#assorted crisis events

[dorothylarouge]

Assorted Crisis Events #1 Script by Deniz Camp Pencils and inks by Eric Zwadzki Colors by Jordie Belaire Letters by Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou

[towritecomicsonherarms]

Assorted Crisis Events #1

[jkparkin]

Assorted Crisis Events #3 (Image Comics, May 2025) cover by Eric Zawadzki

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

April 23 2025 comic reviews

Here's my reviews for this week, April 23, available over at my other blog, @pedrocomicreviews.

Long reviews: Assorted Crisis Events, The Power Fantasy, Absolute Wonder Woman, Absolute Martian Manhunter

Short reviews: Star Trek, One World Under Doom, Ultimate Black Panther, Magik

I've been sick since Easter so I didn't even know if I was going to do reviews this week; and then some of the best comics of the year came out this and I had to talk about it. RIP Magik, I really liked this issue but I'm kinda beat after writing ~10 pages of thoughts about the others.

[pedrocomicreviews]

Assorted Crisis Events #1

"There is no such thing as time. Time's a trick our minds play on us to keep us going."

Deniz Camp is on a career-making run.

The first time I read something by Camp was 20th Century Men, a book I randomly saw an acquaintance say it was good without giving any context. That acquaintance was correct. It's one of the most gripping original comic narratives to come out recently; it's heavy, focused, married to its themes and does everything in its power to make sure you get its message.

Assorted Crisis Events takes a much different approach. It's an anthology drawn by Eric Zawadzki of House of El fame, colored by Jordie Bellaire of Birds of Prey fame, and lettered by Hassan Ostmane-Elhaou of Poison Ivy fame, as well as counting with Tom Muller, the designer behind the X-Men Krakoa Era's look and datapages vibe. I give you all of these names because these happen to be some of my favorite people working this industry right now; I can't quite express to you how much of an all-star cast this is, it's kind of ludicrous so many of these times-defining artists are all working together.

And then the actual book is also very good! Sometimes you're worried that too many good cooks spoil the broth, but everyone has a time to shine here. This first issue has the job of introducing us to what's actually happening and what we can expect, and there's just so much happening here that it starts feeling almost overwhelming. And I do think that's the point Camp is making with his structure here.

We follow a lady named Ashley during some of what for us, would be the worst days of our lives, but for her is just normal. The worst days of everyone's lives are now commonplace since time became unwound. Everything happens at once and a lot of it is bad.

But that's not even the worst part, and I think this theme is where the anthology will shine: the worst part is how banal everything becomes. Movies start profiting off the apocalypse, people still have to go to work even if work doesn't exist, and unfathomable personal tragedy is just a fact of life. Nothing seems to work but everything has to keep going, and the constant exhaustion Ashley feels is beautifully rendered by everyone involved.

It is not a very happy book to read right now, when the world is actually imploding, but that too is part of the point. While Camp writes an exaggerated caricature of a world that could never really keep going, it is hard to say ours is feeling much more "realistic" right now. Casualties and horrible events become just something else that happened in our commune, entire countries go into upheaval and devolve in and out of fascism at the drop of a hat, and yet we still have to go outside and pretend life is just normal enough that we need our minimal wages.

Seeing a world where time is broken and yet still seeing our world in it is a little more depressing than I was expecting, but it never stops being interesting. It's a big, ~43 pages long book, and some portions do feel repetitive, but Ashley also feels like all the blood, guts and horrific events are repetitive. We get accustomed to her way of looking at things so fast and so seamlessly, it's almost a jump scare when the inevitable conclusion comes, just the way you knew it would.

I wouldn't mind seeing Ashley again, especially because I adore her design. But I'm very curious what the rest of the anthology is going to be like. Even if it's very good, I do feel like there's only so much you can write about the end of the world before it becomes too repetitive even for these themes of time feeling unreal. Still, Deniz Camp has yet to publish a bad script, so I'm all in either way.

Get this in your pull list, if only so you can see what's in the man's head when he's not writing Ultimates.

[medusamagic]

[crascet]

Honest Thoughts: Assorted Crisis Events #1 (Camp/Zawadski)

Since Deniz Camp's Absolute Martian Manhunter comes out tomorrow, I bought his recent original comic series last week with Assorted Crisis Events. It's essentially an anthology series with each issue being a one-shot story set during a temporal event that is occurring in the series world that not only brings in beings across time from the prehistoric past to the far distant future into the present, but also from different timelines as well. Now at first glance, this seems to be a very interesting and fantastic world to live in: seeing all these historical people across different periods of time and possibly interacting with them sounds great. However, issue 1 shows how messed up this world actually is.

Issue 1 lays the groundwork for how this world works with the Atypical Temporal Phenomenon (ATP) and how it's been affecting the present. First, there's the case of people being literally stuck in time with everything passing through them with seemingly no way of getting them out. Then there's the treatment of people from possible futures by the police and how they see those people as "nonexistent" despite, you know, still existing in the present. There's also the case that there could be a chance that someone's workplace won't have any idea about their existence in the first place, for who knows how long, meaning they would be without a job. And there's also the chance that a doppelganger from an alternate timeline can actually kill you if they're evil, if any other being across time doesn't do it first, like a dinosaur or killer robot. What I'm saying is, this world sucks to live in!

