and suddenly it's on Scrader instead, dragging him forward by the neck.

Chris pushes himself upright, palms sliding on damp concrete. Pain throbs through his shoulder, hot and deep, like broken glass grinding in his skin, but there's no time to tend to injuries. "Scrader!" he barks, trying desperately to bring his weapon to bear, but the creature is relentless.

It ignores everyone else, focused solely on Scrader as it wraps a clawed limb around his throat, wrenching his head back so violently that his spine cracks with audible intensity. Then the other taloned appendage comes down across his chest—once, twice, three times—tearing through armor and flesh like it's nothing but tissue paper, spraying the area with fresh crimson.

Time feels elastic—stretching, bending, breaking—as Chris rushes forward, heart pounding wildly, adrenaline surging through his system until his senses sharpen painfully, bringing the moment into crystal clarity. He sees Scrader's face, his expression contorted by agony and horror as the life drains from him, every drop of it gushing down his torso in ribbons that spill onto the concrete beneath.

Kash cries out, wordless rage fueling his attacks as he unloads another magazine into the creature's hunched back. Blood oozes out, dribbling down its limbs, pooling on the floor before slowly vanishing into dark stains, leaving nothing behind but a faint glimmering residue where once there was redness. It's not stopping—it's doing whatever the hell it wants without consequence—and it infuriates Kash like nothing else. His teeth are bared; snarls leave his lips each time he ejects a spent cartridge from his weapon and slaps in a replacement.

At last, the beast releases its quarry with a low howl, the sound vibrating through the air like thunder echoing over hills. Its body snaps backward, tendrils retracting inside until all that's left is a grotesque parody of humanity—an amalgamation formed from death itself.

And you're still standing at the end of the hall, watching everything unfold with hollow resignation. Chris swears he can feel your stare bore into him even though you aren't looking directly at anyone. It's unnerving, this feeling that maybe you're taking stock of their progress. Or lack thereof.

The monster doesn't care either way. Instead, it lets out an inhuman screech before launching itself straight towards them again.

Chris stumbles back into the dim light of the ruined hallway, his team’s screams still ringing in his ears, even though the air has long gone quiet. Kash’s limp body was the last to fall, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his dying breath bubbling through shattered teeth. The floor is slick beneath Chris’s boots—blood, pieces of bone, shredded muscle. It clings to him, sticks in his throat and he can't swallow any of it down.

He slams his fist against the wall, the sting of concrete tearing at his skin beneath the glove. It does nothing to drown out the failure, the futility, or the grief.

The blood hasn’t dried on his gloves when the thought claws its way into his mind—sharp, cold, and undeniable. The island keeps resetting, dragging them all back to the same hell. His team keeps dying, no matter what he does.

But not you. Never you.

The cold concrete floor scrapes against his boots as he stumbles down the hall, blood slick underfoot. His rifle hangs useless from his shoulder, bouncing against his side with every uneven step. He can still feel Morgan’s hand slipping from his grasp, her wide, panicked eyes locking with his as the rubble crushed her beneath it. The memory is fresh, but not new—it’s lived in his bones for countless loops.

He stops at the door to the lab, panting, his breath clouding the air. The fluorescent light inside flickers in jagged intervals, casting long shadows across the broken equipment and shattered glass. And there you are—just as you always are—sitting cross-legged on the crate, elbows on your knees, watching him as if you’ve been waiting all along.

You. The only constant besides him. You survive, always. Sitting in that same corner, watching with that calm, patient expression—never covered in blood, never gasping for air, never begging for your life. You’re untouched by the nightmare.

Chris’s rifle dangles loose in his grip as the thought takes root, spreading like poison through his mind. He’s tried everything. Everything. The one variable he hasn’t changed is you. You stay alive, always. Maybe... maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s you.

His pulse drums hard against his ribs, each beat hammering the same thought deeper: What happens if you die? What happens if you—

The sound of his boots scraping across the floor pulls your gaze toward him. You sit exactly where you always do—cross-legged on an overturned crate, your hands resting lazily on your knees. There’s no fear in your eyes. You meet his gaze with quiet patience, your head tilting slightly, almost curious.

Chris tightens his grip on the rifle until his knuckles ache. His breathing quickens, the weight of the loop pressing against his skull, threatening to crush him. He has to break it—has to try something different.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, the rifle in his hands feeling heavier with every second. The cold metal presses against his palm, a familiar comfort that now feels foreign. His lips part, words forming before his brain catches up.

"You," he says, his voice low and cracked from exhaustion. He can barely hear himself over the pounding in his chest.

You tilt your head slightly, the barest trace of curiosity flickering across your face. Not surprise, not fear. Just... patience.

Chris’s grip tightens on the gun he exchanges for the rifle, the knuckles of his gloved hand turning white. His arm trembles—not from weakness, but from the weight of the choice forming in his mind. His breaths come fast, shallow, every inhale stinging his throat.

"You sit here," he snarls through clenched teeth, "while they die. Over and over. And not a damn thing happens to you."

The gun’s barrel rises, locking onto your chest. His heart pounds harder, his muscles tensing with the familiar anticipation of a trigger pull—something he’s done thousands of times before. But this time, his whole body feels like it’s caught in tar, every nerve resisting the action.

"You know what’s happening," Chris mutters. His voice cracks, anger and desperation bleeding into every word. "You’ve known this whole time."

You hold his gaze, unmoving. There’s no fear in your eyes—only that same tired patience, as if you’ve already seen the outcome. The flickering light overhead buzzes faintly, casting your face in shifting shadows. "Go ahead," you say, your voice calm and soft. "If that’s what you think will stop it."

