My absolute vibe-lady - stylish drama queen, tragically ill, /I've been good at my job, but I've never been loved/, who finally deserves her happy metaphysical lesbian absolute union of two entities with the Companion, sending Cochrane with his heteronormativity back to Earth.
i think the most important thing about music is that it gives you the healing you need when you need it. u won't get the same out of it that you did on the first listen through and circumstances in your life will affect your perception and it could be silly but it could also be deeply serious and anyway this is all to say that i'm out of tears from crying over my favourite band today but kendrick is going to make me cry again
𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one - shot. michael olise x reader. 18+. smut. established relationship. michael is a freak. slight dry humping. oral (f!receiving). soft!dom michael. dirty talk. ◞ despite his nonchalant composure michael can’t hide his freakness in your presence.
from the very beginning of your relationship with michael, you both understood the unspoken agreement that defined you: you were never exactly "secret," but you were fiercely, intentionally private. in a world of flashing cameras and constant public scrutiny, you carved out a sanctuary where only the two of you existed.
michael, with his naturally guarded nature and his reputation for being remarkably reserved, holds his cards close to his chest when he is out in the world. he isn’t the type to offer much to strangers; he watches, he observes, and he keeps his thoughts locked behind that calm, impenetrable expression. but you—you are the exception to every rule he has ever set for himself.
when the heavy doors close and you are finally alone, the man the world thinks they know simply vanishes.
the moment you are beyond the reach of others, the mask he wears slips away entirely. the silent, introspective michael is replaced by someone so intense it takes your breath away. he isn’t reserved anymore; he is dominant, focused, and possessive in a way that makes your entire body hum with anticipation.
you feel the weight of his gaze shift—that familiar, quiet look he gives in public transforming into something darker, something raw and utterly unfiltered. he moves with a calculated confidence that is breathtaking, his hands finding you with a familiarity that speaks volumes. there is no hesitation in him now. every touch is an assertion, every breath against your skin a promise of what is to come.
when you are alone, he isn't just a partner; he is an obsession. he takes his time, exploring every inch of you with the same precision he uses on the pitch, but with a hunger that is entirely for you. the intensity in his eyes is unrelenting, locking onto yours as if he’s trying to see into your very soul. he doesn't need words to command you; the way he hovers over you, the way his hands tighten their grip, and the way he devours you—it is an utterly addictive contrast to the boy who barely speaks in public.
you are the only one who ever sees this side of him—the unrestrained, passionate, and volatile side that he saves exclusively for the darkness of the bedroom. and as he pulls you closer, leaving no space between you, you realize that this is the only place that matters. you are his entire world, and in this moment, he is determined to make you feel every ounce of that realization.
the moment the door clicks shut and the rest of the world fades into insignificance, the man you know as reserved and quiet undergoes a total, intoxicating metamorphosis. it is as if there are two versions of him, and the one that exists for the cameras is merely a shell, a carefully crafted shield to keep the public at bay. but behind closed doors? he is an absolute freak.
there is no trace of that stoic, unbothered athlete left. instead, you are met with an intensity that is both startling and addictive. he sheds his composed exterior like a heavy coat, revealing a side of himself that is raw, unfiltered, and deeply hungry. he becomes demanding in the best way possible, his touch turning from gentle to possessive with a suddenness that makes your heart race.
it is the contrast that consumes you. in public, he keeps his hands in his pockets, his gaze distant and cool. but in the intimacy of your shared space, his hands are everywhere, mapping your skin with a precision that borders on obsessive. he doesn’t just want your attention; he demands your complete surrender. he thrives on the way you react to him, the way his voice drops an octave to something gravelly and low when he whispers commands against your skin.
he explores every limit, testing just how far he can push you and just how much of his focus you can handle. there is a wildness to him that he keeps meticulously hidden, a relentless energy that he directs entirely at you. he is obsessed with your reactions—the way you gasp, the way you arch, the way you look at him when he finally lets his guard down. he is not just a partner in those moments; he is a force of nature, untamed and entirely dedicated to turning your world upside down.
you are the only one who knows the truth: that beneath the calm, professional, and quiet exterior lies a man who is unapologetically carnal, constantly craving the heat and the chaos that only you can provide.
the walk to the locker room was supposed to be quick—just a simple errand before he had to head back out to the pitch. you followed him, the ambient noise of his teammates laughing and shouting drifting through the corridors, creating a stark contrast to the sudden, heavy silence that enveloped you the moment you stepped into the private, dim space of the locker room.
as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, the air in the room shifted instantly. the professional, composed athlete you’d been watching on the field vanished, replaced by a man vibrating with an intensity that hit you like a physical force. he didn't even wait for you to settle; he turned, and the look in his eyes—dark, hungry, and completely devoid of his usual restraint—made your breath hitch.
he crossed the small space between you in two long strides, his presence feeling overwhelming in the confined area. he didn’t just kiss you; he claimed you. his mouth was everywhere—trailing burning kisses along the line of your jaw, the pulse point of your neck, and your shoulders, his stubble grazing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. his hands were just as relentless, moving over you with a boldness that was shocking given how quiet and guarded he had been just minutes earlier in front of his coaches and teammates.
he was an absolute freak, completely unbothered by the fact that he was still in his training gear or that his teammates were only a wall away. he pushed you back until your back hit the cool metal of the lockers, his body pressing firmly against yours, his hands roaming over your hips and thighs, gripping you with a possessive strength that left no doubt about what he wanted. every touch was deliberate, meant to remind you that even when he was surrounded by the noise of his career, you were the only thing he was actually focused on.
he leaned in close, his voice a low, raspy growl against your ear that made your legs feel like jelly. it was a thrilling, dangerous game, and as his hands continued their exploration, you realized that being the only one to witness this side of him—this raw, carnal, and entirely unfiltered version of michael—was the most addictive secret you had ever kept.
he lifted you effortlessly, settling you onto the sturdy wooden bench of the locker room. the atmosphere was thick, charged with the scent of adrenaline and the sharp, musky heat of the room. the moment he started grinding against you, the friction was electric—a raw, rhythmic pressure that made your head spin. you couldn’t hold back; the sensation was too intense, and you found yourself vocalizing every bit of it, your voice shaky and soft as you whispered exactly how good he made you feel, how much your body was craving this specific, forbidden release.
hearing you, he didn't slow down—he leaned in further. he began tracing a path of searing, wet kisses down your neck, lingering over your collarbone, and mapping every curve of your torso with his lips as he moved lower. he was entirely consumed by you, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world, and even the threat of the team outside, ceased to exist. when he finally dipped his head down, hovering right between your thighs, the sheer boldness of the move sent a jolt of pure shock and desire through you.
you looked down at him from your perch on the bench, your fingers tangled deeply in his hair as you watched him move with such hungry, uninhibited intent. the danger of the moment—the reality that anyone could walk in at any second—was hanging heavy in the air, a thrill that only made your pulse race faster.