The story here really proves that point as we follow the days of her life during this crisis. Now I say days, but there could be the chance it could be longer since time doesn't work in this world, especially now that clocks don't work in this world, but that's sort of the least of Ashley's problems as the apartment complex she lives in is also the on-site location for multiple post-apocalyptic films, which that has to be illegal right? Just causing explosions for a film near someone's house or place of living? That has to be a disruption of peace, at least. One of the driving things in Ashley's story is with her clock, a gift given to her by her parents before their death, being broken from one of the on-set explosions outside her apartment. This is the main metaphor for the story, being stuck in time with not much movement at all. We see firsthand the problems of this world through her eyes and how she just wants things to end. The whole thing here is just trying to find some sort of verisimilitude or rather just realness in this whole thing and we're sort of just lost with her, especially during the final act, with her apartment complex being hit with an actual post-apocalyptic war and Ashley just thinking it's another film shoot. The last page really gives in to this confusion as she just lays there in the middle of the chaos with "CUT!" being at the lower right corner, not knowing if it's the story's actual reality or just another movie being filmed.

Nice art from Zawadski and all the little details, like with the multiple places having time puns for names and one sequence of a couple's relationship in the background of a few panels, from meeting up to proposing, to having a baby, to arguing, and ending with a divorce.

Overall, a really good story here from Camp and I would honestly pick up issue 2 and the rest of the series when they come out, especially since the next story involves dinosaurs. Do I like this more than The Ultimates? Not really, mostly due to there being more issues of The Ultimates compared to this one issue. Camp has really impressed me with him going 2 for 2 on stories I've enjoyed. With Absolute Martian Manhunter coming out, it could be 3 for 3 for me.

[graphicpolicy]

Assorted Crisis Events #1 heads back to print #comics #comicbooks

[dorothylarouge]

Assorted Crisis Events #2 Script by Deniz Camp Pencils and inks by Eric Zwadzki Colors by Jordie Belaire Letters by Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou

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Assorted Crisis Events #1

[grassoftunnel]

getting back into serialised print comics i think ive decided…to only read creator-owned comics from now on . ill keep reading eve ewing exceptional x men, deniz camp ultimates, and when it starts coming out ill read his absolute martian manhunter for dc next year but ultimately i want to put my heart into the works unrestrained by Corporate and which will actually give authors + artists proper compensation. like i think big 2 from now on is something i will consciously only read if its actually peak and then use it to find new authors and then just read their creator owned. bc like i feel its just too frustrating being a fan of corporate comics its an endless cycle of frustration that doesnt even benefit the creators whose work you are enjoying. trying to follow a character or team you like will lead only to endless frustration bc they are ultimately Properties of an unfeeling capital machine, the people whose heart and soul animate it, work with their hands tied behind their backs, their work getting snatched from them constantly, and getting paid in peanuts.

[jkparkin]

Assorted Crisis Events #1 third printing cover by Riley Rossmo

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

March 12 2025 comic reviews

Here's my reviews for this week, March 12, available over at my other blog, @pedrocomicreviews.

Didn't get a chance to read everything I wanted this week, so I'm probably doing more reviews than usual next week. Someone send me a copy of Assorted Crisis Events, damn it.

There's also a spoiler discussion for Iron Man #6 you can read here.

Tumblr changed the way it auto-makes thumbnails yet again and I'm not really interested in going against it, so enjoy that blog's avatar.

[pedrocomicreviews]

Assorted Crisis Events #2

“You get used to it.”

I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Full spoilers ahead. One of the best issues of a comic book I’ve read in years.

How does Deniz Camp do it? Genuinely, how? He has three of the best monthly books out almost every week, and none of them miss. They’re all good for entirely different reasons and chock full of meaning, meta narratives, political commentary and just… the juice, man, this shit’s got that good juice comics dream about having. This review will mostly be me rambling, ping-ponging between things that fascinate me about this.

Assorted Crisis Events #2 is the story of Jesús, a man who immigrated with his parents to America when he was a kid. It is also about: the meat industry, horrid animal abuse, the struggle of immigrants, alcoholism, dinosaurs, dehumanization, the reasons OSHA exist, Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, the current state of world politics and refugees, the abuses of capitalism, and I could keep going, I am overwhelmed by the depth of this thing and its success at handling all of its themes. 

And I believe it does so by trusting the audience, and by assuming you will give enough of a shit to read it multiple times. I’ve noticed things on a second readthrough that I didn’t the first time, probably because it felt like reading a book while holding my breath. It is a marvel of execution both as a script and as an illustrated work– there is so much happening with panel layout, with colors, with repetition, with structure. 

For instance, every couple of pages operate as a mirrored unit– they usually jump back and forth in Jesús’s life, thematically connected by the last couple of panels and by whatever awful thing is happening on either page. Further, every page also gets more and more red around the panels– the page itself is getting more bloodied the more Jesús’s life closer to the end, the more his inevitable mental break arrives, the more blood is on his hands.

An ostensibly simple visual theme of red vs blue is utilized masterfully to depict mental states and what I can only describe as thematic temperature, with yellow acting like a neutral, almost sickly in-between that may be filled by either color the more time goes by. The gloves the doctors who brought Jesús’s daughter into the world were blue. The crocodile-filled waters Jesús’s family crossed on their way to the United States were the same shade of blue. The entire world, except for his mother’s crucifix, was blue to Jesús when he was a kid and saw his father choking in wine in the middle of the street, unable to handle the pressures and challenges of this broken land they had gone to. 

Meanwhile, blood is always red. The crocodiles who ate an unlucky family, also crossing the blue waters, turned the water around young Jesús red. A man from the life insurance company who comes to tell Jesús that his mother will not be buried by his father’s side because his check to them bounced is made out of a thin red outline. The blood of the thousands of cows Jesús butchers at his job, as well as the flesh of his father when he falls into the meat grinder, is red. The pages fill with red slowly, going down like paint dripping from a wall, almost so subtly you may not even notice it until it’s already too late. Red, blood, death, inhumanity.

You could genuinely write an entire review of this issue just about the use of colors and how they tell their own story, but then again, you could also do that for the lettering. Crunchy red onomatopoeia for the noises of flesh being destroyed and consumed. White, unfeeling letters for the last screams people will ever produce, but also for machines– the letters don’t differentiate between human meat and animal meat. It’s all meat. It’s all chunks of bloody red.