The gun feels heavier, the weight of it unbearable. Chris’s arm shakes uncontrollably, his finger hovering over the trigger. But it won’t move. His whole body locks up, the tendons in his hand screaming with the effort to pull the trigger, but nothing happens.

His body rejects it, every muscle rebelling. Sweat trickles down his temple, stinging his eyes. His vision narrows until all he sees is you, sitting there, waiting for him to do what he knows he can’t.

"Why can’t I..." The words falter, his voice breaking under the weight of his own frustration. His breath comes out in short bursts, ragged and harsh. He’s never hesitated before—not once. But now his hand won’t move, the gun in his grip an inert piece of metal he can’t will into action.

His heart hammers in his chest, a dull thud vibrating through his ribcage. He’s never felt this helpless—not in any battle, not even in the worst moments of his life. The gun trembles in his hand, his arms aching from the effort, but the trigger stays where it is, unmoving. He can’t do it.

"Goddamn it," Chris mutters under his breath, the rage turning to helplessness. He feels his throat tighten, the pressure building behind his eyes.

And then it happens. Your name slips from his mouth, unbidden and undeniable, soft as a prayer he didn’t know he was holding onto.

Chris’s mind races, grasping for any explanation, but he finds none. He shouldn’t know your name. He’s certain of that. But the way it sounds, the way it settles between the two of you—it’s like he’s known it all along.

Your expression softens for the first time. The calm slips just slightly, replaced by something sad—something almost like regret. You exhale, as if a long, heavy burden has finally fallen from your shoulders.

"There it is," you say softly, your voice quieter than before. "I was wondering when it would come out."

Chris’s hand falters, the gun dropping slightly as his arm finally gives out under the weight of exhaustion and confusion. His breath comes fast and uneven, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.

He stares at you, his mind unraveling at the edges, unable to make sense of the moment. "What the fuck?" His voice is raw, frayed with too many questions and not enough answers.

You stand slowly, carefully, as if the moment is fragile, like one wrong move might shatter what little remains of Chris’s sanity. "You were never going to shoot," you say, almost pondering. "You already knew that."

His grip on the gun loosens further, the weapon dropping to his side, useless. His hands are still trembling, the tremors spreading through his body, as if his mind can’t contain the truth trying to surface.

"We've done this before, haven’t we?" His words come out faster, tripping over themselves in desperate need of an answer, anything that will give him a shred of stability. "I know you. But I..."

He trails off, thoughts sliding away from him like water spilling through open fingers. Your expression shifts, softening into something unfamiliar. Something old. It echoes across time, like an image buried in rippling water surfacing for a split second before sinking again. A memory just out of reach.

You shift your weight toward him. The motion is cautious, deliberate, but not uncertain. Slowly, you move to take his hands in yours, palms flat against his calloused knuckles.

Heat rises along the back of his neck, prickly and electric. It travels across his scalp in waves, filling his senses with an energy he hasn't felt since before this damn loop began. It should be disconcerting, overwhelming—but instead it feels safe, somehow. Comforting.

He draws in a shaky breath, gaze traveling up to meet yours. His hands slide from your grasp to cradle your wrists gently, the tips of his gloved fingers brushing lightly over your skin. His grip tightens as your name slips past his lips again, half-question and half-memory, drawing a strange look from you that makes something turn uncomfortably in his chest.

"Tell me what the hell is going on." The demand falls from his lips, but there’s no strength behind it—only desperation, raw and bleeding.

Your eyelids flutter shut briefly as you draw in another long, slow breath, then release it just as carefully, steadying yourself. Your eyes fix on his, gaze unwavering. There's something in your voice that wasn't there before—a determination mixed with resignation, the kind found only in people who know their fate and can't escape it. "I'm sorry."

Before he can respond, pain explodes through his skull. Darkness floods his vision, drowning everything else in a torrent of confusion and agony.

Chris has tried everything.

He’s rerun the mission a hundred different ways in his mind and at least twenty in reality. Nothing works. The radio always hums with that same cursed opening riff from “Fortunate Son,” the cliffs always loom in the fog, and the shore always welcomes them like a trap waiting to spring. No matter what he does, they die. Over and over again. Like some kind of nightmare he can never wake from. And there you are every time, watching them fail without blinking or interfering beyond giving directions. Waiting for them to reach a certain destination.

The first time, he tried speeding through the mission—moving fast, clearing every hallway without hesitation. His team took hits, but he pushed them forward, fighting harder than ever before.

When the monster finally emerged, tearing through the menagerie of limbs that clung to its distorted torso, Chris was ready. He fired nonstop, bullets ripping through flesh and bone, each shot careful and calculated. When the monster attacked Rodriguez, he pulled her back—twice, three times, four. Whatever it took to keep her alive. And when the creature dove for Scrader, Chris stopped it cold, unloading an entire magazine of hollow-points into its head while Morgan dragged Scrader away, shooting all the while.

Chris saw hope in that moment—true victory, real success. But Kash took a stray bullet from Morgan, and Rodriguez caught one too many glancing blows, her face spattered with gore, chest torn open. And Morgan, always brave, always true, ended up with her neck snapped clean in two as she flung herself over Rodriguez's ruined corpse in an attempt to shield the fallen agent.

