⋮ ᛝ ┆੭﹕﹒⧽ “ 𝚰 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄!!! 𝐁υ𝗍 𝚰 ᥣⱺ𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝐆𝗂𝗋ᥣ 𝚰 ᥣⱺ𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍. ” ── .✦
ᴳᵉⁿʳᵉ: ˢᵘᵍᵍᵉˢᵗⁱᵛᵉ, ᵇᵃˢⁱᶜ ᶠˡⁱʳᵗⁱⁿᵍ, ᶜᵒᵐᵉᵈʸ, ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ, ᵇᵃⁿᵗᵉʳ.
ˢᶜᵉⁿᵃʳⁱᵒ: ᴿᵉ ᴹᵉⁿ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ʷⁱˢᵈᵒᵐ ᵗᵉᵉᵗʰ ᵗᵃᵏᵉⁿ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉᵈⁱᶜⁱⁿᵉ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵗʷᵉᵃᵏ ᵀᶠ ᵒᵘᵗ😭😭 ᵗʰⁱˢ ʷᵃˢ ʰⁱᵍʰᵏᵉʸ ⁱⁿˢᵖⁱʳᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᴵ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵐⁱⁿᵉˢ ᵗᵃᵏᵉⁿ ᵒᵘᵗ ᴵ ʷᵃˢ ˢᵒ ᶠʳᵉᵃᵏᵉᵈ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃˡˢᵒ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵛⁱᵈᵉᵒˢ ᴵ ʷᵃᵗᶜʰᵉᵈ ᵃᵇᵗ ⁱᵗ.
ᶜʰᵃʳˢ: ᴸᵉᵒⁿ ᵏᵉⁿⁿᵉᵈʸ, ᶜᵃʳˡᵒˢ ᵒˡⁱᵛᵉⁱʳᵃ, ᶜʰʳⁱˢ ᴿᵉᵈᶠⁱᵉˡᵈ, ᴱᵗʰᵃⁿ ʷⁱⁿᵗᵉʳˢ, ᴮⁱˡˡʸ ᶜᵒᵉⁿ, ᴶᵃᵏᵉ ᵐᵘˡˡᵉʳ, ᴸᵘⁱˢ ˢᵉʳʳᵃ, ᵐᵉʳᶜʰᵃⁿᵗ, & ᵖⁱᵉʳˢ ⁿⁱᵛᵃⁿˢ. (Maybe out of ooc and bad english but I don't curr)
ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ: ᶠᵉᵐ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ, ᵉˢᵗᵃᵇˡⁱˢʰᵉᵈ ʳᵉˡᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢʰⁱᵖ.
ᴬᵘᵗʰᵒʳᵉˢˢ ⁿᵒᵗᵉˢ: ᴼˡᵈᵉʳ ᶜᵃʳˡᵒˢ ᴼˡⁱᵛᵉⁱʳᵃ ᶠⁱᶜ ᶜᵒᵐⁱⁿᵍ ᵘᵖ ˢᵒᵒⁿ ʸᵃˡˡ👀👀👀 ᴬˡʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵍᵘʸˢ ⁱᵏ ᵗʰⁱˢ ⁱˢⁿᵗ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ᵘᵖˡᵒᵃᵈⁱⁿᵍ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᴵᵐ ᵐᵃᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ⁿᵉʷ ᵐᵃˢᵗᵉʳ ˡⁱˢᵗ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡⁱˢᵗᵉⁿ!! ᴵ ᵈᵒⁿᵗ ᴷⁱʳᵏ.
ᵀᵃᵍˡⁱˢᵗ ᵐʸ ᵖᵒᵒᵏⁱᵉ ʷᵒᵒᵏⁱᵉˢ: @lawfem @jojobear06 @stickymangofingers @yeahhowboutnoworms @miyurimi @reverendaughter @lokisloverisnthere @lilithlunastark @mimillieon @kiri-kitten @kittysgrama @kisses-for-kennedy @kookypuffball @flutterrlikethis @hystericalesoteric @60eternity06 @honeyed-faerie @solarspacedout @rinneries @aikaisdyingwithstrawberries
The sterile, fluorescent hum of the recovery room was completely shattered by the sound of Leon’s intense, heavy breathing. He wasn’t resting. He was slumped in the starched vinyl recliner, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs like a defensive turtle. The sharp, tailored edges of his tactical gear had been stripped away for a massive, grey oversized hoodie, making his broad shoulders look deceivingly small. His hair usually a sleek, deliberate side-sweep was sticking up in chaotic, sweaty tufts, and a thick, white square of bloody gauze was wedged into his left cheek, giving his face the distinct shape of an angry hamster storing a golf ball.When your footsteps clicked against the linoleum, his head snapped toward you with the wild, wide-eyed alarm of a stray cat.
"Stop right there!" Leon commanded, though it came out as a thick, wet, slurred gargle: "Shtop wight dere!" He raised a trembling, uncoordinated hand, pointing two floppy fingers directly at your forehead like a gun. "Identify yourself. State your clearance code... or I swear to God I will deploy lethal force."
"Leon, it's me," you said, stepping into the light. "I'm taking you home."
Leon’s blue eyes blinked rapidly. The green sedation fog was warring with his intense, trained paranoia, causing his brain to completely melt in real-time. He slowly lowered his finger-gun, his brow furrowing as he tracked your movement with exaggerated, tracking-laser concentration. The moment his gaze swept down your body, taking in your outfit, his expression shifted from high-alert tactical agent to utterly compromised, pathetic mess.
"Oh," Leon breathed out, a long, tragic string of drool escaping the corner of his swollen lip. "They... they sent a honeypot. The agency is playing dirty. They know my weak spot..."
"Nobody sent a honeypot, handsome. You had your wisdom teeth out," you sighed, walking right up to the chair and reaching down to gently uncurl his white-knuckled grip from his knees.
The moment your skin touched his, Leon let out a dramatic, shuddering gasp. He didn't just take your hand; he launched himself forward, burying his face directly into your stomach. His long arms wrapped around your waist with an iron-clad, desperate tightness that completely contradicted his dazed state.
