#he needs a better frame but had to get him up

[dramagodesss]

fourteen : climbing through windows

playin' the players

a/n: HE'S BAAAAACCKKKK i know i know I'M SORRY— this is gonna be more of a text kinda chapter but i think we all need it 😔❤️‍🩹

it had been days— too many, for your own taste. it was unfair. the way he was punishing himself, ignoring everyone, isolated from everything and everyone.

but what you hated the most was the way it made you feel. it's not that you wanted to see him, its that you needed to. it pissed you off because of the bet, and because all that you were feeling— it reallly was all a lie.

but it was late afternoon when you made your move.

you tried to move fast before your rational thoughts could pull you away.

'it's all a fucking bet, you idiot!'

and maybe, it was just that. but, at this point, it didn't matter anymore. at least not so much. just for a while. just until you made sure he was okay.

the frat house is quiet, the kind of silence that settles like dust after something breaks. you’re climbing the side fire escape in leggings and a hoodie, one hand gripping a greasy paper bag, the other braced against the freezing railing. inside the bag: two breakfast burritos, a chocolate chip muffin, a bottle of gatorade, and a small tupperware of pasta you made yourself.

because you know he hasn’t been eating. you know.

your fingers find the window ledge, and you hiss through your teeth. the damn thing better still be unlocked.

it is. barely.

you crack it open and hoist yourself up—

—and immediately slip.

“shit—!” your foot catches the edge of the desk and you tumble straight into the room, smacking your hip against the wooden surface as everything in the bag goes thud-thud-crash onto the floor.

pens scatter. the chair topples. a spoon clinks loudly somewhere in the dark.

“what the—?!” rafe’s voice, low and hoarse and wrecked, cuts through the silence.

you groan from the carpet. “good evening to you too.”

there’s rustling. a light flicks on.

he’s on the bed—hoodie on, hair messy, skin pale under the dull yellow lamp. the room looks like it hasn’t been touched in days: blackout curtains drawn, water bottles and protein bar wrappers piled near his nightstand, half a jersey crumpled on the floor like it’s been there since the game.

he blinks at you. once. twice.

“did you just fall through my window?”

you push yourself up on your elbows, scowling. “i brought you food, you ungrateful little rat.”

his eyes flick to the floor, where the bag of offerings lies half-spilled but intact. he doesn’t say anything.

you brush off your knees and look at him properly—he’s got that hollow look again, like everything’s pressing in too close. dark circles. clenched jaw. the kind of stillness that doesn’t look like peace, just… surrender.

“rafe.” your voice is softer now.

nothing.

so you cross the room and sit on the edge of his bed, close enough to touch, but not touching.

“you don’t get to shut down like this,” you murmur. “you don’t get to starve and rot in your man cave over one game.”

his voice is barely audible. “it wasn’t just a game.”

“i know.” you pick up the muffin and press it into his hand. “eat. then feel sorry for yourself. but not the other way around.”

he stares at the muffin like it personally offended him.

you reach for the gatorade and unscrew the cap for him.

“you’re such a pain in the ass,” he mutters finally, taking a slow bite. “you could’ve just texted.”

you raise a brow. “and let you ignore me? again? no thanks. i commit to the bit.”

he swallows, eyes trained on your lap.

“…you really climbed in through the window?”

“and fell. dramatically. i should get an oscar.”

that earns you a small, begrudging smirk.

and when his shoulder brushes yours—just barely—you let it stay there. you stay in the quiet. stay in the mess. and for the first time in days, he lets you.

you take a look at him. his hoodie is draped over his frame like armor. his eyes are tired, rimmed red, lashes low. the half-eaten muffin sits untouched in his hand, the coffee steaming faintly between his knees.

you watch him.

not just look—watch. the slump in his shoulders. the way his jaw tics when he swallows. the silence in him, like he’s trying not to take up too much space.

your voice cuts through it. soft. sure.

“rafe.”

he glances up.

you step closer, fingers clutching the bag of takeout a little tighter. your brows furrow without meaning to.

“you scared me.”

his mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a beat. then—

“…sorry.”

quiet. raw. his eyes drop again, staring at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

“i just… i didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” he adds, voice tight. “felt like if i saw anyone i’d—break something. maybe myself.”

you exhale, shaky. “you should’ve let someone see you. i would’ve come earlier.”

he looks at you then. really looks. something flickers behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. or something that runs even deeper.

and that’s when you move.

slowly, like a tide creeping in—you cross the room and drop the takeout bag on his desk, then sink to your knees in front of him, between his legs.

your hands reach up, fingers brushing the edges of his hoodie, and then slide around his back as you lean forward.

you hug him.

arms wrapping around his torso, head resting gently against his chest.

he freezes.

completely.

for a second you wonder if he’ll pull back—if this is too much, if you’re pushing too hard—but then his hands rise and curl around your shoulders, burying into the fabric of your sweatshirt. he holds you like he’s forgotten how.

like you’re real and warm and here, and maybe that’s more than he thinks he deserves.

“you’re allowed to mess up,” you murmur, voice muffled. “but you don’t get to disappear. not from me.”

he lets out a sound—part breath, part laugh, part ache—and tucks his chin over your head, arms tightening around you like the world’s trying to pry you out of them.

he doesn’t know you know. about the bet. about the challenge he made you into.

and you hold him anyway. just a little longer.

because revenge can wait. but right now?

this is yours. and he’s letting you in.

you stay there for a while. wrapped around him like an anchor, steadying his breath with your own. eventually, he shifts—pulls back slightly, eyes flicking over your face like he’s checking to see if this is real.

you give him a small smile, brushing your thumb over the crease between his brows.

then you wrinkle your nose.

“…when was the last time you showered?”

rafe blinks. “…rude.”

you arch a brow. “not denying it, though.”

he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “couple days. i guess.”

you point toward the bathroom like a fed-up sitcom mom. “go.”

he hesitates—just for a second—but you level him with a look and he sighs again, dragging himself to his feet. before he disappears into his bathroom, he glances over his shoulder.

“don’t go through my stuff.”

you smile sweetly. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

the second the door shuts and the water starts running, you look around the room like a mission's been assigned.

depression den? not on your watch.

you move on autopilot—straightening the blankets, collecting the mess of takeout containers, laundry, crumpled socks. you empty the trash, crack open a window, light one of the half-burned candles on his shelf. vanilla tobacco.

you even find a rogue pair of boxers under his desk chair and launch them across the room with a disgusted hiss.

twenty minutes later, when the bathroom door creaks open and rafe walks back in—hair wet, towel low on his hips, steam trailing after him—you nearly knock over the now-clean nightstand.

he doesn’t notice.

(you hope.)

he’s digging through a drawer for sweatpants, water dripping down his chest like a fucking cologne commercial. his back is still a little red from the hot water, muscles shifting as he moves.

you look everywhere else.

the ceiling. the window. the existential void.

“you cleaned,” he says, almost surprised.

you shrug from the bed, where you're very casually folding a hoodie like it owes you money. “someone had to. your socks were starting to unionize.”

he huffs a laugh, pulling on a shirt and finally pants. “thanks.”

you toss the hoodie aside, daring to glance up now that he’s decent. “you’re welcome.”

there’s a beat. quiet, but not awkward.

he scratches the back of his neck. “uh… you wanna stay? watch something or whatever?”

you smile. “like a pity movie date?”