On another reset, Chris tried not disembarking at all. They stayed on the boat. He radioed in false reports, tried to convince HQ they had already cleared the mission. For a moment, it felt like it would work. But then, the radio fizzled, turning to static, and the waves picked up—sharp, slamming the boat against unseen rocks until it flipped them into the freezing water. Morgan’s head cracked against a jagged stone on the way down. Kash drowned, pulled under by something that shouldn't have been in the water. Rodriguez fought the current with everything she had, only to wash up on the shore later, chest split open, ribs peeled back. And Chris ended up bleeding out from a deep gash to his leg after being knocked unconscious by debris when their ship sank. He woke alone on the beach, shivering with cold, unable to move anymore because it hurt too damn much to try, and waited his death out while staring at Scrader's half-eaten corpse sprawled next to him.

Once, they used flamethrowers on everything: the trees, the facility, the lab itself—all burned and crumbled beneath the heat, consumed in seconds. That loop had gone particularly well, actually. Right up until the point where Chris realized that, somehow, even aflame the thing was still alive, crawling toward him on blistered limbs. He was able to finish it off quickly enough by chucking a grenade at it, but it didn’t matter. They all still died soon afterwards anyway, from the toxic gas emitting from the facility.

Chris tried turning the boat around before they even reached the island. But the fog never let them leave. The ocean stretched endlessly, looping in on itself, until they wound back up at the same shore, the same black rocks gleaming wet in the dim light. Every wave, every gust of wind pushed them back to the cliffs, and he knew—the island doesn’t let them leave.

He’s broken protocol, screamed orders that didn’t make sense, split the team into smaller squads, held them tighter, kept them closer. He’s mapped every corridor in the facility, avoided the traps he remembered, and anticipated the bioweapon’s ambushes. Still, they die. A severed limb here. A crushed rib cage there. Gunshots and panic always follow, and by the end, it’s always the same—Chris left standing in a pool of blood, gasping for breath, his knees hitting the cold, hard floor just as the world collapses around him.

He wakes up in the same boat, to the same song, It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one.

It’s not just the deaths. It’s the way they keep dying. Different every time. Sometimes quick—a ricocheted bullet to the brain or a snapped neck—but often it’s long and ugly. Screaming. Blood bubbling in throats. Chris has held Rodriguez as she bled out at least five different ways—gut wounds, chest wounds, one loop where her leg had been torn clean off. Kash’s cocky grin has faded into a half-memory, but his terrified scream as the bioweapon took his face stays sharp. Chris can’t shake the sound no matter how hard he tries.

He knows he’s breaking. It’s the little things—the way he repeats orders he gave two loops ago without realizing it, or how his hands twitch toward his gun even when nothing’s wrong. He loses time sometimes, caught between past loops and present ones, unable to tell which version of reality he’s in. He calls Morgan by Rodriguez’s name. He forgets to reload his rifle.

He catches himself saying things—intimate, familiar things—to you, things no stranger would say.

“You always sit like that,” Chris said during one loop, not even thinking about the words before they left his mouth. He caught the subtle arch of your brow, the barest flicker of a smile. Too knowing. Too familiar.

You leaned back on the crate, draping your arms over your knees. "Catching on, I see."

But the worst part is how calm you are. No panic, no fear—just that strange, patient detachment. You sit through every loop like a stone in a river, unmoved by the current. Every time he finds you, it’s the same soft, resigned smile and maddening little quips: Hello again. You're a bit late. How did it go this time?

Chris has tried to make sense of you. You’re the only variable that stays constant, besides him. The only thing that doesn’t change, no matter how many times he reruns the mission. And you know more than you’re letting on, almost waiting for him to catch up to a truth you’ve already accepted. He just can't figure out why, or how. Is he being tested? Experimented on? There has to be an explanation for all this, something beyond torture and psychological manipulation. Some clue to what's really going on here.

He can't wrap his head around this being related to a biohazard, there is nothing biological about what's happening, if anything, you're the key. Your presence is a glaring anomaly amidst chaos, an entity surviving on its own terms without a single drop of blood on its hands—though if what you know could save others, you keep your peace instead of sharing. You hold the truth within reach, so near he feels it brushing against his fingers, yet constantly slipping from his grasp. Why won't you help?

There are days—some, few—where Chris hesitates at the edge of the facility, lingering outside as his team readies themselves. Each moment drags painfully long, his mind spinning with strategies, contingencies. It takes him longer every time to step inside, to let the loop continue, to watch his friends die over and over and over until he can bear it no longer and lets his weapon fall from numb hands. But you always stay put, waiting for them to find you again before returning to your position, perched calmly atop a storage crate, watching the horror unfold around you while pretending you have no hand in it all.

One evening, when Chris manages to stay on his feet even though both legs have been shredded by the monstrosity, and he ends up hauling his broken body into the laboratory using only the rifle as a crutch, he slumps beside you. The air between you goes silent save for the grotesque wet sounds coming from somewhere down the hall. Chris thinks it must be Rodriguez, who got hit so badly that she died right outside this room and whose remains are now being toyed with by something sickly hungry and sadistic.

"Will it ever end?" he asks quietly, swallowing around a lump in his throat, wishing it weren’t so thick. He hates how defeated his voice sounds. Hates it even more that there's nothing he can do to stop the shameful tears streaking down his cheeks. "Can it?"

Your head is bowed low enough to brush his shoulder as you lean closer, offering a whisper of comfort with your reply: "Of course it can." Your fingers trail slowly over his glove-covered knuckles as though reassuring him. "The choice was, and is, always yours."