"what if someone surprises us?" you gasped, your breath catching as he looked up at you, his eyes dark, dilated, and filled with a reckless, untamed defiance.
he didn't even flinch, his expression hardening into something intense and completely unapologetic. he let out a low, rough laugh, his voice vibrating through the small space. "let them," he muttered, his gaze never leaving yours as he pulled you closer, making it clear that he didn't care who saw or what they thought. as far as he was concerned, this room belonged entirely to the two of you, and he was ready to show everyone exactly who you belonged to.
the resistance in your body melted away completely, replaced by a wave of surrender as he began his work with a relentless, skilled intensity. he didn’t do anything by halves; every movement was calculated, every sensation sharp and overwhelming. you tried to bite your lip, to swallow the sounds building in your throat, but his touch was so all-consuming that a soft, broken whimper escaped you, echoing against the quiet, industrial walls of the locker room.
your hands were tangled tightly in his hair, your knuckles white as you gripped, pulling him closer to you, unable to stop yourself from encouraging him. every time you gasped, every time your voice climbed a pitch higher, his movements only became more urgent, more aggressive. he thrived on the noise you were making, feeding off the sound of his own name being whispered in a desperate plea.
he knew exactly how loud you were, and he knew exactly who was just on the other side of that thin metal door, but he didn't care. in fact, the possibility that he might be heard only seemed to fuel him further. he looked up at you mid-motion, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive triumph, catching you in the act of pulling his head closer. he was enjoying the thrill of the risk, savoring the fact that he had you this undone in a place where he was supposed to be nothing but professional.
he wasn't just claiming you; he was marking his territory, making sure that every sensation, every sound, and every shiver you couldn't suppress was entirely his. he pushed harder, his hands steadying your hips on the bench, leaving no room for you to escape the intensity of the moment. you were both spiraling now, trapped in this fever-dream of a secret, with him completely unbothered by the potential for chaos just inches away.
as his pace quickened and the sensation threatened to overwhelm you, you realized that his defiance was the most intoxicating part of it all—he wanted the whole world to know exactly what you felt like under his touch, even if they couldn't see it.
he pauses for a heartbeat, his head remaining right where he wants it, and looks up at you with those dark, dilated eyes. he’s completely unbothered, his breathing heavy and ragged, and he smirks—that rare, cocky, and absolutely wicked expression he never, ever shows on the pitch.
"does that feel good?" he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration that seems to rattle right through the bench and into your core. "tell me. is it good?"
your head falls back, your grip on his hair tightening until your knuckles ache, and you can’t help but moan his name. "yes, michael...yes… it’s so good, so good…" you gasp, the words spilling out before you can even think to censor them.
the confession only makes him hungrier. he goes back to work, but he doesn't stop talking, his words becoming increasingly dirty, increasingly possessive. he starts whispering things that make your skin burn—telling you exactly what he’s doing to you, describing how much he loves the fact that you’re helpless under his control, and boasting about how much he loves hearing you lose all sense of composure.
"that’s it, baby." he growls against your skin, his voice dripping with a mix of satisfaction and raw lust. "i want them to hear you. i want them to know who you’re screaming for. you’re so loud for me, aren't you? keep going... tell me exactly how much you need me."
he’s being a complete freak, turning every sensation into a mental game. he’s not just pleasuring you; he’s dominating your thoughts, forcing you to focus entirely on his voice and his touch. every freaky thing he whispers is designed to push you closer to the edge, making the fact that you’re in a shared space even more electric. he’s completely stripped away your defenses, and he loves the way you’re completely at his mercy, hanging on every word he says while he refuses to let you catch your breath.
you feel him speed up, his tongue and lips moving with such expert, relentless precision that your vision starts to blur, and he just keeps talking, his voice a dark, hypnotic lure that keeps you trapped in the center of his world.
the moment he slips a finger inside, the sensation is so sharp, so sudden, that you let out a gasp that echoes off the metallic lockers like a gunshot. he doesn’t pull away at the sound; instead, he seems to thrive on it, his eyes darkening even further as he watches the way your body jerks in response to his touch.
he shifts his rhythm, his tongue swirling and flicking with agonizing precision while his finger moves in a deep, steady slide, pressing against you and mapping the sensitive spots he’s learned by heart. he’s perfectly in sync with himself, his hand and mouth working together to pull every ounce of pleasure out of you.
"you're so wet for me darling," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you, sounding like a dark, forbidden promise in the quiet of the room. "look at you, you’re completely undone just because i told you to be. you like that, don't you? being mine to ruin right here, while they're just on the other side of the door?"
he increases the pressure, pushing deeper, and your hips involuntarily leave the bench to meet him, your body betraying every last shred of the composure you tried to maintain. he isn't just listening to your pleasure; he's orchestrating it, pushing you toward an edge so steep you feel like you might fall off the face of the earth. he doesn't care about the risk, he doesn't care about the noise, he doesn't care about anything except the way you are crumbling apart specifically for him.
"tell me again," he growls, his finger curling firmly inside you, his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifyingly possessive intensity. "tell me you’re not going to make a sound when you finally come for me. try to be quiet, if you think you can."
the challenge is a taunt, and as his touch sends a white-hot jolt of electricity through your nervous system, you realize there is absolutely no way you’re going to remain silent. you are completely at his mercy, and he knows it—he’s savoring the sight of you losing your mind under his control, determined to see you break right there in the heart of his sanctuary.
he’s relentless, his voice acting as a bridge between the physical pleasure and the mental hold he has on you. he keeps his face close to your center, looking up between your legs every few seconds just to catch the way your eyes roll back or the way your teeth sink into your lip. he wants to see every bit of the damage he’s causing.