"Listen to me," Leon rasped against your shirt, his muffled voice vibrating against your ribs. The gauze turned every hard consonant into slush. "My jaw is compromised. They removed my primary melee capabilities. I can't bite. I can't chew through the zip-ties. I am a defenseless civilian... and you are taking advantage of a federal officer."
"I'm literally just holding your hand, Leon."
"You're assaulting my personal space!" he protested, though he actively tightened his grip, pulling you so close that you were basically wedged between his legs. He slowly tilted his head back, resting his chin on your sternum so he could look up at you with glassy, heavily-lidded blue eyes. A slow, insanely shameless, sedated smirk began to spread across his swollen face. "And I'm not gonna report it. In fact... I'm gonna let you commit several federal offenses right now."
You raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the laugh bubbling up in your chest. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," Leon slurred, his tongue heavily coated in anesthetic numbness. He reached up with a heavy, trembling hand, his fingers clumsily cupping the side of your hip, dragging his palm up toward your waist. "I need a physical evaluation. Full body search. I think... I think the doctor hid classified intelligence inside your pants. I need to get in there. For national security."
"Leon!" you gasped, swatting his hand away as he made a pathetic, uncoordinated attempt to grab your belt. "Stop acting a fool! You’ve saved the president’s daughter for crying out loud!"
Leon’s eyes widened with a sudden, unhinged, shameless bravery that only a maximum dose of IV sedation could provide. "Does that pussy need saving?" he asked boldly, completely deadpan.
You froze, staring at him in absolute, utter disbelief. "Did you seriously just say that?"
"I said what I said," Leon rumbled into your stomach, completely unbothered, his eyes fluttering shut as a wave of exhaustion hit him. "The president isn't here. You're here. And you're looking like a primary target. Cuff me to the bed, felony... I'm a dangerous criminal. I give up all state secrets if you kiss me on the mouth right now."
Man, you couldn't wait for the drugs to wear off. You didn't even dignify that with a response, just pulled him up by his hoodie to drag him to the car.
During the entire drive to the pharmacy, Leon insisted on leaning entirely across the center console, resting his heavy, swollen face directly against your thigh while making low, engine-revving sounds through his gauze every time you hit a green light. When the innocent pharmacist slid his pain medication through the drive-thru window, Leon glared at the poor man through narrow, suspicious eyes, leaning over to whisper loudly into your neck: "Don't trust him. He's working for Los Illuminados. He wants to sample your ballistics. Drive! Floor it!"
Ethan was, without a single shadow of a doubt, the most unhinged patient the dental clinic had ever seen.
When you walked into the recovery cubicle, Ethan wasn't even sitting on the bed. He was down on all fours on the linoleum floor, his long jacket unzipped and dragging in the dust, his blonde hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. He was staring at his own left hand with a look of sheer, apocalyptic terror, his jaw puffed out on the left side like a squirrel storing a whole walnut. A thick trail of dried, metallic-smelling drool ran down his chin, but he didn't care. He was in the middle of a full-blown existential crisis.
"Ethan!" you yelled, rushing over to grab him under his armpits. "What are you doing on the floor?!"
"My hand!" Ethan shrieked, though the gauze in his mouth turned it into a wet, pathetic gargle: "My haaand! It's gone! They took the hand again!"
"Ethan, your hand is right there!" You forcefully lifted his left arm, shaking his fingers in front of his glassy, bloodshot eyes. "Look! One, two, three, four, five fingers! Attached to your wrist!"
Ethan stared at his hand for five whole seconds. His eyes blinked rapidly, his brain working at roughly two frames per second. Slowly, a massive, trembling sigh of relief blew a tiny bubble of saliva out of his lip.
"Oh thank God," Ethan gasped, letting his body go completely limp, collapsing backward so that his head landed directly in your lap as you knelt on the floor. "I thought... I thought the doctor was another Lord. I thought he was trying to harvest my core components."
"It was a wisdom tooth extraction, Ethan. They just pulled out a couple of molars."
"No," Ethan said aggressively, shaking his head against your thighs, which immediately made him wince and groan as the movement rattled his throbbing jaw. "No, no, no. You don't get it. They took out the smart parts of my brain. I can feel the draft in my skull. There's a breeze in there."
"You mean when it's windy and your head starts whistling. Yeah you're typically like that." You retorted back sassily.
Ethan didn't respond to your smart ass comment.
He suddenly rolled over, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He looked up at you, his eyes darting frantically down to your chest, then to your hips, and then right back to your face. A bizarre, intense light sparked in his medicated eyes. He reached out with both hands, clumsily grabbing the hem of your shirt.
"Listen to me," Ethan whispered, his voice dropping into a raspy, conspiratorial drawl. "We need to re-populate the estate. Right now."
You blinked, utterly stunned. "We need to what?"
"The family," Ethan slurred heavily, his tongue rolling awkwardly over his numbed lips. He gave your shirt a tug, trying to pull himself up your body like a climbing rope. "The Mold... it needs a new vessel. We have to secure the perimeter and make a new baby. In the back of the Honda Civic. Right now. I have the stamina. I'm made of regenerative tissue, baby. I can go for hours. The anesthesia made me invulnerable."
"Ethan, you can't even stand up!" you laughed, pushing his shoulders down as he tried to stick his face into your neck.
"I don't need to stand!" Ethan declared passionately, his voice rising into a wet, raspy shout that echoed off the clinic walls. "I just need a flat surface and your full cooperation! The doctor took my teeth, but he left the most lethal weapon intact! Let me demonstrate the mold expansion!"
"Ethan, shut up!" you wheezed, clapping a hand over his mouth careful of his cheeks as you heard footsteps passing by outside the curtain. "You are completely out of your mind. We are in a medical facility!"
"I don't care about the medical facility!" Ethan muffled into your palm, his eyes wide and wild. He managed to lick your hand with his completely numb tongue, making you pull back in disgust. He used that brief second of freedom to grab both of your thighs, burying his face right between your knees. “Please!!! I fought a giant woman, a very ugly doll, Magneto 2.0 for you! Dont you love me?! Is this how you repay me?!”