Chris’s eyes snap open, the sharp scent of saltwater pulling him into wakefulness. His body jerks forward, muscles tight, as if bracing for something—but nothing comes. His chest heaves, breaths uneven, the taste of iron heavy in his throat. The boat hums beneath him, the engine steady, its low rumble vibrating through his boots. The waves lap softly against the hull, quiet compared to the roar inside his head.

But something’s wrong. He knows it, feels it. His hands tighten on the edge of the bench beneath him, the cold metal biting into his palms. Every time, it’s the same: Rodriguez at the helm complaining about, Morgan worried about him, Kash flipping that damn pawn between his fingers, Scrader reading through the manual, and the radio blasting “Fortunate Son” like clockwork.

Only... there’s no music.

The silence drills into his skull, unnatural in the rhythm of the loop. His heartbeat pounds louder in his ears, filling the empty space where the song should be. He glances up. Rodriguez is there—but she isn’t tapping the console, isn’t humming along to the tune like she always does. Her back is stiff, head tilted down, fingers clenched too tightly around the wheel.

Chris shifts his weight, boots scraping the deck, his rifle resting heavily against his chest. The boat rocks gently beneath him, the fog rolling over the water, thick and impenetrable. He listens for Morgan’s voice—her laugh, her quip about the mission. But when he turns, she’s sitting silently, staring off into the fog, her hands resting limp in her lap. Kash is next to her, his pawn nowhere in sight. The rhythmic tap he’s grown used to is gone.

Cold dread spreads through Chris’s limbs, settling in his stomach. It doesn’t feel like any other reset. Everything is the same, but it isn’t. The edges feel off—like something unfinished, or starting to fray. The way Rodriguez grips the wheel, her knuckles white. The way Morgan’s eyes are unfocused, lost. And the silence—the silence feels worse than the death that always follows.

Chris rises from the bench slowly, every muscle stiff, his hand automatically falling to his sidearm, feeling the weight of it there. His mind races. The mission brief—he’s memorized it, but there’s something slipping between the cracks of his memory now, like a whisper he’s been ignoring. They were sent to contain something. No. Destroy something.

"I knew they would evolve as the years passed but this is way too fucked up, man," Scrader says, not looking at Chris when he glances over. He hasn't looked away from his report, brows drawn tight together, his jaw set as he skims it again.

Chris realizes he doesn't know what Scrader's looking at. In fact, he doesn't even know what it entailed or whom it involved. All he can think about is how nothing is repeating itself this time around, and that it's setting off alarms in every corner of his head. "What is?" he asks cautiously.

Scrader flips the pages idly, pausing for a second on one particular page, only to start muttering to himself as if continuing an old conversation with someone else entirely before rolling the paper and extending it to Chris, not once making eye contact with anyone else. "I know we're not supposed to see them as people, but fuck, boss. Whoever this person was, they deserved better."

Chris pretends to know what's happening, reaching out and taking the file as if understanding what it is exactly they've stumbled upon. Maybe it will jog loose something from his memories that aren't there anymore—but when he looks at the Level 10 clearance file properly, his mouth runs dry. There's an image in the top left corner, grainy and dark. It takes him a moment to register what he's seeing—a flashlight shining into the darkness, illuminating something, someone hooked up to countless wires and tubes and monitors, almost disappearing into the maw of machines surrounding it. It's an image that stirs nausea within Chris' stomach, though he can't explain why exactly; perhaps because it reminds him far too much of Jill's horrific state following her capture and torture by Wesker.

The world around him shifts, his pulse kicking up as if the words have grabbed him by the throat. Their primary contact Captain Jenna’s orders are to terminate on contact. Chris stares at the paper, a cold chill creeping up his spine. His mind whirs, dragging up half-formed memories, fragments of conversations that never made sense before. They weren’t sent to contain anything.

They were sent to destroy something.

He pushes to his feet, the paper crumpling in his fist. The mission wasn’t about survival—it was about stopping something before it could get out. His breath catches in his throat, eyes darting around the deck, as if seeing it for the first time. His hand tightens on the railing, the cold biting into his skin. The facility. The bioweapon.

You.

Everything slams into place at once. The quiet, the endless resets, the thing that hunted them—always changing, always killing, always coming back. Chris’s jaw tightens, muscles straining as his mind races. He swore it was the facility, the bioweapon in the walls. But no—it’s always been you.

You were the mission.

His eyes snap back to his team. Morgan, Kash, Rodriguez—they were never meant to survive. They were expendable. They were bait. And now, he knows why. His heart pounds against his ribcage, the realization burning through his veins. The creature they’ve been fighting—the one that adapts, that evolves after every kill— it’s the other side of you. The part that can’t be controlled. The part they sent him here to destroy.

His breathing sharpens, adrenaline flooding his system as he pushes through the fog in his mind. The only reason the loop never breaks is because you’re still here. He’s been caught in this cycle, fighting both your human side and your bioweapon form, over and over. And every time, he’s failed. He’s never figured it out in time—until now.

He looks down at the paper, his fingers loosening their grip, letting it unfold completely in his hand. The rest of the file details everything: your designation as Project Hydra, the hybrid bioweapon you’ve become, and your nature as a digital hydra, capable of propagating across systems and networks, spreading through any digital space like a virus.

Chris reads it all—how the simulation is designed to contain you, how you were meant to be destroyed before you could escape. But you haven’t been destroyed. You’ve adapted, survived, and with each reset, you grow stronger. The simulation’s been holding you in, but the cost has been his team, his sanity, over and over again.

His hand shakes as he lowers the paper. Terminate on contact. The words echo in his mind, sinking deeper into the hollow space left by the endless loops. He knows what needs to happen.