"answer me," he demands, his voice a low, raspy command that vibrates against your skin. "who does this belong to? who’s the only one allowed to make you sound like this?"
you try to find your voice, your throat tight and dry, your breath coming in jagged, shallow hitches. "you... it's all yours, michael," you stammer, your words stumbling over each other as the sensation of his finger and his tongue together becomes almost too much to process. your fingers are still buried in his hair, gripping tight, your knuckles burning with the effort of staying anchored.
he lets out a dark, satisfied hum, his rhythm not faltering for even a second. he loves the way you struggle to speak, the way your voice hitches and cracks under the weight of his attention. "that’s right," he whispers, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "say it louder. let me hear you struggle to keep your voice down. i want to know you’re thinking about nothing else but this... nothing else but me."
you’re trying so hard to keep your composure, to keep your responses coherent, but every time he presses that finger deeper or drags his tongue in a slow, agonizing circle, your resolve shatters. "it's too much," you manage to choke out, your head tossing back against the locker door with a hollow thud.
he doesn't stop. he just laughs, a sound that is entirely too confident and too possessive for the middle of a high-stakes training facility. "it's not enough," he corrects you, his voice cold and commanding. "i'm going to make you forget where we even are. i’m going to make you forget everything until you’re just mine, right here, right now. keep talking to me. tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."
every time you try to answer, he shifts his hand or his mouth, sending a new wave of fire through you that cuts your words short. you're caught in a loop of trying to obey his demands to talk and failing because the pleasure is literally pulling the words out of your chest. he’s got you completely trapped in his rhythm, and the sheer audacity of him having this conversation with you while your pulse is racing and the team is just outside makes the tension unbearable.
you can feel the tension coiling tight in your stomach, a frantic, electric pressure that tells you you’re standing right on the edge of the cliff. your breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and the air in the locker room feels thick, heavy with the scent of his cologne and the undeniable reality of what you're doing.
"michael...oh…. i think... i'm almost there," you choke out, your voice trembling as you try to force the words past your lips. your hands are shaking, clenching his hair with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, your knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as you arch your back off the wooden bench.
he doesn't even hesitate. he doesn't slow down to let you breathe; instead, he seems to grow hungrier, his movements turning from precise to feverish. he looks up at you, his eyes dark with a raw, predatory focus that makes your heart stop, and he grins—a sharp, wicked smirk that looks so out of place on the man the world thinks is quiet and reserved.
"don't stop baby," he growls, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that always makes you melt. "let go. i want to feel every single second of it. keep going for me—show me exactly how much you can take."
he accelerates, his thumb and finger working in a rhythmic, merciless cadence that forces your body to react. he’s pushing you further, his tongue teasing and swirling with such expertise that your brain starts to fog, the world narrowing down to just the friction between his skin and yours. he’s relentless, taking everything you give and demanding more, his eyes never leaving yours, watching you come undone with a sense of ownership that is both terrifying and addictive.
"that's it, good girl." he commands, his voice a low vibration against your center. "look at me. i want you to scream, i want you to lose it. let it all out for me right now."
the way he’s driving you, ignoring the thin metal door and the voices of his teammates just inches away, pushes you right over the edge. you’re breathless, your body convulsing as the climax hits you like a tidal wave, and he’s there, meeting every shudder, refusing to let you escape the intensity of the moment even for a second.
the aftermath is a strange, jarring transition. the air in the locker room, once thick with heat and your own uncontrolled gasps, now feels chillingly still. you are both breathless, your heart still hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, but the reality of the situation settles over you like a cold shroud.
michael is the first to pull away, and the speed of his shift is almost dizzying. he stands up, his movements fluid and efficient as he adjusts his training gear. he doesn't linger. he doesn't offer a sweet after-moment or a lingering kiss; he simply looks at you for a split second, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes that confirms he’s still feeling the electricity of what just happened, before he turns his back to you to check his reflection in the mirror.
you have to scramble to pull yourself together, your skin still feeling sensitive and flushed, your clothes feeling heavy and wrong against your overheated body. the silence between you is heavy, weighted with the knowledge of what you’ve just done in a place where you absolutely shouldn't have.
"fix yourself, baby." he says, his voice flat and perfectly composed—the same monotone, reserved voice he uses for journalists and fans. "and look at me."
you force your hands to stop shaking as you smooth your clothes, doing your best to mask the visible evidence of your pleasure. he watches you with that familiar, impenetrable expression—the one that tells the world absolutely nothing. it is a jarring contrast to the man who was just moments ago whispering those freaky things to you, and it takes every ounce of your willpower to mimic his shell of indifference.
as he reaches for the handle of the door, he pauses, looking back at you one last time. he doesn't say a word, but the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin and the way his hand brushes yours as he opens the door tells you everything: it’s time to play the part.
the door swings open, and the sudden rush of noise—the sound of balls hitting the turf, the shouts of his teammates, the clatter of equipment—rushes in to meet you. he steps out first, his face a perfect, blank mask of calm professionalism. he walks back toward the pitch with a steady, casual gait, looking as if he’s never done anything in his life other than follow his training schedule.
you follow a few steps behind, your legs still weak, your mind reeling from the whiplash of it all. every person you pass feels like a potential threat, and every glance from a teammate makes you want to hide. but you keep your head up, forcing a neutral expression onto your face, just as he taught you. the secret is locked away, tucked behind the masks you both wear, but as you watch him ahead of you, you can still feel the ghost of his touch, and you know that in just a few hours, the doors will close again—and he will be yours to ruin all over again.
Leon’s footsteps echo across the empty corridor as he walks ahead, with you following silently behind. You haven't said a word since he snapped at you, only nodded in response when he pointed in the direction leading to the incubation chamber.
He hates this. He hates the silence, hates the awkward tension, but most of all hates himself for acting like a dick.
He shouldn't have taken out on you whatever mess it is he’s feeling inside. He doesn't even know why he’s suddenly seeing you so… Differently. And he doesn't plan on dwelling on it either.
God, he’s such a fucking idiot.
He just needs to get laid. Yeah… It’s been a while. That’ll fix it.
He makes a mental note to call an old friend the upcoming weekend as you both walk down the echoey hallway, when you suddenly pick up on sounds of gunshots and loud thudding.
