"Three clicks. Thatâs all it takes to step between the Oldest House and the Oceanview Motel. Find a light cord, pull it twice, take a deep breathâbetter hold it, too, because that second of displacement is akin to stepping into space without wearing a suitâand then give the final tug. Blink, and the sterile walls of the FBC give way to golden hour sunlight and kitschy decor, haunting silence devoured by the scratchy tunes of jukebox jazz."
Set after the events of Control and featuring Jesse Faden, the Oceanview Motel, and whatever lurks within its labyrinthine depths. Written for @fbczine.
Introducing the Oceanview Guestbookâs fantastic and talented team of contributors!! For the second Remedy zine, we expanded our contributor count. This year, we have 30 artists and 14 writers.Â
We canât wait to share what everyone has been diligently working on! As a reminder, the finished zine will be released September 23, 2024! Â
Be sure to follow the zine's socials to stay up to date!
Welcome to The Oceanview Motel (@fbczine), proudly serving ââ since ââââ! Our rooms are tailored to suit your needs: each comes with a color television, a coffee maker, ââ, and an alarm clock for those early, important ââââââââ. And if you need help, just ring the bell! A ââââ will be with you shortly.
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death
Fandoms: äžă€ăźć€§çœȘ - éŽæšć€ź | Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins
Characters: Estarossa, Mael, Original Female Characters, Original Male Characters, Moth (OC)
Relationships: Estarossa/Moth, Implied Mael/Moth
Tags: Alternate Universe, Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Slowburn, Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Horror
Summary: There's a thin line that separates the planes, and a delicate balance to be kept. Moth, a demon hunter with a dark past, works to put any creature that harms a mortal back underground. Yet when her encounter with a devil hound ends with a strange mark on her wrist and seductive whispers in the dark, she finds her circle of trust growing smaller and the world more dangerous. The devil is playing his fiddle, and the tune is as alluring as it is lethal. [A vaguely modern AU in which Moth is a demon hunter, Mael is a priest, and Estarossa is a prince of hell.]
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The city is suffocating. Weathermen offer apologies full of self-deprecation as the heatwave they swore would pass the city by digs in its claws like a cat curling up for a long nap. The air is thick and oppressively humid; hair and clothes stick, sweat-damp, to anyone unlucky enough to find themselves outdoors, while air conditioning units and fans chug to bring a semblance of relief to those taking refuge. Children idle indoors, dogs pant and sprawl in what little shade they can find, and the streets shimmer. There is no birdsong. No traffic. There is only the low, persistent hum of machinery pushed to its limit and the quiet rumble of distant thunder, too far off to yet be a true threat.
Yet covered in dirt and clots of blood and the remnants of a rather unfortunate cat, Moth finds that she cares little about the heat. In fact, she almost hopes that her heart gives out. Dying would be preferable to the hours-long trek through back alleys to reach her home while mud dries into another layer of skin, and even breathing as shallowly as she can through her nose she can still  taste the rank odor emanating from her ruined clothing.
Her boots squelch as she trudges down another narrow path. The viscera coating the soles is fast turning to glue where it comes into contact with the overly warm cement, and that faux glue is in turn slowly peeling her shoes apart. She reaches up to brush an errant lock of hair from her face and black flakes shake from her like fleas.
Fucking kelpie, she thinks, and kicks a can viciously.
Rating: Not Rated
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Characters: Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker
Tags: Canon Compliant, Season/Series 01, Angst, Friendship, Interlude
Summary: With the threat to the Archives looming ever closer, Sasha tries to lose herself in her work and her friendships.
Written For: @tapesdidntcatchzineâ
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The fire extinguisher on the wall glistens under the soft light, its red paint shiny and new and foreign. Looking at it, Sashaâs shoulder aches dully. Itâs there thanks to Michael, with the bones in his hands, and Jonâs willingness to believe her, and yet the sight of it makes her angry and sad. Itâs like an omen, a sign that the Institute and the Archives are no longer safe, that those bright and happy days when they discussed the statements that Jon didnât need a tape recorder for over a pint at the pub are coming to an end. What she doesnât know is why. Why Michael helped her, why everyone she loves is in danger. What have any of them done to deserve having that peace shattered?
Of course, their laughter had never truly covered the unease that was there from the start. Those statements that Jon did need to record always led to dangling, empty threads that none of them could follow, the static that hissed from the recorder over certain words like a snake coiling, ready to strike. Maybe there was a reason Gertrude left the Archives in such a disorderly state. Maybe that was meant to keep everyone safe.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Fandoms: Original Work, Original Mythology
Characters: The Huntress, the Storyteller
Summary: A look at a world where locals are moving on from their old god and a Huntress hears an interesting tale, written for @falsegodszineâ and illustrated by @lyghtbulbâ, @sator-the-wandererâ, missy.luigi, and with a pin design by @koma-artâ.
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Night is drawing to a close when the Hunter finally spots the village.
Four days since she left the last city, a place of smoke and ash and cramped corners that closed in around her like a vise, she had come across a river. Following it north took her deep into the forest, where leaves of amber and gold rustled around her and the wind was a constant, whispering companion; despite not knowing the terrain, the Hunter had not been afraid. Her entire life had been lived in the wilds and forgotten places, and being among them once more was not unlike returning home. Yet something about this forest felt strange, disconnected. It was as though she had stepped backwards, the machines and steam and paved roads giving way to untouched, virgin growth, creatures that did not flinch at the sound of her steps.
Now, standing outside of the gates, the Hunter tips her head back to take in the paint strokes of velvet creeping towards the horizon. A village means an inn, food and drink and a place to rest, safe from the elements. It also means more walls, and her breath frosts in the air as she sighs. Returning her gaze to the road, she takes a moment to simply study her surroundings, and her eyes light upon what she mistakes at first glance to be a pile of crumbled stones. Squinting in the faint light, the Hunter realizes that it is, or was, a statue of some sort. Most of the details have been worn away with time, leaving only the faint shape of it, something vulpine or feline going by the points of its ears and the sleek profile, but whatever fur or eyes it might have once had have been taken over by moss. A sad thing, the Hunter thinks. You were important once, I think. But, like me, you have since been forgotten.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death
Categories: F/F, F/M
Fandom: Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins
Relationships: Mael/Raste (OFC), Arthur Pendragon/Guinevere (OFC), Implied Escanor/Merlin
Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Alternate Universe â Canon Divergence, Politics, Rebellion, Romance, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Slow Romance, Eventual Smut
Summary: Years after Arthur takes the throne, a rebellion takes hold in the former kingdom of Dunbray. Tristan and Lancelot, newly-made Knights of the Round Table, work to uncover the people behind it, all while questioning if Camelot is in the right; when they call on Mael to help, he winds up far more entangled in the rebellionâs affairs than he ever wanted to be, drawn by both their plight and the one who now wields the sun.
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âYour gold and silver is cankered;
and the rust of them shall be a witness against you,
and shall eat your flesh as it were fire.â
â James 5:8
âThat was a close one,â Ludoshel remarks, his arms folded and his mouth pressed to a thin line of disapproval.
Mael, young, beaming, stretches out his hands. âDid you see me? I almost had it!â
âYou almost set your hair alight,â Ludoshel replies dryly. Mael wilts, and his brother sighs and shakes his head, his lips turning up in a small smile. âIt was impressive, though. I imagine it would take another much longer to be able to do even that much. Your talent speaks for itself.â
âTomorrow, Iâll summon the sun,â Mael proclaims, his prior discontent forgotten.
Ludoshel tilts his head, an eye cracking open to reveal a blind, milky pupil. âWill you?â
âI will,â Mael restates firmly. âIâll be the strongest Archangel. So I can protect you, and Lady Elizabeth, and the others! Like Tarmiel and Sariel, and Jelamet.â
His brother crosses to him, his robes swaying around his broad frame in the breeze, and clasps a hand to his shoulder. âI believe that. But take heed, Mael. Sunshine is volatile. It will burn you as easily as it will your enemies. Never underestimate it.â
âI wonât,â Mael promises, and Ludoshel nods.
Preview for @containment-breach-zineâ, on sale 31 August 2021.
Do you like SCPs? Want to see more of them? Then you should really check this project out because itâs full of incredibly talented creators and it was an absolute blast to work on!!
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: None
Category: F/M
Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Relationship: Carlos Oliveira/Jill Valentine
Characters: Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira
Tags: Canon Related, Smut, Porn with Feelings, Porn with Plot, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Summary: After the destruction of Raccoon City and cooped up in a hotel turned refugee center, Jill and Carlos finally have a bit of time for themselves.
