I loved the post. Maybe part two with Donald being a matchmaker cus he’s tired of Cecil in denial and reader being clueless?
Oh, but of course. How could I not make a part two of the last part?
At first, Donald thought it was cute to watch the two of you fumbling around, stumbling over words and gestures as you tried to express how you really felt. There was something endearing about the awkward glances, the half-finished sentences, and the nervous laughter you both shared.
But as time went on, that sweetness began to fade. The hesitation stopped looking charming and started looking painful. He could see the way you avoided saying what you wanted to say, how every opportunity slipped through your fingers, and it left a hollow ache in him.
What had once made him smile now made him sigh, because instead of watching a tender moment unfold, he was witnessing two people quietly breaking their own hearts. It wasn’t just sad anymore; it was almost embarrassing, like watching a play that dragged on too long, where everyone knew the ending except the actors themselves.
He’d absolutely spy on the two of you whenever the chance presented itself, lurking just far enough away to avoid being caught but close enough to see every awkward detail. And without fail, he’d end up dragging a hand down his face in exasperation whenever Cecil completely fumbled his attempts at flirting, stammering over compliments, laughing at the wrong time, or accidentally saying something that came out harsher than he meant.
What made it even worse was when you, oblivious as ever, didn’t notice the painfully obvious signs that Cecil liked you: the way his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he’d always volunteer to be around whenever you needed help.
Donald would mutter under his breath, torn between wanting to knock both of your heads together and wanting to step in himself just to put an end to the slow, agonizing dance. To him, it wasn’t just secondhand embarrassment anymore; it was practically torture watching two people who so clearly wanted the same thing keep missing each other by inches.
When he went out to grab coffee for you and Cecil, he always made a point of “accidentally” switching the cups before handing them over.
Sometimes he’d claim he’d forgotten whose was whose, other times he’d just set them down without saying anything at all, letting you both fumble awkwardly to sort it out. And then, before either of you could redirect the tension back onto him, he’d vanish, slipping out of the room with some flimsy excuse about a phone call or paperwork, leaving the two of you stranded with no one else to talk to but each other.
It was subtle, but deliberate, the way he engineered these tiny moments, forcing your paths to cross just a little more than necessary. In his mind, maybe if he staged enough of these “accidents,” you’d eventually run out of excuses to stay silent and finally admit what was written all over your faces.
I'm a sucker for yanderes. Would it be alright if you could write some yanderes headcanons for Gamma Jack?
Yessssssssss I have some ideas for this. It might be a bit short because there isn't much to work with, but I have a few more gamma Jack requests and personal ideas, so I'll only get better with his character.
Everyone wanted him. They fawned over his every word, hung onto his every movement, and worshipped the very ground he walked on. To them, he was untouchable, an icon, a star, someone to be adored from a distance but never truly known. And he reveled in it, soaking up every glance, every whisper, every desperate attempt to earn his attention.
Well almost everyone wanted him...All except you.
You didn’t look at him with wide eyes or hang on his every word. You didn’t throw yourself into the crowd or beg for a moment of his time. In fact, you seemed completely unimpressed, almost immune to the charm that had everyone else under his spell. And that, more than anything, caught his attention.
At first, it was just curiosity. How could you resist him when no one else could? But soon, that curiosity twisted into something else, something deeper. You became a puzzle he had to solve, a challenge he refused to lose. The more you ignored him, the harder he tried to catch your eye. Every smirk, every casual brush of his hand, every perfectly timed remark, none of it was a coincidence. He was relentless.
Because once he noticed you weren’t drowning him in attention like all his fans, he just had to have you. And he would win you over, by any means necessary.
He always wanted what he couldn’t have. The chase, the struggle, the thrill of bending someone to his will, that was what made his heart race. And once he finally got you, once you were his, the shine would fade. The excitement would wither into boredom, leaving him restless, unsatisfied. But that didn’t mean he’d let you go.
No, he’d keep you close, a possession to be admired when he felt like it, a reminder of his conquest. You wouldn’t be free just because he grew tired. You’d remain in his grasp, a hollow trophy of his obsession, left to wonder which was worse: being wanted by him, or being forgotten by him while still trapped at his side.
In the beginning, he would seem almost perfect, attentive, sweet in his own strange little way. He’d know exactly what to say to disarm you, how to make you laugh, how to pull you deeper into his orbit. It would feel safe…maybe even fated. But masks don’t stay in place forever.
Soon, the cracks would show. The warmth in his voice would curdle into something sharp, something dangerous. The sweetness that once felt intoxicating would sour into a bitter possessiveness. His smile would linger too long, his stare would burn too deep, and the way he spoke your name would send an icy shiver crawling down your spine.
It wouldn’t be a gradual change either; it would hit like a switch flipping in the dark. One moment you’d recognize him, the next, he’d be a stranger wearing the face you thought you loved. And that sudden shift, that total transformation, would make your hair stand on end in the worst possible way.
Love at first sight for Cecil x oblivious reader? Fluff plz
Yessssssssssss, don't have to ask me twice. Honestly, I would have had this done and published by now if I didn't have work. Hope you enjoy. <3 (Kind of short, sorry.)
He never believed in love at first sight. In fact, he’d always thought the idea was ridiculous, something made up for movies and cheap romance novels, not something that could happen in real life. Love, in his mind, was built slowly, brick by brick, through trust and shared experiences. Anything else was just infatuation wearing a prettier name. And then…he saw you.
As cliché as it sounds, it hit him before he could even make sense of it. One second, you were just a stranger in his line of sight; the next, the world seemed to still, the noise around him fading to a distant hum. It wasn’t just the way you looked, though that certainly caught his attention; it was something else. Something in the way you carried yourself, the unguarded expression in your eyes, like you belonged exactly where you were in that moment.
He tried to brush it off. Told himself it was nothing more than curiosity, a fleeting flicker of interest that would vanish as quickly as it came. But the truth clung stubbornly to him, settling into the quiet corners of his mind. Every small detail about you, from the way you spoke to the way you moved, felt like it had already etched itself into him. He hated how fast it happened. He hated how powerless it made him feel. And yet, for the first time, he didn’t entirely mind.
This man wouldn’t ever straight-up tell you he has feelings for you. Hell, he wouldn’t even let himself fully believe it. The very idea would be something he’d shove into the deepest corner of his mind, smothering it before it had the chance to grow into something dangerous. Because if he named it, if he gave it shape, it would become real, and real meant vulnerable. Real meant you could hurt him.
So he told himself it was nothing. Just a passing fondness. A trick of the moment. The kind of warmth that could be explained away as curiosity, anything but what it really was. And yet…there were the moments that betrayed him. The way his voice softened without his permission when he spoke to you. The way he’d remember the smallest, stupidest details you’d shared. The way his eyes sometimes lingered just a heartbeat too long, before he caught himself and looked away, like the feeling had never been there at all.
If anyone ever called him out, he’d deny it with a scoff, an easy smirk, maybe even a sharp remark to throw you off balance. And still, later, alone, he’d feel that tightening in his chest again, the one he couldn’t quite shake. But he’d bury it deeper. Always deeper.
Only people who knew him well would ever catch the shift in his behavior, so realistically, that meant Donald. To everyone else, Cecil would seem exactly the same as always: composed, calculating, perfectly in control. The differences were small, almost invisible unless you were paying close attention. A lingering glance here, a slightly softer tone there, the faintest hesitation before speaking your name.
If you were truly oblivious, it would take ages before anything actually happened. Cecil wasn’t the type to push, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to hand you the truth on a silver platter. He’d keep it locked up tight, maybe letting it slip in little ways that you’d never think twice about, offhand comments, a rare joke at his own expense, a tendency to be around just a little more often than coincidence would allow.
Eventually, though, that patience would start to wear thin. Cecil didn’t like games when they weren’t on his terms, and your lack of awareness would start to feel less like innocence and more like stubbornness. By that point, he’d either blurt it out in a moment of irritation, sharp, unfiltered, and almost daring you to react, or Donald, fed up with watching the whole silent charade, would decide to intervene. And Donald, of course, wouldn’t bother with subtlety. He’d just say it plainly, in that way only he could, leaving Cecil somewhere between exasperated and mortified.
Note: I originally meant to post this forever ago and forgot to finish it. To be honest I've been in a depressive slump and haven't had the motivation to write sadly. Getting back to it tho.
An uncomfortable silence filled the air as I walked the abandoned halls of the building we had split up to search. Each step I took felt muffled, as though the walls themselves were swallowing the sound, unwilling to let anything echo in this forgotten place. Not a sight or sound of life anywhere, no creaking doors, no distant footsteps, not even the flicker of light to suggest movement. It was eerie, the kind of quiet that presses against my eardrums and makes breathing feel much too loud. It felt as if time itself had stopped in place, frozen mid-moment, and I had somehow been left behind in the stillness.
I moved carefully, senses heightened, every shadow along the walls demanding a second glance. My reflection in a broken shard of glass startled me more than it should have. I stayed silent on my feet, trying to make myself as weightless as possible, blending into the silence rather than disturbing it. For once, I found myself wishing I wasn’t alone. Not just for safety, but for sanity. The quiet was too deep, too unnatural, like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for something.
The complex was a vast, winding maze, all identical corridors and sealed doors, each one blurring into the next. Without any clear landmarks, it was far too easy to lose track of where I’d been, and harder still to know where to go next. Every hallway looked like the last, a looping purgatory of concrete and steel. I could feel the weight of the place settling in my chest, a growing tension that had nothing to do with the cold.
The grip on my gun was tight and unwieldy, my knuckles pale from the pressure as I forced myself forward, step by step. The weight of the weapon felt heavier than usual, a cold and rigid reminder of what could lie ahead. My heart pounded in my chest, a rhythmic warning that grew louder with every second, matching the anxious churn in my gut. The corridor stretched before me like a tunnel into uncertainty, shadows curling along the walls, flickering under the dim, unreliable lights.
Then I heard it, a soft, almost imperceptible shuffling from somewhere down the hall. It was faint, but unmistakable. My breath hitched, and for a split second, my heart plummeted into the pit of my stomach. Every instinct screamed at me to freeze, to retreat, but I clenched my jaw and inhaled deeply through my nose, willing my feet to keep moving. Each step was measured, cautious, and my boots barely made a sound against the floor.
I crept closer to the source of the noise, muscles tight, senses sharpened to the point of pain. But just as quickly as it had started, the sound vanished, swallowed up by an eerie, stifling silence that pressed in from all sides. I stood motionless, straining to hear anything more, the silence now far more unsettling than the noise had been. The hallway ahead loomed, quiet and watchful, as if it, too, were holding its breath.
I moved cautiously through the hallway, checking each room I passed for any signs of life, human or otherwise. Room after room yielded nothing but decay and darkness, until I came to one near the end of the corridor. That was when I heard it, a faint sound, barely perceptible, but just enough to make my heart rate spike. I paused, listening. It could've been anything, but something told me this was what I’d been searching for. I tightened my grip on my weapon, approached the door slowly, and exhaled the breath I hadn't realized I’d been holding.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my foot and gently nudged the door open, careful not to make any more noise than necessary. I kept my hands free, ready for whatever might be waiting on the other side. My fingers hovered near my sidearm, muscles tense, senses sharp. The hinges groaned softly as the door gave way, and I braced myself for the worst.
But what I saw brought me up short.
Inside, sitting in a worn leather chair near an old, soot-stained fireplace, was Dempsey.
At first, I didn’t believe it was really him. He was so still, unmoving, that for a moment I thought I was looking at a corpse. My mind raced. Was he dead? Hurt? Why wasn’t he reacting? Dempsey was never one to sit idle, especially not in a place like this. Normally, I’d be at gunpoint within seconds; his instincts were fast, brutal, and rarely wrong. But now, he didn’t even flinch. He just sat there, staring into the cold, dead hearth as if he hadn’t even noticed I’d entered.
I stood in the doorway, stunned, my pulse beginning to settle. The tension in my shoulders eased, and without even realizing it, I let my arm fall to my side, my gun following. Whatever I had expected to find, it wasn’t this. Something was wrong. Very wrong. But for the moment, at least, I didn’t feel the immediate need to fight. Dempsey’s silence was more disarming than any weapon.
He held his handgun idly in his lap, the metal catching the faint flicker of light from the fireplace as he turned it slowly in his hands. His fingers moved with a mechanical slowness, tracing along the barrel and grip like he’d done it a thousand times before. But it wasn’t the usual familiarity of a soldier checking his weapon. It was different. From where I was standing, it looked almost reverent, like he was holding something sacred, something that somehow mattered more than anything else in the world right now.
His posture was slumped, shoulders rounded forward as if he were bearing the weight of something I couldn’t see. His head was bowed low, chin nearly touching his chest, and he stared at the gun with a haunted kind of stillness. His eyes, what little I could see of them, were hollow, distant, like he was trapped somewhere deep inside his own mind. It was as if the room didn’t exist to him. I didn’t exist to him. The world around us had fallen away, and all that remained was that weapon and whatever memories it stirred in him.
It unsettled me. This wasn’t the Dempsey I knew, the blunt, loud-mouthed, always-ready-for-a-fight marine. This was someone else entirely. Someone quieter. Someone who looked like they had been thinking for far too long about things that didn’t have answers. I wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in my throat. I wasn’t sure if interrupting that silence would shatter him or me.
But I had to break the silence. It clung to the room like a heavy fog, pressing in around us, thick with unspoken thoughts and unresolved memories. Every second that passed felt longer than the last, like time itself had stalled in this forgotten place. The air was still, suffocating, and I could feel my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, louder than I wanted it to be. I didn’t know what was going on in his head, but the weight of it was almost palpable. Watching him sit there, motionless and withdrawn, made my chest tighten with a kind of quiet dread I couldn’t shake.
I didn’t want to startle him. I didn’t even know if he could be startled in this state. But the silence was unbearable, and something inside me, instinct, concern, maybe even fear, urged me forward. I took a small step closer, swallowing the hesitation that was rising in my throat.
“Dempsey?” I said softly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
It was a simple word, just his name, but it felt like I was shattering glass. The sound cut through the stillness like a blade, sudden and sharp. I half-expected him to jerk upright, to snap back into his usual, alert self. To reach for his gun or bark something defensive. But he didn’t. Not right away. He didn’t even flinch. And that, more than anything, unnerved me.
His head turned slowly, almost painfully so, as if even that small movement took effort he barely had left. When his eyes finally met mine, the breath caught in my throat. The look he gave me, God, it was heart-shattering. There was no fire in his expression, no spark of recognition or irritation, no sarcastic remark ready to be fired off like he usually would. Just... emptiness.
His eyes were distant, hollow, like they’d seen too much and felt too little all at once. It was the look of someone who had gone through hell and never really made it back. He wasn’t glaring, wasn’t suspicious, wasn’t even surprised; it was more like he’d forgotten how to feel anything at all. It was a kind of broken that didn’t show in blood or bruises, but in the silence behind his eyes.
And then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice rough and low, like it hadn’t been used in a while. There was no edge to it, no defense, no challenge, just a tired, worn-out acknowledgment. A word spoken not out of curiosity, but out of obligation. Like he knew he had to respond, but didn’t really care what came next.
That one word carried more weight than I was ready for. It wasn’t just an answer. It was a quiet admission: I’m still here... barely.
"Are you okay?" I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth before I had the chance to think them through.
It felt like such a stupid question the moment it left my lips, hollow, inadequate, completely unworthy of the situation in front of me. But what else could I say? What words even existed for this? For watching someone you once saw as invincible sit there like a ghost of themselves, barely tethered to the present?
I hated how uncertain I sounded. My voice was too soft, too hesitant, like I was afraid of the answer. And maybe I was. Because deep down, I already knew he wasn’t okay, how could he be? I just didn’t know how to reach him. I didn’t know if he wanted to be reached.
Still, I asked. Because the silence between us had grown too thick to ignore, and because even if I couldn’t fix whatever had hollowed him out, I needed him to know he wasn’t alone. That someone still saw him. That someone still cared, even if the words sounded feeble in comparison to everything he was carrying.
He didn’t answer right away. And in that pause, in that stretched-out moment where the air seemed to hold its breath, I wondered if he even heard me, or if the question simply didn’t matter anymore.
Without another word, I slowly slid my gun back into its holster. The metallic click felt strangely loud in the quiet room, like it didn’t belong in this fragile moment. I kept my hands open and visible, not out of fear, but out of respect, like I was approaching someone who’d been wounded far deeper than any weapon could reach.
Step by step, I moved toward him, watching for any flicker of reaction. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked somewhere between me and nowhere at all, like he was floating in a place I couldn’t follow. My knees trembled slightly beneath me, the heaviness of the moment pressing down with every step until I was right beside him. And then I just… sank. Slowly, deliberately, I dropped to the floor next to him, my body folding as if gravity had finally won.
I didn’t try to speak again. I didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes that neither of us would believe. I just sat there, cross-legged on the cold floor, close enough to feel the faint heat of the dying fire and the even fainter warmth from his presence. My shoulder was nearly touching the leg of his chair, but I didn’t reach out. I didn’t want to break the invisible barrier he seemed to have wrapped around himself.