It took twenty minutes, two nurses, and a wheelchair to get Ethan into the car. The entire drive home, he kept pressing his face against the passenger window, pointing at random pedestrians and yelling through the glass that he was "a happily married biohazard with an indestructible pelvis."
Billy Coen looked like a convicted felon who had just been forced to attend a toddler's birthday party. He was sitting completely rigid in the recovery chair, his broad, tattooed shoulders pulled up to his ears, his arms crossed so tightly over his chest that his biceps were bulging. The clinic staff had forced him into a pair of bright neon-yellow paper slippers with grip dots, which contrasted spectacularly with his dark, dangerous aura. His sharp, rugged jawline was swollen wide on both sides, giving his hardened face a ridiculously soft, chubby appearance, he was so cute you really wish you could've got a picture.
When you entered, his dark eyes snapped to yours with a feral, defensive glare.
"Get me out of here," Billy growled. But with two massive wads of bloody cotton jammed into his cheeks, it sounded like a wet squeeze toy: "Get me oof of heee."
"Take it easy, big guy," you said, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Surgery's over. You're fine."
The moment your hand touched his, the fierce, aggressive posture completely melted. Billy let out a long, ragged exhale, his head thumping heavily against your waist as he leaned into your body. His arms uncrossed, and his large, calloused hands immediately clamped around your hips, pulling you flush against his legs.
"They put something in the air," Billy muttered into your shirt, his voice muffled and thick. "The doctor... he had the look. The look the MPs get right before they throw you in the brig. They took my teeth to track my genetic profile. I know how the military works."
"Nobody is tracking you through your molars, Billy," you cooed, running your fingers through his messy dark hair.
Billy stayed quiet for a moment, his hands gripping your hips with a quiet, desperate intensity. But as the heavy fog of the anesthetic continued to swirl in his brain, his thoughts clearly took a sharp, dramatic turn into the gutter. He slowly pulled his head back, staring up at you through heavy, dark eyelashes. His dark eyes were misty, glazed, and filled with a strange, shameless heat.
"Hey..." Billy slurred, his tongue struggling with the syllables. "Vawy..."(Baby) He calls for you.
"If... if the military comes for me..." he rasped, his hand sliding slowly from your hip, down your thigh, and then cupping the back of your leg with an shameless, possessive squeeze. "If they take me back to the brig... how am I supposed to see my girls?"
You paused, leaning down to look at him closer. "Your girls? Billy, you don't have daughters."
Without a single shred of hesitation or embarrassment, Billy reached up with both of his massive, scarred hands and firmly, unmistakably cupped both of your breasts through your shirt.
"My girls," Billy declared proudly, giving them a gentle, medicated squeeze while looking you dead in the eye with complete, glassy-eyed seriousness. "Right here. These are my girls. I need to inspect them before I go to federal prison. For morale."
"BILLY!" you shrieked, slapping his hands away so fast his elbows clattered against the armrests.
Billy didn't even flinch. Instead, a low, devilish, completely unhinged laugh rumbled in his chest, turning into a wet, slurred chuckle that made his swollen cheeks shake. "What?" he whined, his lower lip pouting out in a dramatic, bloody pout. His dark eyes suddenly brimming with huge, dramatic tears born entirely from the anesthesia. "I'm toothless! I'm a defenseless, smooth-mouthed convict! You have to protect me! Wrap your legs around my head so the MPs can't find me!"
"I am not wrapping my legs around your head in a dental office!"
"Why do you hate the troops?!" Billy blubbered, burying his face back into your stomach, sobbing dramatically while his hands blindly reached around behind you, trying to grab your ass. "I served my country! I deserve a reward! Let me bite you with my gums! It's safe now! I have no sharp edges!"
You had to literally drag him out to the truck while he loudly complained to the parking lot attendant that you were "denying a veteran his constitutional right to motorboat."
When you walked into the recovery room, Jake was sitting cross-legged on top of the examination bed, holding a bag of frozen peas against his right cheek. His sharp, angular face was twisted into a look of absolute, murderous fury. He was wearing his black leather jacket, but he had managed to zip it up completely wrong, leaving the collar crooked and his chest exposed.
"This is a setup," Jake growled the second he saw you, his voice sounding like he was trying to speak with a jaw full of wet sand. "Neo-Umbrella. They found me. They injected me with something to neutralize my weapon systems."
"Jake, nobody is neutralizing your weapon systems," you sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You had your wisdom teeth pulled because you've been complaining about a toothache for three months."
Jake stared at you, his brow furrowing into a deep, furious line. He lowered the bag of peas, revealing a cheek that was swollen to the size of a grapefruit. He looked completely ridiculous, but his expression was dead serious.
"Don't play dumb with me," he slurred aggressively. "They took my teeth. Do you know what my DNA is worth on the black market? That's C-Virus prime real estate! I could've sold those four teeth to a black-market syndicate in Shanghai for at least fifty grand a piece!"
"Nobody wants your dirty molars, Jake."
"I WANT THEM!" Jake yelled, though it came out as a soft, wet squeak. He suddenly dropped the bag of frozen peas, grabbing his own chest with both hands as if he had just been shot. His eyes widened in cosmic, existential terror. "Wait... wait a minute. What did they do to my core?"
"No! They gutted me!" Jake panicked, his voice cracking violently. He grabbed your forearm with a grip so tight it nearly cut off your circulation, pulling you toward him until you were practically in his lap. "I'm empty inside! I feel weightless! The gravity in this room is shifting!"
"Jake, you're sitting on a bed—"
"I'M FLOATING AWAY!" Jake screamed thickly, his eyes darting frantically to the ceiling. "The dental gas turned me into a balloon! Hold me down! Secure the asset! Secure me!"
Before you could even process his sudden panic, Jake threw his long, muscular arms around your waist, slamming your upper body down against his chest. He squeezed you so hard you could barely breathe, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and smelling faintly of mint mouthwash and iron.