But the thought twists in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He can’t shake the image of you—calm, steady, watching him every time they meet. That strange, knowing expression, the subtle tilt of your head, the way your eyes soften for a moment when he arrives, like you’ve been waiting for him.

He knows the bioweapon version of you is in there too—the creature that has torn through his team, over and over, adapting with every encounter. It’s the other side of the coin, the part of you that the simulation is meant to contain. But you’ve also been human, here with him. Somehow, through all the resets, you’ve stayed human—at least a version of you has.

And that version… Chris curses under his breath, the frustration burning through him. He doesn’t want to kill that version of you. Even knowing what he knows, even knowing you’re the reason they’re trapped here, even knowing what waits outside if the simulation ends—you still feel like something separate from all of it. Like something—someone—real.

Something shifts within him, settling into place with a soft click, like a piece clicking into place in a puzzle, suddenly fitting perfectly. All the little moments where he hesitated, faltered, froze. All the moments he almost pulled the trigger but couldn't, times where your voice broke through the madness, guiding him closer to truth, even as the loop kept pushing him down another path. Maybe the truth is, despite everything he's lost, it wasn't just the terror of losing more friends or facing further destruction of the world—he wasn't willing to lose you either, even when you seemed to expect otherwise. You've felt real to him throughout this hellish nightmare—as something beyond the horrors around him and the pain he carries on his shoulders.

Whatever exists between you two, whatever makes his heart clench, that isn't fake or a lie. Or maybe it's simply been inevitable—that no matter the reality, he will always care about you in some capacity, no matter the situation or role you play, and no matter what he chooses in the end.

Classified File – Bioweapon Brief

Project Hydra – Designation: [REDACTED]

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Clearance Level: TOP SECRET

Prepared for: Bioweapon Countermeasure Unit

Status: Active, Containment in Progress

Primary Contact: Colonel T. Hargrave

Authorization: Directorate of Bioweapon Research and Containment

Executive Summary

The subject, Project Hydra (referred to as Hydra), is a first-of-its-kind hybrid of biological and digital weaponry. Combining enhanced human physiology with advanced cybernetics and self-propagating AI malware, Hydra is designed to infiltrate and control both physical and digital environments. Due to its unique structure, Hydra requires specialized containment strategies.

Primary Directive: Hydra’s containment relies on maintaining its human element within a simulated environment where emotional bonds, specifically with the subject’s husband, Chris Redfield, stabilize cognitive architecture. Hydra exhibits:

Human mode within the simulation—engaging with Redfield and retaining human behaviors.

Bioweapon mode upon exiting the simulation—fully autonomous and capable of executing digital and physical attacks.

Current Objective: Keep Hydra contained to prevent bioweapon escalation and potential global catastrophe.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Biological Component

Subject Details:

Name: [REDACTED]

Age: [REDACTED]

Gender: [REDACTED]

Genetic Modifications: Enhanced reflexes, accelerated tissue regeneration, advanced sensory adaptation

Neuro-cognitive Enhancements: Memory partitioning, cognitive stability under duress

Overview

Hydra was a volunteer subject, genetically enhanced to create a highly adaptable combat bioweapon. However, following cybernetic and AI augmentation, Hydra’s cognitive state fragmented, resulting in two operational modes:

Human Mode (Simulation-Only):

Retains the original personality, memories, and attachments of the subject, particularly emotional ties to husband Chris Redfield. Anomalies observed: Attachments stabilize Hydra’s behavior but have led to indefinite containment.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Bioweapon Mode (Active Threat Outside Simulation):

Autonomous, hostile, and relentless. No memory or emotional connection to Redfield in this mode. Exhibits rapid adaptive aggression; has killed containment personnel in multiple breaches.

Digital Component – Malware Architecture

Capabilities

Codename: HYDRA-Variant

Type: AI malware with self-propagating cognitive partitioning (Hydra effect)

Network Propagation: Spreads across networks, bypassing digital defenses and creating independent instances in response to attacks.

System Manipulation: Controls essential digital infrastructure, covertly bypassing detection by mimicking harmless programs.

Cognitive Mimicry in Virtual Spaces: Within simulations, Hydra interacts with others through emotional connections and echoes of the human subject, particularly regarding Redfield.

Adaptive Learning: Learns from and recodes itself in response to countermeasures.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Containment Strategy

Redfield as a stabilizing influence: Hydra’s emotional attachment to Redfield keeps its human side active within the simulation.

Simulation Protocol

Hydra is contained within a high-security simulation that mirrors real-world conditions. Key elements include:

Simulation Loops: Every loop is designed to engage Hydra's human mode, maintaining cognitive containment.

Memory Partitioning: Redfield remains unaware of his relationship with Hydra to reinforce containment and avoid operational compromise.

Containment Status: Redfield’s presence remains critical. Without him, Hydra is projected to revert to bioweapon mode and breach containment.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Termination Options

Option A: Terminate Simulation

Outcome: Ends the containment protocol, releasing Redfield and his team.

Risk: Hydra will revert to bioweapon mode and initiate catastrophic global attacks, as the human mode will be erased.

Option B: Maintain Containment

Outcome: Keeps the simulation running indefinitely.

Risk: Redfield and his team remain trapped, with no way out; however, Hydra’s human side is preserved, and bioweapon escalation is prevented.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

Conclusion

Hydra is a high-risk, Omega-Class bioweapon. Its emotional bond with Chris Redfield is the primary factor sustaining containment but also presents a stability risk if fully realized by the subject. The failure to contain Hydra could lead to catastrophic bioweapon release with the potential for widespread cyber-physical warfare. Should Redfield regain knowledge of his relationship with Hydra, containment integrity is at high risk.