Instead, I looked up at him, really looked at him. His face was worn, drawn, like the weight of years had settled onto his bones all at once. His eyes, once sharp and full of fight, were now dimmed, distant. I searched those eyes for something, anger, grief, recognition, anything, but all I found was a kind of quiet devastation that made my chest ache.
So I just stayed there, silent, grounded beside him. If words couldn’t reach him, maybe presence could. Maybe sitting there, quietly existing beside his pain, was all I could do. And maybe…for now, it was enough.
Just then, without warning, the gun slipped from his hands. It tumbled from his lap like dead weight, clattering against the wooden floor with a sudden, jarring bang that shattered the stillness of the room. The sharp, metallic crack echoed off the walls, loud and violent in the silence we’d both been drowning in. I flinched instinctively, my body jerking with a start as my heart jumped into my throat. For a split second, I thought it had gone off, that something terrible had happened, but no shot followed. Just the cold ring of steel on wood and the lingering tension it left behind.
The gun settled near my knee, unmoving now, the barrel pointing harmlessly toward the wall. I stared at it for a moment, pulse still racing, watching the way it rocked slightly before coming to a rest. And then I looked up at him.
His hands remained where they’d been, open, limp, resting uselessly on his thighs. It hadn’t been a deliberate gesture. He hadn’t dropped it in frustration or flung it away in anger. It had just…fallen. Like his grip had finally failed him. Like he no longer had the strength, or the will, to hold onto it.
That realization hit harder than the noise itself.
The man who once held that weapon like an extension of himself, always ready, always prepared, had let it go, without a word, without a second thought. It was as if the last tether between him and the fight had slipped away, and he hadn’t even noticed.
My voice caught in my throat. I didn’t know what to say, or if I should say anything at all.
But inside, I knew something had broken. And not just the silence.
Slowly, almost without thinking, I lifted my hand. There was a hesitation in the movement, a quiet uncertainty that made my fingers tremble ever so slightly as they hovered in the air between us. I didn’t want to startle him, didn’t want to force something he wasn’t ready for. But I also couldn’t sit there and do nothing. I couldn’t ignore the way he looked so far away, like he was barely holding on to whatever pieces of himself were still left. It wasn’t much, but maybe a small gesture could mean something.
Gently, I reached out and rested my hand in his. I didn’t grip tightly or try to pull him toward me. I just let my palm settle against his, open and soft, a quiet offering of presence and comfort. His skin was cold, far colder than I expected, and for a moment, I thought he might pull away. But he didn’t. He didn’t react at all. His fingers stayed limp beneath mine, motionless, like they weren’t sure if they remembered how to respond.
I wanted so badly to say the right thing, to offer words that might draw him back from wherever his mind had gone. But I didn’t know what those words were. Are you okay? already felt like too much. I’m here seems too small. And anything more than that felt like a risk, like prying into wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal.
So I stayed silent, letting my hand rest in his, hoping the gesture spoke for itself. I didn’t want to push him. I didn’t want to force him to talk, to explain, to relive whatever had hollowed him out like this. I just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. Even if all I could offer was silence and a hand to hold.
"Dempsey…" My voice came out quieter than I intended, almost a whisper lost in the heavy silence between us. I hesitated, struggling to find the right words—words that felt both honest and gentle enough not to break the fragile moment. "I don’t know what you need right now… or how to help you." My throat tightened, the weight of it pressing down so hard it was almost painful to speak. "But if you need anything… anything at all," I added, my voice cracking slightly, "I’m here."
I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore, not because I didn’t want to, but because the raw vulnerability in my own words made my gaze falter. I looked away, my eyes fixed on the cold, cracked floor beneath us, scared that maybe I’d said too much. That somehow, in trying to reach him, I’d overstepped some invisible line.
The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, but I didn’t pull my hand back. I couldn’t. Even if I was afraid of the answer, afraid of the emptiness I might find, I needed him to know I wasn’t going anywhere.
And yet, beneath it all, a quiet, gnawing fear twisted in my chest. What if it wasn’t enough?
He looked at me then, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, as if the simple act of speaking had drained what little energy he had left. His voice came out low and ragged, carrying the weight of countless battles fought both outside and within himself.
“What you’re doing... It’s enough,” he said, each word slow and deliberate, like a fragile confession. There was a raw honesty in his tone, tinged with a weariness that made the room feel colder somehow. “Just...being here.” He paused, swallowing hard, as if the next words were almost too much to say aloud. “That’s more than enough.”
For a moment, the silence that followed was filled not with emptiness, but with something fragile and real, a faint glimmer of connection between two broken souls. His gaze, though tired, softened just a fraction, and I could see beneath the surface the flicker of gratitude struggling to break through the darkness.
It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a vow. But in those few quiet words, there was an unspoken acknowledgment, an acceptance of the small, imperfect ways we try to carry each other through the worst of it. And somehow, that was enough.
I do this thing when I run into things/trip over them. I usually apologize to whatever the object is, whether it's a table, counter, desk, etc. So this would be their reaction to that behavior after they speak to the reader for the first time. Or something like that. (I don't know what I'm doing, but I had this idea at work.)
Might do some other characters if requested.~
(Able/Cabrizzio/Dorian/)
[Able] 🪵
I just know that Able would find ya absolutely adorable. Before you even got your hands on the Dateviators, he'd think you were the sweetest thing since honey.
When the day finally comes that you meet him face to face, expect a bit of teasing. Nothing mean-spirited, just the kind of playful jabs someone throws when they’re fond of you. And he'll bring it up again, from time to time, like it's an inside joke only the two of you share.
And after that, anytime you run into him in the future after you apologize, he'd respond, "It's alright, sweetheart," catching you off guard the first few times, since you aren't used to objects talking just yet, and partly because of how natural it sounds coming from him, like he’s been calling you that forever.
[Cabrizzio] 🗄️
Another thing he absolutely adores about you. Something that never fails to make him soften is your kindness. It’s in the way you speak, the quiet patience in your voice, the warmth in your eyes when you look at him. There’s a gentleness to you, something effortless and genuine, like it’s just part of who you are. He notices it in the smallest things: how you handle things with care, how you listen without interrupting, etc.
Honestly, you could do just about anything to him and he wouldn’t even flinch. If you bumped into him by accident? He wouldn’t be annoyed—in fact, he’d think of it as a gift. “Oh, you ran into me?” he’d say with the ghost of a smile.
And he means it, too. In his eyes, your smallest gestures are acts of grace. To be near you is a blessing. To be noticed by you? That’s a privilege he’d never take for granted. Because to him, none of that would matter. You matter. Your presence alone would always outweigh any mishap.
[Dorian] 🚪
It was endearing, really. One of those little things about you that never failed to make him smile. You brought a kind of unintentional charm to every misstep, and he couldn’t help but laugh, not at you, but because of the lightness you carried into the room. But then, you apologized.
Softly. Sincerely. Maybe with a hint of embarrassment in your voice, your eyes darting away like you weren’t sure if it was okay. And just like that, his laughter stopped, not because he was upset, but because the tenderness in your voice caught him completely off guard.
Once you finally met him, he'd tell you to be more careful. He'd hate to see you hurt yourself. “No need to apologize,” he’d say eventually, his voice low, his tone different now, more thoughtful, more sincere. “You didn’t do anything wrong Love.”
Don’t be nervous, there’s truly no need to worry. He’s an incredible teacher, the kind who makes everything feel less overwhelming and more like an exciting journey you get to take together. He has a way of explaining things that just makes sense, breaking down even the most complicated parts with clarity and patience. He never rushes you, never makes you feel silly for asking questions; in fact, he encourages it. His calm, steady presence and genuine enthusiasm create a space where you can relax, learn at your own pace, and actually enjoy the process. With him guiding you, you won’t just understand, you’ll feel confident and capable in no time.
Don’t hesitate to ask him anything, whether it’s about the rules, the story, or the best move to make next. He absolutely lives for those moments when your eyes light up with curiosity. That spark, that eagerness to learn and explore, is what draws him in every time. To him, your questions aren’t interruptions; they’re invitations to connect, to share, and to dive deeper into the world of the game together.
No matter how much he loves diving into the thrill of the game himself, there's something he cherishes even more: teaching you how to play. Watching your understanding grow with each turn, seeing you light up when a strategy clicks, and guiding you through the rules with a mix of patience and enthusiasm brings him a kind of joy that playing alone never could.
When you were just starting out, before you even had your own set, he offered you something truly special, his favorite set of dice. Worn just right from years of use and carrying the weight of countless adventures, they’re more than just a game tool to him. They’re lucky, trusted companions. Letting you borrow them was his quiet way of saying he believed in you, that he wanted you to feel welcome, comfortable, and confident as you stepped into this new world by his side.
He’d absolutely love to help you create your very first game character, guiding you through each step with a mix of excitement and gentle encouragement. Whether it's choosing your class, imagining your backstory, or figuring out what kind of abilities and traits would suit you best, he’s right there beside you—offering suggestions, answering your questions, and making sure you feel confident and inspired. Even if you're not quite sure what you're doing yet, he finds real joy in helping you shape that first creation, knowing it's the start of countless adventures to come. To him, it’s not just about building a character, it’s about building a world with you in it.
You're all gonna have to forgive me. Nothing can stop me from pushing out content for this man. He's become my latest hyperfixation.
I was working on this for the past few days, and ahhhhhhhhh I LOVE HIM!!!
The two of us sat crisscross on the floor, surrounded by a chaotic sprawl of character sheets, maps, pencils, and hastily jotted notes. Dice of every shape and color littered the space between us like discarded gems, catching the glow of the desk lamp overhead. The world outside the room had long faded from relevance. We were far too absorbed in the game unfolding before us to care about anything beyond our improvised battlefield and imagined quests.
Every few minutes, the silence would be broken by the clatter of dice against the hardwood floor, followed by scribbles of pencil on paper and murmured debates over skill modifiers and alignment consequences. There was an ease to it all, a rhythm we’d fallen into without realizing, just rolls, reactions, and laughter. With each turn, the lines between the game and reality blurred a little more, and we were content to lose ourselves in the illusion.
“Okay!” Chance suddenly declared, clearing his throat with theatrical flair. He straightened his posture and lifted his drink like a nobleman offering a toast, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he slipped back into character. “The man narrows his eyes, slowly sipping his drink as he weighs your—how shall we say—bold claims.”
He paused, letting the tension hang for effect, then cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, voice dipping into a gravelly impersonation. “He gives you a nod and says, ‘I’m certain I’d be able to lend you some gold… but not without a favor.’”
I couldn't help but laugh as Chance hunched his shoulders and deepened his voice, exaggerating every syllable. He was completely in his element, and for a moment, I forgot we were just playing a game. This—this shared pocket of imagination felt more real than anything else.
I half listened with a tired yawn, stretching my arms overhead as I blinked against the heaviness pulling at my eyes. The room felt warmer now, cozier somehow, dimly lit by the soft yellow glow of the lamp beside us, casting long shadows across the walls. I did enjoy the game—really, I did—but it had been a long session, and the late hour was finally starting to weigh on me. The kind of weariness that creeps in slowly, like a fog, until you're suddenly aware of just how long you've been sitting in one place.
Chance’s voice continued, animated and rich with character, but it filtered into my ears like the tail end of a dream. I smiled faintly, watching him throw himself into the role with boundless energy, even as I let my head rest against the edge of the couch behind me. I wasn’t ready to call it quits just yet—but the thought had crossed my mind. My fingers idly toyed with the edge of my character sheet, the once-crisp paper now creased and smudged with eraser marks and the occasional tea stain from our earlier break.
The dice in front of me had stopped rolling long ago, now just silent spectators to a campaign that had slowly, lovingly, sprawled over the course of the evening. I glanced at the clock, its hands edging past midnight, and gave a small sigh through my nose.
Still, even as fatigue settled into my bones, I felt that familiar flicker of affection for these moments, the quiet comfort of shared stories, laughter echoing off the walls, and the ever-growing tapestry of a world we built one roll at a time.
Chance's expression softened slightly as he caught the tail end of (Y/N)'s yawn, the fatigue written plainly across their features despite the effort to stay engaged. He knew that look all too well—eyes slightly glazed, posture slouched just enough to betray the tug of exhaustion, even if they hadn’t said a word about it. He had a tendency to get swept up in his narrations, throwing himself so completely into the game that he sometimes forgot the passage of time or the pace of the people playing with him. But this time, the quiet signals were too clear to ignore.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the window behind them. The glass reflected little more than the faint golden glow of their lamplight—beyond it, the world had gone completely dark, save for the soft shimmer of distant streetlights and the occasional passing car. He hadn't realized how late it had gotten. Time always slipped away during these sessions, swallowed by dice rolls and dialogue, and by the illusion of adventure spun between them.
He turned back to them, the edges of his dramatic persona fading as reality gently settled in. His voice, still warm, lowered into something softer, more grounded.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his tone no longer laced with bravado or theatrical flourish, but the quiet care of someone genuinely paying attention. “We can stop for the night, if you want. I don’t want to keep you up… we did start a bit later than usual tonight.”
There was a pause as he watched their reaction, his hands still resting over his notes, but the game clearly no longer the priority. It was always easy to forget that these stories they told, these make-believe battles and alliances, weren’t the only meaningful part of the night. The real magic was in the quiet companionship, the understanding that stretched silently between moments like this. He could finish the scene later. What mattered now was (Y/N).
“But we’re in the middle,” I said, my voice tinged with quiet protest as I sat up a little straighter, trying to summon a second wind. “It would suck to stop now.”
Even as the words left my mouth, I felt the heaviness behind my eyes and the way my limbs resisted movement, slow and reluctant. A wave of tiredness had rolled over me, sudden but undeniable, like a blanket I hadn’t meant to pull over myself. Still, I pushed against it, unwilling to let go of the story just yet.
We were right in the thick of it, the tension was high, the stakes had just been raised, and I could practically feel the next twist waiting on the other side of the next dice roll. It felt wrong to stop now, like closing a book mid-chapter, the characters paused mid-breath with their fates left hanging in the air. My character, our story, it all deserved more than that.
I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand and gave a lopsided smile, trying to shake off the fog creeping in around the edges of my mind. “I’m fine, really,” I added, not entirely convincing, but hopeful. “I just… don’t want to lose the momentum. You were on a roll.”
There was truth in that. Chance’s energy, his voice, the way he wove narrative threads into something bigger than the game itself, it kept me rooted in the moment, even when my body begged for sleep. This wasn’t just a game session; it was our time, carved out from the chaos of everything else. And even if I was tired, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of it.
I reached for the dice again, letting them roll between my fingers, more out of habit than readiness. “Let’s just… do one more scene. See where it goes. Then we can stop."
I looked up at him, offering a small, hopeful grin, already knowing he’d be able to see right through my fatigue. But maybe, just maybe, he’d understand why I didn’t want the night to end just yet.
Chance fidgeted with one of the dice on the floor, rolling it gently between his fingers as he looked down, his gaze momentarily distant. The familiar clatter of plastic on wood echoed softly between them, a quiet counterpoint to the silence that had settled in the room. He glanced away in thought, his expression caught somewhere between hesitation and quiet consideration.
He truly did appreciate (Y/N)’s desire to press on. It meant something, that spark of commitment, the drive to see the story through even in the face of tired eyes and fading energy. It spoke to how much they cared, not just about the campaign, but about this time they shared, these nights where imagination stitched them a world far removed from the ordinary. And yet, he couldn’t ignore what he saw. The weariness in the way they blinked slowly, the subtle lag in speech, and the way their shoulders had slumped without her noticing. The session, as fun and immersive as it had been, was clearly starting to take its toll.
He bit his lower lip, the edges of it curling slightly under the pressure, a nervous habit from when he was wrestling with decisions he didn’t particularly like making. He didn’t want to disappoint her, not when they were so clearly trying to hold onto the momentum, but he also didn’t want to keep pushing if it meant burning her out.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he said finally, breaking the quiet with a voice that had softened noticeably. “Really, I do. It means a lot that you’re still this into it even when you’re clearly ready to crash.”
He paused, the die still turning slowly in his hand.
“But I don’t want to push you if you’re feeling exhausted. It wouldn’t be nearly as fun for either of us if you’re running on fumes.” He met their eyes again, offering a faint, understanding smile. “Besides… the story will still be here tomorrow. I’d rather you enjoy it than power through it.”
There was sincerity in his tone, the kind that rarely surfaced when he was behind the veil of his game master persona. This was just Chance—no voice, no character, no theatrics—just a friend who cared more about (Y/N) than whatever cliffhanger the next encounter might bring.
He set the dice down gently, folding his hands in his lap as he waited for her response, letting the moment breathe.
“Yeah… I’m sorry,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a murmur as I let out a small, tired breath. I reached up to rub the back of my neck, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy my body felt, how my limbs seemed to sag just a little more with every passing minute. “I’m just so tired after work, and… we’ve been at it for a while now.”
As the words left my mouth, a ripple of guilt stirred in my chest. I glanced down at the scattered papers and dice between us, the remnants of the world we’d built tonight. The story was unfinished, the characters mid-mission, their choices hanging in the balance—and I hated the idea of being the reason we paused, the reason the momentum faded.