Screams of white and red when they come from humans, noises of sickly yellow that come from a mother hitting her unruly child, the same sickly yellow that fills the page when Jesús butchers animals with a pressurized nail gun. Songs about Jesus and the salvation of the soul playing over the horrid crimes against animals that our society lets happen every day; over a man telling a company-sponsored therapist that all his life has been about violence and blood one way or another, and its only salient effect is that it has made him deeply sympathetic to these cows that he keeps killing.

And then the fucking dinosaurs show up! This is a book about dinosaurs invading a factory! Where do I begin with this book! 

Reading this issue is also, again, experiencing how time is broken in this universe. The titular crisis is a time crisis; every apocalypse and moment happening at once, and it is genuinely disorienting at times. Jesús’s story is told in thematic order, not chronological– if you need to see a moment in his life to make sense of his current feelings, that moment will happen in the next page. By the end of it, and if you read the story again, you will have a fundamental understanding of who this man is through the chaos of a world that feels like it can't accommodate people anymore, at least not in the way they’ve been acting.

And even beyond the obvious parallels of meat factory workers being devoured by predators for their meat, there’s something truly special about a story that can make every single page make its own, sometimes different point. Every unit of storytelling is being used to both harken to the main theme, and to build up to smaller, micro-level themes that all coalesce into one single story. It’s the kind of editorial nightmare that needs every beat of it to be in the right place at the right time, otherwise the entire house of cards falls apart. 

This team took that as a challenge and built the strongest castle of cards I’ve read in so long. It’s a heavy, packed issue that can be talked about from multiple perspectives and dissected for hours. It’s the kind of thing this industry needs right now, the kind of bold statement and Hail Mary throw that we keep getting told is too risky, and could be too expensive if it doesn’t work. This works so well it has me cheering. 

I could talk about this for hours and I felt the same way with the first issue. If this level of quality keeps going, this might be one of the best anthologies in recent history; maybe in the history of the industry. I am nearly 100% serious when I say it, I don’t even care about the hyperbole at this point. It’s a dream team cooking up some real fucking good food. I love me some high-quality meat. 

[goldfades]

𝟎𝟎𝟐 UNDER THE MISTLETOE ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚. RAFE CAMERON

12 days of christmas celebration!!

as holidays approach, it’s important to remember those who are facing hardships, such as the people of palestine. in times of crisis, solidarity matters more than ever. you can support palestinian communities by donating to reputable organizations providing aid, such as food, medical supplies, and shelter. help palestine with a click | heal palestine | unrwa | resources for palestine

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | At a posh Tannyhill Christmas party, you get caught under the mistletoe with none other than Rafe Cameron. Friends egg you on, but what starts as a joking kiss turns into something much deeper.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kinda a fluffy slow burn? rafe being a little ass (but still sweet obvs), one kiss, nothing else!

There’s something different about the Outer Banks when Christmas rolls around. The air isn’t colder—it never really is—but it feels sharper, fresher, like the breeze carries more secrets than usual. The usual salty tang is sweeter now, tinged with the scent of evergreen wreaths hung on shop doors and strings of twinkling lights snaking through palm trees. Tannyhill, though, is where the real magic happens.

Or at least, where it pretends to.

It’s the kind of place that looks like a Christmas card came to life: wreaths on every window, a tree the size of a lighthouse in the foyer, and catering staff that fuss over candy cane platters like they're hosting royalty. For the Camerons, appearances are everything, especially at this time of year.

“You’re really going to wear that?” Sarah’s voice cuts through your thoughts as you stand in front of her mirror, smoothing the hem of your dress. She’s perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pinned up in half-done curls, a bottle of champagne tucked between her legs. It’s not even six, but she insisted tonight required proper pre-gaming.

You roll your eyes and turn to face her. “Yes, I’m wearing this. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just… safe,” she says, raising a brow. “It’s Christmas at Tannyhill. You’re supposed to be…” She waves her hand in the air, searching for the right word. “…a little dangerous.”

“Dangerous like you?” you quip, nodding toward her shimmering red dress that somehow manages to be both floor-length and scandalous.

“Exactly,” she replies without missing a beat, taking a triumphant sip of champagne. “Anyway, I’m just saying. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight. Could be worth the risk.”

“Risk of what?” you laugh, but it’s a little hollow, your gaze drifting back to the mirror.

You’ve been to these events before. You know how they go. It’s all champagne flutes, polite smiles, and whispered gossip. Nothing remotely risky. But still… there’s something about the way Sarah looks at you that makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t.

The mirror’s reflection isn’t much help. The dress is nice enough—a deep green velvet that hugs your frame, with thin straps and a hem that stops just above your knees—but “dangerous” isn’t exactly the vibe it’s giving. It’s more “holiday cocktail party chic,” which, to be fair, is exactly what you were aiming for. But Sarah’s words buzz around your head like a pesky gnat. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight.

“Maybe I like being safe,” you counter, but the words sound less convincing the moment they leave your mouth.

Sarah snorts, setting the champagne bottle aside and rising from the bed. “Oh, please. You don’t come to a Cameron Christmas party to blend in.” She strides over, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and spins you to face her. Her eyes narrow in assessment, scanning you from head to toe. “Okay. Hair? Gorgeous. Dress? Very… respectable. But—” She steps behind you, pulling a strand of your hair over your shoulder, “—you need something to make people stop and stare.”

You watch as she opens a jewelry box on her vanity, her fingers rifling through an assortment of glittering pieces. “Ah-ha,” she says triumphantly, holding up a delicate gold necklace with a teardrop pendant. “This. It’s simple, but it catches the light just enough. Trust me.”