“more like a very exclusive, limited-seating premiere of whatever’s not depressing,” he says. “i might even let you pick.”

you fake-gasp. “me? the remote? cameron, are you feeling okay?”

he rolls his eyes, flopping onto the bed beside you with a faint grin. “i’m recovering.”

and yeah, he still looks tired. but at least now—he’s not alone.

you're curled into the far side of rafe’s bed, blanket draped over both your legs, the soft blue glow of the screen lighting the room in shadows.

something vaguely action-y is playing. you’re not really watching.

not because it’s boring—just because rafe’s here. sitting close. his arm brushing yours every now and then, like it’s on purpose. like he needs to keep checking you're real.

you feel him shift beside you. glance over just in time to catch the way his jaw moves as he says—barely above a whisper— “thank you.”

you blink. “what?”

his gaze is still on the screen. but his voice is a little louder this time. a little steadier. “thank you. for coming over. for climbing through my damn window. for bringing me food. and for not… acting weird about all this.”

your heart squeezes.

“you’re welcome,” you murmur, nudging his shoulder with yours. “but next time maybe unlock the door like a normal person.”

he huffs a laugh. turns toward you, then, slowly. his eyes meet yours—dark, warm, careful.

and then he kisses you.

no warning. no rush.

just a soft press of lips, like a secret passed between two hearts that already knew.

you inhale sharply against him, but your hands move without hesitation—curling into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring him closer. he kisses you again, deeper this time, and you melt into it. his hand slips up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your face.

you pull back eventually, breathless.

his forehead rests against yours. his voice low.

“i missed this.”

you tilt your head, teasing. “what? kissing me?”

he laughs—quiet, soft. it rumbles through his chest. “you,” he says. “i missed you. and kissing you too, yeah.”

your chest aches with something dangerous and sweet.

so you kiss him again. not because you’re trying to prove anything—just because you can. or because you’re not ready to let go of.

rafe’s hands are steady on your waist, but there’s a twitch in his fingers, like he’s holding back something hungrier.

he pulls back just barely, eyes flickering over your face. “you’re dangerous, y’know that?” he mutters.

you raise a brow, breath still shallow. “me?”

he nods, his voice all gravel and softness. “climb through my window, boss me around, clean my whole damn room like you own it—then look at me like that.”

“like what?”

he smirks a little, leaning in again. “like you’d kiss me no matter how fucked up i am.”

you don’t answer—just tug him in by the front of his hoodie and kiss him again, slower this time. and he lets you. like he’s starving. like your mouth’s the only thing that’s tasted like home in weeks.

his hand slips under the blanket, settling over your bare knee. he doesn’t move it—just keeps it there. warm. grounding. you sigh into him, finally letting your hand rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat under your palm.

you speak against his lips, barely a whisper. “i didn’t come here to fix you.”

“i know.” his eyes are heavy-lidded now, his voice rough. “but it still feels like you did.”

you’re quiet for a second. then: “rafe…”

he leans back just a little, eyes searching yours. something in his gaze is raw. unspoken. but he doesn’t say it. instead, he brushes a thumb across your cheek, and the moment sharpens into something softer again.

“stay?” he asks.

you nod.

no hesitation.

fuck.

you tuck into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders, the movie still playing in the background like white noise. and for the first time in days, he breathes easy.

and now you know.

you

are

so

so

so

fucked.

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1

[cheralith]

cw: cannibalism, blood, murder, heavier gore warning on this one (description of an eyeball taken out of its socket more specifically)

no one asked but yukimiya is a serial killer cannibal in cannibal!au.

he is also your sweet, seemingly innocuous friend that you may or may not have a crush on. part of you wants to believe that he feels the same way, since you've noticed he gives you a rather specialized attention, but you'd be lying if you said he wasn't hard to read.

but he's lovely to be around, lovelier when it's just the two of you alone. he'll stay close to you in public spaces as your own human shield. he always reminds you of your guys' friday movie nights—asking if you were still up for it (you always are, when are you not?). he always makes a compliment regarding your appearance whenever you meet up, something to set a good foundation for the day.

but every once in a while, you'll catch him staring at you in rather adoring manner, this quiet smile on his lips as he looks at you. it makes you giddily nervous, knowing that he has this spotlight for you and you alone.

"is there something on my face?" you ask him one time, dabbing around your cheeks.

yukimiya shakes his head, smile still settled.

"oh no," he says. "i was just... just admiring your eyes, that's all. they're beautiful, i hope you know that."

you blink in a doe-like manner, a curious ponder in your innocent gaze. yukimiya's own tangerine hues soften at your surprise, making him chuckle affectionately at your modesty that arrives not a moment later.

"sorry, i didn't mean to fluster you," he excuses, "hope i didn't weird you out."

"oh no," you laugh lightly, waving his apology away. "not at all. i just... no one really has told me that before. i didn't think my eyes were all that enticing."

yukimiya hums, allowing himself to stare at you again when you don't shy away from him, letting him be lost in your gaze, too embarassed at his sudden compliment to see the darker resolve that he hides behind his glasses.

--

the woman's wheezes come to a stop eventually when the last bit of blood needed for a pulse bleeds out.

yukimiya sighs in relief, gripping his hand around the knife plunged deep in her body and recklessly pulling it out, wincing when some blood sprays his face. he draws a tongue over his teeth, swallowing the bundle of saliva built up in his mouth as he gets off of the body of his former date now laid face down on the floor of his apartment. foolish girl, didn't anyone tell you not to trust strangers?

he pushes her body to face right-side up, allowing her face to stare up at him, the life completely gone from her eyes. he grins when he sees the familiarity of the deadened gaze and lowers himself down, taking the knife and carving out the skin around her eye sockets to better space the area out.

he snacks on the bit of meat, the sucking on the blood from the piece of eyelid, spitting out the mascara-caked lashes as he continues working his way through. she tastes okay—he's had better though. he assumes the alcohol from the wine in her system had melded in her blood a little bit. he's not too fond of the bitter aftertaste.

yukimiya sees it suddenly, that little fleshy arm from behind the eyeball. his fingers shove their way through the hollowed-out socket and pinches it between his middle and index, then cupping the eyeball around his palm and giving it a harsh tug.

the eyeball and its muscle disconnects from inside—mission success. with a blood-smeared hand, yukimiya pops it into his mouth, then goes to chew and suck off the leftover muscle framing around the gummy orb, being careful not to impact it directly.

he spits it back out as the sweet blood and meat from the muscle slither down his throat contently. delicate fingers go to pinch the eyeball and he holds it up to the light. a perfectly rounded shape, a pristine white all over with a beautiful rim of amber around the pupil. no signs of glaucoma, jaundice, or broken blood vessels anywhere.

he thinks this'll be a good piece to his collection, a good possible replacement. it looks rather close enough to his own.

it's not long until yukimiya takes out her other eye, placing the two into a jar of solution to keep them hydrated and ready if ever the case. he takes it to a private room in his complex, this darkened cupboard hidden away that holds other jars of eyes with some that mirror his own, some in different colors—but all healthy and pristine.

yukimiya admires his collection for a bit, welcoming the newest addition, but suddenly feels a vibrating in his pocket. he takes his phone out and blinks at the bright screen that lights up the dim room, the leftover adrenaline he felt from earlier bespeckling his vision with a few black spots that he attempts to blink away.

he presses the accept button.