Written For: @valeveirazineâ
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Theyâve been holed up in a hotel for two weeks while the military tries to figure out what to do with them. Well, the government really, but after seeing nothing but men and women in uniformsâbringing them meals and clean clothes and toiletries, drawing enough blood that Jillâs surprised she hasnât gone anemic yetâitâs easier to say that itâs the military keeping them captive than officials sheâs never seen. Not that she can really blame them for their caution, nor is it exclusive to her and Carlos; enough people had made it out of the city that theyâd needed somewhere to go both for quarantine in case theyâd been infected, and to buy time to figure out what to do with them. The fact that this is an entirely new virus leaves no room for error.
Still, thereâs only so many ready-meals and isolation that one person can handle before the idea of climbing through a window starts to sound appealing.
The problem, Jill has learned, is that she doesnât handle being idle well. Her entire life has been spent working towards goal after goal after goal, sometimes her own and sometimes someone elseâs, and the last decade was one of constant motion. Training in the military, training with Delta Force, rescue operations with her team. Even in what little downtime she had, she was filing reports or following up on leads, so this nothingness is nearly intolerable. How many reruns of the same four shows is she expected to watch?Â
At least sheâs had time to work through grief, she supposes. Losing Brad, Mikhail, and then Tyrell had left her numb when she wasnât furious, and that doesnât even begin to cover the nameless emotion that had twisted her up at the loss of so many innocent lives. If they ever let her out of here, the first thing sheâs going to do is hunt Wesker down and put a bullet between his eyes, and maybe one in his black heart just for good measure.
The space from Carlos has been welcome, which is the one small gratitude she can find it within herself to begrudgingly show. Jill has a history of bad relationships, ones that burned too quick and fell apart just as fast, and the last thing she wants is to fall into the same pattern with a guy whoâd been nothing but kind to her and put his life on the line to save her ass. So a fortnight to really mull over what she feels as far as heâs concerned was a blessing. Hell, sheâd even drawn up one of those lists her friends in high school used to make, the ones where you wrote down all the good and bad possibilities and weighed them out. It had been a short one, not surprising considering how little she really knows about him, but the good had outnumbered the bad.Â
Heâs earnest, loyal, quick-witted, good-humored, respectful, and brave, not to mention the goofy grin or the ass that looked killer in his black fatigues. Downsides: former convicted criminal, worked for Umbrella, and her knowledge of his life wouldnât fill the palm of her hand. More pros, but the few cons that she does have are pretty big ones.
Still, she finds that she misses his company as the days drag on. Jill knows heâs probably just as restless as she is when it comes to being cooped up, no matter how nice the room might be, and thereâs a part of her that thinks that this time would pass easier if she had him to share it with. Were she more inclined towards being a sap, she might even go so far as to say heâs the only friend she has left in the country. Sheâs not, but the sentiment remains. Close calls with death make for fast friends, and sheâs not about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth for too long.
Not when the amount of people she can trust is less than the fingers on a hand.
Their first day out of Raccoon City had been spent in a temporary camp set up by the Red Cross. Both of them were bruised and battered and suffering from the effects of the shockwave the bomb let off; Jill had a nasty case of whiplash, while Carlos had fractured a few ribs when it knocked him against his harness. Between the medics bustling in and out to check on them and the general mayhem of trying to figure out where they were going to go, there hadnât been much time for speaking. And despite thatâdespite her fatigue and his pain and the fact that neither of them slept much for the next forty-eight hoursâheâd never left her side. He wasnât much help when it came to moving things, mainly because the medics tore him a new one whenever he tried, but his company kept her from sinking into a deep depression. When theyâd been separated at the hotel, he raised enough hell for the both of them. It was only the repeated reassurance that it was just temporary that finally had him quieting down, and his open care for her touched Jill in a way she wasnât expecting.
While the officers watching them wouldnât play messenger, they did bring news back and forth. Carlosâ ribs hadnât been fractured, it turned out, just bruised and incorrectly diagnosed by an overworked volunteer without an x-ray machine. He was doing fine and, yes, his blood work was coming up clean with every test. Yes, heâd asked about her. No, he didnât seem happy, but he was at least comfortable, and had taken to joking with his assigned watchers when his mood was cheery enough.
Eighteen days after the destruction of Raccoon City, Jill asks to see him. With the initial fear gone, she has taken to analyzing again and again every step she and the rest of her team took to get to right here, and nothing can keep her from feeling guilty. Guilty for not recognizing the danger, guilty for trusting the wrong people . . . all those lives lost feel heavy on her shoulders, especially since she survived. So the least she can do is make sure Carlos is okay. Two days after that, when the officers decide theyâve taken enough blood and sheâs unlikely to be carrying a live strain of the virusâand so canât infect anyone elseâsheâs told that theyâll bring him by the next morning.Â
"Did you know each other?" the officer asks as she takes her vitals.
"Not before this," Jill admits. "I just want to make sure he's okay."
The officer nods. "It's hard not to feel responsible for the people we save, isn't it?"
Jill agrees, but can't help but wonder: did she save him, or did he save her?
Later she asks for a razor and shaving cream. The kid dropping off her lunch gives her a funny look, but she says it's just for comfort. It has nothing to do whatsoever with seeing Carlos. It frustrates her at first, the age-old idea that a man and woman canât be close if theyâre not fucking, but then it makes her laugh because, hell, she knows she wonât say no if he asks. Which he might. Not that she would ever ask. Maybe. Probably not.
She goes to bed with the three weeks of stubble gone, delighting in the small pleasure of how soft the sheets feel against her smooth legs. Shaving had always been utilitarian for her, done once or twice a month when her uniform pants started to tug uncomfortably, and sheâd almost forgotten the little thrill of dolling up a bit for a lover. The thought gives her pause. Is that what Carlos is? Is that what she wants him to be?
Jill draws a picture of him in her mindâs eye. Itâs his grin that comes first, a little crooked and, when paired with those soulful brown eyes of his, a little reminiscent of a pup looking for affection. That leads to his lips, soft and just the right side of full and surrounded by a neatly-trimmed beard that would probably scrape nicely over her skin if he kissed her. Her body quickens, grows warm. She rolls onto her side and presses her knees together as a dull ache pulses between her legs; coupled with the fluttering in her chest, she feels like a schoolgirl dreaming of her crush.
That makes her smile a little. Sure, the worldâs gone to hell and everything is shit, and here she is wondering what his mouth would feel like if he buried his head between her thighs. Itâs normal, and it makes her feel like maybe things will be alright as long as theyâre together.
Every knock on her door the next day has her nerves jumping. Itâs just the routine thingsâpersonnel coming in to check her vitals or bring her mealsâand she feels more and more ridiculous each time. When one of them comes to grab the dinner cart from her room, she stops him and asks what the hell is taking so long. The officer laughs a little, tells her to wait and see, and then disappears into the hall and leaves her standing in front of her little table with a frown. Trying to keep herself occupied, she moves about and tidies up, hiding things in closets or drawers and straightening the bed until everything is gleaming.
Wouldnât want him to think Iâm a slob, she muses, and then snorts.
Finally, at a quarter past eight, thereâs a knock before a keycard clicks in the door and Carlos steps inside. He looks good dressed in civvies, the black t-shirt clinging to his broad chest and the sweatpants hanging just low enough on his hips to be delicious, his hair still damp from a shower. She stares at him, her heart jackhammering in her chest and her throat tight. His gaze locks on hers and there are so many things swirling there, some of them she recognizes and some of them she doesnât, and the air between them grows thick, heavy.
Then sheâs moving and he meets her halfway. He grabs her, those strong arms curling around her back, and she laughs when he lifts her off her feet in a hug so tight that it almost hurts. Jill doesnât care; she grips the collar of his shirt and presses her cheek to his, breathing in cologne and soap and the cheap scent of his aftershave. His head turns, lips whispering along her jaw.
Before it goes any further, he sets her gently on her feet, though he doesnât let her go. âHey, supercop.â
âOliveira,â she replies.
âSorry it took so long. Couldnât get a razor for damn near four hours, and then dinner was late and the health check dragged on and on, and they kept askinâ shit about handcuffs andââ
She finds her grin growing the longer he goes. âSounds like a rough time,â she says.
He chuckles, and they smile at one another for a long moment. Jill tries not to check him out, but it is really, really hard; the clothes that don't fit exactly right do show off just how good looking he is. She stares into his eyes, admiring the long lashes and kindness in them. It's a rare thing to see: people like them, who end up on the front lines, often get jaded from all the death and destruction. But she can tell Carlos isn't that way, and his expression almost speaks to her, saying you're safe with me.