Before you can protest, she’s clasping it around your neck. You glance back in the mirror. She’s right; the necklace adds something—a quiet elegance that makes the whole look seem intentional, like you tried just hard enough to care without overdoing it.

“Better,” Sarah says, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied smile. Then her eyes narrow mischievously. “Now, shoes. Please tell me you didn’t bring flats.”

You groan, nodding toward the corner where a pair of nude heels sit. Sarah clicks her tongue in approval. “Good girl. If you’d shown up in ballet flats, I would’ve sent you home.”

“Why do I let you do this to me?” you mutter, sitting on the edge of her bed to strap the heels on.

“Because deep down, you know I’m right,” Sarah says, smirking. “And because you secretly love the drama.”

She’s half right. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but there is a part of you that loves the energy of these parties—the music swelling as the night goes on, the clinking glasses, the undercurrent of excitement that hums through the air like static electricity. It’s impossible to ignore. The Camerons don’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to Christmas.

“I just hope I survive the night without falling on these death traps,” you say, standing up and wobbling slightly as you adjust to the height of the heels.

Sarah grabs her champagne bottle, lifting it in a mock toast. “To surviving the night—and maybe even having some fun while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. “Cheers.”

By the time you both make your way downstairs, the house is already buzzing with life. The foyer is packed with people, a mix of family friends, business partners, and the kind of people who always seem to be at events like this but never seem to actually belong anywhere. The smell of pine, cinnamon, and something faintly citrusy hangs in the air, mixing with the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the next room.

Tannyhill looks like something out of a magazine spread, with garlands draped over the banisters, twinkling fairy lights tucked into every corner, and an absurdly large Christmas tree that dominates the main hall. Ornaments catch the light like little stars, and at the very top, a glittering silver angel tilts slightly to one side, as though even she’s exhausted by the sheer extra-ness of it all.

“Remind me again why I let you drag me to this?” you whisper to Sarah as you both pause at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below.

“Because you love me,” she says sweetly, linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward. “And because this is way more fun than sitting at home watching Hallmark movies alone.”

You’re about to argue when you catch sight of Rafe Cameron near the bar, and your heart stutters. He’s standing with a group of his friends, all laughter and easy charm, a glass of something amber-colored in his hand. His hair is perfectly tousled, his suit crisp and tailored to perfection, but it’s his smile that catches you off guard. It’s sharp and confident, but there’s something about it that feels… dangerous. Like Sarah said.

And, just for a moment, you wonder if tonight might be more than just another Cameron Christmas party.

The party is a well-oiled machine by the time you and Sarah descend the staircase. Conversations buzz, laughter punctuates the hum of polite chatter, and the clink of glasses mingles with the soft holiday music floating from the grand piano in the corner. It’s glamorous, sure, but you can’t help feeling like an outsider looking in.

Sarah tugs at your arm as you reach the bottom step. “Alright, split up. You mingle, I mingle, and we reconvene for champagne refills. Sound good?”

“Wait, what? I thought we were sticking together,” you hiss, but she’s already slipping away into the crowd, greeting some distant cousin with a dazzling smile.

You sigh, smoothing your dress nervously as you scan the room. No familiar faces—well, not anyone you’d feel comfortable just walking up to. Except... your gaze flickers back to the bar, where Rafe stands. He’s laughing at something Topper just said, the sound loud and unapologetic. Kelce is leaning on the counter, gesturing wildly as he tells some animated story.

You’ve been in the same circles as Rafe Cameron for years, thanks to Sarah, but he’s always felt like… a lot. He’s intense in a way that makes him hard to pin down. Most of the time, he’s all bravado and sharp edges, but every now and then, you catch glimpses of something softer beneath it all. Not that you’ve spent much time trying to figure him out.

Still, as if drawn by some magnetic pull, your feet begin to carry you closer to the bar. Not to him, specifically. You’re just heading in that general direction, you tell yourself. It’s not your fault he happens to be there.

As you approach, you catch snippets of their conversation.

“—and then the idiot didn’t even see the wave coming,” Kelce is saying, his words punctuated by Topper’s loud cackle.

“Classic,” Rafe says, smirking as he takes a sip from his glass. His eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the room even as he listens to his friends. It’s like he’s always on high alert, even at his own party.

You hesitate, hovering a few steps away, trying to decide if you should keep walking or stop for a drink. The bartender glances your way, and before you can chicken out, you step up to the counter.

“White wine, please,” you say, your voice steady despite the knot of nerves tightening in your stomach.

As the bartender pours your drink, you feel eyes on you. Sure enough, when you glance over, Rafe is looking right at you. Not in the casual, friendly way people look at someone they sort of know. No, this is something else. His gaze is sharp, piercing, like he’s sizing you up, trying to figure you out.

“Didn’t know you were coming tonight,” he says, his voice low and smooth. It’s not a question, but it feels like one.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. Sarah dragged me along.”

His smirk deepens. “Sounds about right. You let her boss you around like that?”

“She’s very persuasive,” you reply, taking a sip of your wine to steady yourself.

Rafe chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, she is.” He leans back against the bar, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your plan for the night? Stand around sipping wine, or are you gonna do something interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Define interesting.”

Topper, ever the instigator, interjects before Rafe can answer. “Oh, she’s a wild card. Watch out, Rafe. She might even… I don’t know… dance under the mistletoe.”

Kelce laughs, nudging Rafe with his elbow. “Yeah, or start a snowball fight with the fake snow machine. Real party animal.”

Your cheeks heat at their teasing, but Rafe doesn’t laugh. Instead, he tilts his head, his smirk softening into something that feels almost curious. “Maybe we’ll find out,” he says, his tone light but with an edge you can’t quite place.