"Hold on to me," Jake blubbered, his broad shoulders beginning to shake as actual, genuine, drug-induced tears spilled down his swollen cheeks. "Don't let me hit the ceiling fans. I'm too young to die in a medical clinic."
"Jake, you are fifty pounds of pure muscle, you're not going anywhere," you wheezed, patting his back.The moment he realized he was safe in your arms, Jake's intense panic instantly morphed into something completely feral and unhinged. He pulled his head back, his glassy blue eyes scanning your face before dropping down to your chest. A slow, sinister, ridiculously cocky grin spread across his swollen, bloody face.
"Wait a second..." Jake slurred, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly whisper. "If I'm lightweight... that means my power-to-weight ratio is off the charts right now."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about physical combat," Jake said, his hands sliding down from your waist to grab your hips, pulling you firmly against his lap. "I need to test my suspension. I need a sparring partner. Get on top."
You stared at him, jaw dropped. "EXCUSE ME?!"
"You heard me," Jake declared boldly, his tongue thick in his mouth as he wiggled his eyebrows which made him wince from his swollen jaw. "I'm a mercenary. I get paid for results. And right now, my body requires immediate physical therapy. I will pay you. I have fifty thousand dollars in a Swiss bank account. It's yours if you ride me like a jet ski right now."
"Jake Muller! Shut your mouth!" you shouted, slapping his chest.
"I can't shut my mouth, it's packed with gauze!" Jake yelled back triumphantly. He grabbed your wrist, dragging your hand down toward his belt. "Look at the tactical gear! It's fully functional! The anesthesia didn't hit the lower sector! Put me to work, boss! I'll do overtime! I'll work for pudding cups!"
You had to literally lock his hands in his jacket sleeves just to get him into the passenger seat without him trying to pay you for "unlicensed physical therapy."
Piers Nivans under normal circumstances was a disciplined, respectful, golden-retriever of a BSAA soldier. But on a heavy dose of IV sedation, Piers completely lost every single ounce of military decorum and turned into a hyperactive, deeply horny, utterly shameless disaster.
When you entered the recovery room, Piers was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed. He was wearing his full tactical pants and boots, but his jacket was off, leaving him in a tight grey t-shirt that showed off his broad chest and arms. He was staring at his own hands, wiggling his fingers with absolute, childlike awe.
"Look," Piers whispered loudly the second he saw you. He pointed down at his hands. "They move. I think... I think I'm controlling them with my mind."
"Yes, Piers," you laughed, stepping over to him. "That's how hands work."
Piers looked up, his hazel eyes widening until they looked like saucer plates. He let out a loud, dramatic, gasping squeal of delight. "WOW!" he cheered, though the gauze in his mouth turned it into a muffled “WHAOH!”He lunged off the bed, throwing his long arms around your waist and lifting you entirely off your feet, spinning you around in a chaotic, uncoordinated circle before tumbling backward onto the mattress with you on top of him.
"Piers! Careful!" you gasped, trying to untangle yourself.
"I got the pretty one!" Piers cheered into your neck, hugging you so tightly your ribs cracked. "I won! Captain told me to stay focused on the mission, but you're the mission! You're the best mission ever!"
"Okay, okay, easy, soldier," you laughed, trying to sit up, but Piers' heavy arms were locked around your waist like steel bands.
He tilted his head back on the pillow, looking up at you with glassy, watery eyes and a massive, dopey, lopsided smile. His gaze slowly drifted from your eyes down to your chest, resting on the front of your shirt with intense, unwavering concentration. A dark, mischievous blush spread across his swollen cheeks.
"Captain said..." Piers slurred heavily, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly attempt at a military command. "Captain Redfield... he gave me strict orders before the operation."
"Oh yeah? What did Chris tell you?"
"He said..." Piers paused, swallowing hard, a tiny drop of drool leaking onto his chin. "He said I need to maintain standard operating discipline. BUT LOOK AT THOSE BALLISTICS!"
You gasped as Piers suddenly reached up with both hands, shameless as all hell, and clapped his palms directly over your chest, giving a firm, enthusiastic squeeze.
"PIERS!" you shrieked, swatting at his face.
"SIR, YES, SIR!" Piers yelled at the top of his lungs, completely unbothered, his hands staying firmly attached. "I want to report for duty! Put me on night watch, ma'am! You can use me as a mattress! I'm very sturdy! Test the suspension! Push down on my shocks!"
"Chris Redfield NEVER told you to do that!" you wheezed, trying desperately to pry his fingers off your shirt while dying of laughter.
"HE DID!" Piers lied shamelessly, his hazel eyes wide with fake innocence as his gauze-packed mouth tried to form a wink. "It's in the BSAA manual! Section four, paragraph two: 'In the event of dental extraction, the sniper must engage in heavy physical contact with the primary target!' I'm just following protocol!"
"There is no such protocol!"
"I'm writing the protocol right now!" Piers declared, suddenly rolling over so that he pinned you gently beneath his massive, muscular frame, burying his face directly into your chest with a muffled, satisfied groan. "I'm compromised! The enemy has deployed heavy artillery! I surrender! I give up! You can do whatever you want to my body, ma'am! Use me for target practice!”
It took ten full minutes to convince him to get off the bed, and during the entire walk to the car, Piers insisted on marching while loudly announcing to every nurse in the hallway that he was "on a top-secret reconnaissance mission inside your bedroom.”
Chris Redfield was not a man built for helplessness. He was a mountain of muscle, a seasoned commander who had wrestled boulders and stared into the jaws of global extinction without blinking. But as the heavy anesthesia began to recede from his formidable nervous system, Chris found himself facing an adversary he could neither punch nor command: a profound, utterly overwhelming state of sensory confusion.
The recovery room felt entirely too small for Chris. Even stripped of his heavy body armor and dressed in a simple, dark green t-shirt, his massive frame seemed to overflow the confines of the medical recliner. His broad shoulders were hunched forward, and his thick forearms were resting on his knees as he stared intensely at his own boots. An ice pack wrap was secured around his head with Velcro, the black fabric straps pinning his short, dark hair into messy tufts and framing a jawline that was significantly wider than usual due to the swelling.