“Shit.” Leon curses before breaking into a run in the direction of the noise, with you right on his tail, until he spots a blown up opening on the wall—no doubt caused by Chris’s grenade as a way to force entry.
Leaping through the rubble, you step into what looks like the long awaited incubation room, high tech machines at every corner, walls lined with gestation tanks—many of which are already open. You come to a stop beside Leon, both of you taking in the absolute shitshow unfolding before you.
‘Lickers’—blind, quadrupedal, skinless bioweapons with exposed brains and slithering tongues—roam freely, attacking anything that makes a sound. Which, in this case, is plenty, as guards are shooting up the place while Chris and Jill take cover and return fire. The woman you assume is Adams stands at the control panel, fiddling furiously with the buttons—no doubt trying to release even more monsters. It’s complete and utter chaos.
Leon, ever the professional, does not hesitate before he’s already shooting a licker that was getting too close to Chris, and then turns to you.
“You stay right beside me and take out as many of’em as you can. Make those bullets count. Got it?”
You give a firm nod in response before you’re both moving, hiding behind machinery from the raining bullets and retaliating with your own fire as much as you’re able.
The shotgun once again comes in handy and serves to blow out the brains of lickers that seem to be going even more feral than they usually are, as loud noises come from every direction.
“Kid, I need you to focus on Adams while I cover you. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
With as much focus as you can muster, you trust Leon to have your back while you attempt to steadily aim for the woman on the opposite end of the chaotic room.
The first bullet lands on the control panel, making her retract her hands quickly with a hiss. You aim for her chest next, ready to take the fatal shot, when a guard blocks your view, making you curse under your breath as you shoot him to get him out of the way.
Then, just when you think things couldn't get worse, Adams—in stereotypical bio terrorist fashion—takes out an injector from her lab coat, and releases whatever virus it contains right into her own neck.
The start of the mutation is instant as her body starts changing, her screams of agony reverberating while she grows in stature. Long, sharp claws protrude from her shoulders to replace her arms, her face becomes deformed by jagged teeth and bulging eyes, her skin stretching and breaking to accommodate the terrifying transformation. By the time her metamorphosis is complete, she stands at 9ft tall of pure abomination, and seems to be attacking anything that stands in her way, friend or foe.
Leon’s face sours even more, and you can see Chris and Jill reacting similarly from your spot. The situation just went from bad to worse and you’re all running out of ammunition while the threat only just increased.
He suddenly turns to you, an expression almost akin to desperation when he grips your shoulder.
“Listen, we don't have enough ammo to take them all out. We’re gonna have to figure out a plan with the others, but—” he pauses to shoot yet another licker, “if it comes down to it and I tell you to run, you have to listen to me, okay?”
“What?” you struggle to register his words with a mix of shock and anger.
“You heard me.”
“That’s not happening.”
He lets go of you to shoot another guard before speaking firmly again.
“You don't get to argue. You listen. When I tell you to go, you go.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous. I’m not leaving without you!” you respond furiously, the adrenaline making you feel every emotion ten times more intensely.
“WATCH OUT!” Jill’s voice echoes too late when the machine you were hiding behind gets yanked out of the way by the mutated Adams, electric cords tearing with blinding sparks.
You can barely see what's happening when, in an effort to protect you, Leon pushes you out of the way and lets himself get swatted violently by the monster. He’s flung across the room like he weighs nothing, his back hitting the opposite wall with a crack and landing roughly on the floor with a pained groan.
The sight makes you physically ill, and you don't think twice before sprinting to him, narrowly escaping another strike from the monstrosity in the process, and noticing in horror that it barely seems to be affected by Chris and Jill’s depleting bullets.
When you fall to the floor beside a coughing Leon, your hands shake when you see blood sputtering out from his mouth.
“Fuck, Leon! You’re bleeding!” your voice is frantic, pure panic coursing through your veins.
He hacks up some more blood and grunts when he sits up to lean against the wall. “I'm fine.”
“Like hell you’re fine!”
Leon looks past your shoulder to see the mutant tearing up guards, guards tearing up lickers, and lickers tearing up each other, all the while the BSAA agents try to keep up with incoming attacks. It’s a bloodbath, a nightmare, and he’ll be damned if this is the way he loses you all because he couldn't keep you safe.
“Kid… You need to go. Right now.”
The panic inside you is replaced by that same anger and frustration from a moment ago.
“I already told you that’s not happening.”
He observes you with his ice blues, eyes piercing into yours with a solemn expression when he brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek, making your heartbeat instantly stutter in your chest.
“Please…”
His voice is so soft amid the hellish ruckus, you can barely hear it, and your heart feels like it's being ripped apart by his plea.
You can't do this. You can't leave him. You’d literally rather get eaten by zombies, shredded by a pack of cerberus, crushed by the hands of a tyrant—
The tyrant.
Your eyes widen as realization dawns on you, and you’re suddenly unholstering every one of your weapons.
Leon looks at you in pure confusion, his hand dropping from your face, “what are you doing?”
You shove the shedded weapons into his arms as you order tersely, “stay alive.”
He frowns even more and is about to argue for you to take your guns back when you lean in and press a firm kiss to his forehead. “Just trust me.”
Somehow, that knocks more wind out of him than that blow he just received by the mutant, and he watches in utter bewilderment as you stand up and sprint away in the direction of the hole on the wall and back out into the hallway.
What the hell is she thinking?
If Leon was feeling guilty about his behavior before, now he feels like the worst person on earth.
His heart painfully aches at the thought that you're not giving up on him, that you never do. Even when he doesn't deserve it—especially when he doesn't deserve it—and he’d be lying if he said the knowledge that you care so deeply for him isn't devastatingly comforting.
Before you, he’d fought hard for a life that didn't really feel worth living. Between Raccoon City and every other nightmare that ensued, it felt like he was doomed to hopeless survival, living almost like a ghost. Enjoying anything after 1998 ultimately felt ephemeral in comparison to everything going wrong in this shitty world.
And then, you showed up. Suddenly, he had a bigger purpose than just Doing The Right Thing. He had someone wait for him at the end of every mission to take her to her favorite ice cream parlor in D.C, and for that, he’d never be able to repay you no matter how much he tries.