"hiya," your voice rings from the other end.

"hey there," he chimes. "what's up?"

"movie night is still a-go?" you question.

yukmiya winces. right, today is friday, and he said last time you could come over to his place. but with the current body bleeding out in his living room, he feels as though he's going to need more than a couple of hours to completely discard the body. taking it apart and storing its flesh for later often takes a few hours, and yukimiya is not one to waste food for the sake of time.

"yeah, yeah," he hums. "but is it okay if we do at your place today? sorry, they're doing some construction outside my building and i'd hate for the noise to interfere."

your laughter echoes from the other end. "haha, no problem. could you give me an extra half-hour, though? i need to clean my place up."

yukimiya assures you that it's fine and bids you a temporary goodbye, agreeing to meet up soon. he sighs, going to stretch his limbs for a bit and opening up his camera roll to find a particular photo of you that he finds himself admiring a few times in the week, a soft smile on his lips as he traces a finger over your eyes, hues bright and attentive at the camera he had focused on you one night.

they really are one of your best features, aren't they?

[bradleysass]

swimming pool - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 655

James himself lay stretched out like a smug cat basking in attention and heat, golden from weeks of sun exposure, his chest bare and glistening with sunscreen and confidence. His abs—of which he was intensely proud—were on full, accidental-on-purpose display. Every so often, he’d roll his shoulders or yawn dramatically, just in case Regulus happened to glance his way. Which he rarely did. Which only made James more determined.

Sirius, on the other hand, had already achieved peak relaxation.

He lay in a purple flamingo float drifting gently around the pool like some sort of chaotic deity on vacation, wearing a wide-brimmed straw sunhat, designer sunglasses, and a white shirt billowing open in the breeze. One leg dangled over the float’s side; the other rested on a waterproof speaker that was currently blasting Fleetwood Mac.

A half-melted drink was balanced precariously on his chest.

“James,” Sirius called lazily, one eye cracked open. “Bring me watermelon. Or a better drink. Or both.”

“Bring it yourself, you lazy git.”

“I’m floating, James. This is a sacred state of being.”

“You’re lounging in an inflatable bird.”

“Exactly.”

Meanwhile, Regulus sat upright in a rigid patio chair like a perfectly miserable Victorian ghost, legs crossed at the ankle, jeans on (jeans!), and a pale button-up tucked and ironed like he had a business meeting instead of a sunburn to earn. He looked vaguely offended by the idea of summer in general.

He hadn't even taken his shoes off.

James, watching this ridiculous contrast, pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead and stared.

"Reg."

“Hm?”

“You’re gonna evaporate in that outfit.”

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “I’m comfortable.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wearing jeans.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Sirius chimed in again, now slowly rotating in the pool. “Honestly, Regulus, I don't know if you're the most stubborn person alive or just committed to the bit.”

Regulus turned a page. “Both.”

James leaned up on his elbows, squinting toward him like he was planning something.

"You know what you need right now, my love?"

“No,” Regulus said immediately and with maximum suspicion.

Sirius cackled. “God, this is gonna be good.”

James stood, stretching like he was preparing for battle—or a one-man stage performance. “You,” he said dramatically, “need to lighten up.”

“James, don’t.”

But James was already moving, grinning like a child on Christmas morning.

Regulus caught on too late. “*No. James—No.”

“YES.”

With a loud whoop, James hoisted Regulus up bridal-style, muscles flexing as if to say see, Sirius, this is why I do ab day. Regulus flailed and cursed like a proper sailor, book flying dramatically to the ground.

“PUT ME DOWN—THIS IS KIDNAPPING—”

“This is love,” James corrected, and with a running leap, he launched both of them into the pool.

Water erupted in a magnificent splash. Sirius screamed—not in fear but indignation as he clutched his drink above his head. “MY COCKTAIL, YOU BASTARDS!”

Regulus came up first, sputtering, eyes wide and hair flat against his head. “You absolute monster.”

James surfaced, laughing so hard he nearly choked. “You’re welcome.”

Regulus tried to glare, but the glare lacked conviction now that he was dripping wet and his shirt clung dramatically to every part of his slim frame.

Sirius let out a long, theatrical sigh. “You two are sickening.”

“Jealous,” James called back, treading water as he pushed Regulus’s hair from his eyes.

“I am,” Sirius agreed. “Of Regulus. For getting free abs and a man who’s willing to drag him into a pool for emotional enrichment.”

James grinned and looked back at Regulus. “You’re hot when you’re wet.”

Regulus groaned. “Don’t say that.”

“But you are.”

“Still hate you.”

James swam closer. “That’s not what you said last night.”

Before Regulus could respond—or commit a murder—Sirius cannonballed in with the grace of a drunk cat, soaking all three of them and sending the flamingo float spiraling.

[caoimhewrites]

Take It or Leave It

Undying Ground (Pt 3)

Ghosts decides... do you accept?

Tags/CW: brief mentions of grief/loss, non-graphic mentions of injury, post apocalyptic world, zombie mentions WC: 2k

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader. Reluctant allies to lovers

Series Masterlist → here

A/N- Dabbling in a little Ghost pov. Don't know if I'll keep up with it

 G

The cans were a clever move. They almost gave him away when he had snuck up on you days ago. He almost felt angry with himself for not thinking of it. Relying on the sounds of growls outside the fence he built around the cabin wasn't the most foolproof solution when it came to alerting him to get rid of any infected that wandered too close.

He's spent days watching you sleep, eat and struggle with your bandages. There's something about you, something interesting, but he can't put his finger on it. Maybe it's the way you watch him back or the few words you speak in your conscious moments that have him biting back a small chuckle.

No.

Not that. Definitely not that.

You're up now, walking around with much more ease and no more limp. He doesn't speak when he sees you moving around. You've made yourself useful by packing up your things and Ghost would be lying if he said he wasn't a little... disappointed? He may have gotten the better of you a few days ago but still... you had skills to have made it this far. Five years, alone or not, was an achievement in this world. Ghost didn't consider himself to be a curious man. Didn't bother himself with the goings on of other people, not even before the sickness spread but the intrigue of you won't fade.

He's being practical, he tells himself. A decision like this… it makes sense, it's realistic. He's not getting any younger and the infected only find his cabin more frequently, their numbers only seeming to grow. Maybe a little help wouldn't be so bad?

No. Not help.

Ghost doesn't need help. He's never needed help a day in his life but maybe... an extra set of hands wouldn't hurt. If you stay as quiet as you usually are, fend for yourself, scavenge your own meds... it could work. He could find a way to tolerate it.

He's talked himself out of it a million times. He doesn't know you. His initial suspicions could be right. You might slink off in the middle of the night with all his things, leaving him practically defenseless. Or you could just end him. He's mulled that possibility over more times than he can count. He's been betrayed before. Before and after the world fell apart and as far as he's concerned he's in no rush to repeat history.

But he had to choose. Risk you betraying him, or possibly get swarmed by so many infected that even a man like him couldn't fight them. Or worse, some other lunatic who won't sit quietly like you do, keep to themselves and get out of his space whenever he asks. Someone who wouldn't hesitate to take everything he owned and toss him out as food for the infected.