When you walked back into the recovery room after speaking with the oral surgeon, you found Chris sitting bolt upright on the narrow examination bed. His massive shoulders were hunched, his fists were clenched so tightly into the hospital bedsheets that his knuckles were stark white, and his breathing was heavy, ragged, and fast. His jaw was packed with gauze, making his cheeks look comical, but the expression on his face was pure, unadulterated panic.
"Chris, hey, take it easy," you said quickly, rushing to his side as you noticed the heart monitor beside him began to beep at a frantic, accelerating rhythm.
The massive BSAA captain didnt just look up; he flinched, his entire torso jerking backward as if a flashbang had just gone off in the corner of the room. His dark eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic, darting around the small space before locking onto you with the intensity of a man staring down an oncoming train.
"Secure the door," Chris commanded, though the order came out as a thick, mangled mess of sound. The gauze pads in his jaw forced him to keep his teeth clamped together, making him sound like he was speaking through a wall of mud.
"Chris, its just me," you said softly, closing the door behind you and walking over to his side. "The surgery is over. Everything went fine."
He didnt look relieved. If anything, the tension in his massive neck muscles tightened. He reached out, his huge, calloused hand grabbing your forearm with a grip that was entirely too firm for a regular medical clinic, though he immediately checked his own strength the moment he realized he was touching you. He pulled you a few inches closer, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of injury or deception.
"Wheres the rest of the squad?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly whisper that vibrated with genuine panic. "We were... we were in the trenches. They had me pinned down. The extraction team... they put me under. Did we lose them? Did we lose the teeth, or did the enemy retrieve the samples?"
You couldnt help the small smile that tugged at your lips, though you kept your voice perfectly calm and steady to help ground him. "There are no samples, Captain. The dentist took them out because they were impacted. Theyre in the medical waste now."
Chris went entirely rigid. His chest expanded as he took a sharp breath, his eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall as his brain struggled to process the concept of a routine dental extraction. The idea that he had been rendered completely vulnerable, stripped of his situational awareness by a localized anesthetic, was visibly tearing through his sense of reality.
"Waste?" he echoed, his voice rising in pitch, laced with a pure, unadulterated horror that you had never heard from him, not even during the worst biohazard outbreaks. "They threw away infected material? Without a bio-containment protocol? We have to go back. We have to secure the site. If the connection to the mold gets into the water supply—"
"Chris, look at me," you interrupted gently, placing both of your hands on his broad, warm cheeks, careful to avoid the tender areas beneath the ice pack.
The physical touch acted like a circuit breaker. Chris stopped talking, his massive chest heaving as he focused entirely on your face. The frantic, combat-ready glare in his eyes began to soften, melting into something incredibly vulnerable and raw. He leaned heavily into your palms, the rough stubble of his jaw scratching against your skin as he let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Youre safe," he mumbled, his voice suddenly losing its military authority, replaced by a childlike confusion. "They didnt get you."
"They didnt get anyone," you assured him, sliding your hands down to wrap around his neck, pulling him into a gentle embrace.
The moment his dark eyes locked onto you, a surge of raw, primal desperation flooded his expression. He didnt say a word at first. He just stared at you, his chest heaving under his tight grey t-shirt. Slowly, his gaze began to drift downward. He wasnt looking at your face anymore. His eyes dropped down to your collarbone, and then, with a strange, intense focus, they locked onto your chest.
Before you could even process the bizarre nature of his gaze, Chris reached out with one massive, tree-trunk arm. His large, calloused hand clamped onto the neckline of your shirt, and with a sudden, clumsy tug, he tried to pull the fabric straight down, attempting to get a clear view of your breasts.
"Chris! What the hell are you doing?" you gasped, immediately swatting his hand away and pulling your shirt back up to cover yourself.Chris looked down at his own hand, then up at you, his eyes wide and completely vacant of his usual tactical brilliance. "Need... need to check," he rumbled, his voice incredibly thick, gravelly, and heavily slurred. "The... the tactical gear. Where is it? Youre not wearing your plates. Its unsafe. The ballistics... I need to verify the ballistics."
You stared at him for a second, a slow, mischievous smirk beginning to spread across your lips. He was completely out of it. The man was living in a bizarre, drug-induced crossover between a combat zone and some deeply repressed, primal desire.
Deciding to play along just a tiny bit, you stepped closer to the edge of the bed. You gave your shoulders a little shake and playfully pushed your breasts together with your arms, teasing him just a fraction to see how his scrambled brain would handle it. "Are you sure youre just checking my tactical gear, Commander?" you teased softly.
But you forgot one major thing.
You forgot that despite the heavy drugs coursing through his veins, Chris Redfield was a man of immediate, decisive action.
And more importantly, your man was easy like Sunday morning.
He didnt have a single ounce of impulse control left in his entire, massive body.
The moment you pushed your chest together. A low, gravelly sound escaped his throat, and without a single thought for gravity, balance, or the laws of physics, he lunged forward. His massive arms threw themselves wide out in front of him, fingers hooked like talons, desperately trying to grasp your chest again.
He didnt even finish the thought. The momentum of his massive, top-heavy frame carried him right off the edge of the mattress. Because his legs were still completely dead weight from the sedation, he had absolutely no base to support himself. Chris missed you entirely as you instinctively stepped back in surprise, and he went flying forward, falling flat on his chest right across the gap between the bed and the floor.
The sheer weight of his body caused him to flip awkwardly over the side of the bed like a giant, muscular dummy, landing in a tangled heap of limbs and hospital blankets on the linoleum floor.
For a second, there was absolute silence, save for the rhythmic, frantic beeping of the heart monitor. Then, you burst out laughing. It was a loud, unbridled sound that you couldnt have stopped if your life depended on it. You doubled over, holding your stomach as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.
Chris lay on the floor, his face pressed sideways against the cool tile, his gauze-packed cheek making him look like a disgruntled bulldog. He blinked slowly, staring up at you with a look of profound betrayal.