Before you can respond, Sarah reappears at your side, her timing impeccable. “There you are,” she says, looping her arm through yours. Her gaze flickers to Rafe, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Causing trouble already?”

“Me?” Rafe says, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, pulling you away before you can say anything else. “Come on,” she whispers. “We’ve got to get you in a prime spot before the games start.”

“What games?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder to find Rafe watching you as you walk away.

“You’ll see,” Sarah says with a grin, her tone conspiratorial. And just like that, you know the night is only getting started.

Sarah doesn’t give you much time to process the interaction—or the way Rafe’s gaze seemed to follow you, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let you leave. She’s already pulling you through the crowd with purpose, weaving between glittering guests and servers balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the central hall, where the Christmas tree stands tall, glowing with soft golden light.

“Okay,” Sarah says, stopping abruptly. “Here’s the deal. Wheezie has this whole mistletoe situation set up.”

You blink at her, confused. “What?”

She grins mischievously, clearly enjoying your bewilderment. “She’s been on a mistletoe kick all week. She got the staff to hang them in, like, every doorway. It’s ridiculous. But tonight, we’re turning it into a game.”

“A game?” you repeat, feeling a sense of foreboding creep in.

Sarah nods, her grin widening. “Every time two people end up under the mistletoe, they have to kiss. No exceptions. Wheezie’s patrolling to enforce it.”

Your eyes widen. “Sarah. You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement. “And don’t even think about trying to dodge it. Wheezie’s got this sixth sense for people sneaking around.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?”

“Badly?” Sarah repeats, feigning offense. “This is the best part of the party! Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? A little harmless fun never killed anyone.”

Before you can argue further, a familiar voice calls out.

“Sarah!” Wheezie appears out of nowhere, clutching a clipboard of all things. Her excitement is infectious, her cheeks flushed pink as she skids to a stop in front of you. “Did you tell her about the mistletoe?”

“Oh, I told her,” Sarah says, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “She’s thrilled.”

You glare at Sarah, but Wheezie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Good,” she says, beaming. “Because I already saw, like, three people cheat, and I had to threaten them with no dessert.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sarah says, high-fiving her little sister.

Wheezie turns to you, her expression suddenly serious. “You’re not going to cheat, right? Because I’m keeping track.”

You force a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Wheezie hurries off to continue her self-appointed duties, leaving you and Sarah standing near the edge of the room.

“I’m going to regret this,” you mutter, taking a long sip of your wine.

Sarah just laughs. “Not if you end up under the mistletoe with the right person.”

You’re about to retort when the sound of laughter nearby catches your attention. Rafe, Topper, and Kelce are heading your way, all of them holding fresh drinks and clearly in high spirits. Your stomach does a little flip as Rafe’s eyes find yours again, that same sharp intensity from earlier still lingering.

“Speak of the devil,” Sarah murmurs, her tone teasing.

“What?” you ask, your voice a little too high, but she just smirks.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “But maybe Wheezie’s mistletoe isn’t such a bad idea after all.”

The night progresses in a blur of laughter and champagne. Guests drift from one room to the next, admiring the decorations, exchanging pleasantries, and inevitably finding themselves caught under Wheezie’s strategically placed mistletoe. You spot her several times, clipboard in hand, ushering reluctant participants toward their obligatory kiss with all the authority of a seasoned party planner.

It’s silly and lighthearted, but every time you see a pair of people beneath the mistletoe, your stomach tightens. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-wondering when—or if—you might end up in the same predicament.

And then, of course, it happens.

You’re standing near the fireplace, chatting with a distant family friend of Sarah’s, when someone brushes past you, drawing your attention. You turn—and immediately regret it. Rafe is there, his broad frame just a little too close, his expression unreadable as he looks down at you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your pulse quicken.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice a little breathless.

Before either of you can say more, Wheezie materializes out of nowhere, her eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. “Oh my gosh, you guys!” she exclaims, pointing above your heads.

You don’t even have to look. The knowing smirk that spreads across Rafe’s face tells you everything you need to know.

Mistletoe. Of course.

Your heart plummets straight to your stomach as Wheezie bounces on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Well?” she says, grinning like she just uncovered the juiciest secret. “You have to kiss! Rules are rules!”

Rafe leans against the edge of the fireplace, casually glancing up at the offending sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ornate mantle. His lips twitch into a smirk as he looks back at you, clearly enjoying how flustered you are.

“You heard the boss,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “Rules are rules.”

Your mouth goes dry. Of course, this is happening. Of course, Wheezie—sweet, well-meaning, meddlesome Wheezie—would find a way to make this the most embarrassing moment of your life. You try to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky, barely convincing.

“This doesn’t count,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. “We were just—”

“It absolutely counts,” Wheezie cuts in, clutching her clipboard like it’s a gavel. “You’re right there. No cheating.”

Rafe tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s sizing you up. You hate how effortlessly cool he looks, like this is all just a game to him. And maybe it is.

But for you, it’s anything but.

Because standing this close to him—so close you can catch the faint scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy—you’re dragged back to a version of yourself you thought you’d buried years ago. A younger you, sitting cross-legged on your bed, scribbling in your journal about Rafe Cameron like some lovesick fool.

You had a crush on him once, back when you were too naive to realize what it meant to like someone like Rafe. It started the summer he came to one of Sarah’s golf lessons, tagging along out of boredom. You’d been there, too, struggling with your swing and trying desperately not to let anyone notice. But they did. A couple of boys from your class—Topper included—had decided to make you their entertainment for the afternoon, mimicking your stance and snickering loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention.

You’d been mortified, red-faced and blinking back tears, until Rafe—taller, older, and impossibly confident—had stepped in.

“Got something better to do?” he’d said, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Or is bullying girls your new hobby?”