So that's exactly what Ghost does. He chooses. Against every single instinct, every life lesson, every rational thought.

He chooses.

You can stay... For now.

R

You hear him before you see him. It feels strange. He’s always appearing out of nowhere, leaving a delirious you confused and scared shitless before the details of his frame clear. But, today it’s like he wants his presence to be known. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m going,” you murmur as you shove your old tattered coat into your bag. The summer still rages outside, leaving you far too sweaty even in the relatively cool damp of Ghost’s cabin. You had used it as a blanket when the shivers set in, side aching. Now it really serves no purpose, just weighing you down until the winter comes again.

“Stop.” His voice is demanding, slightly cold. 

“What? Why?” You freeze your movements, looking up at his towering frame. It casts a long shadow across the room, blocking out the light from the oil lamp.

“You can stay.” His words come out flat, emotionless. 

“Stay?” You can’t be sure you heard him right. Stay? Why on earth would this man let you stay? You still haven’t figured out why he would take you here in the first place. 

“Under some conditions.” He adds, words keeping their flatness.

“Conditions?” 

He rubs a frustrated hand over his face, venom lacing his voice. “Will you just- stop repeating everything I’m saying and listen.”

“Sorry,” you mutter quietly.

“You can stay… under some conditions. You get your own food, your own medication and first aid. I will not help you. If you get stuck out there, people or infected. I will not help you. If you get injured. I will not help you. You will sleep in the corner. If you want a mattress, find one. And…” He pauses, his brown eyes boring into yours, “stay the hell away from my room.” 

The question slips out before you can stop yourself, “why are you letting me stay? We don’t know each other. I mean… you let me heal here but, why?”

He hesitates, jaw clenched as he chooses his words wisely. “We… could be allies.” He says it like it physically pains him, like any suggestion of having someone else around goes against every instinct and desire. 

"Why should I trust you?" Your tone is accusatory, sharp like a knife.

"Why should I trust you?" He echoes, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You're the one who asked me to stay." You tilt your head, throwing in as much sass as you possibly can.

He lets out a huff at your words. You're right, but he's not going to admit that. He isn't the type of man to be wrong and certainly not the type of man to admit when he is. "Doesn't mean I trust you."

"Well I don't trust you either," you retort in a snarky tone, face scrunching in annoyance.

"Good."

What does that mean? Good? Good? Your stomach churns in annoyance. He's the one who brought you here. He's the one who asked you to stay. 

"Well? You staying or what?" His tone is sharp, impatient.

You didn't realize how long you had been silent, neglecting to answer his question, head spinning. What options do you have? Stay with this guy who's mildly annoying and definitely a bit out of his mind but at least have a roof over your head or go back out on your own with hardly any remaining supplies and legions of infected wandering the earth who wouldn't hesitate to make you their next lunch?

"Take it or leave it," he adds with an annoyed sigh.

"Fine. I'll stay... I guess."

---

Ghost wasn't kidding when he said he wouldn't help you. He hasn't lifted a single finger in the second week that you've been occupying his floor. You haven't bothered to do much more for him. It's tense and awkward, the atmosphere thick enough to slice with even the dullest knife. Your conversations are short and stilted, exchanging nothing more than a few words each day.

But, you keep up your end of the deal. Stay quiet and out of his space. It's not too bad, you've had roommates far worse. 

Yet, he still watches you. Quite frequently in fact, his distrust obvious. In all fairness, you don't trust him either. Sure, he lets you stay and keeps to himself, not even bothering to pretend to be your friend, but even still, he could always betray you. It's the risk you run in this world.

"So... Where did you learn the trick with the cans?" he asks, eyes studying you suspiciously as he sits across the small table from you.

"A friend." You reply, voice clipped.

"Infected?"

"Yeah... Infected," you murmur quietly, the word feeling heavy on your tongue like you almost can't speak it. Your mind swirls with memories of Vivienne. You can't be sure of exactly how long it's been, the days you spent half conscious on Ghost's floor were hard to keep track of. You think it's been three weeks since the infected found your camp. Three weeks without the one person who had been with you through everything. Thinking about her always seemed to make you feel worse. Knowing that after so little time, her voice had already been forgotten. 

"You've been traveling?" He's pushed his food away now, focusing solely on you. His words feel more like an interrogation than an actual conversation.

"Yeah. Quite a lot since the start." You give a small nod, picking at your dinner.

"Where did you start? Virginia?"

You let out a huff and finally meet his eyes, looking up from the overcooked squirrel on the plate in front of you. "North Carolina actually."

You're tempted to ask him about himself but something in his eyes stops you. Something tired and... sad? Maybe if you could see his face you could understand it better. Trying to read him just through his eyes was proving to be quite difficult. His body language reveals even less— always statuesque.

The minutes pass in an awkward and tense silence, the only sound is the rustling of the fabric of your clothes as you eat in silence. "You... uhhh you been here since the start?" You regret it as soon as you say it, your question slipping past your lips shakily.

"Yes. Military," he says simply, offering nothing else. His shortness makes exasperation rise in your chest. Who is he to ask about your life, but give hardly anything in return? He’s the one who brought you here, who suggested you be “allies”, whatever that means to him. You shake the feeling off, you’re not going to let him get to you. It’s fine. It works. You can live with it. Dealing with Ghost’s interrogations mixed with indifference is paradise compared to the last five years.

“Right. Military,” you parrot, awkwardly tapping your wooden fork against your plate. You suspected he had made them both. They had that kind of rustic quality, much like the things your grandfather had made for your grandmother years ago. But these didn’t carry the comfort of their home or any home really. Nothing cute and sweet, just made from need and practicality. 

He lifts his mask just slightly so he can take another bite of his food. You see pink lips and a strong jaw dusted with blond stubble. It’s the only clue you had to how he looked beyond his brown eyes. You tried to piece him together, playing a game in your head, creating a million different versions of the man under the mask. None seemed too convincing. There was always something off, something that didn’t fit. It bothered you day and night not to know. 

“You’re low on supplies.” He spoke without looking up. 

“I know.” You stare at him as you take a bite of the stale bread on your plate that Ghost had actually decided to share with you to your surprise.

“You’ll need more. There’s a town down the road, not too far. I checked it out a few weeks ago, not much has been taken.” 

“Many infected?” Your voice is quiet but practical.

“Just a few.” He shrugs and glances up at you. There it is again. That look. The tiredness has seeped into him so deeply that you feel it radiating out of him. Five years alone out here will do that to you. Five years in some place that isn’t anything like home. Maybe it’s been there longer, you think. Maybe it’s something he’s been carrying on his shoulders for so long that tired is just who he’s become.

“I’ll go tomorrow then,” you say as you set the bread down. You see now why he gave it to you, it’s basically inedible. You would need several more rows of the world strongest and sharpest teeth to get through it. 

He lets out a low hum and nods, “I’ll go with you. Need some things. Don’t expect me to-”

“I know, I know.” You wave your hand in dismissal, cutting him off with a small huff. “You won’t help me.”