Jill swallows a bit uncomfortably, not really sure how to be on the receiving end of that. But Carlos is openly admiring her, which only makes her face grow a bit hot. "You look good," he comments softly.
"Do I?" she chuckles.
"Yeah. Glad that they took good care of you. I was worried."
Her chest tightens a little at that. "I was worried about you too."
Carlos' lips curl upwards at her confession. "You already eat?â
âMm-hm. Slop and slop.â Jill smooths a hand over his chest, telling herself itâs just to wipe away the wrinkles sheâd caused in his shirt. âBetter than what we got in Delta Force, but Iâd be lying if I said I wouldnât kill for a steak.â
âI know a place.â
The offer hangs between them. Startled by it, she peers up into his face to get a read on how heâs feeling, and the only thing she sees there is earnestness. It shakes her, brings to mind the emotions of the night before, and her cheeks heat. âYeah?â She licks her lips, trying to sound light-hearted. âLemme guess, pool tables in the back and cheap beer?â
âHey, I like cheap beer!â he protests with a laugh. âPitcher for five bucks, canât really beat that.â
âSounds like youâre asking me on a date, Oliveira. You sweet on me?â
Itâs a genuine question hidden beneath a taunt, and the way his lips twitch comes as a relief because it means heâs just as nervous as she is. âMaybe I am. Kickass supercop with killer aim? Youâre a lady after my own heart.â
âThat why itâs beating so hard?âÂ
He looks at her silently, his brows a little pinched, and she wants to reach up and smooth away the crease there. Wants to kick herself, too, because while the teasing and shared glances and all that other shit could have been played off, swept under the rug, sheâs just shoved both of them well beyond the point of no return. If sheâs read this wrong, sheâs going to sour a friendship sheâs terrified of losing. And if sheâs read it right, and he gives any sort of affirmative response, well . . . thereâs only one way to go from there.
His answer comes in a way she isnât expecting. Carlos cups the back of her head, threading his fingers softly through her hair, and she closes her eyes as he leans down and his breath puffs across her cheek. He hesitates, his nose grazing hers. Sheâs fairly certain that she might have a heart attack soon with how hard her pulse is racing and, not wanting him to back away, not wanting to lose his warmth, she closes the gap and seals her mouth over his.Â
Soft and slightly chapped, his lips fit perfectly with her own; she sucks on the lower one, teasing its plumpness with her teeth and using her tongue to soothe away the sting, drawing a low groan from his throat. Itâs like striking a match. Carlos comes alive, crushing her to his chest as he tugs at her lips, and she can feel him through his sweats as their hips rub together. Jill clutches his shoulders to anchor herself, her knees going weak when his tongue fills her mouth. Sheâs drowning in him, just like she wanted to, his strong body dwarfing and surrounding her like a cage she never wants to leave. His kiss is almost desperate, his touch feverish as he slips his hand beneath her shirt to feel her skin. She reacts to it, that ache blooming again when his beard scratches her just as sheâd hoped it would.
Her hands fumble with the hem of his shirt as his mouth drags from her lips to her jaw, nipping and sucking and sending little pinpricks of pleasure up her spine. She needs to touch him, to map out with her fingers and tongue the body teased beneath his clothes. A frustrated huff leaves her when she gets the fabric no higher than his chest, and Carlos draws away long enough to yank it over his head before returning to her throat.Â
Yet when she digs her nails into the firm planes of his back, he pauses. âYou sure âbout this, Jill?â
The use of her name is enough to cut through the haze. âIf I wasnât, Iâd have kicked your ass a long time ago.â
âYeah, yeah, I justââ
She steps back, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back until the edge of the bed digs into his knees and heâs forced to sit. âIâm sure. You want to leave, nowâs your chance.â
Carlos studies her, then shakes his head with a small smile. âNah. Iâm good. More than, actually.â
âGood.â
With his eyes on her, she peels her tank top off. Thereâs no bra beneathâmainly because she hated wearing one when all she was doing was lounging aroundâand his gaze drops immediately to her breasts, his lips parting when she thumbs her nipples. But when he reaches for her, she smacks his hands away. âNu-uh. Not yet.â
He shifts a bit, though he mumbles, âYes maâam.â
When sheâs certain heâs not going to disobey, she hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her own sweats and shimmies them down over her hips. Nothing under them, either, and she delights in the way his cheeks darken and his fingers curl into the sheets as he grunts; itâs been a long time since someone wanted her so badly, and it makes her feel powerful. More so when she braces a knee on the bed so sheâs kneeling over him and his throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and when she places a hand on his shoulder and leans in to graze her lips over the shell of his ear and he damn near whines.
âI want your mouth, Carlos. Here,â she takes one of his wrists and guides it until heâs palming her breast, âand here,â and she drags it down to cup her sex. âCan you do that for me?â
He strokes her foldsâa stolen touchâbefore splaying his fingers between her shoulders and drawing her towards him. He teases her, pressing light kisses to the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple, and then he opens his mouth and sucks the bud between his lips, and she arches her back to feed him her body. Thereâs no gentleness. Carlos suckles with the quick, sharp tugs that drive her wild, his tongue rolling over her sensitive flesh. Her nipples tighten, grow tender. And when he takes the nub between his teeth and gives a careful pull, heat flares from her head to her feet.
A minute ticks by as he sucks on her skin. Jill's head falls back with a sigh, turning her pleasure over to him. The hand between her legs stays still, his palm simply pressed against her as his mouth works on her breast. She can feel her arousal slipping from her body, wetting his palm and making his touch silky. But still he doesn't move, leaving her with a dull throb that grows the more he tugs her nipple.
"Carlos . . ." she whispers.
"Damn you're so hot." His words come out as hot puffs of air on her skin as he drags his mouth to her other breast. "So fucking hot. Fuck. God damn itâ"
"Carlos!" she laughs, gripping his locks and giving him a tug. He looks up in a bit of a daze and she smiles. Jill leans down to tug on his mouth with her own, just as her other hand presses against the one between her legs. Carlos groans as she rocks her hips, rubbing her body along his fingers. "Please don't make me wait," she whispers.
He flips her onto her back, making Jill yelp a laugh in surprise. "You got it," he says, leaning over to plant a kiss to her lips as he opens her thighs. He trails his mouth downwards, along the column of her throat, over the curve of her breast, making her stomach twitch when he drags his teeth on her navel. Then down, pressing kisses over her mons until he slides his hands along the backs of her thighs and spreads her open, using his thumbs to gently open her hood as his mouth finds her clit.
Jill arches on the bed with a gasp, drawing her knees up and apart. His mouth is exactly like him, bold and strong. His tongue dips into her opening before sliding back to her pearl, and Jill grips the bed sheets to keep from bucking against his mouth. Itâs been forever since sheâs done this, and she realizes just how much sheâs wanted someone. Not just someone, but him.
Carlos sucks on her body for a moment before glancing upwards. âThis okay?â
âCarlos!â she whines. âChrist, donât stop!â
He gives a little chuckle that has her letting go a huff of amused frustration. âNo problem, just checking.â
âJust come here.âÂ
She looks down and tugs on his arm, and with a grin he slides back up her body, leaning over with his forearms braced on the mattress. âYou need something?â
âStop,â she laughs, dragging her hands along his chest. âYou know what I need.â
âYeah, I think I do.â He presses his mouth to her neck as he moves one hand to her body, dragging his palm along her torso until he can press it to her breast. She wraps her arms around him, kissing him back as she slides her thighs along his sides. They continue like this, kissing lazily as they caress one another, as her breathing goes back to something a bit more normal.
But that does nothing to stop the throb now in her core. âStill want to do this?â he murmurs against her cheek.
âAbsolutely,â she replies.Â
He pushes up to stand, and Jill slides back against the pillows as she watches him pull the string on his sweats. Carlos tugs them down with a teasing jerk of his hips, and she presses her lips together to keep herself from laughing. The rest of his body is just how she had pictured it: tanned skin, solid muscle, and her eyes go immediately to the trail of dark curls and his erection beneath.Â
He surprises her by pulling a condom from his pants pocket before tossing them away. âDid you really come prepared?â she asks, bursting into laughter.
