#apexhearted

“That looks like one of those fuckin’ anime things Jamie’s always watching,” says Leon over a mug of absolutely not coffee. The thing reads “#1 Twink” and Hawker had purchased it for him as a joke. It is now the only mug he will use. They have tried hiding it in all manner of places; he always seems to turn up with it. It currently contains some kind of smooth, expensive whiskey with a cursory amount of hot chocolate.

“Like one of the really fucked up ones,” he adds after a moment, not knowing the difference, but having wandered by enough times to know where that shit is going. “Hang on, can you hold like, four beers at once?”

The city was overrun by the walking dead, zombies, whatever you wanted to call the infected people stumbling around trying to feast on flesh. Claire was determined to get out and get to safety, but she was more concerned and focused solely on getting Sherry to safety first. And Sherry certainly wasn’t safe since she wasn’t at her side.

She held her handgun with both hands, lowered but ready. Her thumb pressed against the metal near the safety to make it an easy flick when she needed to shoot. The gun was drawn up quickly, motion still a little jerky and unfamiliar, and she aimed it at the movement on the street. Upon seeing it was an actual person, Claire lowered the gun slightly but not completely, not entirely trusting people now.

“If you tell a soul,” growls Sarah Hawker as she presses her face into Chris’s ample chest. In the darkness, she cannot see his cheeks go red as he tries his best to find an appropriate and safe place to put his arms. Drawing her in is easy, of course; she wants to be here, but she is going to make it abundantly clear that he is not allowed to point that out.

“You’re going to what,” he offers, “gouge out my other eye?”

She stops, considers this, and then snorts into his chest, wiggling her entire body with gales of laughter, careful not to gut him with the deadly “murder arm”. It currently has an industrial oven mitt over the business end, but those claws can and will shred it and she knows that. Chris feels the weird press of it on his lower back as she calms herself and draws closer.

“You practice that one all night?”

“Most of it, yeah.”

11. [consent is sexy] - Your muse asks permission to touch mine below the waist, above or beneath clothing.

While shifting mid-spar is usually frowned upon, it’s mostly for the benefit of The Locals™, as Hawker tends to call them. They’ve become accustomed to her, but it still sets their teeth on edge when she mutates into a several ton monster and barrels into a teammate. This time, that teammate is Leon Kennedy, but they are alone. He grunts as he finds himself underneath a clawed foot. She isn’t digging into the ground, mostly to avoid hefty repair costs, but she could. Her massive jaws are unhinged and she is snarling at him.

“Harder, mommy,” he moans mockingly, chewing his lower lip and arching into her grip. She makes a sound of exasperation and shakes her head, loosing a couple of tentacles from the mane they form around her neck and shoulders. These slither forward and begin to crawl their way down his body, deftly avoiding where her fingers hold him. They slide over the curve of his pectorals, stopping to squeeze a little as a sound like laughter comes from her throat which is not a throat.

His breath hitches. He had been kidding, naturally, but this… He can feel his heart beating a little faster, something over which he usually has plenty of control. Not this time, evidently. Her tentacles linger around his waist, hovering and grasping, sliding this way and that as her eyes fix on him—all of them; naturally, she has more than two—as if to ask permission.

“Are you… serious?” He does not sound horrified. Not in the least.

[caress up my muse’s thigh]

She is so gentle, always so very careful with him. Even before they had become intimate, the delicacy of her dealings with his history had marked her as something special to him. Leon had not disclosed the secret of that September evening back in 1998 to anyone who was now living and the fact that she had chosen—and continues to choose—to use this information for him, rather than against, cements her place in his mind as the dearest thing in all his life. He draws her closer, nodding against her cheek, their bodies pressed flush.

“Yeah,” he confides in a whisper, knowing she is seeking verbal confirmation. Her hand, a deadly weapon and something he knows she dislikes, is drawing itself up his body, taking great pains and care to avoid injuring him. By god, how he loves her.