I shifted slightly, fingers absently smoothing a crease on my character sheet, the motion more for comfort than anything. “I didn’t want to cut it short,” I added after a beat, my eyes flicking back up to meet his. “You were doing such a great job with the scene, and I didn’t want to let you down or kill the mood.”
The room felt quieter now, more still, the hum of the lamp above us filling in the silence that lingered. I wrapped my arms loosely around my knees, the comfort of the position grounding me as I tried to shake the feeling that I’d let something good slip through my fingers. But even with the guilt, I knew I was being honest. I was tired. The kind of tired that goes deeper than just wanting sleep—the kind that came from a long day, a busy week, and the slow, creeping weight of burnout.
“I guess I just didn’t want the night to end,” I admitted softly, offering a small, tired smile. “But I think my body’s already decided it’s done for the day.”
“Don’t apologize for feeling tired,” Chance responded gently, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that only comes from familiarity and genuine care. “We’ve been at this for hours, after all. It is getting late.”
He leaned back slightly, bracing himself with one hand on the floor, and let out a slow breath as he glanced around at the scattered remnants of their campaign. The maps, the notes, the half-empty drinks and bowls of forgotten snacks—it all told the story of an evening well spent. But even as much as he wanted to keep going, to see what twist or turn might come next in their shared story, he could feel the change in the room. The energy was quieter now, slower. And (Y/N) looked like they were balancing on the edge of sleep.
He paused for a moment, thoughtful. The impulse to continue tugged at him—he could’ve easily narrated one more scene, spun one more encounter out of thin air. But he knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not when their head was nodding forward every few minutes, not when the excitement in their voice had given way to soft, apologetic tones. He had too much respect for the game and for them to treat it like something to be rushed through.
“Maybe…” he began slowly, choosing his words with care, “we could stop here for now.”
There was reluctance in his voice, a subtle thread of regret woven through the suggestion. His gaze lingered on the dice she still held loosely in her hand, her fingers unmoving, the bright plastic now resting idle. “We’re at a natural pause point anyway. It makes sense to wait until you’re feeling more rested.”
He offered a small, reassuring smile, one corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “I don’t want you to push yourself too hard just for the game. It’s supposed to be fun, remember? Not something that drains you even more.”
His eyes met hers again, softer now. “We’ll pick up right where we left off—same characters, same energy, maybe even better snacks,” he added with a small chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “The story isn’t going anywhere.”
He gave them a moment to respond, letting his words settle between them like the comfortable silence of a long friendship.
"Aww, thanks, you're too sweet," I responded.
Chance chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as (Y/N) spoke, and he shook his head slightly, both amused and touched. There was something about the way they said it, so genuine, so casual, that made his chest tighten just a little in that quiet, aching way affection sometimes sneaks in.
He shrugged, the gesture a little sheepish, his gaze dropping for a moment to the cluttered floor between them. “Well,” he murmured, voice laced with modesty and just a hint of embarrassment, “I just don’t like seeing you pushed to your limits.”
He glanced back up at them then, and for a heartbeat, his expression turned serious, not heavy, but honest, the kind of look that stripped away the usual banter and left only sincerity behind. “You work hard enough already,” he said, softer now, a subtle crease forming between his brows. “You’re always doing so much. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you’re tired and miserable tomorrow.”
There was still a flicker of worry in his eyes, to make sure they were really okay with ending the session here. It wasn’t just about the game—it never was. It was about them, their comfort, their well-being, the trust they shared across the countless late-night campaigns and shared moments like this one.
Slowly, he reached forward and began gathering the scattered dice, the click of plastic against plastic filling the space between them in a rhythmic, unhurried pattern. He picked up their dice last, giving it a quick spin on the wood floor before catching it in his palm and adding it to the others. With his free hand, he stacked the character sheets, smoothing out the creases and placing them in their usual folder with care. Every motion was gentle, deliberate, like he was trying to preserve the moment rather than rush it away.
“Besides,” he added after a moment, glancing back at her with a more playful tilt to his voice, “if we stop now, it gives me time to come up with something really evil for next session. You know… make you regret ever suggesting we pause.”
His grin widened slightly, teasing just enough to lift the mood without losing the tenderness that had settled between them. The game might’ve paused, but the quiet understanding they shared was still very much alive, humming like a thread of magic beneath the surface.
I reached forward to help with the cleanup, sliding papers into neat piles and gathering stray dice that had rolled beneath the edge of the couch. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that only came after hours of shared focus, the room still humming faintly with the echoes of our laughter and storytelling. We moved in sync, a practiced rhythm from countless nights like this, though the weight of fatigue made each movement slower, more deliberate.
As I reached for a stack of index cards at the same time Chance went for the dice bag, our hands brushed—just barely. A whisper of contact, skin against skin, warm and unexpected.
The touch was light, nothing dramatic, but it startled me more than it should have. My breath caught, and I jumped slightly, as if the sensation had sparked something too sudden, too close. “S-sorry,” I stammered, instinctively pulling my hand back as a flush crept up the back of my neck. I kept my eyes low, suddenly very interested in a particularly bent character sheet.
The brush of his fingers had been nothing, really. Accidental. But it lingered longer in my mind than I wanted to admit, gentle and fleeting, like static, like the hint of something left unsaid. My heart thudded a little faster in my chest, more from the surprise than anything else…or so I tried to convince myself.
I could feel the awkward tension settle for a moment, delicate and uncertain, like the pause in a conversation when neither person is quite sure what to say. And yet, even in my embarrassment, I sensed no judgment from Chance. No teasing. Just the quiet, patient presence I’d come to rely on.
I glanced up, halfway expecting him to laugh it off, but something in his expression made me pause, calm, understanding, maybe even a little amused, but not unkind.
Chance’s eyes flicked down instinctively to where their hands had touched, just a fleeting brush, the kind that might’ve gone unnoticed under any other circumstances. But he had noticed. And more than that, he noticed the way (Y/N) had jumped slightly, the soft stammer in their apology. The reaction was small, almost nothing…and yet, to him, it felt like everything.
He found it oddly endearing, the way such a brief, accidental contact had caught them off guard. There was a certain vulnerability in it, a raw honesty that tugged gently at something inside him. She wasn’t pretending it hadn’t happened, wasn’t laughing it off, or making a joke; they were just there, caught in the moment, real and unguarded. And for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, that meant more to him than he expected.
“It’s…It’s fine,” he replied after a beat, slightly flustered. He looked at me, then quickly away again, his gaze dropping back to the notebook in his hand. “No need to apologize.”
Still, his face felt warm from the contact, not hot, exactly, but tinged with something he couldn’t quite shake. He cleared his throat quietly, a subtle attempt to regain composure, and reached for the last set of dice with deliberate focus. His fingers fumbled slightly as he tried to zip up the pouch, and he cursed under his breath, more at himself than the stubborn zipper.
He could feel the moment lingering in the space between them, hovering there like unspoken subtext. He tried to act casual, continuing to sort the materials and stack the books, but it was hard to ignore the slight flutter in his chest. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just tired nerves and a long evening and the strange intimacy that always settled in the quiet after a shared adventure. Or maybe—just maybe—it was something more.
“I, uh…” he began, then stopped himself, unsure of what he was about to say. Something about how he didn’t mind the touch. Something about how it wasn’t just the game that made these nights feel important. But the words felt too delicate, too soon, and so he let them fade.
He offered a small, somewhat bashful smile as he glanced her way again. “Guess we’re both a little more tired than we realized.”
Since only the game demo is out this might be a bit rough. Once the full game comes out I'll remake this in case anything is super off.
- I'll probably make dating headcanons soon but I wanted to write about him falling in love with Y/N since it's so adorable.
If yearning were a person, this would be it, the embodiment of longing wrapped in soft glances and lingering silences. It’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, as if memorizing the moment.
It’s in the small gestures, the pause before he speaks, the way his hand almost reaches for yours, the softness in his voice when he says your name. He doesn’t just feel love; he aches with it, like his heart is always leaning in your direction, waiting, hoping.
His presence is a constant hum of unspoken want, tender and patient, like he’s made of all the moments where love is felt but not yet spoken aloud.
As much as he absolutely loves when you join him for a game, your presence making every match feel more exciting and fun. He’s just as enthusiastic about diving into your world. Whether it’s something creative, intellectual, or totally outside his usual comfort zone, he would fully throw himself into your hobbies and interests with genuine curiosity and effort.
He’s the type who doesn’t just participate out of obligation but takes the time to learn what you love, ask questions, and even surprise you by researching things on his own. Your passions become important to him simply because they matter to you.
Notes: Okay, this one is for the Nikolai people because I know you all exist. (I've seen at least one person on Tumblr. Case closed.) He is not my favorite, but I can see the appeal.
-Alright, I will admit this is kind of rushed and shorter than normal, but I've been busy with a new job.
[Unedited]
Page number: 3
Word count: 1,049
There we all stood Richtofen, Dempsey, Takeo, Nikolai, and myself, directly in the middle of ruined Stalingrad, surrounding the mech that holds the fresh corpse of Nikolai's alternate self.
The final soul had been collected in the summoning key, leading us all one step closer to Agartha. I turned to face my Nikolai from Dimension 62, noticing how he couldn't keep his gaze from his alternate universe self.
They couldn't be more different. Your Nikolai was a noble soldier, while the other was a depressed drunk, abandoned by his own government when he wasn't needed anymore. He just continues to stand there as if mourning his counterpart, the rest of us watching him silently.
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and gave him a weak smile. "Are you alright?"
Nikolai looked up when I placed my hand on his shoulder, turning his gaze away from his counterpart. His eyes looked even duller than usual; his shoulders relaxed and slumped. The man looked tired, not physically, but mentally. He seemed to be carrying the weight of something heavy on his shoulders.
"I'm…I'm fine," he mumbled after a slight pause.
His response didn't seem convincing whatsoever. My face turned into an expression of sympathy as I removed my hand. Nikolai kept his gaze on me for a moment longer before sighing silently and turning his attention back to his dead counterpart resting in the mech's cockpit. He didn't seem to know what to do or say at this point. It was almost as if he was reliving all of his trauma all over again. Meanwhile, Richtofen, Dempsey, and Takeo all watched the scene in silence, their own expressions varying between worry and concern.
"How about you guys give us a minute…alone." I gestured for them to leave as I took a step closer to Nikolai, having our shoulders brushing. I was ready to hold all the weight he was carrying, even for a moment.
Richtofen, Dempsey, and Takeo exchanged glances between themselves before shrugging and walking far enough away to give us both some privacy.
Once me and Nikolai were left alone, I took a step closer to him, my shoulder brushing against his as Istood beside him. Now able to view his expression more clearly, the look of exhaustion and weariness visible in his eyes. Nikolai's shoulders slumped even further as he took a deep sigh, still struggling to find the right words to say.
"You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I'm here if you need to," I said, looking up at him.
Nikolai nodded silently, his gaze still fixated on his dead alternate counterpart. He was quiet for a moment, but eventually, he spoke up in a low voice.
"It's strange…seeing what I could have become…if I didn't have you all," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he seemed lost in his thoughts.
He paused, letting out another heavy sigh before continuing. "I can't help but wonder…what would have happened if we never met?"
My heart could shatter into a million pieces as his voice reached my ears, sounding more broken than it ever had before. I looked back at the body, then back at him. "Well, you don't need to worry about that," I said, gently grabbing his hand in mine.
Nikolai's hand twitched slightly when I grabbed it, but he didn't pull away. He merely gripped my hand tightly in return, silently appreciating the gesture.
His gaze was still focused on his counterpart in the mech, the broken and lost expression never leaving his face. "I…I know," he mumbled softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just…I can't help but wonder about the 'what-ifs' sometimes, y'know?"
"Well, there are far better what if scenarios you could think about instead," I responded lightheartedly.
Nikolai let out a soft chuckle in response to my lighthearted comment, his grip on my hand lessening slightly. "Oh yeah?" he replied with a hint of a smirk, finally turning his gaze away from the mech to look at me. "Like what?"
"Well for starters what if Richtofen's crazy plan works and we save our crazy asses? What if we get our happy ending?" I respond matter of factly.
Nikolai's smirk widened into a small smile, amused by my matter-of-fact response.
"I suppose that would be a much more pleasant 'what if' to think about, wouldn't it?" he mused, his expression becoming a little more lighthearted.
He paused for a moment, his grip on my hand remaining tight as he considered my words. "You really think we'll get a happy ending?" he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"I don't know, but we can dream, can't we?"
Nikolai chuckled softly at my response, his smile growing slightly wider. "Yeah…I suppose we can," he agreed, his expression becoming more thoughtful.
He was silent for a moment longer, his gaze drifting away from me to the ruined city surrounding us both. "You're always so optimistic," he noted softly, his grip on my hand still tight as he spoke. "How do you do it?"
"Well, I have you for starters. And I'd rather be optimistic than sulk around waiting for death."
Nikolai chuckled softly again, his expression seeming a little lighter now. "I suppose that's true," he acknowledged, looking back down at me. "You do have a way of brightening up even the darkest of situations."
His gaze lingered, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before he spoke again. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
I gave him a playful smile. "You'd be dead by now if I wasn't there to watch your back."
°[Younger Cecil Stedman X Secret Wife/Hero Reader]°
Summary - This takes place immediately after Cecil gets hurt, following all the intense surgery and necessary medical procedures to patch him up. The wounds are still fresh, and the lingering ache from the ordeal is a constant reminder of how close things came to going horribly wrong.
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Notes - Okay since this is my first time writing for him it might be ooc, but I’m trying my best. Though after reading all the other fanfics about him (which isn’t enough) I think I did enough research. Plus rewating every scene he’s in I think I’m ready. Alright, enough ranting I hope you enjoy.
P.S. I rushed to finish this after work so there might be some small mistakes here and there. I'll edit it in due time.
Word count: 2,510
Page number: 7
It had been two weeks since I’d heard anything from Cecil. I called and texted him till my fingers went numb. We might go weeks without seeing each other due to work but he’d always try to call or message me so we knew the other was alright. Last I knew he went on a solo mission when they got a tip, but I was sure he would be fine. If it was something life-threatening they would have sent me in to assist as his partner.
After I hadn’t heard back from him I knew something was wrong. I had to keep our marriage a secret for both our safety, but It was hard to keep a level head not knowing if my husband was okay. I made calls asking about his whereabouts in a way that didn’t scream desperately worried.
It was another week before I got any information and…It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I was told the entire mission was confidential information. But was told that Celil got hurt pretty badly. They reassured me of his excellent care, and their voices receded to a faint hum in the back of my mind, the shock numbing my senses. He had been in the medical facility for the past two weeks and I hadn’t been told a single thing. I had to control myself as my blood felt like it was boiling. But the anger quickly passed and despair followed. I thanked them for finally getting back with me.
I asked if I could see him. I joked that I needed to make sure my favorite partner wasn’t dead yet. I worked with most of the higher ranked agents but I worked with him the most. Noone needed to know the real reason, to any if them we just worked well together. It was hard to put on the fake smile and laughter that followed.
They weren't sure if he was ready for visitors. I have to ask someone higher up to get anything done around here. I rubbed my temple in frustration and with a deep sigh thanked them before hanging up the phone.
I had to make an appointment with the medical facility desk the following day and fill out paperwork explaining why I was visiting and so forth. The process was excruciating as it was time-consuming. Guess being a hero who works for the GDA doesn’t get you ahead of anyone else around here. I rushed through everything making my handwriting sloppy as all hell but I got it finished and quickly gave it back so I could see him as soon as possible.
“In a hurry (Y/N).” The person working at the desk joked with a smile.
“Y-Yeah plenty of work to get done, people to save all that,” I responded as normal as possible.
“I understand that. I’ll get these sorted out as quickly as I can for you. But for now, I’ll need you to wait over there for me.” She said gesturing to the seats where I just was.
I held back an annoyed sigh as I thanked her. I returned to my seat in the corner. Every minute dragged on making me worry even more. After a while, I pulled out my phone looking for a distraction so my mind didn’t wander too much. But that made it worse when I ended up opening my gallery and looking at the few pictures I had of Cecil and me. I had some cute selfies of us together, a picture I took when he fell asleep at his desk that he thinks I deleted, date photos, and things he sent me from work.
“(Y/N),” She called from the desk.
My head quickly shot up as I heard my name.
“You can see him now. The doctor says he’s well enough for visitors”
“Thank you,” I quickly responded and I calmly walked to his room, well until I was out of sight then I practically ran.
Once I got to his room I froze unable to move for a moment. It took me a good minute before I brought my hand up to knock on the door. I heard a strained voice.
“Come in,” Cecil said voice sounding deeper than the last time I heard him.
I slowly opened the door expecting the worst.
When I opened his door his face was inflamed and raw from previous reconstructive surgery, marred by a prominent scar that ran across half of his face. Despite the shock and pain, a surge of relief washed over me—Cecil was alive, albeit heavily sedated.
"Cecil..." I mumbled as my eyes watered in relief.
A hoarse, gravelly whisper escaped his lips, his voice cracked and rough. "(Y/N)...?"
I slowly walked over the the hospital bed he was lying in and sat down on the chain that was beside his bed. I gripped his hand with both of mine lovingly as if I was gonna lose him now.
“Yes, I'm here,” I said with a smile as tears fell down my face.