âI was a Boy Scout. Weâre always prepared.â Her mouth is nearly watering as she watches him open the package, and then roll the condom down his thick length. âLuckily one of the guards had a few to spare.â
Carlos climbs back on the bed as she spreads her legs to accommodate him, giving him a narrow gaze. âSo you expected this, hm?â
âExpected? No. Wanted? Hell yes.â He presses a firm kiss to her lips as his hand glides along her thigh. âSince the second I saw you.â
Jill murmurs her agreement, her arms going around his shoulders as he sinks into her. From the moment he saw her? She had to admit the same: ever since meeting Carlos, it seemed inevitable, that no matter what happened she was going to end up wanting him. He thrusts slowly, his kiss on her neck just as greedy as it is reverent. Her legs lock around him as she cards her hands through his tousled hair, letting him take the lead, enjoying the sounds that escape him and the way his arms and shoulders flex with each roll of his hips.Â
Her touch slips down his back, now damp with perspiration. Everything that had happened in Raccoon City seems so far away, and as her head falls back and his teeth bite her shoulder gently, Jill feels alive. Pleasure rocks through her in waves, pulling her towards the inevitable end, just like their meeting on the platform. She is alive and he is alive and she is going to make up for everything they lost, starting with this moment.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: None
Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Characters: Jill Valentine, Tyrell Patrick
Tags: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Relationships, Implied Jill/Carlos
Summary: Getting infected was hell. So is the recovery. Wandering the remains of the Raccoon General Hospital, Jill searches for answers regarding the actions of the man whoâs come to intrigue her so much.
Written For: @valeveirazineâ
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Nothing here but another corpse.
Closing the door with a quiet click, Jill takes a step back and wipes her clammy palm on her jeans. Sheâd thought after the events at Spencer Mansion sheâd be used to just about everything, but seeing the young nurse with her face frozen in a perpetual scream of anguish had shaken her, and her empty stomach churns. All of this suffering, this death and not-death and fires burning in the street, just a hallmark of the callous greed of Umbrella. Knowing whoâs responsible doesnât make the cost any easier to witness; itâs why Nikolaiâs betrayal infuriates her, and why her trust of Carlos and Tyrell stumps her. Even now sheâs wandering these dark halls because Tyrell had suggested she do so, where the locked doors and blood-splattered walls pay testament to the fight for survival.
âYou look like hell, Valentine,â heâd told her with a wry sort of grin. âBit of exercise and food might do you some good.â
âWhere do you expect me to go?â sheâd retorted, and he gestured to the doors behind him and the sign next to them that said CAFETERIA â in bold, black letters.
Not that there is a cafeteria, at least not that she can find. While Carlos had taken care of the infected and mutants, leaving her path relatively clear, the journey is no less fruitless. Almost every door is sealed behind a keypad or keycard terminal, and those that arenât are barricaded from within, leaving her with nowhere else to go but deeper into the hospital. At one hall, gouges run deep into the drywall and the metal doors are ripped from their hinges. A pile of debris barrs her way; when a low, rasping growl resounds from somewhere far beyond it, she quickly moves on. Could just be some pipes, but sheâd rather not stick around to find out.
Not when her mouth still tastes like rot.
Not when her vision is still blurry.
Not when death is still looming over her shoulder.
Fucking Umbrella.
Following the only path that she can leads her to a set of electronically locked doors. Unlike the others, however, the keypadâs light is blinking green, so she pushes against it with her shoulder and keeps her hand on the butt of her gun in case thereâs something nasty lurking on the other side. Yet the roomâa laboratory of some sortâis remarkably immaculate in comparison to the rest of the hospital: a few papers and folders litter the floor, and the lights do not work, but the walls are clear of damage. The only thing out of place is the corpse slumped in a swivel chair with blood pooling beneath the wheels, its expression one of furious terror. A robbery? In the middle of the goddamn apocalypse? Jill snorts as she steps fully inside. Guess I shouldnât be surprised.
Her cop instincts have her checking the body first. An ID tag pinned to the label of his coat reads Dr. Nathaniel Bard, Research & Virology, and the small photograph matches the manâs face as it probably was five or so years ago. The computer behind him is useless thanks to a bullet hole in the middle of the screen, but a low beeping draws her attention to the back of the lab. She finds another terminal there next to a door marked Restricted Access; accessing it pulls up a list of emails between Dr. Bard and a senator full of increasingly desperate pleas for rescue and promises of a cure for the virus ravaging Raccoon City.
Her brows pinch as she reads the messages again and again. Then she pulls the radio from her belt and turns it on. âTyrell, you there?â
A crackle of static. âWhatâs going on, Valentine?â
âIâm in Dr. Bardâs lab. Guess he made a vaccine, but I donât see it anywhere.â Jill pauses to take a deep breath, her next question setting a pit in the depths of her stomach. âDonât see a recipe or guidelines to replicate one, either. So how did Carlos manage to make it and give it to me?â
âHe didnât,â Tyrell replies flatly.
âWell, Iâm not trying to bite the shit out of you, so heââ
âDonât get me wrong, he injected you with the cure.â Thereâs a long pause before Tyrell sighs. âThere was a vaccine in the lab, off in the restricted section. Carlos grabbed it and used it on you. Guess Nikolai missed it on his way through. Saved your ass, even if we lost Bard.â
Despite the humor heâs forcing, Jill only feels angry and defeated. Grateful, yes, because Carlos rescued her from the nightmare thatâs been plaguing her since the Spencer Mansion, but at what cost? âDid he stop to think how many more couldâve been saved if he got it out of the city?â
âProbably not,â Tyrell admits. âGuyâs got a one-track mind. You were in trouble, he reacted.â
âGoddamn it!â She braces her hands on the desk, struggling to control her temper. This whole shitshow isnât Carlosâ fault, and she knows that, but all she can think of is Brad holding that fucking door shut so she could get away, his screams of agony as the undead on the other side broke through and tore him apart. âTell me why, Tyrell. Why choose one over thousands? Millions? This thing is only going to spread, and now weâve lost our one chance to get ahead of it!â
The answer comes quietly, almost lost in the static. âYou really gotta ask?â
âYeah,â she snaps, âI do. Because otherwise all Iâve got is someone working for Umbrella to get rid of any chance to kill their virus, and thatâs not a pretty fucking picture.â
Tyrellâs silence stretches on so long that, for a moment, she thinks heâs put down his comm or plans to ignore her entirely, and she grits her teeth and debates whether or not she could force him to answer. Then, wearily, he says, âYou gotta understand this first: all that shit about Umbrella? The viruses, the experiments, the bioweapons? We didnât know. Every single one of us who got recruited to U.B.C.S. viewed it as a second chance. Not like they were putting their plans on pamphlets, you know?â
âYou really think Iâm that stupid?â
âHonest to God, Valentine, we didnât know.â His fervor makes her hesitate, makes her doubt, and she bites her tongue as he continues. âHell, they offered me the job of a monitor once. Same shit Nikolai is doing. But when they wouldnât tell me what the hell that meant, or what Iâd be expected to do, I turned it down. We were always in the dark, thinking we were just meant to help people. Which, believe me, we wanted to do after the shit we got up to before Umbrella found us.â
Her misgivings and her need to trust somebody war within her. âWhat shit?â
âYou really want to know?â He sounds amused, but itâs hard to really tell through the comms. âEven if it sullies the view of the guy who busted his ass to save you?â
âFor my own sake.â Jill swallows her pride. âPlease, Tyrell. I need to know.â
He sighs, and she thinks she hears the sound of fingers drumming on a tabletop. âMy story isnât new. Joined the Foreign Legion, got caught selling black market weapons, wound up court martialled and waiting to die. Umbrella pulled me outta that after I tried to contact one of their recruiters. Offered me the chance to turn my life around, and I took it.â
âI see,â she murmurs.
âAs for Carlos? Guy was a guerilla fighter somewhere in South America. Got captured and slated for execution. Heâs a damn-near wizard when it comes to heavy weaponry and vehicle maintenance, so Umbrella bought his freedom and relocated him.âÂ
She doesnât know what to say to that; itâs too far from the image of Carlos she has in her mind of a man whoâs good-hearted and warm. But heâs a soldier, so is it any surprise that his past is checkered?Â
âSatisfied now? I mean, as a cop, youâre probably itching to arrest us both and send us to pay for our crimes, right?â Tyrell sounds mocking now, and she doesnât care for it much,
Still, she says, âNo. I should, youâre right. Itâd be the correct thing to do. But . . .â Hell, she was never good at this emotional stuff. Never good at sharing her thoughts and feelings, even when she was with S.T.A.R.S. and considered them friends. Itâs easier to brush it off and keep going. Putting words to it makes it dangerously real, after all, and sheâs always lived in a manâs world, where that sort of weakness would get her mocked. âOut of all you U.B.C.S. guys, he was the only one I could trust from the start. I have to hold onto that, or Iâll have nothing left.â
âHeâs a trustworthy sort,â Tyrell agrees. His voice is kinder, less defensive. âDedicated, too. Once youâve earned his loyalty, it wonât waver. I mean, unless you pull what Nikolai did and start murdering the people he cares about, anyway.â
âRight,â she murmurs. âListen, Iâm gonna work through the lab, see if thereâs anything Carlos missed on his sweep. Valentine out.â
Before Tyrell can respond, she cranks the volume on her radio down to a whisper and hooks it to her belt. Sheâll still be able to hear him if he calls for help, but right now what she needs is what little quiet she can get to think. The last forty-eight hours have done more to upheave her world than that night at the mansion ever did; what is she supposed to do against a corporation as far-reaching as Umbrella, one that has the ability to wipe out populations on a whim?