"Not funny," he rumbled into the floor, his voice vibrating through the linoleum. "The enemy... the enemy deployed a gravity weapon. Ive been neutralized. Secure the perimeter." Chris choked out, a single tear escaping and rolling down his rugged, stubbly cheek. He reached out, his massive, calloused hand clumsily cupping your shoulder. "The perimeter is secure because of you. I love you so much. If anything happened to you because of my dental hygiene, Id never forgive myself. I need to call the BSAA. We need a tactical extraction. The traffic on the interstate is going to be a nightmare."
By the time you get him into the passenger seat of your car, Chris is entirely overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. He stares at a passing city bus with profound, watery-eyed awe, sniffling loudly. When you reach over to buckle his seatbelt for him, he grabs your hand, holding it against his chest right over his pounding heart. He spends the next twenty minutes giving you a highly slurred, deeply emotional lecture on how you are the anchor to his soul, occasionally interrupting himself to complain that his tongue feels like a wet piece of memory foam.
Carlos was sitting perfectly upright in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his ankles crossed. His signature wild, curly hair was a spectacular mess, defying gravity in every direction after hours of laying on a surgical pillow. The clinic had given him a bright pink ice pack wrap that was tied under his chin in a giant bow, contrasting spectacularly with his rugged, olive-complexioned face and the dark stubble along his jaw.
The moment you stepped through the doorway, Carlos didnt move his head. He didnt blink. He just froze, his dark, expressive eyes locking onto you with the unwavering intensity of a predator spotting movement in the brush. Except there was absolutely no hostility in his gaze; it was pure, unadulterated, medicated fascination.
Carlos’ eyes dropped instantly, bypassing your eyes, your neck, and your chest entirely. His gaze slid down to your waist, and then, with an absolute, laser-focused intensity, he stared directly at your legs. Because you were standing slightly to the side of his chair, he began to tilt his head way back again, straining his neck at an almost unnatural angle, trying to sneak a peek past your hips to get a look at your ass.
You stood there, hands on your hips, watching this ridiculous display with an eyebrow raised. "Carlos. What are you doing?"
He didnt look up at your face. He just kept his head tilted, his eyes practically straining out of their sockets as he stared at the curve of your jeans. He let out a long, wet, slurred breath through his nose, his lips parting slightly to reveal the bloody gauze packed into his mouth.
"Man," he breathed out, the word sounding more like Mahn due to the numbness. He raised a heavy, trembling hand and pointed a finger toward your lower half. He swallowed hard, his Adams apple bobbing before he uttered the most outrageous, completely unhinged sentence you had ever heard in your life.
"You got a great asset back dere," he continues, his voice rising in an enthusiastic, completely unprompted declaration. He wiggles his eyebrows, though the movement causes him to wince slightly as it tugs on his swollen jaw. He shakes his head, looking entirely amazed by his own thoughts. "Seriously. Look at that shape. Hey. Do me a favor."
"What favor, Carlos?" you ask, stepping closer to the table, expecting him to ask for water or a tissue to wipe the drool from his chin.
Instead, Carlos gives you a heavy, incredibly loaded look that is entirely ruined by his glazed eyes and the bloody cotton sticking out of the side of his mouth. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table with a theatrical flourish.
"Make it clap," he says, his voice perfectly serious, deadpan, and entirely devoid of shame. "Come on. Just a little bit. For the sick man. It will heal my mouth. I swear to god."
You cannot help but let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. "Excuse me?!? Carlos, absolutely not. Lay down, boy."
"Why you gotta be like that?" he whines, his lower lip ballooning out in a dramatic pout. He slumps back into the chair, his arms flailing slightly before he catches himself. Carlos finally managed to roll his eyes upward to meet yours, though his head remained tilted back. A look of supreme, misplaced confidence filled his face, despite the fact that a small trail of drool was currently escaping the corner of his mouth and soaking into the gauze strap under his chin.
"You heard me, gorgeous," he slurred, trying to wink, but ending up just closing both eyes tightly for three seconds before reopening them. "That... that bumper back there. Its structural. Its a biohazard. I need you to... to shake it for the corporate compliance officer. For Umbrell-uh. Do it for the company, baby."
"Carlos, you are completely out of your mind," you laughed, covering your face with your hands. "There is no company. Umbrella is gone. And I am definitely not making it clap in a dental clinic."
A look of profound, devastating sorrow instantly replaced his confidence. Carlos’ mouth fell open, and he let out a whine that sounded like a wounded puppy. His broad shoulders slumped forward, and he buried his face in his hands, his broad chest shaking.
"I knew it," he sobbed, his voice muffled by his palms. "The virus. It took her rhythm. Shes infected. The T-Virus... it attacks the gluteus maximus first. I learned about this in training. Its a symptom.”
He suddenly reached out, his long arms wrapping tightly around your thighs as he buried his face right into your stomach, holding onto you like a liferaft in the middle of a stormy ocean. "Dont die on me, beautiful," he blubbered, his tears wetting the fabric of your shirt. "Ill love you even if you cant throw it back anymore. Ill be your hips. Ill shake it for both of us."
"Carlos, please, stop talking," you wheezed, clutching his shoulders as you shook with laughter, trying desperately not to draw the attention of the medical staff outside the curtain. "I am perfectly healthy. My hips are fine. You just need to sit still and let the drugs wear off."
He spends the entire drive home leaning as far across the console as his seatbelt will allow, trying to kiss your cheek with a completely numb mouth. Every time he tries, he just ends up mashing his swollen, gauze-filled cheek against your shoulder, making wet, popping noises with his lips. After a while that doesnt succeed... he ends up singing "Diamonds" by Rihanna the entire ride home.
Inspired by that one guy on tiktok singing, imagine this sounds like Carlos😭😭😭
Luis Serra considers himself a brilliant mind, a charming rogue, and a man of science. He views the world through a lens of intellectual detachment and theatrical flair. But science completely abandons Luis when he is coming down from dental anesthesia. Instead, he turns into a dramatic, poetic, completely unhinged philosopher who believes he is currently transitioning into a higher state of matter.