Advisory: Exercise extreme caution. Each reset and interaction draws Hydra closer to full bioweapon reversion. This is your only warning.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

END OF FILE

[castingspellsanddaisies]

How's ''sexy time'' with Jude Bellingham? | Tarot Reading

DISCLAIMER: Take everything in here with a grain of salt - and have fun!

WARNING: This post contains some 18+ topics, so if you don't want to read it, beat it.

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

How's Jude during sexy times? How does he act during it?

queen of cups reversed + 10 of pentacles + wheel of fortune + ace of pentacles + 4 of pentacles + the empress + knight of swords reversed + page of swords reversed + king of pentacles reversed:

He's a bit selfish during it, I'm not going to lie to you. I see he may rush into things most of time and there's a lack of communication during it (he may not be much vocal during it, may not understand very well what his partner wants). He seems kinda impulsive during sex to me. I get it, he's not emotionally involved in this (both of them aren't, honestly), but that's not an excuse, dude. I see his whole body getting so sensitive that he kind of ''forgets'' a little bit about his partner's needs.

He's insecure about his performance? Oh my, guys... I think he gets insecure about it. Whomever keep talking about their experience with him on the internet... He doesn't like it a bit.

I see him being very worried about security while doing it (either the place must be secure, the person must be secure, condoms are a MUST for him).

I see him being a switch as well, so he may start on top, then his partner gets on top and he likes it; then minutes later he tops her again and so on.

He's good at foreplay, though. He's very very VERY touchy and he likes to take his time getting them both ready. During foreplay I see him getting a bit dominating. I see edging practice here, but indirectly? He just likes to stretch out the pleasure as much as he can so he edges without even thinking about it. He loooves to kiss, he loooves to be touched everywhere. He has an impregnation kink but he doesn't practice it yet (maybe with his girlfriend? His wife?).

But as soon as they're done he's done as well? I don't see aftercare or much communication after in here. It's more like Jude has a bunch of bootycalls and that's it. I see steamy foreplay, hasty action, then ''goodbye, 'till next time, mate''. Not good, not not good.

How Jude likes his partner to act during it?

the high priestess + 7 of pentacles + 8 of cups reversed + knight of wands + the emperor + the hermit + 2 of cups + queen of cups + knight of pentacles reversed

Jude here likes women who know what they're doing (pillow princesses step back). Does it mean he always encounter these? No.

He likes to be dominated and to surrender during sex and he likes for his partner to guide their pleasure to exaustion. What am I talking about here? More edging. I knew it! To the point of one of them (or both) end up crying for oversensibility.

Jude likes when fantasy mix with reality, so music on, roleplays, made up scenarios... And mutual masturbation while staring at each other's eyes? My, my...

He likes direct partners to tell him what to do, how to do it and in a bold way. Don't you dare to be shy with him, he likes them fiery.

So he may not be emotionally connected to his partners right now, but during the act, Jude wants to feel like they care for him. What a hypocrite!

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

So yes, sometimes he meets people who ''match his freak'', sometimes he doesn't. The things he likes his partner to do, in my opinion, are not the reality of what happens. Some people have kinks and desires but don't act on them for lack of awereness and lack of a ''proper partner'' for it. Most one-night stands are just boring and quick sex, you know it.

That's all for now, folks!

If you have any questions or opinions, just send them in my inbox.

Take care and bye bye<3

[steddieas-shegoes]

hello again! here's an angsty little steddie thought for you, because I'm sad and i am putting my guys in angsty situations in my head to make me more sad because the brain is funny like that: Steve decides to swing by to visit Eddie after his shift. They've been hanging out a lot more lately,with Robin off to college and the kids preoccupied with school. It's something he looks forward to. He's been spending the day thinking bout the things Eddie says when it's just them. The way he tells Steve that people underestimate him, especially his intelligence. The jokes they share, the soft gazes over a blunt on the front porch. The best part of Steve's day. Truly the best part of his life, nowadays. Especially the soft moments they have together, where Eddie kisses his hairline with a hand resting on Steve's thigh. It's happened a few times but it never turns into a full fledged kiss, but he KNOWS it'll happen soon. He's about to knock on the trailer door when he hears Eddie chatting with his band mates, which is a surprise because band practice is on thursdays not wednesdays,but that's okay maybe he can get to know them a little bit-. "What are you even talking about, Eddie? you're practically drooling over Harrington every time he walks by" His hand freezes mid air and he blushes to himself. "Harrington? nah he is NOT my type." And that? oh. that's...not ideal. But, maybe he can switch up his style a little bit? He knows Eddie isn't the type to wear polos, that's. That's alright. "No way you're SUCH a liar!" "I'm not lying!" Maybe he's just trying to hide his crush?(Images flash in his mind of Eddie's hand creeping up his thigh, and his breath on his neck,before blushing and turning away. Placing his hands back onto his own lap. A soft smile and a blush high on his cheeks.) Maybe he's- "Okay shut up, I'll admit he's easy on the eyes. But dudes only got like two brain cells to rub together." Huh? But he told him monday that- ("You're so smart Stevie, they don't give you enough credit.") "I thought you hung out with him a bunch lately?" "Yeah,it beats watching wheel of fortune. It's funny to listen to what the king has to say, it's like talking to a door stopper." ("You always have something interesting to say.") The echoing laughter rushes through Steve's ears,grips his heart like a vice, before settling like a brick in his stomach. "Nothing behind those eyes!" (I always used to think your eyes were brown, Stevie. But there's green, and red!) Right. That's, that's. Hmm. That's. Go home. It's time to go home. "What was that?" Run back to the car. "Stevie?"Don't say anything. Get your keys get out TWOBRAINCELLS get OUT OF HERE YOU MORON. "Hey wait don't leave, did you uh overhear, of course you heard. God Steve I didn't mean it,I swear. i was just talking a big- I'm so sor-"Don'tlisten.Don'tcryyouidiot.STARTTHECARGETOUTOFHERE.ofcoursenot!ofcoursehedoesntwantyou!ofcoursehedidntthinkyouweresmart.stopcryinggohomegohomehedoesntwantyouherehedoesntwantyouatall.stopcrying.dryyour eyes(NOTHINGBEHINDTHOSEYES). just stop. Get out of here.