Oddly, though, her mind doesnât linger on the danger. No, it turns towards her mother.
Jill hasnât thought of her parents in years, not since she moved out at eighteen to try her hand at college. Her mother always wanted her to go, keeping a critical eye on her studies and doling out punishment whenever a grade slipped a little too low for her likingânot that Jill had ever failed a class, but to her mother, anything lower than perfect was cause for shame. At least sheâd had the comfort of knowing it came from love. Neither parent had attended any sort of university, even for a technical degree, and her family had always straddled the line between middle class and poverty. Midwestern America wasnât kind to immigrants, and it took her parentsâ sweat and tears with glee.
So sheâd gone. Majored in economics like a good daughter and visited home every weekend without fail so her mother could coo to that small circle of knitting friends sheâd made about how her daughter was doing so well, was so smart, was bound to marry a doctor one day and take care of her poor, beleaguered folks. Love and resentment colored Jillâs view of her mother in equal measure. Maybe that was why sheâd enlisted in the military right after graduation; it had broken her parentsâ hearts without a doubt, though the promise of money sent back weekly helped smooth that over a bit.
Then they died.
It wasnât expected, which would have been still horrible but bearably so. No, it was an accident, hit and run from a drunk driver that killed her father on impact and her mother in the ambulance, wham, bam, hereâs some grief to go on top of drill sergeants shouting all day. Sheâd buried them, sold their house, and drowned her grief in her work. And that led to notice from Delta Force, and a unique offer, and learning how to pick locks and dismantle bombs and keep her cool when someone had a gun pointed at her face. Sheâd done well. Survived, anyway, but a call that came too close to being fatal was almost more than she could take. Luckilyâor not so luckily, all things consideredâsomeone else had taken notice of her, too, and in 1996 sheâd been transferred to a new unit: S.T.A.R.S., right in her hometown of Raccoon City.
S.T.A.R.S., of course, led to Barry and Chris and Brad and Rebecca, led right to Umbrellaâs front door because Wesker hadnât been the kind, dedicated leader heâd made himself out to be. In fact, heâd been so cruel that Jill sometimes wonders how they never saw through him, how that mask of his never slipped. It took a real heartlessness to lead the people who trusted and looked up to him into that slaughter, and she knows that none of them were meant to make it out alive, that they were nothing more than tools to test Umbrellaâs weapons. Shit, with that bastard chasing her around Raccoon City, it seems like all joining S.T.A.R.S. did was paint a nice little target on her back.Â
The real question, she supposes, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, is was it all worth it? Sheâd grown. Sheâd learn to trust her instincts, how dangerous the world was outside of her parentsâ sometimes smothering love, and sheâd found a place for herself, if only for a few years. S.T.A.R.S. might be broken, but some of its former members are still alive and fighting back against the monsters lurking in the dark.Â
And now thereâs Tyrell, with whom sheâs found a wry kinship. Tyrell who works best behind the scenes, but will stand his ground in a pinch and is damn handy when it comes to his rifle. Sheâs seen bravery time and time again: Barry standing up to Wesker, Mikhail staring death in the face and refusing to be cowed by it even when it meant sacrificing himself.Â
That doesnât even begin to cover Carlos, but those feelingsâtrust and a dangerous sort of longing that sheâd sworn never to feel in a world gone to hellâarenât something she can deal with right now. Heâd saved her life without concern for risking his own, had come to her aid time and time again with no expectations of a reward other than, presumably, knowing she was still alive and kicking. Hell, heâd used the one chance they had of stopping the T-virus in its tracks on her. Safe to say that itâs all a bit muddled, but maybe . . .
Static hisses from her radio. Jill twists the knob and catches, â . . . reception, pronto!â
The urgency is what has her snatching it from her belt and pressing the button so hard her finger turns white. âTyrell?â
âJesus, Valentine, you fall asleep?â He sounds angry, and without giving her time to bite back he snaps, âGet your ass to reception. Weâve got trouble.â
âGreat,â she mumbles.
After one last, quick search of the room that leaves her frustratingly empty-handed, Jill retraces her steps and follows the few undamaged signs back to reception. Tyrell is still there, but heâs no longer fixated on the computer behind the desk. His body is turned to the television in the corner, and she joins him as the Breaking News Alert finishes blaring its grating tone.
From behind the static screen, a female voice says, âAttention all citizens. Following the outbreak of an unknown pathogen in Raccoon City, the government has decided to use a nuclear warhead in an attempt to stop the infection from spreading. It has a fatality rate of one-hundred percent, and no attempts to contain or cure it have been successful. The missile strike on Raccoon City will occur in just hours. The payload is designed to eradicate all biological material. You will not survive if you remain in the city. Evacuate now. Repeat: evacuate now. This is not a test. Evacuate immediately.â
Her blood runs cold. âWhat the fuck?â
âYou missed the part about blockades,â Tyrell replies grimly. âItâs nice of them to tell us to get the hell out when thereâs tanks out there to make sure we donât.â
âThey canât do this!â
He shakes his head, returning to the terminal. âThey can. Umbrella has them in their pocket, and Iâd wager they all but demanded a missile strike. How else are they gonna make sure none of this shit reaches the public?â
She canât accept that. She refuses to, because sheâs survived this long and sheâll be damned if Umbrella is going to kill her now. âWhat can we do? Thereâs gotta be something!â
Thereâs an uncomfortably long pause. In it, she realizes that Tyrell has gone pale beneath the grime on his face, that his eyes are a little too wide and his fingers tremble the tiniest amount when he tries to type, and she knows that heâs afraid. Finally, he says, âCarlos went underground a few hours ago. Thereâs a lab beneath our feet; guess he was thinkinâ heâd make more of the vaccine. I have some government contacts I can try to reach to buy him time, butââ
âIâm going to help him.â Jill spies an extra magazine on the table and takes it before checking the ammo in her gun. âTwo hands are better than one.â
âYeah, sure. But youâll have to be quick, Valentine, you hear? Even if I get through, thereâs no guarantee that theyâll listen or make a deal.âÂ
âMake them listen,â she barks.Â
He considers her for a moment, and then his lips curl into a dry sort of grin that, oddly enough, settles her nerves a good deal. âYes maâam. In fact, Iâll put a boot in their ass, just for you.âÂ
âBetter use two,â she remarks. Following his gesture, she finds a small stashâherbs, bandages, knivesâand gears up. âThe comms should work underground. If not, Iâll leave markers for you to follow in case you have to . . .â
She trails off. In case he has to come after her? Why? Either both of them will succeed, or one of them, or neither of them, and in every scenario all him finding her would do is put him in danger. If he fails, wouldnât it be better not to know? To live thinking she has a chance until the very last second? âIf you need me,â she finally says.
âSure thing, super-cop.â When she looks up, she finds Tyrell watching her, his expression unusually kind. âListen, before you go? You need to know that Carlos wears his heart on his sleeve. The guy canât hide what heâs feeling to save his life, and itâs clear that however he feels about you, youâre more than just a comrade or friend or any of that nonsense. I wouldnât be surprised if he made a pass if things get hairy down there. Get what I mean?â
Jill canât tell if heâs being genuine or yanking her chain. She stands, finishes strapping a knife to her thigh, and cocks her gun. âIâll worry about that after I save his ass. Catch you on the other side.â
âItâs been an honor,â he replies, and she feels his eyes on her until she steps into the hall and the door closes behind her.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: None
Fandom: æ»ć° | Shiin | Death Mark (Visual Novel)
Characters: Yashiki Kazuo | Kujou Masamune, Shiina Sayako | Red Riding Hood
Tags: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Good Ending
Summary: Shiina Sayako was betrayed. Devastated in the aftermath, she receives a phone call that sets her on a path to ruin, and the price she must pay is higher than any she ever imagined.