Jill, having noticed your departure and Leon’s injured state, does her best to keep the mutant distracted enough not to attack him again. He, on the other hand, shoots any enemy he can hit from his position against the wall, still fighting, every movement sending a sharp pain through his undoubtedly broken ribs. All in the while, Chris fires at the last few standing guards when his gun clicks, officially emptied. He looks over at Jill with a grave expression, and it's like the beginning of the end. Without exchanging words, all three agents feel the same hopeless dread grow with every passing second that brings them closer to demise.
But just when it feels like the last threads of hope are being snapped, Leon witnesses the apparition of an angel. It doesn't have wings, or a halo, but it looks like you, and if that's the last thing he sees before he dies, he wouldn't even be mad.
Except, of course, it’s not an angel. It’s you running for your life as you sprint back inside the slaughterhouse turned incubation chamber with a familiar trench-coat-wearing brute right behind you.
Leon’s brain works in overdrive trying to figure out what's happening as he watches you dash before him. But you don't come to him to take your guns back and uselessly shoot the monster. Instead, you run straight for mutated Adams.
“What are you—”
His words are cut off mid shout when his breath catches, his heart stopping as he witnesses in slow motion your plan finally become clear.
Adams’ clawed arm swings for you and narrowly misses decapitating your head as you skid and roll on the bloodied floor, but not without her attack landing on the target you just offered her on a silver platter instead: the tyrant that was right on your tail.
Romantic Gestures That Max Hatter Would Do (Wonderland native!reader)
Pairing: Max Hatter x Wonderland native!reader
Fanfiction Masterlist
Disney Characters Romantic Gestures & The Romantic Gestures That They Do
Multi Fandom: Romantic Gestures That They Do
HK!reader version
VK!reader version
Dating Max as a fellow Wonderland native means your relationship is built on a shared language of beautiful absurdity. You don't need him to explain his logic, and you aren't startled when things defy physics. Because you already understand the magic of Wonderland, Max goes completely above and beyond to make his romantic gestures uniquely special, mixing deep Hatter traditions with high-energy chaos.
The Infinite Un-Birthday: Instead of celebrating just one Un-Birthday, Max tracks the exact milliseconds of the day to surprise you with 364 tiny, chaotic gifts throughout the year.
Extreme Croquet Dates: He takes you to private, overgrown fields where the hedgehogs are hyper-competitive and the flamingo mallets have big personalities, turning a casual game into a high-stakes, laughing-until-you-cry date.
The Ultimate Hatter Tea Blend: Max spends weeks in his workshop distilling the literal essence of your favorite Wonderland places—like a pinch of Tulgey Wood mist or a drop of the White Queen's crystal river—into a tea blend just for you.
Mad Tea Party Takeovers: He hijacks his family's official tea parties, rigging the giant teapots to burst into your favorite colors or shoot confetti the exact moment you sit down.
The Royal Hat Metamorphosis: He creates a top hat for you that shifts shapes and colors depending on which territory of Wonderland you are currently walking through.
Heartbeat Synchronization: Max tinkers with a pair of pocket watches so that the internal gears tick in perfect synchronization with your heartbeat whenever you are holding hands.
Gravity-Defying Picnics: He sets up dates on the ceilings of rooms or upside down on the branches of the Cheshire Cat's favorite trees, anchoring your tea set with reverse-gravity clockwork magnets.
Mechanical Message Butterflies: Instead of sending text messages or standard letters, Max builds tiny, brass mechanical butterflies that fly across Wonderland to deliver his whispered voice notes to you.
Time-Stretched Naps: If the two of you find a perfect, sunny spot in the gardens, he uses his father’s pocket watch to stretch a twenty-minute nap into a full, restful eight hours without a single second passing for anyone else.
Chasing the White Rabbit: He creates an elaborate, playful scavenger hunt using backward-running clocks and disappearing ink, leading you to a hidden meadow he customized just for a private dinner.
Painting the Roses Your Favorite Color: If you dislike red or white roses, Max will spend an entire afternoon using magical, everlasting paint to turn a royal garden into your absolute favorite color palette.
Cheshire Cat Collaborations: He strikes up a deal with the Cheshire Cat to leave floating, glowing neon messages in the sky above your home when he's thinking of you.
The Looking-Glass Escape: When Wonderland politics or royal drama gets too overwhelming, Max pulls you through a secret looking-glass into a private, pocket dimension he built entirely out of cushions, clocks, and snacks.
Singing Flowers Serenades: He conducts a choir of the talking Wonderland flowers to sing a perfectly harmonized, slightly chaotic love song outside your window at midnight.
Mirror-Image Dancing: He takes you to a room made entirely of mirrors where your reflections dance to a completely different, faster rhythm than you are, creating a beautiful, dizzying illusion.
Defying the Queen for You: If a Wonderland royal gets on your nerves, Max will use his inventions to subtly cause minor, hilarious chaos in their court—like making the Queen's crown float away—just to see you smirk.
A Hat for Every Mood: Max creates a collection of miniature fascinator hats that automatically display tiny, glowing symbols (like stars for happiness or rainclouds for sadness) so he always knows exactly how to comfort you.
The Nonsense Vows: Max writes a completely absurd, rhyming poem detailing all the ways he loves you, swearing by the Jabberwocky and the Bandersnatch that he will always be your madman.
the soulmate au nobody ever asked for. in which red is your favourite colour, and also the colour of katsuki's eyes.
bakugou katsuki x gn!reader
you've always considered it one of your greatest blessings, being in class 1-a.
it's where you got to meet some of the brightest people at u.a. high. you were supported by amazing teachers and got to grow alongside the best classmates you could ever ask for; without 1-a, you wouldn't be half the pro-hero you were today.
but most of all, that's how you met your soulmate.
growing up, you never really believed in soulmates. you knew soulmarks existed. you've heard stories, of magically-appearing matching-coloured bands around the wrist and perfectly-synced unmatched chemistry between lovers simply destined for each other. it all sounded too good to be true.
you were 13 when your parents (who were "soulmates") decided to split after almost 20 years of marriage. you told yourself right there and then, that you would never live your life waiting for some magical moment, for the stars to align, for sparks to fly. what was the point?
you were 15 when you met your soulmate.
bakugou katsuki. when you first met him, he was loud, obnoxious, and absolutely unbearable. he was an egomaniac, an asshole to everybody. when you first locked eyes with his, you felt a burn sear across the skin of your wrist.