Hey

I’m holding your hand when I say this

how dare you (affectionate)

this broke my heart into 726251527382 pieces

in my head, Eddie follows him and begs for forgiveness and Steve makes him work for it because he’s not gonna let anyone in his life who won’t be all in even if it’s just as friends

Eddie does work for it. Harder than he worked to do anything else

he knows he fucked up so bad and just got carried away trying to get his bandmates off his back. he really genuinely didn’t believe anything he said but now he knows Steve thinks he did and he shouldn’t have even said it as a joke or exaggeration regardless of if Steve would hear or not

He even shows up the morning of Robin’s going away party to help run errands for Steve and set up in the rain that wasn’t in the forecast. Steve finds him crying on the back patio over one of the decorations that got ruined by the rain, and he apologizes a million times “I know it’s not enough it’ll never be enough but you have to know I wouldn’t do it on purpose I didn’t know there was rain coming and I would’ve kept it all inside” and then Steve is holding him and telling him it’s okay, all of it is okay

I can’t keep them sad for long it’s my most ridiculous trait

[marrkopolo]

A Wise Man Once Said

Precious lost its ring in the scrap yard with no metal detector the lavender pussywillows hide the trolls

Hong Kong wheel of fate UW spinned it first Knights of Templar slaughtered at a mass concert of bloody crimson tide

Tithe on a full moon for 2x the glee The crash of waves against the rocks, like bodies slapping against each other during sex blood shooting through veins Hot heat, sticky, in Iceland together I too, know of these lands

Tax season says the King! blue knots on a tent red food buckets hung like death #four crosses in a foreign land alone is no place to exist

An underwater welder lying on the blue tarp, is like a union of troops led by a zebra.

Flying flags at Disney welcome to the world of water failed regret, emptiness and betrayal tattered flags get left to rot sew it in with the others together and the quilt becomes strong and scintillating

Crush you with your own history headless horseman and halo hair dark horse donuts This is as good as it gets!

Red-lipped lipstick cracked porcelain face You can't hold a candle to this

King of the Hill My pool stick is clean now true Kings swim in the swimming pool together King of the Hill Jack of Spades went with the stolen crown and robots learn to volunteer.

Pledge to a sanitizer salute to a gong beat your chest it's loud and strong Love at first sight or sounds like a good idea Wisdom of the crowd or individual motivation?

A rabbi with the yachts Fortified lamps sees all UFOs, telekinesis and even explosive lingerie. One denarius for a days work Why they get more? Stand while another sits. Then switch roles and you'll see why.

What sees with three eyes? The melatonin-like parental bond, third eye awoken, Moksha.

Insane Luke has a scar red dots that kill. Baldie takes biosphere crown the bald animal is cutting loose again Is doraphilia still fun to you?

I attempt to transform but the tea is too strong my hands have small heart Lying down a tiny raindrop falls into my ear swirling into the cochlea My whole world has changed!

Eczema stealing make-up twice North Face go north Racks of weapons are not enough this time

My mask is old but gold bars had paved my fortunate path …a fortunate path(whispering)

Tik Tok vault one exit is enough The eagle has docked into spray-painted madness. Not to fret I hear a falcon cry Jump when the law is bent it will help you fly

Six shooter Six pack 3 sewers 3 fires Twin-spirit 1 spacesuit

Mountain top king of the hill climb Nepal Hajj pilgrimage princess climbs like a pirate piggyback down the wedding aisle

Opposites attract

One fell to its doom down the abyssal void towards the bottom and a ghost ship lost in the Bermuda Triangle with Pandoras Box Lazarus

Gunpowder in shoes Footprints in the sand Jesus did not tap

Short and tall fat and thin Lookalikes Soundalikes Smellalikes the hunt of touch and taste What double currencies create the ultimate Yin Yang effect? AI said to cure pride and competition, exchange abacus rubik-cubed calculators instead of cash.

Echoes and reverberation voices become lightning WATTS= AMPS X VOLTS

Float your payloads into the troposphere with skinny vertical structures of contained saltwater Heat a planet with a satellite asteroid belt

A call for help QR codes morse code gun flare smoke signal what are your coordinates? R-E-B-O-R-N

Some ancients say gunpowder only made flee then gun made to kill Oil spills from bronze age to silicon chips flood the market cut the mall castle cake in half Zangief on a segway You win.Perfect.

Lawrence Groves copyright©2024

[ataraxiaspainting]

One More Hour.

Megumi x GN Reader.

Synopsis: After nearly a whole day of spending time in your boyfriend’s dorm, he still wants more. Can you really deny him that wish, especially after he has bribed you with more chocolate and plushies, along with cuddling his dogs?