The boys had stumbled over their words, mumbling excuses before scurrying off, and Rafe had shrugged it off like it was nothing. But for you, it wasn’t nothing. For you, it was everything.

You never told anyone—not even Sarah—how much that moment stuck with you, how it planted a seed of something small but stubborn in your chest. A crush, yes, but more than that: an infatuation with the idea of him, the version of Rafe who might actually care.

But crushes fade, and years pass, and you convinced yourself that Rafe was just a fleeting thing, a schoolgirl daydream you outgrew. Or so you thought.

Until now.

Now, he’s standing in front of you, taller and sharper than you remember, and the way his gaze lingers on you makes it impossible to breathe.

“You okay over there?” Rafe asks, his voice cutting into your spiraling thoughts. He’s smirking, of course, because why wouldn’t he be?

“I—uh, yeah,” you stammer, cursing yourself for how obvious it is that you’re not, in fact, okay.

“Sure?” he presses, taking a deliberate step closer. “You look a little nervous.”

“Stop,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

“Stop what?” he asks innocently, though his grin says otherwise. “I’m just standing here. You’re the one making it weird.”

You glare at him, but it’s weak at best. “I’m not—this isn’t weird.”

“Oh, it’s definitely weird,” he says, and there’s a teasing edge to his voice now, one that sends your heart racing. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

Behind him, Topper and Kelce are already snickering, clearly enjoying the show.

“Just kiss her already!” Topper calls out, his voice loud and obnoxious enough to make a few heads turn.

“Yeah, Rafe, show her what she’s been missing!” Kelce adds, and you want to sink into the floor.

Rafe shakes his head, laughing softly under his breath. “You guys are the worst,” he mutters, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes you think he doesn’t mind the attention.

Then, before you can think or move or even breathe, he closes the distance between you.

The kiss starts slow—surprisingly so. His hand brushes your arm lightly before settling on your waist, steady and sure, and his lips are soft, warmer than you expect. The world around you seems to blur, fading into the background as he deepens the kiss, just enough to make your knees weak. It’s not a joke, not teasing—it’s deliberate, measured, and devastating in its intensity.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, his smirk softer now, almost curious.

“There,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

In the background, Topper and Kelce erupt into a chorus of cheers and whistles, and Wheezie claps her hands in triumph, shouting something about how this is how the game is supposed to be played.

But you’re barely aware of any of it. All you can feel is the ghost of his lips on yours and the weight of his gaze, still locked on you like he’s trying to figure you out.

And for the first time all night, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he feels the same pull you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

Your face burns as the cheers and whistles rise around you, but Rafe doesn’t move away. He stays close, his hand still lightly resting on your waist, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it feels like the two of you are suspended in a bubble. His expression is unreadable, a mix of amusement and something softer, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Man, look at her face!” Kelce crows, doubling over with laughter. “She’s blushing so hard right now.”

“Classic,” Topper chimes in, grinning like an idiot. “Rafe, you’re out here making girls fall in love under mistletoe. What a gentleman.”

You flinch, wanting to glare at them but too mortified to do much more than focus on breathing. Rafe, however, seems entirely unbothered by their antics. If anything, their comments only deepen his smirk.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving them off without looking away from you. “Go bother someone else, will you?”

Kelce and Topper groan dramatically but wander off soon enough, still laughing and elbowing each other. Wheezie lingers for a moment longer, beaming at you both like she just orchestrated the match of the century before skipping away to enforce her rules on the next unsuspecting pair.

Finally, it’s just you and Rafe, standing far too close for comfort in the shadow of the grand fireplace.

“You good?” he asks, his voice quieter now, a little more serious.

You blink up at him, your thoughts still scrambled from the kiss. “What? Oh—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “You sure? You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, your voice an octave too high. You take a step back, desperate to put some distance between you, but the movement feels clumsy, like you’ve forgotten how to use your own legs.

Rafe chuckles softly, and you hate how effortlessly cool he is, like kissing you in the middle of a crowded room was just another thing he did to pass the time. “Relax,” he says, his tone lighter now. “It’s just mistletoe. Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. Right.

“Right,” you echo, forcing a laugh that you hope sounds convincing. “Totally not a big deal.”

But it was a big deal—at least to you. Because no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise, you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hand on your waist. You can still hear the way your heart pounded, loud enough to drown out the world.

And worse, you’re starting to realize that all those old feelings you thought you’d buried years ago? They’re not as buried as you’d like to think.

Rafe seems to sense your discomfort because his smirk softens into something almost... kind. “Hey,” he says, leaning in just enough to make your breath catch. “You don’t have to overthink it, you know. It’s just a kiss.”

You nod, though the lump in your throat makes it hard to speak. “I know.”

“Good,” he says, straightening up again. But then his gaze dips to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—and your stomach flips all over again.

“Rafe!” Sarah’s voice cuts through the air, startling you both. She’s weaving her way toward you, her champagne glass in hand and her eyes sharp. “Stop tormenting my friend.”

“I’m not tormenting her,” Rafe says innocently, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story.

Sarah rolls her eyes and loops her arm through yours, tugging you away from him. “Come on. You’ve spent enough time under his spell for one night.”

You let her pull you along, but as you glance over your shoulder, you catch Rafe watching you again, his smirk still in place. There’s something in his expression, something almost... contemplative.

For the next few days, you try to shake him. You really do.

You fill your hours with anything and everything that might distract you. You hit the beach early one morning, hoping the salty air and crashing waves might clear your head. It doesn’t. You sit on your towel, staring out at the horizon, only to find your thoughts drifting back to the kiss—the way his hand lingered at your waist, the infuriating confidence in his smirk, the warmth of his lips.