His fingers trembled ever so slightly, but he managed to squeeze my hand. "Don't...cry." he rasped, his expression tightening with effort. "Look...at me."
I looked into his eyes weakly unable to stop the tears from streaming down my face.
His gaze softened as he noticed my tears, a pang of anguish flashed across his eyes. He slowly raised his hand, movement restricted by lingering pain. He gently swiped his thumb against my cheek, attempting to comfort me.
"I'm okay," he whispered, his voice hoarse and laced with weakness. "I'm... here, (Y/N)."
I leaned into his touch and caressed his hand. “I-I could have lost you. I don’t even know what happened to you for two weeks I’ve been driving myself insane not even knowing if you were alive.” I said between weak whimpers almost unable to stop myself from sobbing.
The sound of my voice, trembling and filled with sobs, pierced him deeply. He squeezed my hand again, a silent act of reassurance. Even in his pain-muddled state, he loathed seeing me this distraught.
His gaze bore into me, unflinching and intense. "You...didn't lose me." His voice, though rough, held a steely resolve. "I'm here...I'm not going anywhere."
“I should have been there. You might not be stuck in this damn hospital bed if I went with you.” I said sorrowfully, deeply regretting my absence. “It's never safe to go on missions alone, why were you alone?” I wined out painfully.
His grip tightened on my hand, a mix of annoyance and concern crossing his expression. "Stop." His voice held a touch of firmness. "Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault."
He sighed, looking away momentarily, his gaze fixated on the sterile, blank hospital wall. "I...went...alone because...it was supposed to be...low risk. The intelligence was wrong."
I looked away in shame. “I still wish I was there for you.”
"Stop," he repeated, his voice stern but not without a note of vulnerability. "You...can't always be there."
He shifted his gaze back to me. "I don't want you...risking your life...just for me. I need you...safe."
“I know, but I was so scared. They didn’t even tell me you were hurt till the other day. I was worried to death.”
He winced at my words, his expression etched with pain both physical and emotional. The intensity in his eyes softened as he realized the depth of my concern.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I...didn't consider...how scared you would be...waiting for me."
“Of course, I was worried. I’m not just your partner Cecil, I'm your wife. It's my job to worry about you. On and off work.”
The corner of his lip lifted in a small, tired smirk.
"Worrying isn’t on the list of your marital duties," he retorted weakly, trying to infuse a hint of humor into the situation.
“Well with you it's at the top of the list.”
His smirk broadened ever so slightly, his eyes softening with affection.
"You're hardly the stereotypical doting housewife," he pointed out.
“Well, a stereotypical wife couldn't handle you.”
A chuckle, low and rumbling, escaped him, though it was followed by a wince of pain. "Ain't that...the truth," he agreed, his eyes gleaming with affection.
Seeing him wince in pain made my smile fall. “How are you feeling... really?”
His expression sobered, the amusement in his eyes fading as he sighed heavily. "Like... I got hit by a goddamn truck," he admitted. "Whole body feels like it's on fire. And my head hurts like a sonofabitch."
“Even with all the painkillers they most likely got you on?”
He nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Painkillers...take the edge off," he muttered, his gaze distant. "But they don't...fix everything." He shifted uncomfortably, wincing again as the movement aggravated his already sore body.
I scooted the chair I was sitting in even closer to his bed. I’d be in the hospital bed with him if I didn’t have any self-control.
“Are you gonna tell me what happened or is it to confidential?” I asked turning to look him in the eyes.
“Look you know I can’t tell you, and…you don’t want to know.” He answered the way I expected him too.
“Then it’s probably for the best then,” I responded meekly but pushed past that feeling. “How much longer till you can leave the medical facility and I can get you some real food?”
“Probably another week before they finally let me go.” He sighed in annoyance.
“Well guess I’ll have to come visit you every day till they finally release you.” I teased knowing he hated sitting around doing nothing in a bed all day.
His gaze fixed on me, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I know you will," he murmured, his voice gruff but lacking any hint of annoyance. "Can't get rid of... you that easy."
“Oh, so you thought getting hurt and almost dying would get rid of me. That some facial scar would bother me. Hell, you married me, and it's gonna take far more than that to run me off. Till death do us part is literal with me sweetheart.”
He rolled his eyes with a smile as I continued. “You’re too stubborn.”
“Well, I have to be when It comes to you or you’d never listen,” I said with a smile before gently kissing the new scar on his face.
He flinched at the touch of my lips against his sensitive scar, though his expression softened as he felt the love in that tender gesture making his cheeks turn a light shade of pink that was almost too light to notice.
"Careful," he murmured gently "It's still a bit tender."
I bit my lip playfully with a wink, “It's kind of attractive.”
He let out a huff of amusement, his smirk returning. "You always did...have peculiar tastes," he said, a slight edge of teasing in his voice.
“Well, I married you if that tells you anything.”
"You must've...lost your damn mind,"
“Maybe a little,” I responded before hearing a knock at the door. I quickly shot up and made myself presentable since our marriage was a secret to almost everyone else.
His attention shifted to the knock on the door, his expression slightly alarmed. Despite his injured state, there was a guarded wariness in his gaze. He discreetly gestured for me to step back, not wanting outsiders to witness the intimacy of your relationship.
I moved the chair back and stood up to answer the door. A GDA nurse entered, her expression professional and her voice courteous.
"Good evening, ma'am. I just need to check on Mr. Stedman's vitals." She briskly moved to the side of his bed, affixing the blood pressure cuff to his arm without sparing either of us a second glance.
"Of course." I stepped back so I wasn't in her way and continued speaking to Cecil but only about the stuff he missed at work while he was gone so we wouldn't give away our relationship.
He nodded, shifting slightly to allow the nurse access to his arm. As the nurse proceeded to take his vitals, he engaged in the conversation with you, keeping up the pretense of a casual work update. His gaze flickered between you and the nurse, aware of the need to maintain discretion.
Once the nurse was finished and left us alone I let out a sigh. As the nurse departed, closing the door behind her, the room fell silent once again. He relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing now that she was gone.
"Close call," he murmured, his gaze flickering from the door to me.
"It not like we were making passionate love to each other." I teased.
"That's not the point," he retorted gruffly, trying to maintain a stern demeanor. "We're trying to keep things... under wraps."
"Trust me I know more than anyone," I responded before my watch started beeping alerting me of trouble. I sighed in annoyance and looked up at Cecil painfully.
He noticed the beeping of your watch and the expression of annoyance on your face. A frown creased his brow as he recognized the sound.
"Duty calls?" he murmured, his voice tinged with resignation.
"At the worst times, as usual, People always need saving at the most inconvenient times I swear," I mumbled. "But I'll be back as soon as I can. And don't almost die on me again while I'm gone please."
His expression softened, his gaze fixed on you intently. "No promises," he said with a hint of a smirk, though his words held a note of sincere concern. "Be careful out there."
“Always am. But let's not forget something.” I quickly remarked before walking back over and leaning in for a loving goodbye kiss.
He leaned into the kiss, his hand gently cupping my chin. When I pulled back, a ghost of a smile played on his lips.
"Don't do anything reckless," he murmured, his gaze locking with mine.
tf2 angst!!! engie and medic with a reader who gets hurt/killed by one of their failed experiments? like reader gets killed because of one of engies machines exploding or reader dies during one of medics surgerys 🙂↕️ i want these men to SUFFER!!! (male/gn reader preferably u can choose which one!!)
Notes - I love some good angst every once in a while. Okay, I got a little carried away with Engie's so I didn't include Medic this time but I might do one for him in the future. (plsplspls forgive me)
Page number - 6
Word count - 1,988
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He’d have asked you to join him in his workshop without hesitation. It’s a space filled with half-finished inventions, scattered blueprints, and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Besides Medic, you are the only one he trusts to lend a helping hand with his work—whether it's fine-tuning a delicate mechanism or assisting with one of his more ambitious, and often chaotic, experiments. Your presence means more than just another set of hands; it’s a rare show of trust from someone who rarely lets others into his workshop.
Okay, he always appreciates your help—your steady hands, your quick thinking, your ability to keep up with his erratic bursts of inspiration—but if he’s being honest with himself, that’s not the real reason he asks you to join him. The truth is, he enjoys your company in a way he can’t quite put into words, not that he’d ever willingly admit it out loud. There’s something about having you there, in the midst of his organized chaos, that makes the hours pass a little easier, the work feel a little less tedious.
Your presence brings a certain energy to the space, something that lingers even when neither of you are speaking. The occasional exchange of banter, the subtle rhythm of working side by side, the shared moments of triumphant discovery or mutual frustration—it all makes the workshop feel less like a solitary space and more like a place where he actually wants to be. He doesn’t even mind when you tease him for getting lost in his thoughts or when you roll your eyes at his more eccentric ideas. If anything, he finds it oddly grounding, a reminder that not everything has to be an endless pursuit of progress and perfection.
While he tinkers with his latest creation, completely absorbed in the delicate work of tightening screws, adjusting wires, or fine-tuning intricate mechanisms, you are there beside him. Sometimes, you simply watch, observing the way his fingers move with practiced precision, how his brow furrows in concentration when something doesn’t align quite right. Other times, you’re more involved, handing him tools before he even has to ask, anticipating his needs as if the two of you have fallen into an unspoken rhythm over time.
But this time, something happens—something neither of us anticipated. It might have been the smallest, most unseen mistake, a single misplaced wire, an overlooked miscalculation in the circuitry, or perhaps just sheer bad luck. Whatever the cause, the consequences are immediate and far beyond what we could have expected.
A sharp, erratic spark crackles through the air, the bright flash of it searing into our vision for a split second. The sudden burst of energy sends a jolt through the workbench, and before we even have the chance to react, a deafening bang rips through the workshop. The force of the blast is enough to send both of us flying backward.
The impact is disorienting. The world tilts violently as we hit the ground, the breath stolen from our lungs in the aftermath of the explosion. Ears ringing, vision blurred, the acrid scent of burning metal and singed fabric fills the air. The workshop is momentarily engulfed in a haze of smoke and sparks, the remnants of whatever went wrong now smoldering ominously on the workbench.
For a moment, everything is still—just the distant hum of failing machinery, the soft crackle of something smoldering nearby. My pulse hammers in my ears as I try to process what just happened, my limbs aching from the force of the blast. Then, through the haze, I hear a groan, followed by a string of muttered curses.
I groan in pain, the sound barely escaping my lips as a weak, rattling breath. My body feels heavy—far too heavy—like I’ve been pinned beneath the weight of something invisible. My vision swims in and out of focus, a hazy blur of dim light, smoke, and scattered debris. The acrid scent of burning metal fills my nostrils, mixing with something more distinct, more visceral—the unmistakable scent of blood. It takes me a moment to realize that the blood is my own.
The searing pain in my chest registers slowly, like a delayed reaction to the chaos that just unfolded. Each shallow breath sends a fresh wave of agony coursing through my body, sharp and relentless. I try to move—just a twitch of my fingers, a shift of my legs—but nothing responds. Panic grips me as I struggle against the numbness creeping through my limbs.
Through my blurred vision, I force myself to look down, my breath hitching at the sight. Large shards of metal are embedded deep in my chest, jagged pieces glistening crimson in the dim workshop light. Blood pools beneath me, soaking into my clothes, warm and sticky against my skin. My heart pounds erratically, each beat sending another slow trickle of red from the wounds.
I try to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a weak, strangled gasp. My throat is dry, my body trembling from shock. The distant ringing in my ears drowns out most of the surrounding noise, but I can faintly hear movement—someone calling my name, their voice laced with urgency. I hear footsteps rushing toward me, frantic and uneven. A hand grips my shoulder, shaking me, a voice breaking through the fog.
"Can you hear me, Darling?" Engie’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, frantic and laced with something I’ve never quite heard from him before—fear. His drawl, usually so steady, so sure, is shaken, unsteady.
I blink sluggishly, trying to focus, but everything around me is a distorted haze. My vision, blurred and unfocused, shifts between the dim glow of the workshop’s overhead lights and the flickering shadows cast by the remnants of the explosion. I can barely make out his face, but I can feel his hands on me—warm, trembling slightly as he desperately searches for the full extent of my injuries.
He’s leaning over me now, close enough that I can see the tension in his face, the wide-eyed panic that he’s failing miserably to contain. His fingers press against my wrist, searching for a pulse, his breathing growing more erratic by the second. The way his eyes dart over me, the way his jaw clenches, it’s all so painfully obvious—even through my blurred vision, I can see it. The damage was bad.
"Stay with me, ya hear?" he pleads, his voice breaking just slightly at the edges. He moves quickly, trying to assess what he can, but I can feel the hesitation in his hands, the uncertainty. This wasn’t some simple injury he could fix with a few stitches and some bandages—he knew that and so did I.
My fingers twitch slightly, in an attempt to reach for him, to let him know I’m still here, still fighting to hold on. I don’t know if he sees it, but he tightens his grip on my arm anyway, grounding me in the only way he can.
I can’t see clearly, but I can hear him. The way he keeps muttering reassurances, the way he refuses to let his voice break completely, like if he just keeps talking, keeps holding on, then maybe—just maybe—I will too.
"Don't worry, I'll get the Medic, just stay with me," he pleaded, his voice strained, barely keeping the panic at bay. There was desperation in his tone, something raw and unfiltered, so unlike the calm, collected man I knew.
I wanted to respond, to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, but my body refused to cooperate. My limbs felt heavy, too heavy, like I was sinking into the floor beneath me. My chest ached with every shallow breath, a dull, throbbing pain radiating outward, but the strangest part was the creeping numbness spreading through me. It was as if my body was beginning to give up before my mind was ready to accept it.
"Hey—stay with me, now," he urged again, shaking me just slightly, as if he thought I might just snap back to full awareness if he willed it hard enough. "Medic's gonna fix you right up, just—just keep your eyes on me, alright?
He let go of me just for a second—just long enough to fumble for his radio, his fingers moving in a rush as he tried to call for help. His voice cracked as he shouted into the receiver, urgency dripping from every syllable.
His free hand pressed against my wound, his grip tightening, like he thought if he just held me together, if he just kept me here, then everything would be okay. But the edges of my vision were darkening, the sounds around me fading into something distant, like a radio losing its signal.
I could feel his tears landing on my cheek, warm and fleeting, mixing with the cold sweat clinging to my skin. His breath was ragged, uneven, each word he shouted into the radio laced with desperation. "Medic! Get down here, now! We need you—please!" His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, pleading sound that I’d never heard from him before.
I wanted to tell him not to cry, that everything would be alright, but we both knew the truth. The pain was fading, ebbing into something distant, like a tide pulling away from the shore. My body felt lighter, the numbness spreading, creeping up my limbs, dulling every sensation. I knew what that meant. There wasn’t much time left.
With the last bit of strength I had, I forced my trembling fingers to move, lifting my hand ever so slightly until it brushed against his cheek. The rough stubble of his skin was warm against my fingertips, a contrast to the cold overtaking me. I barely had the strength to cup his face, but he felt it. His hand shot up to cover mine, pressing it against his cheek, as if trying to keep it there, to keep me there.
His blue eyes, usually so full of certainty, were wide with fear, glossy with unshed tears. His lips parted, but no words came out—not at first. Just the sound of his breath, shaking and uneven, as he stared at me like he could will me to stay if he just held on tightly enough.
I swallowed, the effort exhausting, and forced my lips to move. The words came out in a whisper, barely audible, but I knew he heard them. "I love you."
His breath hitched sharply, his grip on my hand tightening, his entire body trembling. "No—no, don’t do that, don’t say that like it’s—" His voice broke completely, the sentence left unfinished as he shook his head, as if denying the reality in front of him. But it was too late. The last of my strength drained from me, my fingers slipping from his cheek as my arm went limp, falling lifelessly to my side.
I barely registered the sound of his voice calling my name, breaking into something shattered, something desperate. The last thing I felt was the warmth of his arms as he pulled me closer as if shielding me from the inevitable. Then, the world faded. The dim lights of the workshop, the sound of his cries, the warmth of his touch—all of it disappeared into the quiet embrace of darkness.
Note: Okay this is for me more than anything. My 21st Birthday is coming up in a few days. 2/22/2004. Since I'm not really doing anything for it I decided to write something for fun. This is how I'd imagine drinking with the crews would go.
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Edward Richtofen Primis -
I don’t see him as much of a drinker, at least not in the traditional sense. He’s not the type to drink for the sake of it, nor does he seek out alcohol as a means of escape or indulgence. Instead, he strikes me as someone who appreciates the finer things in life, someone who finds joy in the details—the craftsmanship behind a well-aged bottle, the complexity of flavors, the history behind each sip. If he were to indulge, it would be with purpose, not excess. A good wine, perhaps something rich and full-bodied, would be more his style—something deep, something that lingers on the palate, something to savor rather than mindlessly consume.
He carries himself with a strong sense of self-control, and that extends to his drinking habits. He knows his limits, never one to overdo it or let himself slip into recklessness. If anything, he’s more of a social drinker, someone who enjoys the experience rather than the effects. For him, it’s about the atmosphere, the company, the quiet moments shared over a perfectly poured glass. The idea of sitting in a dimly lit room, perhaps by a fireplace or under the soft glow of candlelight, letting conversation flow as smoothly as the drink in his hand—that’s what appeals to him most.