in the red of his eyes, you saw red. nevermind that red was your favourite colour — you were angry. angry that this guy just had to be your soulmate. your other half. but you also felt smug. smug that you were right, about soulmates meaning jackshit.
you couldn't read bakugou's expression. you didn't bother. you simply turned around and walked away.
you stopped by the nearest family mart and bought a concealer. you got back to your dorm room. seated on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, you finally allowed yourself to look down at your wrist.
again, you saw red — a single, braided cord tattooed around your wrist. of course, it had to be red. you dabbed at it with your newly-bought concealer until it was gone.
you don't miss the way bakugou stares at you, at your wrist, when you walk into class the next day. his eyes narrow, his face twists into a scowl, and you feel oddly satisfied.
but a soulmate isn't that easy to get rid of, apparently. especially when he's your classmate.
the moment you saw his quirk, you understood that bakugou katsuki was a force to be reckoned with.
bakugou katsuki was relentless. he was driven, ambitious, confident, and strong. and he only got stronger, and stronger. and you refused to fall behind him.
you couldn't take your eyes off him. you were afraid that if you blinked for even a fraction of a second, he'd go on without you and you'd miss out on his metamorphosis into a true hero.
into somebody you could actually love. and no, not just a fleeting love. a love that could last you a lifetime.
you don't take your eyes off bakugou katsuki. you watch him, furiously attentive with awe and fascination and spite. watching katsuki ignites something in you that you don't understand. well, not yet.
sometimes, your gaze flickers to katsuki's right wrist, to the red string wrapped around it, and your stomach twists at the reminder that bakugou katsuki was not just your rival; he was, in theory, the other half of your soul.
you continue denying this fact until bakugou forces you to face it.
after a particularly gruelling day of quirk training, you're completely spent. you're exhausted, hunched over the water cooler and taking mouthful after mouthful of water. when you stand back upright, your feet wobble and your knees buckle but you're steadied by a strong hand clasped on your shoulder.
you jerk at the touch, and you whip around to see bakugou katsuki standing next to you. you wrench yourself out of his hold and bakugou rolls his eyes at you.
"better not pass out," bakugou grumbles. "m'leavin' you and your beat-up ass here if you do."
"fuck off," you spit. "i don't need your help." you pass out as soon as you finish your sentence.
bakugou catches you and easily gathers your tired and bruised body in his arms. you wake up 3 hours later in recovery girl's office, with a pounding headache and, on the nightstand, a bottle of water and a box of aspirin.
you reach over to grab 2 pills and you realise that the concealer on your wrist has been smudged off. it's also then that you realise the brand-new concealer that's also on the nightstand.
the twist of your stomach is all too familiar, and it's then that you decide that you're done running away from your soulmate.
later, you find yourself knocking on his door. he opens the door after roughly 18 seconds of knocking and you're greeted with a gruff "fuck do you want" until he realises it's you, and he takes a step to the side to let you in.
you stand awkwardly in the middle of his room, until he snorts, taking a seat on his bed and patting the spot next to him. you oblige.
it's quiet, and you realise you don't exactly know what to say. "thank you"? "i'm sorry"?
"so?" bakugou asks expectantly. "what, wrong brand of concealer?" he raises an eyebrow, somewhat amused.
you know he's joking, but you still flinch at his words.
"no, that's not it," you say, shaking your head quickly. "i just... well... i..." before you can stop yourself, you're crying.
bakugou catches on and offers you a tissue. you don't know why he's being so nice to you, but you mutter a quiet "sorry, thanks" and accept it anyway.
your hand brushes against his as you take the tissue, and you see the exact moment bakugou realises that for once, you don't have concealer applied to your wrist.
bakugou's frowning.
you don't know what you were expecting, showing up now at bakugou's room after ignoring him for most of the year and blatantly disregarding the fact that the two of you were soulmates. of course you should've known that he'd be upset.
"i'm sorry," you croaked. "for everything. i avoided you for so long, i was just so scared, i didn't know you back then and i wasn't ready to—"
bakugou holds your wrist so gently. you realise that he's still looking at the red band around your wrist, and your chest tightens at the uncharacteristically soft look in his eyes.
a small smile graces his lips, and it's like a weight is finally lifted off your shoulders because you finally get it.
bakugou katsuki is your soulmate.
"you're my soulmate," bakugou says simply, finally looking you in the eyes, and you know he's known all along but you can tell that he's sure of it now.
because you're sure of it now, too.
"you're my soulmate," you smile. you meet his gaze shyly, and as you stare into the red of his eyes you realise that red has always been your favourite colour.
i hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this ❤️
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Louis & Armand's Living Room Wall: A Character Analysis
So Louis and Armand have this giant wall, in their living room. The wall is given a lot of screentime, and a lot of importance. And I think that this wall (and what's hanging on it) says a LOT about Louis' mental state, Armand's mental state, and the state of their relationship.
So this is the very first shot we get of the inside of the penthouse, it's our intro into Daniel in Louis & Armand's world.
We've got those three red pantings, called out in dialog as "the Bacon triptych" "Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion," and "The Three Furies." Which I think we're meant to read as a visual representation of Louis' pain.
First, Francis Bacon is specifically riffing off this altarpiece:
and you can absolutely see him subtly using the iconography and shapes of (from left to right) - John the Apostle, the Virgin Mary, John the Baptist
the left one has John's red hair and red wrap, the center has mary's white veil/headscarf, and Bacon leans into the way it kinda looks like a blindfold (the shape of Mary Magdalene has been simplified into that table/tripod thing.) And the one on the right is the general shape of John the Baptist, with the lamb represented as that furry carpet.
The most important painting is the center "Virgin Mary" one, the one that frames Daniel. And the most OBVIOUS meaning here (other than the catholic of it all, which is very Louis) is -- death of a child. Mary is watching Jesus die. It's a painting of his Claudia pain.
BUT these are also the three "furies," the goddesses of vengeance (so ALSO very Louis) who come down especially hard on liars and oath breakers. And the remaining liar/oath breaker? Armand, and arguably Lestat. Louis doesn't know the extent of Armand betrayal, but he DOES know that he sold them out to the Paris coven because of his "cowardice." These are the two main sources of his current pain. Daniel is here to help them process them, and that's why Daniel's sitting right in the middle of them. His head is literally in the game.