When you entered the recovery cubicle, Luis was draped across the examination bed like a tragic renaissance painting. One arm was flung dramatically across his forehead, his long legs were tangled in the sheets, and he was letting out deep, theatrical sighs that rattled the gauze packed into his jaw.
"Ah, mi amor," Luis groaned, his voice a thick, slurred caricature of his usual smooth, Spanish accent. He didnt move his arm from his forehead; he just rolled his eyes toward you. "You have arrived just in time to witness the final act. The curtains are closing. The spark of genius... it is being snuffed out by the cold hand of dental hygiene."
"Luis, you just had four teeth removed," you said, standing over him with your arms crossed, a fond, amused smile on your face. "Youre not dying.”
"Do not minimize my tragedy!" Luis cried out, though the words came out as a muffled, slurred mess of vowels. He sat up abruptly, his long hair falling wildly into his face. He grabbed your hand, pressing it against his heart with desperate intensity. "They took them, cariño. The roots... they reached deep into my soul. They were the source of my wit. Without my wisdom teeth, I am just... a regular man. A Spaniard with a mediocre vocabulary and a very numb tongue."
"I think your vocabulary is doing just fine, Luis," you teased, using a tissue to wipe away a stray bit of moisture from the corner of his mouth.
Luis suddenly froze, his eyes locking onto the small cup of water sitting on the tray beside the bed. A look of supreme, existential terror washed over his handsome features. He pointed a trembling, elegant finger at the plastic cup.
"The liquid," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Its... its mutating. Look at the bubbles. The Plaga... they have contaminated the municipal water supply. The doctor... he was a cultist. He wore the purple robes under his scrubs. I saw them."
"Luis, that is standard tap water," you sighed, shaking your head. "There are no parasites here.”
"No, no, you do not understand the science!" Luis insisted, suddenly grabbing both of your hands and pulling you down so that you were leaning over the bed, faces inches apart. His dark eyes were wide, glassy, and completely wild. "We must perform an immediate extraction. We need the radiation machine. We need... we need a bottle of red wine and a very sharp knife. I must save you from the infection."
He suddenly stopped talking, his gaze dropping to your lips. A look of profound, poetic longing replaced the terror on his face. He reached up, his long fingers gently tracing your jawline, his touch surprisingly tender despite his drug-induced state.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his slurred words softening into a genuine, heartbreaking sincerity. "Even in the midst of the apocalypse... you are a masterpiece. If I mutate into a monster... I promise I will be a very handsome monster. I will have wings like a butterfly and I will only eat your enemies."
"Well, thats very chivalrous of you, Luis," you laughed, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his cheek, being careful of the swelling.
"Chivalry is not dead, mi amor," Luis slurred, his eyes already growing heavy as the sedative pulled him back down into the fog. He slumped back against the pillows, a faint, dopey smile on his lips. "It is just... heavily sedated. Tell the doctor... tell him I forgive him for stealing my wisdom. But if he touches my hair... I will fight him in the parking lot."
He slowly flutters his eyelids open again, looking up at you with a gaze full of tragic romance. He reaches out a hand, his fingers gesturing gracefully through the air before resting gently against your cheek. "They have stolen my youth," he slurs, his smooth Spanish accent turned into a messy, thick drawl. "The cruel executioner with the drill... he took the very pillars of my wisdom. I feel the intelligence draining from my mind as we speak. Soon, I will be nothing but a handsome fool."
"Youre already a handsome fool, Luis." You say, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
Getting him out of the clinic was nothing short of a theatrical production. Since his legs were still leaden from the sedatives, the staff insisted on rolling him out in a wheelchair a device Luis immediately treated like a royal chariot. He sat slumped in the vinyl seat with his chin rested dramatically against his chest, waving a limply dismissive hand at the passing nurses as if granting them royal pardons.
"Farewell, my sweet caregivers," Luis slurred mournfully to the reception desk, a single tear threatening to spill over his lower lash line. "Do not weep for me. I go now to face the harsh elements of the outside world..."
"Luis, we’re just walking to the parking lot," you sighed, pushing the handles.The moment you got him into the passenger seat, he refused to sit properly. Instead, Luis draped himself across the center console, resting his warm, heavy head directly in your lap while you tried to maneuver the gear shift around his waist. Every time you stopped at a red light, he would flutter his dark eyes open, gaze up at the roof of the car, and softly recite terrible, improvised poetry through his bloody cotton pads.
"The light is red... like the blood of my fallen molars," he rumbled against your thigh, his tongue thick and clumsy. "Yet your eyes... your eyes shine brighter than a flash grenade. Tell me, cariño... when we reach our destination... will there be soup? Or must I starve like a tragic artist in a Paris attic?"
"There is chicken broth in the fridge, Luis. Now sit up so I can put your seatbelt on properly."
"A seatbelt?" Luis gasped, looking deeply offended as he weakly swatted at the strap. "You wish to cage me? Me? A free spirit? A stallion of Madrid?" He immediately passed out mid-protest, his cheek smooshed against your seat belt, making tiny, rhythmic snoring sounds through his nose for the rest of the drive.
The Merchant is an enigma. No one knows his name, where he comes from, or how he manages to transport a massive inventory of weapons, ammunition, and weapon upgrades across infected territories. He is a businessman through and through, always collected, always focused on the profit margin. But when you put the mysterious vendor under deep sedation for a complex dental procedure, the results are an absolute commercial disaster.
You were allowed into the back room of the clinic where they had placed him to recover. He was sitting on a stool, stubbornly refusing to use the bed. He was still wearing his massive, heavy black trench coat, though the collar was pulled down slightly to reveal his swollen jaw, which was packed with sterile gauze. His glowing blue eyes, usually so sharp and calculating under the hood, were completely unfocused and roving around the room like loose marbles.
"Strangah..." he rasps out, his jaw moving with an awkward, uncoordinated hitch. He looks up at you as you approach, his glowing eyes narrowing as he reaches into the depths of his coat. "Got some... got some rare things on sale today. Very rare. Look at this."