There’s something almost ritualistic about it, a moment of stillness amidst the chaos of life. He finds comfort in the way the world slows down in these moments, how every sip carries a certain weight, a pause that allows him to fully immerse himself in the present. It’s not just about the drink—it’s about who he’s drinking with, the subtle shifts in conversation, the way laughter lingers in the air like the aroma of the wine itself.
And if you were there, he’d certainly love to share a glass with you. He’d pour carefully, ensuring the perfect amount, watching with a satisfied expression as the deep crimson liquid swirls in the glass. Maybe he’d take the opportunity to discuss the complexities of the wine itself, remarking on its origins, its notes, its finish. Or perhaps he’d weave an interesting story to accompany the moment, his voice carrying that familiar cadence of amusement and intrigue. Either way, he’d make it an experience, one meant to be enjoyed, remembered, and cherished long after the last drop has been savored.
Edward Richtofen Ultimis -
Unlike his counterpart, this man would drink just about anything without a second thought. Whether it’s a fine whiskey, a cheap beer, or something of questionable origin, he wouldn't be picky—if it’s alcohol, it’s good enough for him. That being said, I can’t imagine he’d have much of a tolerance. In fact, I feel like he’d be a complete lightweight. Just a sip or two, and he'd already start feeling the effects, his already unpredictable nature becoming even more erratic.
It wouldn't take long before he’d spiral into a state of intoxicated chaos, his energy levels skyrocketing past their usual high. His laughter would be louder, his gestures more exaggerated, and his thought process even more nonsensical than usual. Every word out of his mouth would be either a dramatic proclamation or a slurred, barely comprehensible string of sentences that only he seems to understand.
And then there’s the physical aspect—he’d be an extremely touchy drunk. Boundaries? Completely nonexistent. He’d drape himself over you, sling an arm around anyone within reach, and get way too close without even realizing it. His flirty personality, already hard to ignore when he’s sober, would become downright overwhelming. Every glance would be accompanied by a wink, every sentence laced with playful innuendo, and he’d probably try to sweet-talk just about anyone in his vicinity. If he weren’t already a handful sober, an inebriated version of him would be on an entirely different level—equal parts amusing and utterly exhausting you when trying to keep him in check.
Tank Dempsey Primis -
I see him having an extremely high tolerance, the kind that comes from years of experience and an iron will. This man can hold his liquor better than most, drinking without so much as a flinch while those around him start swaying after just a few rounds. No matter how much he drinks, he stays composed, never letting it affect his sharpness or control. Whether it’s whiskey, rum, or something stronger, he downs it with ease, barely showing any sign that it’s even hitting him.
But are we really surprised? He’s a Marine, after all. Discipline, endurance, and an almost inhuman ability to push past limits are second nature to him. He’s the kind of man who could drink all night, put away enough liquor to make others drop like flies, and still walk away without so much as a stumble. It’s not just tolerance—it’s pure resilience, the kind that’s been forged through years of training, battlefield experiences, and probably more than a few nights of hard drinking with his squad.
Tank Dempsey Ultimis -
I feel like he’d have noticeably less self-control than his Primis self, almost as if he lets himself indulge a little too freely, simply because he can. He’s not the type to drink for sophistication or out of habit—no, for him, it’s all about the fun of it. He enjoys the rush, the lightheadedness, and especially the warm, fuzzy feeling that creeps in after a few drinks. It’s an escape, a way to loosen up and let go of the more serious, calculating side of himself.
He drinks like a reckless teenager experiencing alcohol for the first time, eagerly chasing that buzz without much regard for when to stop. The moment he starts, it’s hard for him to pull back—whether it's out of excitement, boredom, or just the thrill of losing himself in the moment. He doesn’t have the complete lack of restraint that Nikolai does, but he’s definitely not far behind. There’s an underlying problem there, something that he either refuses to acknowledge or simply doesn’t care to fix.
Unlike some who drink to forget their troubles, he drinks because he enjoys the feeling too much. The way it makes his mind race, the way the world tilts just a little, making everything feel lighter, funnier, and far less complicated. It makes him more talkative, more animated, more prone to throwing caution to the wind. His already eccentric personality amplifies tenfold, and suddenly, he’s laughing louder, moving faster, and acting like nothing in the world could possibly bring him down.
But beneath all that fun, there’s a dangerous lack of self-awareness. He might not spiral into complete self-destruction, but he certainly walks the line between enjoyment and excess, teetering on the edge without fully realizing it. And that’s what makes it a problem—because once he starts, stopping is never quite as easy as it should be.
Nikolai Belinski Primis -
Unlike his other half, he has far more control over himself when it comes to drinking. He knows his limits, and while he enjoys a good drink, he never lets it consume him. It’s not about drowning his sorrows or chasing a reckless high—it’s about the experience, the camaraderie, and the shared moments that come with it. He appreciates the taste of a well-aged whiskey, the smoothness of a good beer, or even the warmth of something a little stronger on a particularly cold night. But more than anything, he enjoys the company that comes with it.
There’s something almost ritualistic about it for him. He loves to drink with you and his friends, gathering together after a long day, letting the stress melt away with each sip. Sitting around a fire, the flickering flames casting warm light on familiar faces, he finds comfort in these moments. The sound of laughter fills the air, stories are told—some real, some exaggerated for dramatic effect—and for a little while, the weight of the world seems lighter.
He’s not the type to drink alone. For him, it’s about the bond that forms when glasses are raised, toasts are made, and worries are forgotten, even if just for a little while. Whether it’s a deep conversation under the stars, a rowdy debate over something ridiculous, or simply leaning back and soaking in the atmosphere, these nights mean more to him than he’d ever admit.
And when he’s drinking with you, there’s an added layer of warmth. He watches you with that familiar glint in his eye, savoring not just the drink in his hand, but the way the firelight dances across your face. He loves the way you laugh, the way your voice blends into the night, and the way these moments feel timeless—something worth holding onto, long after the drinks have run dry.
Nikolai Belinski Ultimis -
Look, we all know this man can drink—there’s no question about that. He can throw them back like no one else, downing glass after glass without hesitation. It’s almost impressive, really, the way he holds his liquor, the way he seems unfazed by amounts that would have most people on the floor. But beneath that almost effortless ability to drink, there’s a darker truth—he’s not just drinking for fun. He drinks to forget.
Every sip is an attempt to drown out the ghosts that haunt him, the regrets he can’t shake, the weight of the past pressing down on him like an anchor. The warmth of alcohol dulls the ache, blurs the memories that cut too deep. For a little while, it works—he laughs louder, talks more, pretends the burden isn’t there. But the thing about drinking to forget is that it never truly works. No matter how much he consumes, the memories always resurface, creeping back in the moment the haze begins to fade. And so, he drinks again, a vicious cycle that he doesn’t know how to break.
When he drinks too much—and he often does—he loses himself in it. His walls come down, and suddenly, he’s not the strong, capable man you’re used to. He’s vulnerable, raw, a mess of emotions that he usually keeps buried. Maybe he gets quiet, lost in thought as he stares into his glass, or maybe he gets reckless, letting the alcohol push him toward self-destruction. Either way, it always ends the same—him, stumbling, lost in the fog of his own making, unable to find his way out alone.
But no matter how far he lets himself go, he always has you to pick him up from his drunken messes. You’re the steady hand that pulls him back, the voice that reminds him he’s not alone. Whether it’s holding him upright as he stumbles, talking him down from whatever spiral he’s fallen into, or simply sitting with him in the aftermath, you’re always there. He might not say it outright, but he needs you—more than he’d ever admit. And while he may not be able to save himself from his demons just yet, at least he has you to keep him from drowning completely.
Takeo Masaki Primis -
This man hardly drinks, at least in my opinion. He’s not the type to seek out alcohol on his own, nor does he find much appeal in drinking for the sake of it. He doesn’t rely on it to relax, doesn’t crave it after a long day, and certainly doesn’t use it as an escape. To him, it’s just another thing in life—something that exists, but not something he needs.
That being said, he’s not completely opposed to it. He’ll drink with you or his friends, but only in the right setting, at the right time. He sees it as more of a social thing, something to enhance an already enjoyable moment rather than being the centerpiece of it. If the occasion calls for it—perhaps a celebration, a rare night of unwinding, or a simple gathering where drinks are passed around—he won’t refuse. He’ll take his time, never rushing, never drinking more than he intends to. He knows his limits and sticks to them, never one to lose control or let himself slip into excess.
If you were the one to offer him a drink, he’d likely accept—not necessarily because he wants it, but because he enjoys your company. Sitting beside you, sharing a quiet moment with a glass in hand, is what makes it worth it to him. The same goes for his friends. He’ll partake if it means strengthening bonds, if it means sharing a laugh, if it means creating memories that will linger far longer than the taste of the drink itself.
But beyond that, he doesn’t see much use for it. He doesn’t drink out of habit, nor does he find any particular thrill in it. If anything, he’s the one who stays the most level-headed, the one who makes sure things don’t get out of hand. He might nurse a single drink for the entire night, content to watch the others enjoy themselves while he remains as steady and composed as ever. And when the night comes to an end, while others may stumble or slur their words, he’ll be the one standing firm, ready to carry on as if the drinks had never touched him at all.
Takeo Masaki Ultimis -
I feel like, despite the many differences that set him apart from the others, he and his counterpart are actually quite similar when it comes to drinking. Neither of them are heavy drinkers, nor do they seek out alcohol for the sake of indulgence or excess. He doesn’t have a particular fondness for it, nor does he rely on it as a coping mechanism. Instead, he views it as something secondary—an occasional pleasure, rather than a necessity.
He doesn’t drink much, and when he does, it’s always in the right company. He won’t pour himself a drink alone, nor does he ever feel the need to. If there’s a reason to drink, it’s because you’re there with him, or because he’s surrounded by his comrades, sharing a moment that calls for it. It’s less about the alcohol itself and more about what it represents—companionship, trust, and the bonds that hold them all together.
With his comrades, he drinks out of respect, out of tradition, and out of an unspoken understanding. There’s something sacred in the way they share a bottle, a mutual acknowledgment of everything they’ve been through together. Whether it’s to celebrate a victory, honor the fallen, or simply find solace in each other’s presence, he partakes when it feels right. He’ll sit back, glass in hand, listening to the laughter and conversation around him, knowing that in this moment, they are all safe, all together.
And with you, it’s something a little different. He’ll drink because it’s a moment shared, a quiet, intimate experience that brings you both closer. Whether it’s a peaceful evening spent talking over a slow sip of whiskey, or a rare night where you convince him to relax just a little more, he allows himself to enjoy it—not because he needs it, but because he enjoys being with you. There’s a warmth in these moments, a quiet kind of connection that doesn’t need words.
At the end of the day, drinking has never been something that defines him. He doesn’t crave it, doesn’t rely on it, and certainly doesn’t let it control him. But if the right people are beside him, if the moment calls for it, he’ll raise his glass—not for the sake of the drink, but for the people who make it worth sharing.
hiii could you write some headcanons for the primis crew with a reader that tries to speak a bit of their native language to surprise them but it ends up sounding really broken 🥺? ty!!
Note: Ooooo I've been excited to write this since the moment I saw the request. I wanted to work on this sooner but I did get busy. I might do something like this for a longer project with Primis richtofen. But until then let's continue with this.
Edward Richtofen - German
He would be thrilled if you surprised him with this, even if you didn’t get everything perfect. The effort alone would mean so much to him, and he'd appreciate the thought behind it more than anything. Learning a new language can be incredibly challenging, and it takes time, patience, and practice to get comfortable with it. (It’s not as simple as just opening an app and instantly becoming fluent) language learning requires consistency, real-world practice, and sometimes even making mistakes along the way. But the fact that you’re putting in the effort to learn, even if it’s just a small gesture, speaks volumes.
You’d most likely end up learning quite a bit from him over time. Whenever he gets passionate about something, whether he’s going on a long-winded rant about a topic he cares deeply about or completely immersed in his work, he naturally reverts to speaking in his native tongue without even realizing it. It’s in those moments—when he’s truly in his element—that you’d hear the language in its most authentic and unfiltered form. Without even trying, you’d start picking up words, phrases, and expressions just by being around him. Over time, you might even find yourself understanding more than you expected, simply because language has a way of sinking in when it’s tied to real emotions and experiences.
Most of the time, he would whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you drifted off to sleep, his voice soft and soothing, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. His words, spoken in German, would be gentle and affectionate, a quiet lullaby meant just for you. At first, the meaning behind them might be lost on you, just a string of unfamiliar yet beautiful sounds. But over time, as the nights passed and the words became more familiar, you might start to recognize certain phrases, piecing together their meanings from the way he says them, from the warmth in his tone, from the way he smiles against your skin.
It wouldn’t just be those whispered endearments that you’d pick up—there would also be the special nicknames he gives you in German, ones that hold meaning only the two of you share. Maybe they’d start as little teases, playful and lighthearted, or maybe they’d be impossibly sweet, ones that make your heart flutter every time he says them. And before you even realize it, those words would become second nature to you, ingrained in your memory, as much a part of your world as he is.
In times like these, learning even a little bit of his language would take time, patience, and plenty of trial and error. It wouldn’t happen overnight, and there would be moments when you stumble over certain words or struggle to get the pronunciation just right. But despite the challenges, the effort itself would mean everything to him. The first time you manage to say something in his native language, even if it's just a simple phrase or a clumsy attempt at a sentence, his heart would absolutely melt. He’d be caught somewhere between surprise and overwhelming affection, completely endeared by the fact that you’re trying just for him.
Of course, he wouldn’t be able to resist playfully correcting your pronunciation, teasing you with a smirk when you mix up words or get the accent just a little off. He might repeat the word slowly, exaggerating the proper way to say it, only to chuckle when you try again and still don’t quite get it right. But no matter how many times you fumble, he wouldn’t ever get frustrated—in fact, he’d find it adorable.
And if you were truly interested in learning more, he’d love nothing more than to actually teach you. He’d be patient, guiding you through phrases and expressions, encouraging you even when you make mistakes. Maybe he’d start slipping in more and more German throughout the day, testing you with little challenges, praising you when you get something right. It wouldn’t just be about the language—it would be about sharing something deeply personal with you, letting you into a part of his world that means so much to him. And over time, bit by bit, the words that once felt foreign on your tongue would start to feel familiar, woven into the fabric of your relationship in a way that makes them even more special.
However, when you finally learn enough to even speak a little German, he would think you sound absolutely beautiful—no matter how imperfect or hesitant your pronunciation might be. The moment you string together a full sentence, no matter how simple, he would pause, his expression softening as he takes in the sound of his native language coming from you. There would be something incredibly endearing about it—hearing his words spoken in your voice, knowing that you put in the effort just for him.
At first, he might just smile, a little surprised, maybe even stunned silent for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief. “Say that again,” he’d murmur, leaning in as if to make sure he really heard you right. And when you do, his grin would grow even wider, his heart swelling with pride and affection.
To him, it wouldn’t matter if your accent wasn’t perfect, if you stumbled over certain words, or if your grammar wasn’t flawless. He would find every little imperfection charming. In fact, he’d love the way his language sounds when you speak it, as if it was meant to come from you all along. If anything, the slight mistakes and hesitation would make it all the more precious to him—proof of the time and effort you’ve put in, proof that you care enough to try.
He’d gently cup your face, his eyes filled with admiration, and whisper something in German—something soft, affectionate, and utterly heartfelt. And whether or not you understand what he’s saying in that moment, the warmth in his voice would tell you everything you need to know. Because to him, hearing you speak even a little bit of his language wouldn’t just be beautiful—it would be one of the most meaningful things in the world.
Tank Dempsey - English
This man would find endless amusement in your attempts to speak his language, especially if you happened to mess up along the way. The way you hesitantly string together words, trying to remember the right pronunciation or piece together a sentence, would bring the biggest smile to his face. Not because he’s laughing at you in a mean-spirited way—never that—but because he finds it absolutely adorable. There’s something about the way you try so earnestly, even when you fumble over syllables or accidentally say something completely different from what you intended, that makes his heart swell with affection.
He might chuckle softly as you attempt to repeat after him, shaking his head fondly when your pronunciation is just a little off. If you accidentally say something ridiculous—perhaps a phrase that translates into something unexpected or hilariously wrong—he wouldn’t be able to hold back his laughter. But rather than discourage you, his amusement would only make the experience more enjoyable, turning your language lessons into moments filled with warmth, teasing, and lighthearted fun.
At times, he might dramatically repeat the correct pronunciation, exaggerating his accent just to make you roll your eyes and playfully swat at him. Or maybe he’d challenge you, promising you a kiss or a reward if you can finally get a tricky word right. No matter how many times you mess up, he would never tire of hearing you try. If anything, your efforts—flawed as they may be—would only make him fall for you even more. Because, in the end, it’s not about perfect pronunciation or flawless grammar; it’s about the fact that you care enough to try. And to him, that means everything.