Taglist: @little-mini-me-world @angeldemon28 @iminlovewithjasontodd @i-like-foxs @dravenskye @lilynotdilly @thatghostlykid

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The desert is starting to get to you. Omni Mark is forced to reconcile with who you are. [Invincible Variants x reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3] [6]

7 * Killah [7.2k]

"You look just like a sheep,

For someone with such sharp teeth,

After all this time,

Your cover's finally blown."

No Offense - Slutever

        You don't know when it happened, just that it did. 

        You didn't think he'd do it. You'd never tried something like this, you'd said the command half-heartedly, half expecting him to shoot you instead. Now his brains were on the Italian tile and Machine Head was laughing. "Man, am I glad I bailed you out! That was amazing! Hey, meathead, bring in the other one." 

        You were here again. Fresh out of prison, playing executioner while looking over the New York skyline. Blood dripping down your chin. You felt like you were going to puke, you had just killed that man. You hadn't imagined your first day out of prison like this.

        Machine Head leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, feet on his polished desk like he'd never left. 

        "Make this one do something different," he waves his hand in a circle, looking for something obscene, "you know what? Surprise me."

        The guards bring him in. Converse dragging behind him, black hair stuck to his sweaty brow. You know it can't be Mark, Mark wouldn't work with Machine Head. Wouldn't be indebted enough to die. Machine Head would use him, not throw him away. 

        You don't remember what the man's face really looked like. Just that Mark's face was always superimposed atop it. Pleading with you not to do it.  

        Machine Head says, "Get on with it already, I want three more before lunch."

         Your head jerked up.

        "No!" 

        You're not eighteen in New York. Not angry enough yet at Mark to want him to die. Instead, you're baking in GDA issue armor, soaked in sweat underneath, ass gone numb from sleeping while sitting. 

        "Good morning." Your neck aches as you force it up. Lensless stands over you, shins at your back. Smiling at you despite the fact that you shot his eye out. The wound had started to scab. Remnants of the actual eye either fell or were picked away. His eyelid sagged around nothing but a pale pink background.

        He looked terrible, but you don't feel bad. Instead, you wished you were dreaming again so you could kill him in Machine Head's office. 

        You rolled up, scanning the scene. Still trapped in the desert. The fire from last night had long since went to ash and most of the Marks seemed to be gone. Just you and Boner Boy.

        No skin off your back, but still you asked, "Where are they?"

        Lensless shrugged, "Probably looking for a way out. I called bids on babysitting duty."

        A shadow passed overhead. You watch the Viltrumite (man, you needed a better name than that) pass overhead, holding thin rolls of material.  He lands by a structure that hadn't been yesterday, half of a shoddy tent frame that was meant to keep you all out of the heat. 

        "Dude says he's helped build homes on other planets or something." Lensless says behind you. "Which is sooo lame. Why be a Viltrum enforcer if you're not always killing people- like me. 'S the best part'a the gig!"

        You chose not to acknowledge that. Started walking toward the new structure as the Viltrumite took off for more material. Lensless keeps pace, "He said to tell you to like, not mess with it until he finished the supports. Something about sand being annoying."

        You don't nod or acknowledge him, but you change course. Headed for a heap that looked like it could fit one. You just needed to be a little cooler. Just a little bit of shade so you could think beyond the heat cooking you inside the armor. 

        Lensless walks backwards in front of you. Smiling dopeily despite his lost eye. "Sooo, are you gonna use your powers on me again?"

        You swallow. Feeling no power ready to go. Whatever Angstrom was, it took everything to control him for those few seconds. You don't reply, propping a knee inside the hollowed out mess of rebar and wire. 

        "Are you ignoring me?"

        It takes some wriggling but you get inside with enough room to turn around and face him. Not out of respect for the conversation but because this kid scared the shit out of you. You were about two degrees cooler but it's not enough. The sun is still rising, a red boil over the dunes. Your throat is stuck closed, lips chapped. You can't take much more of this place and it's only been a day. You thought about taking the helmet off but he shoves himself into the opening to pout at you and you decide not to. 

        "Can you not hear me or something?" He waves a hand in front of your face. "Helllooooo."

        You want him to shut up, so you say, "I'm tired."

        "Then go back to sleep, I can keep watch but-" he holds up a finger, dopey grin returning to his face, "only after you use your powers on me!" Maybe if you didn't move he'd think you'd gone back to sleep and- "Your breathing isn't that fast when you're sleeping. I know you're still awake, you can't ignore me." He's smiling but the good-naturedness had seeped from his tone.

        "And if I do?" You try, voice forced even.

        His eye sparkles with the challenge. "Oh! I see how it is! I'm gonna have to make you use them on me! I prefer it this way actually." 

        He grabs you by the ankle and rips you out of your metal cave. Your armor screeches as sharp edges scratch its back; he would have shredded your flesh if you had taken the armor off. You landed in the warming sand, belly up with Lensless already atop you. Sitting on your hips, not acknowledging the fists you threw to his hard chest or the thrashing dance you were doing under him. You couldn't get up. His thighs were squeezing you in place like a vice and you were on the verge of hyperventilating.

        He leans forward, one hand landing beside your head, sinking into the sand and bringing him closer, the other reeling back. Dark hair falling over his face. "Okay, you better use 'em now, cuz if you don't-" the fist comes forward a quick inch but you flinch- which makes him laugh. "You'll have to stop the next one!"

        You can't. He doesn't know you can't. You had to give up the most vulnerable secret you had to survive. "I-"

        The fist comes down before you can finish. Caught in a snap by a white-sleeved arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

        "Isn't it obvious?" He seemed to really believe it, what else could he possibly be doing?  

        No smile is cracked at the attempted joke. Lensless is yanked off of you and thrown into the atmosphere. 

        He holds a hand out to you, gray loincloth or whatever it was flapping in the breeze and whoop there it is- your name is Gray now, baby.         You don't take it, standing and letting sand slink off the armor.

        "I don't need your help." You say, though you clearly did and he knew it.

        Lensless lands a few feet away, kicking up dust. "That was rude, dude." Gray only looks to you, does a shallow nod and takes off to work on the tent. Lensless watched him, frowning, "He'll definitely kill me if I try that again."

        "Good." You start looking for more shade, preferably not covered in metal.  

        "I kinda wanna try that again." Of course. 

        ***

        You don't know how, but you convinced Lensless to not attempt assaulting you for funsies. Said you'd fight him eventually, on your terms to give you the best shot. You had zero intention of actually doing that, but he loved the idea of you trying your hardest on him- he shelved trying to punch your lights out to force your hand. You stood with your back pressed flat to a sheet of concrete, standing in the minuscule shade while he puttered around. 

        The other Marks returned in a slow trickle. Angry and dejected. Tracksuit was first, swearing he searched the planet top to bottom only to find jackshit. He shoved himself in the same hole you did and rested- you think anyways, you couldn't see his face. Emperor was next, complaining so loud it made your migraine from yesterday return. He usually had slaves to do meandering tasks like that for him and he made it very known.

       Baldie appeared. Landing near you and Lensless, dropping off a heap of planks, "For tonight's fire." You don't thank or acknowledge him but he lingers. "I'm going to help build that thing," he jerked his head toward the tent frame. Gray had sat himself beside it, tying loose fiber and wire together to make fabric, "want to lend a hand?"

        "I'm good at destroying stuff, not making it." Lensless says.