Written For: @spirithunterzineâ
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In the days since the hotel, Sayako has been little more than a ghost. She wanders from room to room in her familyâs small home, sitting in dark corners or peering out through the cracks in the curtains to make sure that no one is following her, watching her. Her hair is thinner now from stress and fear, and her utter lack of an appetite has led to her losing a few kilos. Not that thereâs anyone to notice; both of her parents are often gone on business, and sheâs no longer comfortable meeting with the ones she once considered to be her friends.
In fact, sheâs not even sure that they care. Her phone has been silent. No messages, no calls, not even an email to show that her absence has been noticed, that her presence has been missed. Sayako wondered the first couple of days whether Nimura-sensei was making excuses for her. Heâd been there, after all, had in truth been the one to drop the spider onto her tongue as she screamed and pleaded for him to let her go. Was he, even now, telling her classmates that sheâd fallen ill or suffered some sort of shock, gathering for himself the sympathy that should have been hers?
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: None
Fandom: æ»ć° | Shiin | Death Mark (Visual Novel)
Characters: Mary, Yashiki Kazuo | Kujou Masamune
Tags: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Character Death, Good Ending
Summary: In the hours before their final confrontation, Mary works to regain her strength and ponders the events that led Yashiki to her.
Written For: @spirithunterzineâ
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Itâs nearly dawn.
Stirring from the recesses of the attic, Mary opens her eyes and stares into the watery gray light filtering between the slats of the window. Her stomach, or whatever equivalent of it that she possesses, rumbles. Almost time, she muses. It has been a merry chase, a titillating game of cat and mouse between her and her prey. The setbacks were nothing more than small inconveniences under the weight of her true intentions. Does it matter that the others were saved? No. The goal of Maryâor the thing that has chosen that name for itselfâhas always been the annihilation of the KujĆ family, and tonight the last surviving member will be devoured.
Perhaps Masamuneâs great-grandfather had believed that the icon he buried in her gut would be enough to keep his descendents safe, or perhaps he had known the cost and deemed it necessary. Either way, while she may have been senseless and unable to move, her hatred had worked slowly on his ilk. She could not kill them. Not like she had with Saya, and not like she will with Masamune. But her presence alone had been enough to see that his father and grandfather both met with untimely ends, along with their wives, brothers and sisters.
Slowly, methodically, she had plotted and planned. Only the reemergence of KujĆ Saya had surprised her, and that had nearly been her undoing. The ghastly woman had proven more cunning than Mary had anticipated, and her reservoir of spiritual energy meant that she was easily able to possess the body of a rabbit to guide her hapless brother along. It had been the clashing of those energiesâSayaâs familial love, Maryâs unending grudgeâthat had destroyed her physical form. But only for a time. Now, in the cold near-dark, the dollâs body is as whole and pristine as it was the day it was carved fifty years ago in the underground.
Rating: Not Rated
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Final Fantasy XV
Relationship: Aera Mirus Fleuret/Ardyn Izunia
Characters: Aera Mirus Fleuret, Ardyn Izunia
Additional Tags: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Canon, Established Relationship
Written For: @divergenceffxvzine
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âI worry for Somnus.â
Bent over one of the bushes lining the path, Aera speaks more to the roses than to her lover. The tapping of his cane on the paving stonesâa new sound, another thing for her to become accustomed to in this dawning era of peaceâpauses. She does not need to look at him to know that his brow is creased or that his lips have pulled into a frown; his emotions lay thick and clear in the air between them, the soul-deep bond between Oracle and King layering his thoughts like ghosts under her own.
âHe has been more withdrawn lately,â she continues, âand his temper has worsened.â
âThatâs to be expected, isnât it?â Ardyn muses. The rhythmic knocking starts up again, and now she does look over her shoulder. The toll of cleansing Eos of the Scourge shows clearly in the streaks of gray in his hair and the new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but his face is as full of good humor as it can be, given the circumstances. âHe believed that I would fail. To have the throne made inaccessible when it is all he has ever wanted . . . I imagine it leaves a sting.â
âI only hope that he will not act on that anger,â Aera replies, keeping her voice soft. âIf he turns against the Astrals, they willââ
Ardyn gives her a peculiar sort of smile. âHe wonât, my dear. Think of this as nothing more than the younger brother once more envious of the elder, seeing only the glory and not the cost of attaining it.â
Rating: Mature
Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Character: Vergil
Additional Tags: Implied Sexual Assault, Body Dysphoria, Transphobia
Written For: Genderfucked: A DMC Gender Zine
Notes: Found on A03
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The house had always been there. It spread its roots throughout the earth and sent creeping vines of ivy to crawl and writhe in the cold, dark places of Vergilâs heart, beautiful and agonizing in their whispers. Daughter, daughter, daughter, his motherâs smile and his fatherâs sharp rebukes, the dresses that filled his closet for years until he refused to wear clothes at all if something else was not given to him. The hair that he had cut himself, to his motherâs horror. The resentment that brewed bitter whenever Sparda would look at Dante with such fondness and call him his only son.
Not your only! Vergil had wanted to scream. Canât you see me? Iâm right here!
Perhaps those roots were what had drawn him, crumbling, dying, back to his childhood home. He had stood there with Yamato clutched in a hand he had ceased to feel long ago and stared at the painting his mother had commissioned; once, years ago and in a childish fit of rage, he had climbed onto the mantle and torn at the canvas until his fingers bled, trying to destroy the girl standing in his place. Sparda had punished him harshly for that. Later, it had quietly been replaced with another that showed two sons and, though Sparda might have ignored it, Vergil had rejoiced in the small victory.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: None
Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Characters: Chris Redfield, Ada Wong
Pairing: Chris Redfield/Ada Wong
Tags: Smut, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Overstimulation, Canon Adjacent, Porn With Plot, Established Relationship
A/N:Â Wow, it's been . . . *checks notes* a long time since I posted a solo work, huh? Thanks to the recent release of Village, I rediscovered my love for Resident Evil and the characters Chris Redfield and Ada Wong in particular. This is what I would consider canon adjacent, with a bit of rough sex and a minor amount of plot in the beginning. As always, this was edited by my lovely beta, @lickitysplitficâ.
Thereâs no one who fucks quite like Chris Redfield.
Ada had learned that the first time theyâd stumbled into bed together in some forgotten corner of the world; both of them sent to the same city with differing goals in mindâhis to destroy a facility there, hers to raid its research for the Familyâand sheâd known heâd recognized her by the scowl that dominated his features when she saved his life. Leon must have mentioned her, either directly or indirectly via Claire. Chrisâ eyes had held something akin to loathing in them, but there was also passion, and she drank in every last drop.
How heâd tracked her down sheâll never know. There had been a knock on her hotel room door and sheâd opened it to find him standing in the hall, still dressed in his combat gear, and thereâd been a brief, nonconsequential argument before their clothes were off and heâd pressed her into the mattress. Sheâd had the best orgasms of her life then, by his hand and mouth and cock. And that had set the tone for the rest of their encounters.
There was never any seeking. They didnât look for one another while on their assignments, didnât communicate their whereabouts to see if a tryst was possible. Usually Ada would spot him off in the distance, or catch radio chatter that mentioned his name, and she would track him to wherever he was staying and let herself in through the window. He never seemed quite happy to see her, but he never turned her away, either.
Of course, everything had changed after Lanshiang.
Knowing what Simmons had done, how her name had been used to hurt countless innocents, Ada had destroyed all evidence in Carlaâs laboratory. What she had savedâthe communications between herself, Simmons, and Carla, along with two brief videos about the cloningâshe had sent to Chris anonymously months after the outbreak. Then she had gone on her way, knowing that he would still see her face whenever he thought of the men he lost. Their relationship, if it could even be called such, had simply reached its conclusion. And there would be others to fill her bed whenever she wanted company.
Those thoughts meant she was quite surprised when, six months later, sheâd gotten a message from none other than Chris himself: In Trondheim. You here?
Yes, she had sent back, as a matter of fact, I am.
Trondheim had been a rekindling of a sort. She found his hotel, as she always did, but this time his grip had been tighter, the bruises on the insides of her thighs slower to heal. There had been desperation in his touch, and anger, and as they shared a cigarette afterwards he had told her of the PTSD, the brain injury, the realization that he would never be able to leave the BSAA. Sheâd sympathized with him as best as she could. After all, they were both nothing more than pawns to their respective organizations.
But that admission, too, had been odd and out of place. They had agreed early on to never discuss work; it was simply too messy considering the opposing nature of their allegiances (or convenient allyship, in her case) to ever lead to anything but a fight. To hear him speak of it freely jarred her. Were his emotions shifting? Did he view her as more than a respected rival?
