Mikaela is woken by the sound of thudding at her cabin door. She rises from her bed, frustratedly rubbing the sleep from her eyes, to investigate the source. Whoever it is is going to get an earful about interrupting her well-deserved rest.
To her surprise, she opens the door to no one. Mikaela pokes her head out into the night air to hopefully catch a glimpse of the mysterious ding-dong ditcher, when she notices something at her feet. Colourful and bright, it draws her attention downwards.
Beautiful bunches of flowers—bursts of pink, yellow and orange like the sunset that she misses so dearly—sit on her porch, petals shimmering in the glow of the campfire beyond. She picks them up, bewildered by their sudden presence, and notices a card dangling from the stems.
Mikaela doesn't want to know what the text was written with, stomach curling at the glaring red spots dabbled across the stiff parchment, but she can't help her curiosity.
"These reminded me of you." Nothing more. Warmth spreads throughout Mikaela's chest and cheeks, tingling softly.
Of all the things she expected out of the realm, a secret admirer was bottom of the list.
"should we tell authors on ao3 when we have discord conversations about their fics" i don't speak for everyone here but if y'all ever find a group chat discussing my fics you can should must and WILL send me screenshots of the whole damn thing. inflate my ego. gimme
this whole thing with people discussing a fic in secret, on closed discord servers, instead of leaving a nice comment, is such a loss for fandom. we're losing fic writers with every fic with hundreds of hits and barely a comment.
writers publish to be read. fanfic is meant to be a conversation.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
My dearest Leon,
I can not fathom what a cruel being you must think of me upon your discovery of this letter in such circumstances. However, I am compelled to write this by my deep adoration and respect for you. I imagine that closure is what you desire, and that is what I aim to provide—in spite of my awful penmanship.
I must express that you have been of great influence to me on my journey. Of course, without you, the great result would not have been possible—and I only possess the literary prowess to utter the simplest words to express my gratitude towards you for it. Although, it burdens me to think that you may believe yourself to be at fault for my honourable death.
My dear boy, you never failed to ignite the burning flames of passion and desire in my heart. I believed myself to be incapable of true love, but your continued and ever-loyal affections succeeded to convince me otherwise. I know it to be unfortunate that I can now only express my adoration for you by means of this parchment, but I believe it may bear some consolation.
I could not entertain the dreadful thought that you were not mine from the beginning of our friendship. Upon the confirmation of our mutual love, I could not contain my affections and must apologise for my smothering. I have never experienced such deep passion for a singular being in my many years and struggled to disclose it beyond the satisfaction of our carnal needs.
Independent of our own desires, I have a duty to my Master to uphold. Truly, I desire to remain with you through this wretched night till morn comes in all its blazing glory to cleanse these scourged streets, but I know deep in my heart that I cannot. The guilt of the betrayal of my cause as an Executioner would be simply too much to bear.
It offers me no pleasure to conclude this letter with such an abysmal circumstance for you, but I know that you will prosper in spite of my absence.
You must remember that I love you, my beloved Leon, even in death.
"They know that they can't be together, but they'll try anyways."
Tags; implied violence, fluff and angst, mutual pining, sfw
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Albert spots her from across the map, autumn curls burning against black mesh and cloth.
He waits, concealed in a nearby building, and watches. The lights of the generator spring to life as Mikaela finishes her work on the machine. And here she comes, unaware of him lying in wait.
He grabs her as she goes past, pulling her into a tight hug and burying his nose into her hair. Mikaela squeals with fright, protesting his affections with giggles and squirming.
But she knows that this is all the Entity will allow.
Soon, Albert's knife will be buried between her ribs—or dug into her side, or carving through her stomach—causing her grievous injury in spite of Albert's true desires.
That is what the Entity wants. She wants conflict and she wants Albert to resist her. She wants to ruin him. She wants to ruin everything.
Albert releases Mikaela, allowing her to turn and look up at him with a grimace on her face and planting a kiss on his cheek. Love…
She takes off without another word. Albert feels his Uroboros writhe inside, hungry for blood. His grip tightens, his body moves. Focus…
"Mikaela and Danny bond over the death of their parents."
Tags; mourning, fluff, implied child abuse, loss of parents, sfw
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"My dad died when I was 16." Mikaela sighs, resting her head in her hand and staring off into the treeline. Danny sits beside her, sharing the same log, and brings the cigarette between his fingers to his lips. His mask is up—not all the way, but enough to reveal his mouth—resting on his nose.
It's odd to sit next to her so casually, but he appreciates having the opportunity. The other three survivors are long dead thanks to Danny's swift work, leaving the two of them plenty of time to be alone. This is the most convenient way for them to meet, although he can see that it does disturb Mikaela to be a 'favourite', for lack of a better word.
Mikaela doesn't really run away from him anymore—when he's in his normal outfit, anyways—and Danny doesn't really stab her anymore, unless they're around other survivors. It's a mutual understanding. Neither want the others to know about their relationship beyond the fact that Danny very obviously finds her attractive.