Next, you try golfing with your dad, thinking that muscle memory and the sharp focus the sport demands will drown out the noise in your head. It doesn’t. Instead, your dad spends half the morning teasing you about your distracted swings, and you nearly send your nine-iron into the pond after imagining Rafe standing behind you again, casually correcting your form like he’d done at Sarah’s lesson all those years ago.

Even shopping—your fail-safe remedy for every stressful situation—proves useless. You wander aimlessly through the boutiques in town, running your fingers over racks of clothing you barely glance at. It’s like he’s everywhere, lingering in the background of your mind, taunting you with his too-perfect grin and that stupid, stupid kiss.

By the fourth day, you’re ready to admit defeat. Whatever spell Rafe Cameron cast on you under that mistletoe, it’s clearly working.

Then Sarah calls.

“Dinner at ours tonight,” she announces, her voice cheerful. “Seven o’clock. No excuses.”

You hesitate. The thought of being at Tannyhill again, surrounded by all the memories of that night, makes your stomach twist into knots. “I don’t know, Sarah. I’ve got a lot going on—”

“You’re coming,” she interrupts firmly. “Rose’s in a rare good mood, and Wheezie’s been talking about it nonstop. Plus, my dad will be grilling, which means no catering disasters. Just come. It’ll be fun.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she barrels on before you can get a word in.

“And before you ask—no, Rafe won’t be there. He’s got some golf thing with his buddies, so you’re safe. Okay? Seven. Be there.”

“Fine,” you sigh, knowing better than to argue with her. “I’ll come.”

Tannyhill is as breathtaking as ever when you pull up to the sprawling estate later that evening. The driveway is lined with twinkling lights, and the sound of soft laughter and clinking glasses drifts out from the open veranda doors.

As soon as you step inside, Sarah greets you with a hug and a glass of wine, chatting easily as she leads you out to the patio. Wheezie waves excitedly from her seat at the table, and Mr. Cameron gives you a warm smile from his spot by the grill. It’s all perfectly normal, perfectly comfortable, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself relax.

And then he appears.

You catch sight of him out of the corner of your eye, and for a second, you think you’re imagining it. But no—there he is, walking toward the patio with all the easy confidence in the world, wearing a plain gray t-shirt and faded jeans that somehow look like they were tailored just for him.

“Rafe,” Sarah says, her tone sharp with surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were golfing with Topper and Kelce.”

“They canceled,” he says casually, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling on his sister. “Figured I’d stop by. Didn’t realize we were having company.”

You’re frozen, clutching your glass of wine like a lifeline as his gaze drifts back to you, slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a little too knowing.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.

Rafe leans against the edge of the patio railing, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes linger on you just a second too long. His smirk is back, subtle but

persistent, like he knows exactly how much space he’s taking up in your head and plans to keep doing it.

“You’re just in time,” Sarah says, her tone tight. She shoots you a glance—half apologetic, half questioning—but you can’t muster a response. “We’re about to eat.”

“Perfect,” Rafe replies, his voice laced with a casual charm that feels anything but casual. “I’m starving.”

You focus on your wine, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Sarah said he wouldn’t be here. But now, he’s standing just a few feet away, and it’s like the air itself shifts around him, crackling with something unspoken.

Dinner is a blur. You sit between Sarah and Wheezie, trying to focus on the conversation and ignore the fact that Rafe is directly across from you, his presence magnetic even when he’s silent. He doesn’t talk much, content to let the others fill the space, but every once in a while, you catch him glancing at you, his smirk barely concealed.

At one point, you drop your fork, and when you lean down to grab it, you swear you hear him chuckle softly, low enough that only you notice.

“You okay?” Sarah whispers beside you, her brow furrowing.

“Fine,” you say quickly, sitting upright again. “Totally fine.”

But you’re not. Not even close.

The kiss, the mistletoe, the way he looked at you that night—it all comes rushing back, as vivid as if it just happened. And the worst part? He knows. Every time his eyes meet yours, you can see it: the awareness, the confidence, the silent challenge in his gaze.

By the time dinner wraps up, you’re practically vibrating with tension. You help clear the plates, grateful for an excuse to leave the table, but as you step into the kitchen, you hear his voice behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You don’t turn around. “I’m fine.”

“Come on,” he says, his tone amused. “Let me help.”

Before you can argue, he’s next to you, reaching for the stack of dishes in your hands. His arm brushes yours, and you swear your heart skips a beat.

“You don’t have to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts, his voice low and teasing. “I’m just being polite.”

You glare at him, but it lacks bite. “You? Polite? That’s a stretch.”

His smirk deepens. “Ouch. I thought we were past all that.”

“Past what?”

“You pretending not to like me,” he says simply, his eyes locking onto yours.

Your breath catches, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin. “I don’t—”

“Sure you don’t,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me all week, right?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” you lie, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

He chuckles softly, setting the dishes on the counter before turning to face you fully. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Hiding it,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. His gaze flickers to your lips, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again. “You might’ve fooled Sarah and everyone else, but not me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. The air between you feels charged, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

And then, just as quickly as it started, he steps back, his smirk firmly in place.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he says, his voice light and infuriatingly casual as he strolls toward the door, leaving you standing there, your pulse racing and your head spinning.

You scoff under your breath, abandoning the plates on the counter and following him out of the kitchen, your irritation bubbling over. “What is your problem, Rafe?” you hiss, grabbing his arm before he can make it back to the patio.

He stops, turning slowly, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Problem?” he repeats, like the word itself is foreign to him. “I don’t have a problem.”

“You know what I mean,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you glance toward the dining room to make sure no one’s listening. “All this—this... thing you’re doing. What’s your deal?”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What thing am I doing, exactly?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap, your frustration boiling over. “You’ve been messing with me all night. Ever since the mistletoe. Ever since... I don’t know. Just—stop.”