"You dont have anything to sell right now," you said softly, walking over and standing right in front of him. "You need to rest. The doctor said you lost a lot of blood because your roots were so deep.”
The Merchant suddenly looked down at his own lap, his hands coming out of his coat empty. A look of sheer, unadulterated commercial panic washed over his face. He began to frantically pat down his pockets, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
"The inventory," he whispered, his slurred voice trembling with a vulnerability you had never heard from him before. "Wheres the inventory? The red herbs... the first-aid sprays... the tune-ups. Someone... someone raided the shop while I was asleep. Ive been liquidated."
"Your inventory is fine. Its in the van outside," you assured him, placing your hands on his heavy shoulders to keep him from falling off the stool.He looked up at you, his glowing eyes wide with a sudden, horrifying realization. He reached up, his gloved fingers clumsily prodding at his swollen cheek, feeling the gauze packed inside.
"My teeth," he gasped, his voice cracking. "They... they took em. Those were... those were factory-issue. Do you know the resale value on a pristine set of grinders? Theyre gone. The economy... the local economy is going to collapse. I have no capital left.”
"You have plenty of capital," you laughed, gently pulling his hands away from his mouth. "Youre the richest guy in the region. You just dont have your back molars anymore."
The Merchant stared at you for a long, silent moment. Slowly, his panic began to morph into something entirely different. A look of supreme, drug-induced romantic adoration filled his face. He reached out, his heavy, gloved hands gently taking hold of your waist, pulling you a fraction closer to his stool.
"You," he slurred, a faint, bloody grin showing at the corner of his hidden mouth. "Whatre ya buyin? Because... because whatever it is... Im givin ya a hundred percent discount. You can have... you can have the whole shop. You can have the rocket launcher. You can have... you can have my heart, stranger. Its a limited-time offer."
"I think Ill take the heart," you smiled, leaning down to press your forehead against his hood.
"Done, but—" he murmured, his voice dropping to a sleepy, contented rumble as he rested his heavy head against your hip. "Strangah... thtrangah... got a very thpecial offer for ya. Actually no money required this time. Just... a little bit of the good stuff. Show me what ya hidin under that sweater and Ill give ya the infinite rocket launcher. Its a heavy-duty weapon... just like the one I got for ya right here…” he slurs, all of a sudden trying to pull out his rocket launcher by lifting up his coat.
“MERCHY! No! We're in the dentist's office!” You scolded him once and he didnt need to be told twice. One simple glare by you would get him to behave.
He immediately froze, his glowing blue eyes shrinking down to tiny, obedient dots beneath his hood. He slowly pulled his hand back out of his trench coat, folding his arms tightly over his chest like a humbled toddler, though he couldn't resist muttering a thick, heavily slurred: "Customer is always right... even when customer is harsh on local business..."
It took another ten minutes to convince him to actually stand up and walk to the van. The Merchant refused to let the clinic staff touch him, suspecting everyone in a lab coat was an undercover tax auditor trying to seize his assets. He insisted on walking behind you with his hands tucked deep into his pockets, taking exaggerated, stealthy tactical steps across the linoleum while glaring suspiciously at the vending machines.
When you finally got him loaded into the passenger seat, he treated the vehicle like an armored transport traversing a warzone. He sat stiff as a board, staring wide-eyed through the windshield at the afternoon traffic, prodding at his swollen cheek every time you hit a bump.
"Good steel..." he slurred, nodding approvingly before letting out a wet, thick cough into his high collar. "Heavy-gauge. I could give ya... three hundred pesetas for the door alone. Four hundred... if ya toss in the side mirror."
"The truck isn't for sale, Merchy," you laughed, opening the door and practically hoisting his heavy frame up into the bench seat.He didn't sit down properly at first; instead, he immediately leaned all the way across the center console, his massive coat completely smothering the gear shift. His gloved hands began clumsily digging through your open glove box, pulling out a handful of loose napkins, a half-empty pack of gum, and an old tire pressure gauge. His eyes widened in absolute, drug-fueled awe.
"Ahhh..." he breathed out, a long string of drool threatening to escape the corner of his lip onto your dashboard. "The secret stash... I knew ya were a collector. What's the damage on this bad boy?" He held up the tire pressure gauge like it was a legendary artifact. "It's got... high precision. Increase your critical hit rate by twenty percent. I'll trade ya... my last bag of frozen peas for it."
"Put my tire gauge back," you ordered affectionately, gently tugging the metal tool from his gloved grip and buckling his seatbelt tightly around his bulky coat.
The Merchant slouched back against the headrest, his head lolling to the side as you backed out of the parking space. But he didn't stay quiet for long. Every time you hit a bump or paid a toll, he would reach into his deep coat pockets, pulling out completely useless items a shiny soda tab, a crumpled receipt, a plastic straw and dropping them into your lap with utter, deadpan seriousness.
"Payment..." he rumbled into his collar, his eyes heavy and fluttering shut as the exhaustion finally caught up to him. "For the ride. Standard transit fees... no hidden charges. You're... a valued business partner, strangah. Next time... the ammo upgrades... are on the house..."
By the time you pulled into the driveway, he was fast asleep, his masked face tilted toward you, snoring heavily through his gauze and still holding tightly onto your sleeve.
ᴬʷ ᵈⁱᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵈ?! ᵀʰᵃⁿᵏ ʸᵒᵘ!! (Ꮚ ๑ ˘ ꈊ ˘ ๑ Ꮚ) ᴾˢˢᵗ, ᵈᵒⁿᵗ ᵇᵉ ᵃⁿ ᵃˢˢ | ᴰᵒ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶜʳᵒˢˢ⁻ᵖᵒˢᵗ, ʳᵉᵈⁱˢᵗʳⁱᵇᵘᵗᵉ, ˢᵗᵉᵃˡ, ʳᵉ⁻ᵘᵖˡᵒᵃᵈ ᵒⁿ ᵃⁿʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵖˡᵃᵗᶠᵒʳᵐ ᵒʳ ᶠᵉᵉᵈ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵃⁱ.