Danny inhales smoke into his lungs, savouring the rising buzz in his chest. A cigarette is a rare luxury that he likes to save for moments like these—special moments between the drudgery. He exhales, disappearing in a plume of somewhat overexaggerated smoke. The Entity may give him cigarettes to quell his addiction, but she likes to make them inconvenient.
"I'm sorry." He replies through the cloud. He's not sure what else to say in immediate response. Danny knows that he certainly had no hand in Mikaela's father's death, but he feels the need to apologise for it anyways. 'I'm sorry' is the default.
Mikaela hums a laugh and Danny sees that she's smiling through the dissipating trails of grey.
"I found peace a long time ago. It was hard, and of course I miss him, but it was his time," she explains, smile slowly fading from her face as she continues to stare off into the fog. "I think about him sometimes... about what he would do in my situation. He had an answer for everything."
Danny feels a sudden weight growing in his chest. He looks away from Mikaela, turning to look into trees the same way she is. What do the survivors see that's so interesting out there? All he sees is swirling black mist creeping across the forest floor, between the trees, consuming all light that it touches. It's rather mundane. But the survivors stare for hours at seemingly nothing, watching with such genuine entertainment in their eyes.
"What about you?" Mikaela pipes up again, breaking eye contact with the fog to look at Danny instead. He can feel her gaze on him, but he can't bring himself to face her. "What about your family?"
He inhales again, holding it for a second longer this time before blowing the smoke out through his nose and mouth. What about his family? He thinks about his father, about the horror stories he told to inspire Danny's 'creativity', about the bruises he caused, about the abuse he put Danny through. The weight in his chest grows, and he can feel his face turning sour.
"My mom died during childbirth," Danny sighs, tapping off the excess ash from his cigarette into the grass. "I never got the chance to get attached, really. My dad, though... he..." He thinks about what he wants to say—what he wants Mikaela to know. "My dad died when I was 19. He was in the military."
Danny doesn't want to lie to her, but he doesn't want Mikaela's opinion of him to sour even more than it already—most definitely—is. His father was in the military, yes, but he didn't die in service. It was a knife that he had brought Danny back from service that killed him, that sliced him from gut to throat, that bled him dry. Danny remembers the excitement, the nausea and the guilt. And he remembers the sense of true freedom he felt afterwards.
"That must have been hard for you." Mikaela replies with genuine sympathy. It catches Danny off-guard and he finally looks back to meet her gaze. She's smiling again, this time with compassion behind her eyes. How can she be so sincere with him even knowing what a monster he is?
He finds himself smiling back at her this time, mouth exposed. This is the first facial expression he's ever made directly at her.
"Well, I found a way to cope," Danny hums with a somewhat sinister chuckle. "Although, I'm sure your coping mechanisms are a lot healthier."
Mikaela laughs, genuinely. It makes Danny feel warm inside, creating a soft tingle in his gut that only grows with every second he spends in her presence. He laughs too, with her, and it feels good. It feels good to have a shared experience with her, to relate to her, to understand her truly in some capacity that matters.
Danny craves to know more. He has 'moved on' from his grief a thousand times, trying to fill that hole gnawing away inside, but he thinks Mikaela could finally do the trick.
it’s midnight and the Eagles’ fans next door are launching a gazilion fireworks. Like congrats, happy for u but why r u up at 12 launching fireworks. I need to sleep 😩
"Wesker can't think of anyone else with this pouring rain."
Tags; rain & thunderstorms, short & sweet, fluff, drabble, sfw
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62840095
It's pouring rain. As it always is in the Red Forest.
Albert presses through the fog, focused solely on one destination. On one person. Unconcerned with the other survivors, he finds Mikaela sat alone between the trees.
Thunder rumbles overhead, masking the sound of his approach. He greets her with a hug, wrapping around her, making her jump.
Albert will never admit that he misses Mikaela, but he'll hold her close and stroke her face and whisper sweet nothings right into her ear, implanting himself into her mind forever.
The rain continues on, thunder rumbling, as they hold each other.
Tags; fluff, friends to lovers, canon divergent, cutesy, drabble, sfw
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The Hunter likes to reminisce on times gone by.
Times when Alfred fought at his side as his brother in arms. Nothing more than his comrade, but close nonetheless. Regaling him with tall tales between battles, sharing thoughtful prayers.
Times when Alfred’s sword pierced the hearts of beasts in bloodlusted fury, fighting for him. When they shared antidotes and blood vials and all sorts of useful things.
The Hunter sits here now, holding Alfred in his arms, and smiles. He likes to reminisce, but he finds the present much more appealing.
The present where he and Alfred are together evermore.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Roses, lilies, lavender. The Hunter spritzes himself with floral perfume.
How does Alfred know every time? The Hunter is quite sure that a scent can’t linger for that long. But Alfred seems to know.
He seems to know where the Hunter has been, who he’s been with, beasts that he’s slain. Is it the smells alone? Is Alfred following him, watching him from afar, and reveling in his suffering?
Large hands grab him, hold him still as Alfred sniffs. In spite of his efforts, he sees his lover’s face sour.
“Don’t you respect me?” Iron grip tightens. “I love you.”