BUT Armand (in his Rashid persona, and that doesn't feel like a good omen, putting on a false face in front of the furies) is blocking the one on the right almost completely. HE wants to sell the Bacon Triptych, take it down off the wall. That's because... Armand doesn't WANT Louis' pain front and center. The last thing we hear him say to Louis is "One night, 70 years ago. You are over this, Louis! The pain of it has left you (...) You have forgiven me for what part I played in her death!"
After he successfully sells the triptych, Louis and Armand have this conversation in front of the blank wall:
ARMAND: The two Barcelos would fit.
LOUIS: If we replaced the couch.
ARMAND: I assumed we would.
LOUIS: The couch, then the table, then the Antieau Javelina, then, then, then, then.
ARMAND: How about the Ai Weiwei wallpaper with the Hockney lemons?
LOUIS: Like we're a Firmdale hotel lobby?
ARMAND: Okay, what do you think we should do with the wall?
LOUIS: What about a selection of Fred Steins, tastefully framed? They've been sitting in my albums all this time, seems a waste. Or better not to have so tangible a reminder of Paris up on our walls?
ARMAND: An interview about Paris is a more tangible reminder of Paris than a few photographs.
LOUIS: Huh. Leave it bare then. Wait for revelation to enter the room.
It's unclear what Armand means by "the two Barcelos" so I get to speculate. I think we're talking about Miquel Barceló, and I also think we're talking about his sculptures rather than his paintings, because of the reference to moving the couch. Which you would DEFINITELY do if you were moving in sculptures, but probably not if you were hanging a painting. Especially since it's a really neutral, charcoal grey couch.
Also, the fact that it's TWO Barcelos mean that I'm looking for sculptures that are part of set, and the famous Barcelo sculpture series is "Metamorphosis."
And I dunno. This seems pretty Armand coded to me. Metamorphosis as a concept is very Armand, with all his shifting identities, but I'm also getting *hunger* from this, I'm getting *damage,* I'm getting shaky foundation... and the shaky foundation, it's built out of corrupted Roman pillars (cough marius de romanus cough.) So, if the Bacon triptych symbolizes Louis' pain, maybe this symbolizes Armand's pain (and his interiority, his backstory.) It's his first pick after all.
But Louis says no, shuts it down. Armand's next suggestion is pretty straightforward. The Ai Weiwei "Wallpaper" piece is all about imprisonment and surveillance.
And David Hockney, important figure of post-war pop art, painted mid-century American scenes that at first glance seem to be bright, clean, and happy... but have a sort of melancholy, suburban malaise underneath the surface. He's really famous for his paintings of swimming pools.
But he also painted a lot of lemons. I think it's because we've got that bright yellow on the outside, hiding an underlying bitterness.
So, this pair of artworks is Armand saying "can we continue on as we have been?" (me keeping you superficially happy in my "prison of empathy.") And Louis says no, because he's recovered his memories at this point, he's getting wise to Armand's deceptions.
Then Louis suggests (a little sarcastically) that they should hang the Fred Stein photographs that Armand has been slipping into his portfolio. We're never explicitly told WHY Armand is doing this - pretty weird thing, but I think it's got to do with memory, and the David Hockney superficial happiness of it all. Armand wants Louis to remember a Paris that was better than it was, more romantic than it was (where Louis was a better photographer than he was...) But that story isn't reflected in Louis' photographs, so Armand... fixes it. 'Cleans up the mess' (the way he always does.)
So, Louis wanting to put that 'Fred Stein' lie front and center is a call out. He's saying that he wants to focus on Paris (with Daniel) and remind himself of Armand's lie. So, a way to interpret this conversation is Armand saying "can we focus on my damage/past/interiority/pain," Louis saying no. Then Armand saying "can we keep things status quo?" and Louis saying no. Then Louis says "can we focus on the truth of Paris." And Armand says no. At which point, Louis says he wants to wait for "revelation to enter the room." AND - we cut to this shot.
Revelation HAS entered the room (its name is Daniel Molloy.) Because Daniel of course breaks the case wide open, exposes Armand, and helps Louis process the pain he's had since that first shot.
Pictured - Louis processing pain. By throwing Armand at the living room wall.
The NEXT time we see the wall, it looks like this --
Louis has introduced color back into his life (also lot of yellow. which is a very *Claudia* color.)
The new painting is "Shelter" by contemporary artist Peter Jerrod Macon, and it's of a mother embracing a child. (confirmed by production designer Mara LePere Schloop.) SO - Louis is no longer defined by his pain like he was at the beginning of season one, when he was the Virgin Mary watching a child die. Now he's defined by the *love* he feels for his child.
It's also a very large painting. So, I like to think that the crack in the wall is still there, underneath it. As Louis says in Paris, he hangs art to "cover up the cracks in the walls." That pain and damage is still a part of Louis, but now he's able to build over it.
your type of ghoul | tokyo debunker x fem!angel ghoul!reader
synopsis: leo gets ahold of your ratings. some of the ghouls are not happy campers.
part 2 | Frostheim
click here for part 1, part 3, part 4!
my type of ghoul (can be read as a standalone fic)
other tkdb fics: doctor, doctor, help me! , metamorphosis , girl talk
You decide to skip your classes entirely, absolutely hellbent on finding Leo and having him explain to you how exactly he got ahold of your list. Maybe there's a chance that he stumbled across it, though you knew that scenario was just simply impossible. You kept it meticulously hidden in your bag, and you always kept your bag on you or in your room at your dorm. It's also a bit hard to navigate the forest in Obscurary because of how dark and dense it is. Leo's stigma could be helpful, but it's not enough to make your way to the mansion unless you're the Inspector, a frequent visitor like Jiro, or the residents of the house. The possibility isn't completely at zero, but it doesn't make sense to you.
Now, the second scenario on the other hand, very likely. There's a chance that Leo used his stigma to eavesdrop while you were with the Honor Student at her dorm. He quietly stalked you two at a certain distance that wasn't too out of range for his stigma, but close enough that you still wouldn't be able to sense him. You were so certain that he wasn't nearby...
Maybe you should take up those sign language classes the school offers. Though you're pretty sure Mortkranken takes those courses for their deaf/hard of hearing patients.