Word Count: 1k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

we fell in love in october by girl in red

Honeypie by JAWNY

I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys

Training Wheels by Melanie Martinez

Bubble Gum by Clairo

Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny

As It Was by Harry Styles

Mayonaka no Door / Stay With Me by Miki Matsubara

Hey Lover! by Wabie

Electric Love by BØRNS

*~*~*~*

No matter how much time passes, Megumi's dorm room remains unchanged in appearance and function.

The door glides open effortlessly unless Megumi has locked it for the night or day.

The rear wall of his room boasts fully stocked bookshelves, primarily filled with history books and nonfiction literature. This tends to annoy you, as reading any of them inevitably leads to immediate boredom-induced sleep. Once, you suggested that Megumi should embrace more imaginative reads, prompting him to respond with a half-serious glare that may have been annoyance or simply playful teasing, a common occurrence when the two of you are alone.

Megumi sleeps on a single futon, always left in a disheveled state, which is rather peculiar considering his typically organized nature. Even you occasionally make your bed, unless you're too tired in the mornings. However, Megumi consistently leaves his futon untidy, with stacks of nonfiction books near his pillow, as is his custom.

You always ponder silently, wondering if he keeps such boring books near his bedside so he can fall asleep faster, a mischievous smile forming within.

In the far corner of his dorm room sits his desk, always facing away from you. On it, you'll find Megumi's trusty laptop, open notebooks filled with scattered ideas, a collection of books, a handful of succulents and bonsai seedlings, and if you're fortunate, his Nintendo Switch. It's likely occupied by the perpetual loading screen of Animal Crossing: New Horizons, Omori, or Fire Emblem: Three Houses. Although he claims to play these games solely to appease your persistent recommendations, deep down you suspect he genuinely enjoys them. Of course, if you were to ever voice this suspicion, he wouldn't hesitate to sell his beloved Nintendo Switch on some online auction platform right before your eyes, subjecting you to a rather cruel spectacle.

However, he would undoubtedly retract his decision at the last possible moment. Megumi may possess various traits, but intentionally causing you emotional pain out of spite is certainly not one of them.

“‘Gumi, what’s your favorite type of chocolate?”

At your question, Megumi stares at you like you have grown a second face like Tomie Kawakami. Surely to him, you’re also just as pretty right, minus the second face thing? You’ll have to put it on your list of impulsive things to ask him, physically writing it down or otherwise.

In your hands is the heart-shaped box he had just given to you as a supposed reward for not having talked his ears off. Along with not having thrown his gift, a container of some homemade strawberry cake that you made from a boxed mix, that you would never admit, at him when he inevitably made some teasing quip. You aren’t known for being exactly willing to let insults from fellow peas in your pod pass without them hammering back. It is just what you do.

He may avoid the question, but at least he will still be chained down to sitting with you on the floor if you keep on pouting with every action he takes.

As always, acting like he is being held hostage in his own dorm room, he shuffles from side to side instead of responding. He’s faking being nervous again. Even if you wanted to, you could never actually hurt Megumi.

He looks at the floor, feigning confusion and fear.

You sigh.

There is a slight smirk that appears on his face as you do so.

He can be such a dick sometimes, intentionally or not, although him being the former is quite rare, he only does it with you. The duality of such a foreign species of a man called Megumi Fushiguro, you guess.

“Cherry, of course.” Of course. “I just love it. You should know that. Bec-”

Immediately, your hand slaps over his mouth like its life depends on it.

“Don’t you dare, everyone knows I hate cherry-flavored things!”

Like he was drowning, Megumi acts out a struggle and as soon as your hand is off, he takes in deep breaths, inhaling in and out quickly like you had single-handedly made him see the heavens itself. He is strange. But so are you.

So, against your better judgment, you throw your copy of Crime and Punishment, all 700 pages of it, at him, hitting his forehead with a loud slamming sound erupting from the attack.

“Ow!” Megumi exclaims, rubbing the sore spot with his hands. Maybe your actions were over the top? Yet, then again, so was his.

You cross your arms. “Deserved.”

“I can take away that rabbit plush I gave you last week.”

“You wouldn’t dare, Fushiguro.”

“I would. You’re lucky, though. I don’t usually tease anyone aside from you.”

That’s true. Megumi is stoic in all matters, from cooking to reading. That is, aside from matters where a closed door and you are involved. It is like he becomes an entirely different person, you heavily, heavily doubt Yuji would believe you if you told him.

Even on dates, he is never this expressive. If anything, he is a well-meaning but cold Prince Charming whenever the general public has eyes on him. If only that were true.

“But really, what is your favorite type of chocolate?”

His smirk disappears, replaced with a thoughtful expression.

“Hmm.” Perhaps the all-powerful concussion made him go back to normal? That would make sense. “Coffee, maybe.”

“Huh? Why, to still satisfy your caffeine addiction?”

“Goes well with ginger.”

“What?”

It is a hard-to-stomach image that appears in your head; Megumi eating Shogayaki for breakfast with black coffee along with coffee-flavored chocolates on the side. It makes you sick just thinking about it. If that vision ever became an unfortunate reality, you could imagine yourself looking at the scene in pure horror. 

He isn’t teasing you if his expression tells you anything.

He’s serious.

“They aren’t that sweet either.” He really is serious. “You know I don’t like sweet side dishes. Ginger and coffee are a good combination.”

He really is fucking serious.

“Get out, Megumi.”

“...This is my-”

“Argh! Don’t care! Get out!”