He’d absolutely try to help you out and teach you a bit of his language, but the truth is, he wouldn’t really know how to go about it. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—he’d love for you to learn—but explaining the rules and grammar in a structured way? That’s where he’d struggle. He’s so used to just speaking it naturally, without thinking about the mechanics behind it, that when you ask him why certain words are structured a certain way or how verb conjugations work, he’d just blink at you in mild confusion.
"Uh… it just is," he’d say, scratching the back of his head, looking a little lost himself. He might try to give you examples, only to end up contradicting himself because his native language has so many exceptions to the rules that even he can’t keep track of them all. If you asked him to break it down in a way that makes sense, he’d probably end up staring at the ceiling, deep in thought, before finally sighing in defeat.
Instead of formal lessons, he’d end up taking a more casual, spontaneous approach—throwing random words and phrases at you throughout the day, quizzing you when you least expect it, and laughing whenever you give him a completely wrong answer. He might point to objects around the house and tell you their names in his language, watching with amusement as you try to repeat them. If you accidentally mispronounce something, he’d correct you with a teasing smirk, only for you to groan in frustration when the words refuse to roll off your tongue the way they do for him.
Despite not being the best teacher, he’d still be incredibly patient with you, never making you feel bad for struggling. And, in a way, his unstructured way of teaching would make learning more fun—filled with inside jokes, playful teasing, and moments of genuine connection as you slowly start to pick up more and more of his language, one adorable mistake at a time.
Nikolai Belinski - Russian
You trying—but absolutely failing—to speak Russian would make this man laugh harder than he has in years, in the most loving and affectionate way possible. The moment you open your mouth and attempt to string together a sentence, he would already be grinning, bracing himself for whatever hilarious mispronunciations or accidental nonsense you’re about to come up with. And the second you butcher a word so badly that it sounds like something completely different? That would be it—he’d lose it.
His laughter would start as a chuckle, but the more you try, the harder he’d laugh, eventually doubling over, clutching his stomach, his whole body shaking with amusement. He wouldn’t mean to make you feel bad—on the contrary, he’d find it absolutely endearing. The effort you’re putting in, even when you’re failing spectacularly, would only make him adore you more. He’d wipe at his eyes, struggling to catch his breath, before finally managing to correct you—though whether or not he can do it without laughing again is another question entirely.
"Wait, wait—say that again," he’d beg, grinning ear to ear, still trying to recover from his laughing fit. The moment you repeat the word, somehow butchering it even worse than before, he’d be gone all over again, shaking his head as he pulls you into a hug. "I love you, but that was so bad."
He might tease you about it for days, randomly bringing up the funniest mistakes you made just to hear your groan of frustration. But despite the endless teasing, he’d always encourage you to keep trying. Because underneath all the laughter, he’d genuinely love that you’re making an effort to learn. And no matter how much you struggle, the fact that you’re doing it for him would mean more than any perfectly pronounced sentence ever could.
Like Dempsey, he wouldn’t exactly be the best teacher—he’s more of a "learn as you go" kind of guy rather than someone who sits down and explains things step by step. Structured lessons? Forget about it. Grammar rules? He barely even thinks about them himself. More often than not, if you ask him why a word is the way it is, he’ll just shrug and say, “It just is,” as if that’s the most logical explanation in the world.
But despite his lack of formal teaching skills, he’s doing his best, and that’s all you can really ask of him. He’d try in his own way, slipping words and phrases into everyday conversations, repeating things slowly for you when you struggle, and even making little games out of it to keep things fun. He might point at objects and wait for you to name them in his language, raising an eyebrow when you get it wrong and grinning when you finally get it right.
His teaching methods would be a little unconventional—sometimes helpful, sometimes just plain chaotic. He might jokingly teach you phrases that are completely useless just to see if you’ll actually say them. Maybe he’d trick you into thinking a ridiculous sentence means something sweet, just so he can hear you say it and then burst into laughter when you realize what you’ve just said. But when it comes down to it, he wants you to learn, and he’ll always be patient with you, even when you’re struggling.
And while he may not be the best teacher, there’s something about the way he tries—the way he lights up when you get something right, the way he playfully teases you when you don’t, the way he unconsciously switches to his native tongue around you more and more—that makes learning from him feel effortless. Because in the end, it’s not really about the language itself; it’s about sharing something important to him with you. And even if neither of you have any idea what you’re doing, the journey of learning together makes it all the more special.
Takeo Masaki - Japanese
He’d be completely taken aback the moment he heard your poor attempt at speaking Japanese, his eyes widening slightly in surprise as he processes what just came out of your mouth. For a second, he’d just stare at you, lips twitching as if he’s trying to hold back a reaction. Did you really just say that? Was that actually supposed to be Japanese? Or was it some strange, new language you accidentally invented?
He’d blink a few times before leaning in slightly, his curiosity piqued. “Wait… say that again,” he’d urge, his voice caught somewhere between amusement and genuine confusion. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as bad as it first sounded. But the second you repeat yourself, struggling even more with the pronunciation, he’d completely lose it.
A chuckle would slip out before he can stop himself, and before long, he’d be full-on laughing, his shoulders shaking as he covers his mouth. It’s not that he’s laughing at you—he just finds your effort, no matter how flawed, absolutely endearing. The way you furrow your brows in frustration, the way you try so hard to get the syllables right but somehow still make it worse—it’s adorable to him.
He’d probably tease you about it for a while, dramatically repeating what you said in an exaggerated, butchered version of your already-botched pronunciation, just to mess with you. “Are you sure that was Japanese?” he’d joke, flashing you a playful grin. But after his laughter dies down, he’d ruffle your hair affectionately and reassure you, “It wasn’t that bad… well, maybe a little.”
And despite all his teasing, there would be this unmistakable warmth in his eyes—because deep down, he’s touched that you’re trying. Even if you’re struggling, even if you absolutely butcher the language, the fact that you’re making an effort means the world to him. And if you’re serious about learning, he’d be more than happy to help—just don’t be surprised if he makes you repeat words over and over, not just for practice, but because he secretly loves hearing you try.
Unlike the others, Richtofen and him especially would be incredible teachers if you truly wanted to learn the language. Both of them have an uncanny ability to break things down in a way that makes sense, even though their teaching methods might be unconventional. Where the others might give you half-hearted attempts at helping, Richtofen and him would take genuine care in making sure you understand the language, guiding you through each step with the patience and attention you deserve.
He’d give you structure and consistency, making sure you don’t just memorize words but understand how to use them in context. He’d be the one to correct your mistakes with care, never laughing or mocking, but instead gently guiding you to the right pronunciation or grammar rule.
Note: I intended to post this earlier for Valentine's Day but fell behind and had to go over it and add some last-minute touch-ups.
Warning a bit of sexual tension but nothing too crazy. This was already a bit over twenty pages. So I decided that if I was gonna add some NSFW it would be best to just start another oneshot in the future. Hope you enjoy.
Page number: 22.8
Word count: 7,718
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Richtofen stood in the middle of a relentless horde of zombies, their decayed bodies pressing in from all sides, forming a gruesome circle around him. The stench of rotting flesh filled the air, mixing with the smoke from his weapon. Their guttural moans created a horrifying symphony of death, growing louder as they inched closer.
With a manic grin, he gripped his Ray Gun tightly, the cold metal pressing against his gloved fingers. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, unleashing a barrage of neon-green energy blasts. The high-pitched whine of the gun's discharge cut through the chaos, each shot vaporizing the undead on contact. Limbs and torsos disintegrated in bursts of glowing residue, but for every zombie that fell, more crawled forward, their hunger insatiable.
Richtofen spun on his heel, firing in every direction, his laughter growing more unhinged as he reveled in the carnage. A particularly fast zombie lunged at him from behind, its bony fingers reaching out—but with a quick step to the side, he turned and obliterated it with a well-aimed shot.
But the horde was endless. His ammunition wasn’t.
As the Ray Gun’s energy core began to flicker, signaling its dwindling charge, Richtofen’s expression twisted into a mixture of frustration and excitement. He needed a plan—fast. His eyes darted around the battlefield, searching for an opening, an escape route, or even a Max Ammo power-up. The undead drew closer, their bloodied hands grasping at the air just inches from him.
"Ah, scheiße… I do love a challenge!" he muttered, tightening his grip on the Ray Gun before unleashing another round of destruction.
"Need a hand there, Doctor?" I shouted over the deafening roars and guttural snarls of the undead, my voice barely cutting through the chaos. The stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming, mixing with the acrid scent of gunpowder as I fired round after round into the advancing horde.
Richtofen turned around without hesitation, his gloved fingers tightening around the grip of his weapon as he immediately got to work unloading round after round into the approaching horde of undead. The muzzle flashed brightly with each shot, momentarily illuminating the twisted, rotting faces of the creatures as they stumbled forward, their grotesque moans drowned out by the thunderous gunfire.
He exhaled sharply, his breath ragged from the exertion, but despite the chaos surrounding him, a twisted grin spread across his face. A deep, almost delighted chuckle escaped him between labored breaths as he reloaded with practiced ease, his eyes gleaming with manic excitement.
"Of course not, Fraulein~" he purred, his voice dripping with amusement, as if the dire situation was nothing more than a thrilling game.
"It looks like you're having trouble, that's so unlike you," I teased, my voice laced with playful sarcasm as I fired off several rounds, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing through the blood-soaked battlefield. The horde of zombies pressed forward, relentless and unyielding, but each well-placed shot sent another rotting corpse crashing to the ground.
I risked a quick glance at him, catching the glint of determination in his eyes as he reloaded with practiced precision. Despite the chaos, despite the overwhelming number of undead swarming around us, I couldn't resist pushing him just a little further.
"You're not losing your touch on me, are you?" I added with a smirk, ducking as a grotesque, half-decayed zombie lunged at me. I twisted my body, bringing my weapon up and pulling the trigger, splattering its rotting brains across the cracked pavement.
The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and decay, but I couldn't help but find a strange sense of thrill at the moment, especially when I saw the flicker of amusement cross his face. Even in the face of death, we still had time to challenge each other.
"Oh please! My skills are unmatched~" Richtofen declared, his voice dripping with his usual arrogance, though slightly strained from exertion. He smirked in between firing, his gloved fingers moving with expert precision as he squeezed the trigger again and again, each shot finding its mark with deadly accuracy.
Spent casings clattered to the ground at his feet as he pivoted, gunning down a particularly aggressive zombie that had managed to get too close for comfort. His eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and adrenaline, reveling in the carnage as if it were nothing more than a grand performance put on just for him.
Even as the undead continued to swarm, their grotesque moans filling the air, he remained unfazed, his movements fluid and efficient. He reloaded with a flourish, taking a moment to cast a sideways glance in my direction, his smirk widening.
"Didn't look like that from where I was standing," I laughed, the teasing edge in my voice barely masking the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My hands moved on instinct as I quickly reloaded, the familiar click-clack of the magazine sliding into place bringing a brief moment of satisfaction.
I didn't have time to linger on my remark. A particularly fast-moving zombie lunged at me, its decayed fingers swiping just inches from my face. I barely had time to react, jerking back and raising my weapon in one fluid motion before firing point-blank into its skull. The force of the shot sent its body collapsing to the ground in a sickening heap, blackened blood splattering across the cracked pavement.
Still grinning, I spared a glance toward Richtofen, watching as he dispatched his own wave of undead with an almost gleeful enthusiasm. "If those are ‘unmatched skills,’ I’d hate to see what happens when you have an off day," I quipped, dodging another incoming attack.
Even in the midst of all this chaos, I couldn’t help but enjoy the game we played—pushing, teasing, and testing each other in a battlefield where the stakes were life and death.
"You little—!" Richtofen huffed, his voice dripping with mock indignation as he fired off another round, the shot landing square between a zombie’s decayed eyes. "You should consider yourself lucky I am busy, because I would—"
Another gunshot rang out, cutting off his words as he swiftly turned and pulled the trigger again, dropping another undead creature before it could get too close. The chaos was finally starting to slow, the relentless horde dwindling with each well-placed shot.
"What would you do, Doctor?" I asked, my voice dripping with playful flirtation as I shot him a teasing wink. Without waiting for a response, I swiftly turned my attention back to the battlefield, raising my weapon and taking out a few more stragglers with precise, effortless shots. Each pull of the trigger sent another corpse crashing to the ground, the echo of gunfire ringing through the now eerily quiet battlefield.
Richtofen’s smirk twitched, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly as he paused for just a second, watching me with amusement flickering beneath his usual manic energy. He chuckled lowly, shaking his head as he reloaded, the metal clicking into place with a satisfying snap.
"Oh, Fraulein~" he purred, his voice laced with dark amusement, "You are far too bold for your own good. You truly wish to know what I would do?" His smirk widened, that familiar glint of madness dancing in his gaze as he took a step closer, tilting his head ever so slightly.
His finger hovered over the trigger, "Perhaps," he mused, voice dropping lower, "I shall show you, when we are not so… occupied. I can only count the ways"
A challenge, a promise—one I was more than willing to accept.
"Well, as you count, do be careful. I don't need you dying on me just yet," I said, my voice carrying a mix of teasing and genuine warning as I kept my eyes on the battlefield. My fingers tightened around my weapon, squeezing the trigger once more—only to be met with an empty click.
I sighed in annoyance, the realization settling in as I quickly glanced down at my weapon. "Oh, fantastic," I muttered under my breath, my frustration evident as I swung my gun over my shoulder. Running out of ammo in the middle of a fight was never ideal, but at least the horde had finally started to dwindle.
Still, I wasn't about to stand around uselessly. My hand instinctively went for my knife, gripping it tightly as I pivoted, scanning for any last stragglers that might try to catch me off guard. The battlefield was littered with motionless corpses, but a few sluggish undead still staggered forward, groaning hungrily as they reached out with decayed fingers.
I huffed, adjusting my stance. "Looks like I’ll have to get my hands dirty," I muttered, half to myself, half to the doctor, casting him a side glance.
He chuckled, the sound low and amused, as he continued firing, each shot echoing through the battlefield and cutting down the remaining undead with practiced precision.
"I’d be more worried for you, Fraulein~" he purred, his usual cocky demeanor unwavering despite the growing tension. His smirk never faded, even as he felt the telltale lightness in his weapon—a sure sign that his ammunition was nearly spent.
His finger squeezed the trigger again. Bang. Another corpse dropped.
Click.
His smirk twitched as he tilted his head slightly, glancing down at his weapon as realization struck. Ah. He was down to just a few rounds now—perhaps three, maybe four if he was lucky. After that, he’d be just as weaponless as she was.
He let out a small hum of thought, casting a side glance at her as she fought on with only her knife, moving swiftly and efficiently, slicing through the last of the stragglers with an almost graceful brutality. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary, watching the way she handled herself.
"Hmm, looks like I may be joining you soon, mein liebling," he mused, his voice still playful, though laced with something else—a thrill, a challenge.
Richtofen was right beside me, his gunfire ringing in my ears as he continued picking off zombies with sharp precision. But the undead weren’t letting up, and before I realized it, we were being pushed closer together, our movements syncing as we fought back to back.
My breath hitched slightly as I felt the sudden, firm press of his back against mine, the heat of the moment making it impossible to ignore how close we had gotten. His coat brushed against me as he pivoted, firing off another shot before letting out an exaggerated chuckle.
"Ah~ What an intimate predicament we find ourselves in, ja?" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. "How romantic"
I rolled my eyes, ignoring the way my pulse quickened. "Keep talking, and I might just let them have you," I quipped, stabbing another undead through the eye before kicking the body away.
His laughter rang out over the chaos, but even so, I could feel the tension rising—not just from the battle, but from the unspoken energy crackling between us. The undead were dwindling, but somehow, the fight felt far from over.
He laughed breathily, starting to get a tad bit tired himself. "And how do you suggest we get out of this one, hmmm~?"
"I don't know, you're the genius. How about you come up with a plan?"
"Oh so I do all the thinking around here, is that it~?" He took a moment to look around and consider all the options left to them. His back was now fully pushed up against hers as he did.
"That's what you're always saying. Guess it's time to back that up."
He huffed with a smirk, trying to push down any other thoughts. He was getting tired from all this. "Is that a challenge, missy~? You should know I don't back down from those~"
"I suppose it is," I replied, my tone still carrying a hint of amusement despite the exhaustion creeping into my limbs. The battle had finally begun to slow, the last few undead struggling forward only to be swiftly cut down. My breathing was heavy, my body aching from the relentless fighting, but there was no time to dwell on it.
Before I could say anything else, the familiar sound of rapid gunfire tore through the air, accompanied by an all-too-recognizable voice.
"About time you two stopped dancing and started finishing these freakbags off!"
I turned my head just in time to see Dempsey charging into the fray, his weapon roaring as he mowed down the last remaining zombies with brutal efficiency. His arrival was as loud and dramatic as ever, but I had to admit—it was a welcome sight.
I smirked, nudging Richtofen slightly as I nodded toward the American. "Oh look, Richtofen, it’s your guard dog."
Richtofen let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes as he flicked a speck of nonexistent dust off his coat. "Ah, wunderbar," he drawled sarcastically. "Just what I needed, Dempsey arriving to bark orders like the good little lapdog he is."
Dempsey scoffed, finishing off the last zombie with a well-placed headshot before slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, keep talking, Doc. You looked like you were about to get your ass handed to you."