        "I wasn't talking to you."

        The whole day you'd passed being still as possible so none of them would talk to you. Here one was, talking, offering up your help. 

        You wanted to refuse but thought better of it. Sure, you didn't have super strength, but pitching in what little you could would look good. Made you seem complacent, likable, less likely to be thrown under the bus.

        You pushed off the wall. "Sure."

        Lensless scrambles to his feet, "Me too!"

        Baldie fixes him with a look. "Don't even think about coming near the shelter until it's done."

        "But-"

        Baldie holds up a scar-thick hand, "You've done your job for the day. Rest." Lensless settles, unhappily. You follow Baldie, taking note of the higher emotional intellect than the rest, maybe he wouldn't try to kill you at the flip of a hat. 

        Sitting beside the frame were organized piles of material Gray had gathered. Wood, scraps of wire mesh, dirty fabric slips, thin pipes. The frame fluttered in the breeze but holds. The sand was too fine to stake down but Gray had removed his kilt, dug a hole, piled it with sand, and used it as a weight to keep the anchor point in place. He'd done the same using larger fabric scraps along the line of the structure.

        All there was left to do was painstakingly weave tiny materials together to make walls. At least it was better than getting murdered by Lensless.

        You got to work, which was slow going even with Gray and Baldie's guidance. Super speed didn't help in cases of arm knitting dried out trash together. Gray doesn't speak, sat there on a corrugated metal sheet as not to ruin his white suit. Baldie does, giving pointers on how to keep your fabric from falling apart for the millionth time. He'd learned it after observing Gray do it a few times. "Arm under arm, like this, then pull through."

        "Like this?" You do as he did, your trash fabric loose and full of holes.

        "...Close enough."

        You work in silence until you can't take it anymore. You see Gray stealing glances because he couldn't tell when you weren't looking with the visor. You can't see Baldies eyes but you feel them on you. "How long is this thing even going to hold? I mean, this sand, it's almost like water." You ask because you can not deal with real questions right now like if you're all going to die out here if no one finds any food or water. 

        Baldie tightly shrugs, "I just know he should know what he's doing. Don'cha- solider?"  The word, benign, comes out like a slur.

        Gray knots an end. His fabric almost blanket sized while yours and Baldies were like dishtowels. "The way the tent is held down, should allow it to move with the dunes." Gray's voice is affirmed. He's done this before. "For now, we only need one side complete to keep the sun off you during the day." Yet he didn't stop you both from working on the other walls.

        "Off me?" Surprise is obvious, because of his phrasing and the fact that this was the most you'd ever heard him talk. So different from the Mark you knew. Inflection so flatly robotic. 

        "I'm pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say we can hold our breath in lava." Baldie says, "If your body gets two degrees over average, you'll start dying." 

        You don't reply, true but unfair. 

        Others return. Scars who is just as bitchy as Emperor. Threatening literally anybody who looked at him. Which Lensless gladly did with his one eye. Omni arrived just in time to stop them from murdering each other. He'd have liked to help build, but was so caught up in keeping the peace, he couldn't. 

        As the sky dulled gray Mohawk made an entrance. "Well, that was just a big fat waste of fuckin' time." 

        "I'm sure the last of us will come bearing good news," Omni says. 

        You listen, picking up as many planks as you could carry to bring them to the half-tent. Shoddily woven fabric leaned over where the sun would be tomorrow morning. Gray had the foresight to lay metal sheets down where the fire would go so it wouldn't shift in the sand and potentially cause your new home to go up in a cloud of smoke.

        "Bearing good news?" Mohawk spits, picking up the rest of the wood and following you, "What are you forty?" 

        "We are all the same age I believe."

        Mohawk rolled his eyes. "Can you fuckin' believe this guy, babe?"

        You climb up the dune the tent sat atop. Sliding back a little with every step, refusing Mohawk or Omni's help because you hated how they talked about you.

       Mohawk puts his planks down beside yours. Gray moves forward to optimize their positioning for maximum heat. "Aww, come on babe, don't ice me out." 

        "Trouble in paradise?" Tracksuit snickers, leaning back on the unused pile of scrap. His jacket halfway zipped down like the temperature wasn't about to dip into the negatives. A wifebeater covered most his skin, leaving the tops of his collarbones exposed. 

        You sit close to Baldie and Gray because you couldn't be warm and stay away from all of them. You had to choose so you did, the most normal of the bunch. Wasn't saying much.

         Mohawk settles as close to you as he can get with Baldie's brick wall of a body blocking him, "You could say that." 

        There is maybe a minute of peace and quiet. 

        "Are we all thinkin' what I'm thinking?" Mohawk asks.

        "That you need to shut up?" Emperor says.

        "That we're down two and they're not coming back."

        The realization settles in. Phantom and Maskless never returned. You are not upset in the slightest. Less work for you.

        Tracksuit fidgets with his jacket zipper, "Think they're lost?" 

        "Could be." Omni breaks off a plank piece to throw in the fire. "They also may have found something."

        "If they found something, they shouldn't keep us waiting." Emperor says.

        "Maybe they want to keep it to themselves." Scars gives you a significant look. You were glad for the visor hiding your emotions. Forgetting he can hear your breath catch. They all can.

        You weigh the options of possible comebacks. What would get you killed, what would get you verbally dressed down. Nothing seemed good when you had no way to defend yourself.        

        Omni takes the choice away, changing the subject, "We should consolidate everything we have."

        "Wha'dya mean?" Tracksuit says.

        "We should treat individual belongings as collective belongings," Omni says, "one of us may have something that can help us along."

        Nobody goes for their pockets, wherever they'd be on their stupid supersuits. 

        "I'll go first." Omni's fingers disappear into an invisible pocket alongside his upper thigh. Pulling out a laminated square of shiny paper. He looks at it before letting it drop on the ground for all to see. "It's all I brought along." 

        You lean forward, mouth going dryer than it already was after a day in the desert. You're looking at a photo of you, not really you, but it's the same face, same hair, same body. Grinning in white, holding a bouquet. Your wedding day. Mark beside you, looking fine in his tailored suit. 

        You look from him in the photo to the man standing by the fire. His hair had started to streak through with gray. You hadn't noticed till now, shining almost red in the firelight, hadn't the time to pay attention to his hair. How long had it been since that picture was taken? How long had you been dead for him?

        Looking back at yourself, you found an unexpected hot tear slipping down your cheek. Thankfully hidden in the visor. You looked so happy and in love- with Mark Grayson of all people. You got the life you wanted, then died only to be replaced by a worse version of yourself. Jesus, wasn't this all so fucked up? 

        Your existentialism was cut short by something being tossed atop the photo. A carton of alien cigarettes, nine spilling out the top, wrapped in blue paper.

        "I'm jus' showin' cuz he did, but none of you touch the things, got it?" Tracksuit leaned forward, ready to lunge for the cigarettes if need be. "They're mine." His passive growl rivaled that of Scars when it came to your personage. "Oh and," another thing was thrown out, a small pack of-

       "Are those fucking baby wipes?" Mohawk cracked a laugh.         

        "I don't got gloves like you, dipshit. Sometimes blood gets all sticky and gross and I just don't like the feeling, alright?" Tracksuit tensed, "Like yeah, love to murder people n' all but have you seen some of the shit that's out in the universe? You never ripped a Quinobian in half with nothing to wash it off? Fuckin' nasty."