The questions troubled and haunted her long after they parted ways.Â
Now, sitting in the dark with a cigarette held loosely between her fingers and the sounds of the city disrupting the stillness of the night, Ada tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Chris will be here soon. Sheâd watched him head off to the mobile command center for a debriefing, and knows that it should only take him an hour or so to complete. Itâs peaceful in the quiet room; no lights save for those far below on the streets pierce the blue shadows, and the tip of her cigarette is a pale halo flickering over her knuckles. Six months, she thinks, blowing out a plume of gray smoke. Hell of a time to keep a girl waiting.
Boots thud on the floor outside before a keycard beeps in the lock. Ada extinguishes her cigarette as the door swings open, the light that spills in from the hall brightening only the edges of Chrisâs body, the glint of a knife at his hip sharp and deadly, the sweat glistening on his arms arousing. If heâs surprised by her presence, he doesnât show it. He merely closes the door, and she watches the shapes of him move to set his bag in the closet.
âItâs been a while,â she says teasingly, letting the syllables purr from her throat.
Chrisâ head turns in her direction. âHas it?â
She listens to the quiet clicks as he strips out his tactical gear, and the thumps as each piece drops to the floor. There are soft, metallic clangs that she assumes are his knife, gun, and spare clips being placed on the table, and then the mattress creaks when he sits down, followed by the soft whisper of shoelaces being untied. Each noise sends the anticipation within her thrumming a little higher. Ada knows this routine. She knows that there is brief talk while he undresses before his hands tug at her own clothing, and she wonders if it will be his mouth first or if theyâll skip the foreplay. Heat pulses between her legs as she crosses them.
âSix months,â she sighs, âand not even a call. I was beginning to think youâd forgotten about me.â
âI was busy,â he replies shortly.
Her lips curl, hidden by the night. âI heard.â
There are no questions of how she got in, or what sheâs doing here, or what she wants. Chris merely stands, and her ears catch the soft murmur of fabric as he undresses, knowledge of his habits telling her that heâs folding each piece of clothing and setting it methodically on the dresser. Sometimes she wishes that they would turn on a light; she can count on one hand the number of times sheâs been able to properly admire him, and her eyes strain to catch even a glimpse of the broad planes of his chest. Yet neither of them reach for the lamp. Chris pads towards her on surprisingly quiet feet, and his hands settle on either side of her head as he leans down.
âAre you going to kiss me?â Ada taunts softly.
With a growl, his mouth covers hers. The kiss is hungry, angry; with every sharp tug on her lips or plunge of his tongue into her mouth, her toes curl, and sheâs panting within minutes. She grabs his shoulders, digging her nails into the muscle there, and his fingers tangle in her hair and yank her head back so he can lavish her throat. Ada closes her eyes. Behind their lids flicker every time the two of them have been together, extracting and piecing together information in an attempt to figure out which Chris sheâll have tonight. Will it be the attentive care? Or the dominating passion that leaves her breathless and aching for more?
He sinks to his knees, forcing her thighs uncomfortably against the arms of the chair to accommodate his bulk as his mouth trails from her neck to her chest. Her skin throbs in his wake, no doubt due to the bruises that will stay there for days as reminders of their tryst. And when his fingers grab the hem of her shirt, she starts working on the buttons even as he rasps, âTake it off, or Iâll tear it.â
âItâs Gucci,â she rebukes him.
âI donât give a damn.â
âOf course you donât.â With a sigh she leans back, the fabric parting to reveal her bare chest and stomach. âYouâre always so impatient.â
Chris bites the curve of her breast, leaving a pleasant sting. âYou want patience, go to Leon.â
Her mouth purses at the reminder. Itâs not jealousy on his part, because she knows that he couldnât care less about who she sleeps with when heâs not around. Itâs only a taunt meant to get under her skin, and she hates that it finds its mark. âWhy donât you put that mouth to better use, huh?â
She canât see him looking at her, but she can feel it like the gaze of a predator on her skin. One of his large hands curls around her hip while the other cups her breast, a slow and reverent touch that makes her unprepared for the ferocity with which he draws her nipple into his mouth and suckles it. Adaâs back bows, a sharp moan spilling from her lips as he teases her flesh with his tongue, soothing the scrape of his teeth with hard swipes before doing it again and again in a cycle that leaves her breathless. The fingers wrapped around her breast shift to find its twin, and another cry leaves her when he plucks her nipple between them.
Liquid heat pools between her thighs and soaks the lace covering her sex as he continues. Sometimes the fervor slows, but itâs only ever for a minute at best before it resumes or he switches his hand and mouth to keep her teetering on the edge. Once, years ago, heâd made her come from this alone. Now, she feels that peak rushing towards her, the climb fed by every delicious, half-painful press of his lips.Â
âChris,â she groans, her hips lifting.
He reads her need in the motion; the hand on her hip presses between her legs, the heel of his palm grinding on her hood over the fabric of her pants. Ada rolls into him, chasing the friction, and her skin grows tight and hot as her orgasm looms closer. Chris pulls away from her breast and kisses her furiously, tweaking and rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pleasure pulses, sharpens, and the sting of his teeth on her lip have her tumbling over the edge with a wanton cry.
Through the waves that rush through her, sheâs aware of him unbuttoning her jeans and his fingers slipping within her underwear to find her soaked clit. She writhes against him, pinned between his body and the back of the chair as he rubs her pearl with firm, quick strokes. It stretches her pleasure.
It makes her angry.
Ada digs her nails into his scalp and grabs his wrist, pushing his fingers farther down until they probe her opening. He had caught her off guard, wrested control away from her, and it infuriates her that he tried, that he succeeded, that she let him. He grunts, the scent of her arousal thick in the air between them. The sound sends another shiver through her, and she rocks her hips until his broad fingers slip within her sex, uncaring of the bliss still lingering against her mind. The rest of this will be on her terms, not his. And if he doesnât like it, he can find someone else to fuck tonight.
She drags her hand down his neck, groping his shoulder before continuing down to pinch his nipple. His hips surge, digging into her thighs, and she laughs against his lips and moves her touch down to the hair beneath his navel. Thereâs no denying that heâs a work of artâhandsome in a rugged way, his body built by years of combatâand even through her anger she admires the sheer strength of him. He could fold her in half, and he has, and the thought of him doing it again has her searching between their bodies until her hand finds the rigid length of his cock.
âArenât you excited?â she purrs, toying with a bead of moisture at the tip. âDid you miss me?â
Chris curls his fingers and presses his thumb to her hood. âDonât think Iâve ever seen you come so fast,â he rumbles, and it wipes the smile from her face.
âYouââ
âShouldâve used my mouth,â he continues, stroking those thick fingers over her walls and pushing on a spot that has her biting her lip. âYou always moan so prettily when I do.â
âWhy donât you use it now, instead of irritating me with it?â Ada retorts.
His laughter vibrates against her cheek. ââCause then I wouldnât get to fuck you.â
She works a leg between them and uses it to kick him, sending him sprawling onto his back with a shout. Before he can push himself up, she rises from the chair and presses her boot to his stomach, staring down at him as a flash of lightning brightens the room. âDonât get cocky, Redfield. It isnât attractive,â she drawls.
He cups the back of her calf. âYou play too many games, Wong.â
âDonât act like you donât enjoy it,â she replies.
Slowly, she drags her foot down until the heel touches his pelvis. Chris draws in a sharp breath, his grip tightening, and for a moment she wonders how he would react if she pressed her boot against his cock. It always turns Leon into a needy mess, but something tells her that Chris would just drag her to the floor. So, with a soft laugh, she steps away from him and sits on the bed to take her shoes off.Â
Chris moves in front of her, and she lifts her hips to let him pull her pants and thong down her legs, half-hoping he will use his mouth next and half-wanting him to bend her over the mattress. She winds up getting a little of both; he kisses along her thigh, sliding his tongue briefly over her slit, and then he climbs over her and presses her back on the bed. His cock rests long and thick against the crease of her hip, his chest hair tickling her breasts as he bears down to pin her. Ada reaches over and grabs a condom from the bed that sheâd tossed there earlier and hands it to him, and draws her knees up and apart as foil crinkles.
He grabs her thighs and pushes them up so far that her knees almost bump into her shoulders. âWatch it,â she says.
Chris snorts. âYouâre awfully bossy today.â
Ada opens her mouth to deliver a scathing, well-crafted retort; but then he presses his hips forward, and his cock slides into her with one wet, slow thrust, the only noise she makes a low groan when it fills her to the brim. Itâs not that sheâd forgotten just how big he is, but six months of nothing other than her vibrator and her memories to get her off has left her with too much pent-up need. That need makes the feeling of him stretching her to her limit heady, and her fingers twist into the bedsheet.