Richtofen placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "Mein Gott, such accusations! I was in complete control."
Dempsey snorted. "Sure you were. And pigs fly."
I chuckled shaking my head at their usual bickering. The battlefield had finally fallen silent, save for the distant crackle of fire and the occasional twitching corpse. For now, we had a brief moment of respite—but knowing our luck, it wouldn’t last long.
"Took you long enough, Dempsey." He gave a huff and rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment.
"Well Thank god that's finally over," I mumbled.
Richtofen took a moment before catching his breath. "Finally~" He looked over at me and let out a small smirk. "We weren't doing so bad though, were we~?"
"We? I doing great till I ran out of ammo. I only dread what would have happened to our doctor if I didn't step in to assist." I said as dramatically as possible.
He huffed, fighting back a laugh. "Oh really now? I think I would have gotten away just fine, you on the other- huff you on the other hand-" He smirked again, looking me up and down.
"What about me?" I said watching his eyes wander.
He pretended to consider the question for a moment while a smirk still adorned his face. He took a step closer so that they were only a few inches apart. His eyes didn't leave mine, the smirk still there. "You? I have a feeling you wouldn't have lasted very long without me~"
"Are you sure about that? I do completely fine on my own. I just choose to help you out."
He chuckled softly, slowly narrowing the space even more.
"Oh really~? I have my doubts about that~ I'd wager that you'd be lost without me~"
I dramatically placed my hands on his chest and looked up at him. "Oh yes, Dr. Richtofen I couldn't possibly fight on my own. I need a big strong man like you to protect me." I said in a higher-pitched voice than normal.
He couldn't hold back a small laugh at this and decided to play along, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her just a bit closer.
"Oh it's not just any big, strong man you'd need, now is it~? Just one in particular is it~?"
"Of course not, only you Dr," I said playing along.
"Only me, eh~?"
He pushed me against the nearest wall, his movement quick and deliberate. Before I could react, I found myself completely trapped, the solid surface of the wall pressing against my back as his presence loomed over me. The air seemed to grow thicker, charged with something dangerous, something unspoken between us. He was so close now that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath warm against my skin as his proximity made every inch of space feel suffocating.
One of his hands rested firmly against the wall next to my head, his fingers splayed out as though he were bracing himself against it—his body just inches away, the tension between us palpable. The other hand was settled on my waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of my clothes, sending a shiver down my spine.
His eyes locked onto mine, the intensity in them unyielding, predatory. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, as if daring me to make the next move. His body was pressed against me, his presence impossible to ignore, pinning me in place, making it so that I couldn’t escape if I wanted to.
The breath in my lungs caught as he leaned in even closer, his face mere inches from mine. I could feel his every movement, the subtle shift of his weight, the heat of his breath against my lips. There was no room left for doubt—he knew exactly what he was doing.
For a moment, neither of us moved, the world around us shrinking down to just the space between us. The sound of our heavy breaths and the pounding of my heartbeat were all that could be heard in the silence. The anticipation in the air was almost unbearable, thick with something unspoken, an unacknowledged tension that neither of us seemed eager to break.
Richtofen smirked again as he noticed my reaction. "Oh? Someone's a little red~ I wonder why that is~" He teased in a low but playful tone.
This disturbed the Marine, his expression contorting into a mix of confusion and mild disgust as he shifted uncomfortably, clearly not accustomed to seeing the tension between us. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting between us as if trying to process what was happening. I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head, struggling to make sense of the situation.
Dempsey, ever the provocateur, seized the opportunity to break the silence. He made a dramatic fake gagging noise, followed by a loud, exaggerated retching sound as if he were about to throw up right there on the spot. He even mimed wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the theatrics making his reaction so over-the-top that I couldn’t help but laugh.
The absurdity of it all hit me at once, and despite the tension in the air moments ago, I found myself chuckling, shaking my head in disbelief. Dempsey’s antics always had a way of lightening the mood, even in the most uncomfortable of situations.
Richtofen simply rolled his eyes and looked over to Dempsey, giving him a look that said 'really'. He looked back at her, this time with a softer smirk before speaking again. "Ignore him, he's just jealous because you like me more~," He said teasingly.
"Who said I liked you more?"
"Oh please, we both know you like me more." He said matter of factly, the smirk returning to his face.
"Cocky bastard," I mumbled under my breath as I walked off joining Dempsey as the others arrived.
"What was that, Fraulein~?" He called after me, a hint of smugness in his voice, before noticing the rest of the group arriving and shifting focus.
"Oh nothing," I said over my shoulder.
He huffed dramatically, rolling his eyes. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. His sharp gaze landed on Nikolai and Takeo, who had just arrived, both looking worse for wear but still very much in the fight.
Nikolai, smelling of stale vodka and gunpowder, was lazily swinging his weapon over his shoulder, his movements sluggish but effective. His bloodshot eyes darted between us, taking in the scene with mild curiosity before scoffing. "What is this? Lovers’ quarrel?" he slurred, his thick accent making his words all the more cutting.
Takeo, ever the disciplined warrior, merely exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at the display before crossing his arms over his chest. "If you two are finished wasting time, we should keep moving." His tone was firm, laced with the usual disapproval, though there was the slightest glint of amusement in his eyes as he watched the scene unfold.
Richtofen let out another dramatic sigh, his irritation now turning into outright theatrics. "Ah, yes, because clearly, I am the one wasting time," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Not the drunkard who stops for a drink between battles or the honorable samurai who insists on his philosophical speeches before every fight."
Nikolai grinned, unbothered as he took a lazy swig from his ever-present flask. "Da, and yet, I still shoot better than you."
Takeo merely shook his head again, muttering something about childishness under his breath.
I stood there, watching the familiar back-and-forth, unable to stop the smirk that tugged at my lips. As ridiculous as they all were, this dysfunctional team was the only thing standing between us and the horrors that waited just beyond the next corner. And despite everything, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
"How are you guys? No one hurt?" I started the dry conversation, my voice carrying a hint of exhaustion as I scanned the group. It wasn’t that I didn’t care—it was just that, after everything we had just been through, small talk felt almost ridiculous. The air was still thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood, and the eerie silence left in the wake of the last fight felt more suffocating than comforting.
Nikolai grunted in response, rolling his shoulders as if testing for any unseen injuries. "Eh, nothing that vodka won’t fix," he muttered, patting the ever-present flask at his hip. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, but if he was in any pain, he wasn’t showing it.
Takeo, ever composed, simply gave a small nod. "I am fine. Though I cannot say the same for our enemies." His voice was steady, but there was an edge of weariness behind it, like a blade dulled from overuse.
Dempsey let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his dirt-streaked hair before shaking his head. "Still breathing, still pissed off. So yeah, I’d say I’m just fine." His tone was laced with sarcasm, but there was no mistaking the exhaustion in his eyes.
And then there was Richtofen. He had been oddly quiet up until now, simply watching the conversation unfold with an unreadable expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was light, almost too casual. "Ah, mein liebling, how thoughtful of you to ask~" He placed a hand on his chest in mock sentimentality. "I do believe my feelings may be hurt. But, physically? Perfectly intact, as always~"
I rolled my eyes at his dramatics, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips despite myself. It was the same routine as always—battle, bloodshed, barely scraping by, and then this. The moment of uneasy calm before the storm inevitably returned.
I sighed, shifting my weight as I looked at them all. "Well, that’s something, at least." My voice was still dry, but beneath it, there was a trace of something softer. Relief, maybe. Because as battered and bruised as we all were, we were still here.
For now, that was enough.
"Aww were you worried about us dear?" Richtofen asked in a mocking tone.
"Who said I was worried." I joked
"Sure~ Of course you weren't~" Richtofen said sarcastically, a smirk on his face.
"You're the one who should be worried about us Richtofen, you're the doctor."
"And you think I don't worry about you lot~?" He said rolling his eyes. He was used to their jokes about him, but he still decided to play along.
"Well, half the time I'm more worried that you'll dissect and eat one of us before the zombies get the chance."
He smirked again and let a small laugh escape his throat. "Now why would I ever do such a thing~?" He paused, putting on a fake thinking face and tapping his chin. "I mean I've certainly considered it, but I'd never act on it."
"Oh, so I should be worried?"
He laughed again and walked closer, still smirking. "You should always be worried about me, Fraulein~ You never know what I'm going to do next~"
I must be going insane if the simple change in his tone is enough to make my knees feel weak. It was ridiculous—pathetic, even—but there was no denying the way my stomach flipped at the sudden shift in his voice, the way a shiver crept up my spine before I could stop it. It was subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else, but I felt it. The way his usually smooth, teasing cadence dropped just slightly, taking on a more serious, almost commanding edge. It was enough to catch me off guard, enough to make my breath hitch for the briefest of moments.
I swallowed hard, the reaction far too obvious for my liking. He was perceptive—too perceptive—and if I wasn’t careful, he’d pick up on it. That was the last thing I needed. So, I forced myself to play it off, shifting my weight and letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
"Don’t need to tell me twice, Doctor," I quipped, keeping my tone light, maybe a little too casual.
I dared glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips made my heart race even more. Damn it. He knew. He always knew. The gleam in his eyes told me he had noticed my hesitation, the way I faltered for just a second.
But instead of calling me out on it, he merely chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by my attempt to act unaffected. "Ah, gut. At least you are learning to listen~" he mused, his voice still carrying that infuriatingly smooth arrogance.
I huffed, crossing my arms in an attempt to ground myself, to steady the unsteady. But even as I stood there, pretending to be unaffected, I could still hear his voice in my head. That tone. That subtle shift.
And worse? I knew I was never going to forget it.
He smirked again, noticing my reaction and enjoying it more than he should. "I'd watch my back, or one day you might end up on my operating table. I've been known to get a little… carried away~"
"Okay, love birds, I'm gonna throw up if this keeps up," Dempsey interrupted, his voice dripping with exaggerated disgust. He even made a gagging motion for emphasis, as if the mere sight of us interacting was physically painful to witness.
My face instantly heated up, and I spun toward him, my expression a mixture of shock and frustration. "L-love birds?!" I sputtered, my voice embarrassingly higher than I intended. "We’re not—! Shut up, Tank!"
I could hear Richtofen chuckling beside me, clearly amused by my reaction. That only made it worse. I shot a glare at him, but he merely smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly as if enjoying the chaos unfolding before him.
Dempsey, of course, wasn’t about to let it go so easily. "Oh? You sure about that?" He grinned, folding his arms as he leaned against his weapon. "Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like something’s going on."
I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came out, my brain scrambling for a decent rebuttal that wouldn’t just dig me into a deeper hole. Instead, I could feel my face growing warmer by the second.
Richtofen, the infuriating man, chose that exact moment to make things worse. "Ah, Dempsey, do not be so jealous~" he drawled, his smirk widening. "If you wanted my attention, you only had to ask~"
Dempsey’s disgusted expression intensified. "Ugh, hell no. That’s not what I meant, and you know it." He jabbed a finger at him.
I groaned, rubbing my temples as I tried to gather whatever shred of dignity I had left. "Oh my god, can we not do this right now? We have bigger problems. Like, I don’t know, the undead trying to kill us?"
Dempsey shrugged, still grinning. "Hey, I just call it like I see it. But sure, sure, we can pretend none of this happened." He winked before turning away, whistling to himself as if he hadn’t just put me through hell.
I exhaled sharply, glaring at the back of his head before glancing at Richtofen. He was still watching me, an unreadable expression dancing behind those sharp eyes of his.
I hated that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. And, even more than that, I hated that some small part of me wanted to know.
With that, we finally refocused, pushing forward through the dark, debris-ridden hallways. The distant groans of the undead echoed through the air, a grim reminder that we didn’t have time to waste. The ground beneath us was littered with shell casings and bloodstains, a testament to just how long we had been fighting to survive.
As we moved, the tension from the earlier exchange lingered, but at least we were making progress. My mind, however, was still reeling—not from the battle, but from the conversation itself.
Dempsey’s teasing. Richtofen’s amusement. The way my heart had stupidly skipped a beat during all of it. I clenched my jaw and forced those thoughts away. Not now. Focus. There were more important things to worry about. Like making sure we all lived long enough to see the next fight.
As we walked on, exhaustion creeping into our bones, we finally stumbled upon a place that looked decent enough to set up camp for the night. It was an old, abandoned building—walls cracked, furniture overturned, and dust thick in the air—but compared to the chaos we had just survived, it might as well have been a luxury suite.
Relief was short-lived, though. Just because it looked safe didn’t mean it was. We couldn’t afford to let our guard down, not even for a second. Before we could even think about getting any rest, we needed to secure the area.
"Alright," Dempsey exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he scanned the dimly lit interior. "We split up, check for supplies, clear any rooms, and make sure we ain’t about to get ambushed in our sleep. I do not feel like waking up with a zombie chewing on my damn leg."
We all nodded in agreement, already moving to spread out. Even with exhaustion tugging at our limbs, muscle memory kicked in—we had done this too many times to count.
Richtofen stretched with a dramatic sigh, cracking his knuckles. "Ah, a scavenger hunt! How delightful~" he mused before stepping further inside. "Let’s see what kind of lovely horrors this place has to offer, ja?"
I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, I gripped my weapon a little tighter and headed off on my own, sweeping through the first few rooms with cautious precision.
The place had clearly been abandoned for a long time—furniture covered in layers of dust, walls lined with peeling wallpaper, and a faint musty scent lingering in the air. But it wasn’t completely useless. A few scattered supplies were still intact—some canned food, a half-empty first aid kit, even a couple of old blankets that, while not exactly fresh, would at least provide some warmth.
As I stuffed my findings into my pack, a floorboard creaked from somewhere down the hall, making my breath hitch. I instantly raised my weapon, heart pounding for a moment before I heard a familiar voice.
"Relax, Fraulein~ It is just me~" Richtofen’s voice carried through the silence, and I exhaled sharply, lowering my weapon as he stepped into view with a smug grin.
"Maybe don’t sneak up on me next time," I muttered, shaking my head.
"Ah, but where’s the fun in that?" He chuckled, holding up a small bottle of something. "Look what I found! It may be alcohol… or it may be poison. Shall we find out?"
I huffed a laugh. "Pass."
"Looks like it's just us, eh?"
I rolled my eyes. "Unfortunately, but you decided to follow me when we already decided to split up. What, couldn't get enough of me, doctor?"
"Oh I can never get enough of you, Fraulein~," He said without hesitation and with a soft smirk. "Maybe I just wanted a chance to talk to you without Dempsey or the others bothering us~"
"Oh and what would you wanna talk about?" I asked looking through some cabinets facing away from him.
He smirked again, watching her as she looked through the cabinets. He moved closer so he was standing right behind her and spoke in a low tone. "Oh, I don't know~ Maybe something more interesting than the usual banter~"
I straightened up as he got closer, my breath hitching involuntarily. The space between us shrank with each slow, deliberate step he took, and before I knew it, he was almost touching me. The air between us felt charged, thick with something unspoken, something I wasn’t sure I was ready to acknowledge.
I forced myself to hold my ground, even as my heart pounded in my chest. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter—he lived for that kind of thing. Still, I couldn’t ignore the way my pulse quickened, or how the heat of his presence made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with amusement as if he could hear every thought racing through my mind. "Ah, fraulein~" he purred, voice low and teasing. "You look so tense. Is something the matter?"
I clenched my jaw, willing myself not to react, not to let him get under my skin. "Nope," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "Nothing at all."
His gaze flickered to my throat—where I had just swallowed hard—before dragging back up to my face, sharp and calculating. "Mmm, if you say so~" he mused, tilting his head just slightly.
I could feel the heat radiating off him now, his presence suffocatingly close. The scent of gunpowder, metal, and something distinctly him lingered in the air between us. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.
I shifted slightly, trying to create even the smallest bit of distance, but his smirk only grew as he caught the movement. He knew exactly what he was doing.
I huffed, forcing a scoff. "You’re standing way too close," I muttered, pretending like my skin wasn’t buzzing from his proximity.
His grin turned downright devilish. "Oh? Am I?" He didn’t move back. If anything, he leaned in closer. "How very careless of me~"
I swallowed back another nervous reaction, keeping my expression neutral even as my mind screamed at me to do something. Push him away. Step back. Anything. But I didn’t. And neither did he. He moved closer until our chests were almost touching. He lifted his hand onto my hip and moved the other to rest on the counter next to me, effectively trapping me between him and the counter.
"Don't get ahead of yourself Richtofen."
He chuckled softly, the sound right next to my ear. His chest was pressed against mine now, and he was so close that his breath was hot on my neck. "And why shouldn't I~? I have you all alone, pinned to a counter, with no one around to bother us~" He said, his hand on my hip slowly moving upwards and leaving behind a trail of tingles.
"E-Edward," I mumbled out, my voice barely above a whisper, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as I struggled to meet his gaze. My hands fidgeted nervously, unsure of what to do or say next. "What… what are you doing?" I stammered, my words faltering as I watched him with wide eyes, unsure of how to interpret the situation.
"Oh that's a good question~" He said in a low tone as he slowly moved his hand under my shirt. His fingers were cold against my skin but sent chills up my spine. He smirked as he heard me stutter his name. "What does it look like I'm doing, hm~?"