        Laughs pitter round, but nobody else adds to the pile. Distrust too taught.

        "Broke outta prison to get here," Baldie fills the quiet, "I got nothing."

        "I've goooooot-" One thing then another comes out of assorted hidden pockets on Lensless's suit. Collectables like finger bones and half-rotted ears. 

        "Dude, that's disgusting." Tracksuit comments, but he keeps on going.

        A swath of cloth maybe a meter long from something old, a delicate necklace originally silver but gone brown with blood, human teeth, pocket lint. 

        Lensless tiptoes to the growing pile, holding up the necklace. Jewel glinting in the light. He holds it out to you, "Was gonna give this to you when I first saw you again, but you started shouting and I got too excited and everything happened so fast. So, here. I chopped off a really pretty lady's head to get it for you."

        He's smiling puppy dog-ishly. Murder wasn't something you were morally opposed to, but Jesus. Was it really necessary for her to die over a necklace? Something twists in your gut. The face of Mark Grayson, seemingly innocent with something wicked beneath, genuinely interested in you and your affection. It made you want to scream and puke. 

        Omni caught your discomfort like a scent. "Give it to her when we make it out of this desert. For now, it could be useful to hold something together."

        Lensless looked at him suspiciously. "Hold what together? You're not plannin' on stealing a gift I got for her, are you?"

        "I'd never," you believed him on that. "Let's just keep going. Save sentimentality for a different time."

        Lensless frowned. Dejected you didn't immediately, and graciously with sloppy kisses, accept. He rolled back on his heels, dropping the necklace in the pile and finding his seat with a frown. 

        The electronic cuff clicked as Gray took it off his wrist, adding it gently to the pile. "It automatically maps surroundings." He says. Off the side of his hip came a disk that when he pressed at its center became an oxygen mask. 

        "Good." Omni says, "We'll be able to search out further. What else?"

        Out of a mini hip satchel came vials. Thin and shining and filled with unlabeled substances. The other Marks seemed unimpressed, but you had no clue what they were and leaned forward to look.

        "For extreme wound care," he says to you and only you. Leaving the rest of the details for you to figure out.

        "Tch. Look at you walkin' around with medicine like some-" Mohawk couldn't find a good insult, so he just said, "dickhead. Check it." Out his pocket came a box of mints and a spray pen of some kind. He threw them in the pile before looking up at you, "Gotta taste good and smell fresh for my girl."

        His sleazy grin. The flipping in your gut. You can't help saying, "Ew."

        He chuckles, casually tossing out a single wrapped condom. "Just putting it out there by the way."

        "Ew," you repeat.

        Then comes out a ring, a plain metal band with a sun embossed on its outside. He looks at you but can't bring himself to explain. It was catching up to him now, drunkenly slow, weird this all was. He throws it on the pile without comment.

        Next came a fancy-looking pen from Emperor. "I was expecting to be making political moves." He says when Mohawk makes fun of him. 

        Last and definitely least, Scars. He pulls out a black metal ring, clicks its side to open it fully, revealing cuffs. Thick and strong. "I had plans for you, my dear." His words are like spiders crawling on your skin. "I like the fight but you never understood when it was time to stop." The last words held a bitter weight. Like he trying to hide his anger at you for killing yourself, despite the fact that you were very much alive. 

        Eyes fall to you. They expect a response. A retort. You have nothing to say and have to fight the urge to curl into a tighter ball.

       "Still have that shit you chugged?" Mohawk prods and you realize they're not looking for you to fight with Scars. Though Scars desperately wants you to fight him. They want you to empty your pockets.

        Your fingers feel thick and uncoordinated in your pockets. First came your apartment keys, still with the room number card tied on. Then there was a phone charger, bitten down to the wire in multiple places by Caligula. The first bottle of codeine, then the second. Your phone, at nearly full battery, thank God. When it was set down the lockscreen flashed and you swore all the Marks leaned forward a fraction to get a look. Caligula looked back at them all, sun on his blue eyes, belly exposed to the air. 

        "Hey, it's that cat you killed!" Lensless grins at Mohawk who scowled.

        "I didn't kill it."

        "Sure you didn't."

        "He didn't." You say watching your phone screen go dim then black. "Michelle found him. He-" Your eyes were burning, fuck, why were you about to cry? "He's with Cecil now." Your throat was starting to close. Panic sinking in. What if he died? Oh God, you were such an asshole to your cat and you left him with Cecil fucking Stedman.

        "Oh, he's totally gonna do batshit experiments on your cat!" Lensless twitches with excitement, tongue darting out of his mouth, like he was trying to taste your sorrow in the air like spun sugar.

        "Stop that." Omni's voice is hard but when he speaks to you, it goes soft, "Anything else?"

        You bite your lip to make the feelings stop. Unbuckling the belt, you set it down gently. "Buch'a GDA shit. No idea how good it all is." Then finally, your wallet. You toss it with no regard, letting it bounce once, twice, then its contents spill out over the sand. Sliding different affects to different feet.

        Mohawk is first to grab something. "Whoa, babe, is this your license?" Mohawk flips the card over in his fingers. Chin knocking back like he'd been suckerpunched. "Whoa-ho-ho! Who's Cheryl Swanson?" 

        "Not important. We may be able to melt the plastic down and use as glue or something." You say, regretting your disregard of your wallet.

        Tracksuit grabs a card, because as annoying as the drama surrounding you was- it was still entertaining. Best TV this side of the desert. "Gerald Polastri. That yer boyfriend?" Man, did he love stirring the pot.

        Mohawk snatches the drivers license out of his hand. "No way! He's fuckin' ancient! You don't like guys that old do ya, babe?!"

        Ignore them. Ignore them and they'll shut up eventually.

        "Who the hell is Danny Olsen?" The license bends and breaks in Scars grip. 

        "I've got a," Lensless holds the card to the light. Squinting his one and only good eye. "Kennith Green." He flipped the card over and over between his fingers. Making it a blur. An advanced version of that old pencil flipping trick he did back in school before dad pulled him out.

        Emperor gave into the childish temptation, swiping a card. The person looked unimportant and unfuckable. The idea of you with them made him sick. "Got a lot of notches on your belt, hm?"

        Baldie withheld comment and didn't reach for a card. Your life, your body- it didn't affect him, even if the idea of you with someone else hurt him as much as that Klaxus plant venom injected into his blood.

        Omni's pulse did not rise, nor his fist clench. He was perfectly level and even. Plastic had no effect on his mindset whatsoever.

        Gray felt no sorrow or angst. He immediately knew what the cards were, because he'd done the same sort of collecting over the years. Back in his Viltrum suite were pieces of armor, mounted skulls, and broken blades displayed on his walls. It was against Viltrum customs- taboo but not illegal. He and his father both had a soft spot for trophies.

        You didn't know of the solidarity you and Gray held. You felt your cheeks heat as you tried to find the words. Forced to remember all of those people dying. You telling them to die, them doing it without a second thought. Shame wasn't something you had the room to feel after so many years in the field. Still, death could sometimes be... unpleasant. Sometimes the people you killed stuck with you. 

        Much as you didn't want to talk, you'd rather they not speculate about your sex life. The truth was better for once.