He pauses for a moment, breathing heavily. His fingers flex on her thighs, rocking her a bit, and then he starts moving at a pace that starts slow and picks up with every thrust. Arousal slips from her opening and slides between her cheeks to puddle on the bed as he drives into her with wet slaps that sting against her backside, the pleasure just as rough and demanding as his touch.Â
She cranes her back, offering more, wanting more. Chris hooks one of her knees over his shoulder and reaches down, groping her tender breasts. He presses them together, flicks her nipples, squeezes them, everything that he knows she likes, that he knows will hasten her release. Itâs so good that it drives everything else away: her frustration at another useless mission, the lonely days and lonelier nights, the faint prick of guilt whenever she finds a way to make time for this but not for Leon. Ada gives herself over to it, placing her hands above her head and drawing his body down with her calf. What she and Chris have is raw, and itâs that rawness that she craves.
Love has only ever caused her grief.
His mouth covers hers, the kiss sloppy from their panting and the jostling of their bodies moving together. She grabs his shoulder, slick with sweat, to ground herself. Let him finish first, let him finish first, she thinks, almost as a prayer, because thereâs always a rush when he realizes his cock wasnât enough and uses his mouth to finish the job. Heâd told her once that she had some odd fixation on oral, on the sight of his head between her legs and the pleasure of his thick tongue mapping her sex, and she wonât deny it. If she finishes with him, there will be a cigarette and a brief shower before she leaves. If she doesnât, the night continues.
Her body betrays her. The heat coils in her abdomen, fueled by his cock and his kiss and his rough handling of her breasts. It spreads from there down her legs to the tips of her toes, up her chest and neck until her body is bathed in it and straining for release. Her chest flushes, her breasts tighten. Her sex clenches around him, drawing a low curse and a sharp pinch to her nipple that has her tossing her head back with a groan. Underneath it all is the thrumming of her heart, battering against her ribs with a ferocity that seizes her lungs.
Chris bites her shoulder.
And Ada falls apart.
Her orgasm blinds her, tearing through her like a tsunami that makes the earlier one seem tame by comparison. Ecstasy rushes along her veins, sending sparks skittering over her skin to the place where their bodies join; it makes his length, already large, feel huge as she squeezes around it with contractions that have her bowing and straining on the bed. Everything fades under its pressure. The fact that theyâre on opposite sides, that Leon is probably waiting for her call, that tomorrow she and Chris will be back to radio silence, the soreness from her mission, the anger, the sorrow, even her name crumble under the blinding pleasure.
Above her Chris tenses, and his hand finds her throat as his hips batter against her thighs, giving her no end to her orgasm. Then there is a grunt, a low, whispered groan, as his thrusts slow to let her ride it out. She finished first, she realizes, but she canât find it within her to care.
He leans back, his cock sliding from her raw sex and making her wince. Typically sheâd be teasing him, riling him up as she dressed and fished a cigarette from her pocket, but now thereâs only heaviness as warmth lingers under her skin. With her eyes closed, she feels him stand and hears the click of the lamp, followed by him digging through her pockets to find her pack of smokes. The butt of one presses to her lips; she wraps them around it, and he flicks the lighter as she takes a long drag.
âDonât set the mattress on fire,â he mutters.
Ada reaches up to take the cigarette between her fingers. âMm, wouldnât that be a shame?â
The bed dips beneath his weight, and his palm lands on her stomach and drifts up to cup her breast. âThatâs all you have to say?â
âYou did a good job,â she replies with a grin. âI might stick around a while longer. You really know how to wear a lady out.â
âHm.â
He turns, she thinks, and she lets out a sigh when his fingers move back down to slip between her legs. âAgain?â she asks with a little laugh, and the stroke of his thumb over her clit is the only answer she needs.
Itâs been a while, hasnât it? Checking my A03 and here, I havenât published anything that wasnât a collaboration or a zine piece. There are requests gathering dust in my drive. WIPs that Iâve barely looked at in months. And still, somehow, Iâm gaining notes and followers. People come in, leave kudos or likes, subscribe to me . . . Itâs overwhelming having that kind of support in a dry spell like this. I want to thank all of you for sticking around or, if youâre new, for dropping by and deciding to stay for a while.
Because this is going to get a little long, Iâm putting the rest of it under a cut. I just wanted you all to know how appreciative I am to have you before I begin.
Itâs been an interesting year for me. My depression and anxiety hit an all-time low. I lost friends that were dear to me. Fandoms that I loved ended, or shifted in a way that I couldnât keep up with. Iâve found new ones, and rediscovered old ones. Iâve made new friends. I finally started therapy, and weâre working on medication to keep me as stable as I can be.
In the midst of all of thisâand a global crisisâI started to lose my inspiration to create, so I threw myself into fanzine projects. To date, Iâve participated in about fifteen or so, some of which Iâve modded as well. Theyâre fun, but thereâs a lot of work that goes into them, and it was draining for a while. Luckily Iâm doing them in moderation now, so Iâm no longer exhausted.
@lickitysplitfic / @maybeishouldwait has really kept me sane. Weâve written so much together: fun scenes, little one-shots, long stories that might not ever see the light of day. Weâve learned how to have fun writing, and how to enjoy it guilt-free even if we arenât planning to publish.Â
This hiatus that Iâve taken has been pretty helpful overall. And because I donât want to wax poetic for too long, letâs shift gears into whatâs coming in 2021. Well, the latter half of it lol.
First, weâre still publishing Marked. I have some ideas for Resident Evil floating around, and some old WIPs Iâd like to get back to. The Lunar Chronicles is particularly dear to me, and I want to see it finished. Iâll be re-opening requests soon, once I get the ones I havenât done yet out of the way. There are one-shots to write, smut to have fun with. I want to use this year to learn how to be relaxed about writing; itâs a craft, yes, but if itâs more stress than fun, then I need to take a step back and try a different approach.
I still have a lot of stories to tell about Moth, Estarossa, and Mael. I have a few for Dante and Lir. And now, with Resident Evil, I want to look at the characters there: Chris, Jill, Leon, Ada, Claire, and all the others.Â
So, to close this out, I want to say thank you again. To supporters old and new, to friends old and new, to those whoâve listened to me ramble about my ideas and those who ask questions that leave me on my toes, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death
Categories: F/F, F/M
Fandom: Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins
Relationships: Mael/Raste (OFC), Arthur Pendragon/Guinevere (OFC), Implied Escanor/Merlin
Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Alternate Universe â Canon Divergence, Politics, Rebellion, Romance, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Slow Romance, Eventual Smut
Summary: Years after Arthur takes the throne, a rebellion takes hold in the former kingdom of Dunbray. Tristan and Lancelot, newly-made Knights of the Round Table, work to uncover the people behind it, all while questioning if Camelot is in the right; when they call on Mael to help, he winds up far more entangled in the rebellionâs affairs than he ever wanted to be, drawn by both their plight and the one who now wields the sun.
»»ââââ-ăâăââââ-««
âAnd if any man will hurt them,
fire proceedeth out of their mouth,
and devoureth their enemies;
and if any man will hurt them,
he must in this manner be killed.â
â Â Revelations 11:5
The ringing of the blacksmithâs hammer follows Mael to the edge of town, a cacophonous din of metal striking metal to bend it into a desired shape. Even when they had been speaking, the manâFolsworth, as heâd introduced himselfâhad continued to work, and now Maelâs throat feels raw and hoarse from all of the shouting he was forced to do to make himself heard. One week of trekking through the countryside of Dunbray, buffeted by continuous storms that turned even the flattest of roads into a dangerous sludge liable to twist oneâs ankle with the slightest misstep, and he has no more information than he did when he started his search. Itâs enough to make anyone feel irritated and defeated, and Mael has never handled either emotion well. Too prone to melancholy, as Jenna would say.
He hunches his shoulders, turning his collar up against the rain. The night before, he had given in to Tristan and Lancelotâs constant badgering to stay in an inn instead of making camp, a decision he still regrets; humans are entirely too loud for his tastes, filling the air of enclosed spaces with the stench of their ale-slick sweat, but he had borne it with what little good humor he had left. Part of him had even hoped that perhaps something useful would come of his discomfort. All he had gotten, though, was a hangover and a brief flicker of amusement when a drunken lout proclaimed, a frothing mug of ale swinging wildly from his hand and spilling onto the floor, that he had fucked the rebellionâs leaders in a night-long orgy.
Humans, he thinks with a little snort, rubbing his fingers together to stay warm, are the most foolish of creatures.