He tilts his head, his smirk reappearing. “Messing with you? I think you’re imagining things.”

“Imagining things?” you repeat, your voice rising slightly before you catch yourself. “You’ve been looking at me like... like—”

“Like what?” he presses, stepping closer, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Like you’re trying to get in my head!” you whisper-shout, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And guess what? It’s working. So congratulations, Rafe. You win. Happy?”

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something darker, more serious. He straightens, his easy posture stiffening as he steps closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You think this is a game to me?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes!” you say, though your voice wavers slightly. “That’s all you do, isn’t it? Play games? Mess with people’s heads? Well, I’m not Sarah or Wheezie, and I’m not going to just—”

“God, would you shut up for a second?” he growls, and before you can even process what’s happening, his hands are on your face, pulling you toward him as his lips crash against yours.

It’s nothing like the kiss under the mistletoe. There’s no teasing smirk, no slow build—it’s raw, urgent, and impossibly overwhelming. His hands cup your face firmly, holding you in place as he kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the contact.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to react. But then your body betrays you, melting into his touch as your hands grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Your mind is screaming at you to stop, to push him away, to demand answers—but your body has other plans, and you give in, kissing him back with just as much intensity.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours.

“Still think this is a game?” he murmurs, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Your brain is short-circuiting, stuck somewhere between disbelief and the lingering haze of his kiss.

“I’ve been trying to get in your head,” he admits after a moment, his tone softer now but no less intense. “Because you’ve been in mine. Ever since that night. Hell, maybe even before that.”

Your heart stutters, and you pull back just enough to look at him, searching his face for any sign that he’s joking. But his expression is serious, his eyes locked onto yours with a weight that makes your knees weak.

“I—” you start, but the words die in your throat, your mind too jumbled to form a coherent thought.

Rafe exhales sharply, his hand slipping from your face to rest on your waist. “Say something,” he mutters, almost pleading.

You bite your lip, your mind still spinning. Finally, you manage, “You’re an ass, you know that?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, something almost vulnerable. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

And before you can second-guess yourself, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him again, pouring every ounce of confusion, frustration, and unspoken feeling into it. This time, there’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt—just the two of you, tangled in something you’re no longer sure you can fight.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you both back to reality. You pull away quickly, your face burning as Sarah stands in the doorway, her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised.

“Really?” she says, her tone equal parts annoyed and amused. “My kitchen? Now?”

You glance at Rafe, who’s grinning unapologetically, and groan, covering your face with your hands.

This is going to be impossible to live down.

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving you and Rafe alone once more as if she knows she couldn't stop it, even if she really wanted to. And, she didn't—it was bound to happen. She calls it, "best friend intuition", or something like that.

"So," he says, his voice dropping slightly as he takes another step closer. "Are you done pretending you don’t feel this, or should I kiss you again and really settle it?"

You glare at him, your pulse quickening. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch, "you’re still standing here."

Your brain is screaming at you to walk away, to put some distance between you and the boy who’s been driving you crazy for years. But your feet don’t move, and when he leans in closer, you know you’re not going anywhere.

"Rafe—"

He cuts you off with another kiss, softer this time but no less consuming. And despite everything—you kiss him back, giving in to the pull you’ve been fighting for far too long.

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Alright really stupid question but I'm writing a fic and I was thinking about this

What do you think Sephiroth's diet was like growing up and as an adult

Also I was reading military subreddit threads about MREs which were really funny and now I'm imagining if Shinra's MREs were of the quality of say 70s-90s US MREs Everyone being like omg this is absolutely disgusting (because some are really hit or miss) And Sephiroth having no qualms about eating these because they are a step up from his usual

Sephiroth's diet is heavily regulated by Hojo. A lot of protein. A lot of nutrient-heavy supplements and vitamins. Absolutely ZERO sugary items or sweets. It keeps Sephiroth VERY healthy, but it's also not very tasty. Most of it isn't even seasoned. It's been this way for him since he was a child. Fast foods, sodas, fancy desserts, or other forms of junk food are strictly prohibited, unless Sephiroth goes out and uses his own money to acquire them. And even then, Hojo is watching. If he sees even a MILD fluctuation in Sephiroth's weight, he's going to give him shit for it. This includes when Sephiroth ISN'T eating. Hojo will raise hell whenever he sees Sephiroth growing gaunt, and was all but ripping his hair out during the events of Crisis Core when Sephiroth was losing weight from excessive stress.

Sephiroth's meals come pre-made to his apartment and are usually delivered within select hours of Sephiroth's personal schedule. He is required to eat them and there will occasionally be notes from Hojo alerting him if he is to take certain medicines or withhold food before a medical procedure. Most of Sephiroth's meals consist of assorted fish, lean meats, vegetables, rice, and some sort of unidentifiable broth. Each has been carefully categorized and proportioned to Sephiroth's exact physical requirements.

Sephiroth is pretty used to his diet. It's probably a lot healthier than the nasty slop they serve in the mess hall. But with that said, he doesn't get much joy out of it. It's very synthetic and tasteless. Over the years, Angeal and Genesis work to introduce him to actual food outside of Shinra's walls. Sephiroth is particularly fond of cup noodles, heavy pastas, greasy burgers, and sweets. All of which would have split Hojo's face in half if he knew about them. Sephiroth also regularly indulges in Angeal's cooking, as he's long since yearned for a warm homemade meal (YES, Angeal has made him pumpkin soup). He even develops a secret love for caffeinated beverages, sneaking a sip in whenever Hojo isn't looking. He and Zack are NOT allowed to eat together under any circumstances though. Zack is the worst influence ever and he and Sephiroth often indulge in heavy junk food together, fueling each other's addictions. Hojo is so very, very tired.