"Being a problem,"
A cold chill ran down my spine as his icy hands made contact with my skin, sending an involuntary shiver through my body. The sensation was jarring, almost as if the coldness of his touch was seeping into my very bones. My breath caught in my throat, and I instinctively pulled away, but his grip tightened, holding me in place.
"Oh, I think you like it when I'm a problem, though~"
He said with a smirk. His hand moved higher, gently tracing its way up her side. He leaned down a bit more so his face was now right next to her ear again.
"The truth is, I'd be a problem all day if it meant hearing you stutter my name like that again~"
I could only blink in surprise, my mind racing as I struggled to process what was happening. This wasn’t what I had expected at all. The entire time, I had convinced myself that all the flirting was just playful banter, harmless and lighthearted. But now, standing here, everything felt suddenly real and overwhelming. Did I find the older man attractive? Yes, there was no denying that. His confidence, his charisma, even his sharpness—something about it pulled me in. But did I expect anything to come from it? No, I had been certain it was just a game, a fleeting moment. And yet, here I was, trapped in a situation I wasn’t prepared for.
Should I want this? Absolutely not. This was a crazy, dangerous, even evil man standing above me. He wasn’t someone I should be involved with, not someone I should even entertain in my thoughts. Yet, despite that voice in my head, my heart was racing, pounding against my chest, faster than I could control. Why was my pulse quickening like this? Why was every inch of me drawn to him, even as my mind screamed to stay away? I opened my mouth, wanting to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t make sense of the chaos swirling inside me.
Edward smirked, noticing the surprise and confusion on her face. He could practically hear her thoughts, which only amused him more. His hand continued its slow and torturous journey up her side, causing tingles to course through her body. He was still so close, his chest against hers, his body pinning hers to the counter in front of them.
"Cat caught your tongue, hm~? You look like you're at a loss for words~" He said in a low, mocking tone.
I gave him a forced, annoyed look, doing my best to mask the conflict brewing inside me. My brows furrowed slightly, and I crossed my arms, trying to project all the irritation I could muster. I wanted to look like I was completely over this, like I wasn't the least bit intrigued, but the effort was harder than I expected. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, betraying my true feelings, and I was certain that my attempt to seem aloof and irritated wasn't as convincing as I hoped. The truth was, despite my best efforts, part of me was secretly enjoying this—probably more than I should. The mix of emotions swirling within me made my head spin. I tried to push it all down, to focus on the anger, the frustration, but it was almost impossible. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being drawn to him, no matter how much I wanted to act like I didn’t care.
He chuckled softly, amused by the attempt to look annoyed. His hand continued its slow path, now moving up to my ribs. "Oh really now, you're giving me the annoyed look~? You're not fooling anyone, you know~ I can tell how much you're enjoying this~" He said it like it was more of a statement than an assumption. He then shifted so one of his legs was now in between mine making me gasp in surprise.
"Your hands are cold you know," I said bitterly.
"Oh I'm well aware of that~" He replied in an almost playful tone. He smirked as he continued moving his hands. "Are you complaining~?"
"N-no." I barely managed to get out.
He chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself. He slowly began tracing small circles over the skin, enjoying the small shiver in response.
"You have to say it louder, Fraulein~" He teased, his face now mere inches away from mine.
"No, I'm not complaining," I said a bit louder against my better judgment.
"That's a good girl~"
He praised in a low, teasing tone, his hand still moving lazily. He then suddenly pushed me harder against the counter, his face now right next to my ear again as he spoke in a low, almost whisper.
He lifted me effortlessly onto the counter, his hands firm around my waist as he placed me down with a quiet, almost deliberate precision. I was momentarily startled by how easily he moved me, as if I weighed nothing at all. Once I was perched on the cold surface, he positioned himself between my legs, standing so close that I could feel the heat of his body radiating against mine. The proximity was overwhelming, and despite the chill in the air, the space between us seemed to crackle with a strange intensity.
The height difference didn’t really change; he was still towering over me, his presence impossibly dominant, making me feel small in comparison. He loomed above me, his figure casting a shadow that seemed to fill the entire room, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. His eyes never left mine, and there was something in his gaze, something sharp and unreadable, that sent a shiver down my spine. The air between us grew thick, charged with an unspoken tension, and I suddenly became acutely aware of every detail—his breath, the way his shoulders tensed, the way he stood so unyielding, so sure of himself.
He smirked as he lifted me up onto the counter, enjoying the new position. He still had me completely trapped, standing between my legs as he leaned over her. He was so close that our faces were almost touching, and his hands still rested on my hips.
"Come now, say it~ I know you want to~"
"Edward please," I said as annoyed as I was eager.
He smirked widely when he heard his name pass my lips, it sounded like music to his ears. He slowly traced his fingers up my sides, watching as my breath hitched.
"Please what, Fraulein~ You're so close~," He said in a teasing tone, now gently running one of his hands up and down my thigh.
"Don't make me ask, it's alright embarrassing enough." I cried.
"Oh come now, don't be embarrassed~! You're doing so well~" He said in an almost mocking tone as if he was enjoying watching me struggle. His hand continued its slow ministrations, now tracing small circles on my inner thigh.
I lifted my hands so they loosely hung around his neck. I looked up into his eyes timidly but took a deep breath before speaking. "Edward, kiss me please."
His smirk widened as he heard my request, and he could now clearly hear the desperation in my voice. He let out a low chuckle and slowly brought his face even closer. "Since you asked so nicely, I suppose I can't say no~"
With that, he slowly closed the remaining space between us and pressed his lips fiercely against mine. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his body as he deepened the kiss.
We were both too distracted, too lost in the moment, to hear the faint, almost imperceptible footsteps approaching from down the hall. Our attention was completely consumed by each other, by the electric tension crackling between us, and everything around us seemed to fade away. The only sounds that mattered were the rapid beating of my heart and the shallow breaths between our lips. He was so close now, his presence overwhelming, and I couldn't focus on anything except him. Every inch of space between us seemed to close, making it impossible to think about anything but the fire that was building with each passing second.
Neither of us noticed the soft footfalls of Dempsey as he approached the room, moving quietly, as if unaware of the charged atmosphere unfolding inside. It wasn’t until he stepped into the doorway, his eyes widening in surprise, that we were jolted back into reality. Just as our kiss deepened, when it seemed like everything might completely tip over into something more, Dempsey walked in, a mere second too late. His presence was like a sudden, cold splash of water to the face, instantly bringing us to a halt. The room, which had been thick with tension and heat, suddenly felt too small, too crowded, as he stood there, frozen in place. I felt the blood rush to my face, my pulse suddenly erratic, torn between embarrassment and the lingering heat that still pulsed beneath my skin.
He watched in disbelief for a moment before clearing his throat loudly. "Dear God get a room or fuck, and get it over with already." He said in annoyance making me hide my face in Edward's coat as I died in embarrassment.
On the same topic as the last anon, would you make a head canon for a younger woman dating him around valentines like what gifts he may give or how he treats it all. To me he is a workaholic who will stay at work for most of the day but will return to her later and will not make it a waste of time
OMG yay, okay this will be late for Valentine's Day...It is currently 11:58pm now that I'm starting this. I wanted to write something cute for Valentine's Day but I had work. 🥲 Okay I got distracted and didn't finish this till 2:47am. But I hope you can still enjoy. <3
Valentine’s Day would not be something he takes the time to remember. The date would come and go like any other, lost in the blur of more pressing matters. There would be no red hearts drawn in the margins of his notes, no hastily scribbled reminders tucked away in a corner of his mind. It would not be circled on any calendar—if he even bothered to keep one.
To put it briefly, I don’t think he would celebrate most holidays. The significance of such things would feel trivial to him, overshadowed by greater pursuits, and grander ambitions. He was not the type to stop and admire the world’s sentimental traditions, nor would he be the kind to indulge in fleeting, superficial gestures of affection. To him, holidays were simply another day, another rotation of the Earth, nothing more.
Even if someone were to bring it up, to mention it offhandedly in passing, he might scoff, brushing it off with a wave of his hand and a dismissive remark. "Ah, another foolish excuse for people to waste time and money, ja?" he’d say, rolling his eyes as if the entire concept was beneath him. The idea of setting aside a specific day just to express love and devotion would likely amuse him, if not outright annoy him. After all, in his mind, emotions—especially love—were often just distractions.
But perhaps, just perhaps, if someone close to him were to acknowledge the day in an unexpected way, he might pause for a fraction of a second. Maybe he would raise an eyebrow at a small, unexpected gesture. A gift, a card, a simple acknowledgment. He wouldn’t know how to react at first, maybe even scoff at the sentimentality of it all. And yet, he wouldn’t entirely dismiss it either.
Because despite his protests, despite his cold indifference toward the idea of holidays, there was always the possibility that, deep down, in the quiet moments where no one was watching, he might remember. Not because the date itself mattered, but because the person who acknowledged it did.
He might not even realize his oversight until the day was already over, only noticing when someone offhandedly mentioned it or when the world around him had already begun to move on. Ah, was that today? He’d mutter to himself, rubbing his temples in frustration, annoyed at both the oversight and at the fact that he even cared in the first place.
If confronted about it, he’d likely wave it off with some dismissive excuse—“Bah! Foolish traditions, so unnecessary!”—but there would be something else lurking beneath his words. A flicker of something unspoken, perhaps even a touch of guilt, though he’d never admit it outright.
And if—by some miracle—he actually did remember before it was too late, it would likely be in a rushed, last-minute panic, trying to salvage what little time remained. Maybe he’d hastily scribble something down, present a gift that was more practical than romantic, or awkwardly fumble through an attempt at a gesture that didn’t quite come out as intended.
Because while he might not prioritize such things, while he may not intentionally forget, deep down, some part of him would recognize that it mattered—to someone—and that realization alone might be enough to make him almost regret forgetting in the first place.
If he did get you a gift, it wouldn’t be anything extravagant. There would be no grand gestures, no elaborately wrapped boxes adorned with ribbons, no cliché flowers or chocolates. It would be something small—at least, small in the eyes of anyone else. But to you, it would mean everything.
Because whatever he chose, it wouldn’t be random. It wouldn’t be something picked up in passing or something that could be given to just anyone. No, he would put thought into it, whether he admitted it or not. He would get something that only you would appreciate, something tailored so specifically to you that it would be undeniable proof that—despite his aloofness, despite his dismissive attitude toward sentimentality—he noticed things. He noticed you.
Perhaps it would be an old, obscure book he had come across, one he knew you had been searching for but never managed to find. Perhaps it would be something he crafted himself—something small, precise, and uniquely designed just for you. Maybe it would be a trinket tied to an inside joke, something that would make only you smile, something meaningless to the rest of the world but priceless between the two of you.
And, of course, he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. He wouldn’t present it with flowery words or grand declarations. More likely, he’d hand it to you casually, almost offhandedly, as if it were an afterthought.
“Here. Take it. Before I change my mind.”If you expressed any kind of surprise or gratitude, he’d probably wave you off, pretending it wasn’t important, that it was just something he happened to come across.“Don’t make such a fuss. It is nothing.”
But you’d see it—the way he avoided eye contact for just a second too long, the way his fingers lingered when he handed it over, the way his usual smirk softened, just a fraction.
Because while others might not understand the significance of his gift, you would. And that was all that really mattered.
Would you be willing to do some head cannons or a one shot about Ult Richtofen as a boyfriend to someone a bit younger than him?
OMG yay okay *cracks knuckles* I've been waiting for this kind of request and I am so ready to fulfill it. This is the practice I needed for my next Oneshot.
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Note: Alright I've been wanting to work on something for Ultimis Richtofen so here we go.
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I feel like it depends on the age difference between the two of you. The younger you are the more he'd tease you about your little crush you had on the older man.
He would definitely joke about you having daddy issues, and it would probably be all in good fun, but still a little bit awkward. Given the age difference, he might playfully tease you about seeking out an older man, using that classic ‘daddy issues’ line as a way to poke fun at the situation.
He's extremely bipolar with how he shows you affection, and it's honestly exhausting. One minute, he's incredibly touchy, showering you with affection, compliments, and constant attention, almost to the point of being overbearingly loving. He'll make you feel like you're the most important person in his life, holding you close, and expressing his love in every possible way. But then, just as suddenly, he shifts, and the next minute he becomes emotionally distant and cold, as if you don't exist at all. He'll completely ignore you, barely acknowledging your presence, consumed by his work or whatever else is on his mind. It’s a confusing emotional rollercoaster, one that leaves you questioning where you stand and whether his feelings are genuine or just fleeting moments of intensity.
Regardless of his lack of moral compass and the questionable choices he might make, he still has this fierce, almost contradictory side to him when it comes to protecting you. It doesn’t matter how flawed his judgment is or how much he messes up in other areas of his life—when it comes to you, he’s like a shield. He might not always make the best decisions or follow the rules, but when it comes to keeping you safe, standing up for you, or making sure no one harms you, he'll do whatever it takes. His protectiveness doesn't come from a place of pure morality, but from a deep, unspoken loyalty to you, one that seems to override any of his other questionable behaviors. It’s a strange mix of love and possessiveness, where, even with all his faults, he’ll be there when you need him, ready to guard you from any danger that may come your way.
And despite his overwhelming god complex, where he often carries himself like he's untouchable, irreplaceable, and superior to everyone around him, there's this surprising vulnerability hidden beneath it all. As much as he projects an image of complete self-sufficiency and power, he's incredibly easily made jealous if you're spending too much time with others, especially when you're giving them attention or affection that he feels should be directed towards him. It’s like this flicker of insecurity that he tries so hard to mask, but it still manages to surface whenever he sees you connecting with someone else. His pride may be sky-high, but the jealousy is almost palpable—he’ll subtly (or sometimes not-so-subtly) make sure you know he’s not happy about it. It’s as though he believes that, despite everything, you should be entirely focused on him, because in his eyes, he’s the one who deserves your attention, loyalty, and love above anyone else. His god complex only makes that jealousy more intense, as if anyone else getting close to you is some sort of threat to his sense of self-importance.
When he's working, he absolutely hates being interrupted. It’s like a switch flips inside of him, and suddenly, everything else fades into the background. His focus becomes laser-sharp, and when anything or anyone disrupts that, it completely throws him off. The frustration is obvious, you can see it in his body language—his jaw tightens, his eyes narrow, and the air around him becomes thick with irritation. It's almost as though any interruption is a direct challenge to his concentration and efficiency, and it riles him up in a way that’s hard to miss. And while you're not exactly exempt from this, you're still treated with a bit more patience than others. He may not snap or lash out at you in the same way he would at someone else, but it’s clear that the annoyance still lingers. He'll let out a deep sigh, his tone becoming a bit sharper, though he tries to mask it with a forced calmness. It doesn't matter that you're the one person he feels closest to—when he’s in the zone, being bothered just annoys him to the core. His work becomes his entire world in those moments, and even the smallest distractions can leave him on edge. It’s a fine line between wanting to be kind and still feeling the weight of his frustration, and while he may handle it better with you than with others, you can still feel the tension in the air whenever you have to interrupt his focus.
If he isn’t working on something super important or incredibly urgent, he’s actually pretty laid-back about having company around. In those moments, he doesn’t mind your presence at all; in fact, it almost feels like he appreciates it. He might even seem a little more relaxed, more open to conversation or the occasional distraction. His usual sharp focus softens a bit, and he allows himself to enjoy the simple act of being around you, even if he’s still partially immersed in whatever task he’s doing. From time to time, he’ll even let you help out, but there’s a catch—he’s only willing to accept your assistance as long as you don’t get in his way. If you’re offering to help with something, he expects you to be efficient, stay out of his personal space, and not interfere too much with how he’s working. He’s not the type to be overly dependent or ask for help often, but when the time is right, he’ll welcome the extra hands.
If you ask him questions, he’ll happily dive into his vast knowledge, especially when it comes to his areas of expertise, like science or medicine. It’s one of those things that he truly enjoys—he lights up when talking about subjects he's passionate about. The more in-depth or complex the question, the more excited he gets. He’ll go on long rants, elaborating with an almost contagious enthusiasm, explaining theories, sharing details, and indulging in every piece of information that he finds fascinating. It’s clear that he takes immense pride in his intellect, and when you show interest in learning from him, he’s more than willing to share, reveling in the chance to display his mastery.
However, there is definitely a limit to this, and it’s something you’ll quickly learn to recognize. If you start asking questions that he perceives as too simple, too basic, or beneath his level of intelligence, his patience begins to thin. What might have been an engaging conversation can quickly turn into a frustrating experience for him, as he becomes visibly annoyed or irritated. His tone might shift, and you can sense that he’s no longer eager to share his knowledge; instead, he’s counting the seconds until the conversation ends. He doesn’t have much tolerance for questions he considers trivial or beneath the level of discourse he’s used to. If you push too far, he’ll begin to pull back, offering terse or one-word answers, signaling that he’s no longer interested in indulging you. He’ll likely move on to something else, leaving you with the clear impression that there’s a threshold he’s not willing to cross when it comes to certain kinds of inquiries. For him, knowledge is something to be respected, and if he feels like you’re not respecting the complexity of the topics he’s so passionate about, he’ll quickly disengage.