Though, there was one thing you were absolutely sure of. The walk to campus was excruciatingly long and quiet. You felt your nerves flare up with every step, and it only got worse once you saw the light of campus peak through the trees of the forest.
Upon stepping foot on the grass, you felt like you were crossing a whole new world where you stuck out like a sore thumb. Walking through campus, you felt eyes on you as they whispered about your sinful list. When people so much as glanced at you, it felt as though they were leering, laughing at how much your list reveals about you; however, in reality it was just a regular day for the general admissions students. You were simply embarrassed by your predicament and your nerves were eating at you.
You've been in literal wars against demons, face to face with the first triad of angels, permanently expelled from heaven, but the idea of the entire school finding out about your list was somehow more frightening.
You continue the walk across campus, your next stop being the Vagastrom house, when you hear a faint screech from behind you. Initially you ignore it, but after a couple of seconds, your senses spiked up. Turning around, you see a figure that's slowly approaching you at a high pace. You squint to figure out what it is, and when the figure gets to a certain point, you recognize who it is.
"Kaito?"
The freckled boy lets out another screech.
"YOU HATE ME!!"
You don't have time to react properly. With how fast he was coming towards you, you should have definitely seen it coming. Within a few seconds, Kaito crashes into you, causing you both to fall harshly into the grass. He's on top of you, panting and catching his breath like he was in a marathon, tears falling dramatically down his face and on you.
"You... You hate me...," he sobs. "I got the notification from Leo and when I read it, my name wasn't even on there. I thought we were friends, Angel..."
Oh. Right.
With so many ghouls at the school, you were certain that you'd forget someone at some point. Unfortunately, Kaito is your victim.
"Listen, Kaito... The list is stupid anyways. I made it when I first got to the school and was losing my mind," you try to comfort him. You weren't doing a good job, though. "There were too many ghouls to remember. I had to pull out the copy of the yearbook we keep in Obscurary." You pat his head awkwardly, keeping in mind to keep your voice light. You felt bad. Really. It was something that you did in the wee hours of the morning, not thinking at all. As embarrassing as it is to have your business outed, you knew there would be consequences had anyone other than the Inspector seen your list. Katio's reaction to being forgotten is one of those consequences.
You speak to him again. "I don't actually think of anyone romantically. The list was just for my own personal entertainment."
He had finally caught his breath, its shaky and he's hiccuping, but he caught it. His tears are still fresh, but they're no longer falling onto your face and clothes.
"Well, where would've you put me?"
If music were playing from Rui's record player, the record would've suddenly stopped. Kaito looks at you, waiting for you, and you can only gulp as you try to think of a way to change the topic and not tell him that he would've been in the second or possibly the third category. Unfortunately, you find yourself stuck, no matter how much you think.
You're about to answer him when he suddenly gets picked up off of you. You had totally forgotten that Kaito had crashed onto you.
"Kaito, you shouldn't be on top of a lady like that." Luca had scolded him. He immediately held a hand out, helping you to stand. You thank Luca.
"Dude! We were in the middle of something important!"
"But as gentlemen, we should be aware of where and how we have these discussions." He says to Kaito immediately. Then he turns to you, "Though, I would presume that this discussion has to do with that list of yours?"
You let out an obnoxious groan.
"Please don't say anything," you cringe. "I'm literally so embarrassed. I'm sorry if I offended you in anyway." And then he smiles at you. Actually.
"No, you didn't. In fact, I felt honored being so high up on your list. I'm glad that I can give you a sense of security. At least we know that if we were to ever pursue something romantically-"
"Enough!" Kaito jumps in between you two.
—————
After a bit of chatter with the duo, you received information that Leo was not in Vagastrom and instead, near Sho's foodtruck. Saying your goodbyes to the Chaos Combo (and successfully avoiding Kaito's questions about his ranking), you make your way over to the truck.
That's when your phone begins to ring.
You let out a groan and look at it, just in case it was anything important; however, the caller ID made you want to go to hell if that were an option.
What could Tohma want at this moment?
You decide to just ignore it, shoving your phone back into your pocket and continuing your walk to the truck. Then once again, your phone rings.
Again, you shove and ignore.
Then it rings for the third time. This time, you silence your phone. You're about to put your phone back into your pocket when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen at the suddenness. You're turned around to face the person and you held back everything that threatened to come out.
His infamous monocle glints in the sun. His condescending smile makes your skin itch.
"It seems that my phone calls aren't going through. Unless of course, you're purposely ignoring me?"
"Tohma, while I would love to entertain you," you say sarcastically. "I have something extremely urgent to take care of right now." You're about to shove his hand off your shoulder when he takes ahold of it in his own.
"I assume that it's about that interesting list you had made." He says back, just as sarcastically as you had been earlier.
"What? Do you want an apology or something?" You try to take your hands out of his grip, but he keeps a tight hold on them. It's not a grip that hurts, but it's enough to let you know that he's not going to make this easy for you.
"No. To be honest, the list was very amusing. I would even say that you're assessments of everyone is accurate, your personal relationship with your housemates aside."
He lets go of your hands then. You're about to ask him what he wants from you when he suddenly cups both sides of your face.
What is it with these ghouls touching everyone?
"While others may have some issues about it, I'm actually pleased that you're not as trusting. Maybe it's your many, many years of human experience, but I must admit that I feel quite comfortable in your presence."
He stares at you for longer. You're starting to think that maybe he has a screw loose somewhere in his head, but as far as you know, Tohma is running Frostheim. He can't risk losing his cool.
"To be honest," he says softly. "You're quite beautiful to look at." He then smiles at you. A genuine one. And you think that he actually looks more handsome when he's relaxed. Tohma finally lets go of you. "You're not as tense as you were before."
That was a pretty weird thing to say. Whatever, you thought. You think he's done. You seem to forget that Tohma is still himself.
"Good. I came here because the Captain has requested to speak to you. In his room. Alone." He smirks. "He's very curious about that list of yours."
You gulp.
"I actually have something to do right now-"
"The first year at Vagastrom is not at the food truck. He left while we were chatting. Since you have the time now, I'll escort you to our house."
Tohma has been demoted to 'Its not even a concept to me'. Jin remains in the same category. Kaito is ranked last in 'Me, if i was sixteen and in my rebellious era'. Luca remains in the same category.