        "Cheryl was a mole." You say. "Gerald didn't pay what he owed. Danny tried to leave. Kennith..."

        He looks straight ahead. Eyes glazed. Cheeks shining with tears he no longer shed. You don't remember why he had to die. Just that he was first in line. Dragged into Machine Head's office sobbing. Asking you, "Please don't do it. Please, please. My wife is dying. Please, I just need more time. I can pay. Please."        

        Machine Head waved his hand. "What is with people and the dying wife thing? Like, I get it, you're sad! Boo hoo. I don't fucking care and I checked your accounts, you've been squirreling my money away to run off with that dying wife of yours. Nice plan, jackass. (Y/n), if you'd get on to doing your job?"

        "Wait, what's the deal with the Kennith guy?" Lensless rocks back and forth. Excited by all the death and his imaginings of you murdering people. "Did you fuck him then kill him?"

        "No. I just killed him, nothing special about it." He was your first. The kind you remember.

        You nod toward Emperor, seeing the back of the license. "Jenna sold in our territory." To Baldie, "Roshanna killed one of us." To Gray, "Seth was a fucking freak." To Omni, who wasn't holding a card but looking disgustedly at the one that fell by his boots, "Alex, I dunno, I was sent to kill him so I did." Your eyes go over them one after another. Their anger fading, replacing with something else. "Satisfied?"

        You realize. Most of them didn't know you were a killer. A gang member. 

        Your hand goes to the visor, it'd press to your eyes if not for the covering. "Shit."

        Through the days of carnage, thinking you were dead a second time, you killing your ex in self-defense, then the fight with Angstrom- he hadn't fully grasped the situation. He hadn't looked back and thought about why Angstrom bit off half his tongue. In the heat of the moment, he brushed it off, thinking it some swipe of luck to be taken advantage of and forgotten.

        He hadn't seen something physically come out of you. So he hadn't thought powers. He wouldn't let himself. Because you couldn't have powers. You couldn't be a murderer. You couldn't. 

        He looked down and saw the photo of you on your wedding day. The same woman that took hours picking out a cake flavor, holding a fork to his lips with a smile. The same woman that begged him to relax, be with her more. The same woman that forced him to act on the worst day of his life. After all, you'd said, "I'd rather die than be with someone like you," when you'd found out the truth. 

        He wanted an identical re-do. But the license at his feet...

        "I was wondering why you were listening to that skinny robot guy." Mohawk interrupted his thoughts. Brought him back to the present. "So you're like an assassin or something? That's hot."

        You bristle but try to respond evenly, "I do what I have to." 

        The words are like an arrow to his heart. You are a killer and you sound like you don't even care. 

        "Do'ya like it?" Lensless is practically kicking his feet. A few more gory details and he'd be rocking a hard on. 

        "Dude, of course she does, she kept trophies in her wallet!" Mohawk flipped the card in his hand. "Got any pictures?"

        "Digital evidence gets people caught. If I were caught, I'd be more in debt than I already was."

        "Debt?"

        You'd said too much. Change the subject, now. You point to the codeine, not wanting to share but knowing you can't stop anyone from taking it. "If we don't find water soon, we can ration that out. It's not water but-"

        "Not water?" Tracksuit snorts, "That's straight up lean, dude. Do you seriously drink that shit no candy, no soda just fuckin' raw? Gross, man."

        Omni knew little of drug trade. Didn't bother with crimes he deemed petty, but now he wished he had. He wanted to bother very much. "That's a lot of... substance. Where did you get it?"

        "Wouldn't you like to know?" You say.

        "Yes, I would." 

        Lensless zips forward, trading a license for a bottle. "Since when's your name been Toby Rogers?" 

        "You stole it." Omni realizes aloud. Truth starting to sink in. Ache squeezing his heart. Were you dependent on the substance? Were you high right now? No, no he'd be able to tell if he listened to your heart and breathing hard enough. You were stone-cold sober. He hoped.

        "Yeah, so she could power the fuck up and murder Seventeen." Mohawk looks at you with pride as a ripple goes through the group. Those who weren't there were processing. "Ridiculously hot, by the way, babe."

        "Stop calling me babe."

        "Rather, I call you Dregs?" He waggled his brows like the name could mean something dirty, "What's that mean by the way? Like, how'd you get it?"

        "Don't call me that." You snap, hard, too hard because the shitheads of the group smelled blood in the water. A poker to prod at your pride with. An insult they didn't understand and didn't care about as long as it agitated you.

        Mohawk went to pry some more but Scars spoke over him, "You killed Seventeen?"

        Omni was just going to ask. That and the million other questions floated around his head; You did drugs? You killed? Why? How?

        "Made him snap 'is own neck." Lensless mimed the motion, ending up half lying down with his tongue lolling out his mouth, "Never seen anythin' like it!"

        Scars didn't quite believe it. To him, you were a coward who couldn't face the people after becoming his fuck pet. "How?"

        You were under no obligation to spill your guts to these assholes. However, making Scars believe you could and would kill him just might make him and the others back the fuck off. Even a little. 

        "Swimcap too."

        "Swimcap? Oh, number Twelve!" Lensless snapped, straightening. They didn't have nicknames for each other like you did but numbers. Suppose it's more efficient. 

        "I think you're forgetting I killed Twelve." Scars gestured to his chest. Yellow stripe gone brown with the dried blood from the same man. 

        "Why did he attack you?" You shoot back. He has no response, because he doesn't know. 

        Lensless tilted his head, "But we would've heard you talking?" 

        Anger sparks in Omni's chest. How did Seven, that childish and half-eyeless version of him, know more than he did about you?

        "Not telling." You say.

        Emperor snorts, "I saw you make that guy shoot himself. You just pointed Twelve to Sixteen, didn't you?" And there goes that hidden trick of the trade.

        Scars, Sixteen apparently, grins. Scar stretching, exposing more of his gums and teeth. "You really tried to kill me?"

        "That was the idea." 

        "Then what?" Emperor speaks over Scars before he can say something prison-worthy. "Were you just gonna lure us out one by one to kill us? As if that'd work. You're stupider than I imagined."

        Mohawk kicked at his heel, "Hey."

        Emperor kicked back, "Hey, yourself."

        While they went back and forth Scars zeroed in. "So Dregs, you do work the GDA in this timeline." Memories swirl round his head, going to his dick. "Interesting."

        "I had no idea who Cecil Stedman or what the GDA was until yesterday." 

        "Then why were you working with him, hm?" He's eerily still, watching you, and you find yourself preparing for a blow. 

        "Because my apartment was gone, boss was dead, and these guys," you look from Mohawk to Lensless to Emperor, "fucking murdered all my plan B's." 

        Scar's fingers twitch. You could sense he was going to be an asshole. Thankfully, Baldie cuts in, "Why were you-" he holds up the license, "doing this?"

        "Was your dimension's version of me not killing people and facilitating drug trade?" You spit out like the idea is ridiculous. As if the idea didn't make you insanely, bitterly jealous. 

        "No?" 

        You catch the twinge of hurt in his voice and hone in. Needing to unleash this anger on somebody you guessed wouldn't kill you over it. "What? Am I not what you were expecting? Did (Y/n) not pass off oxy to her prison guards for an extra pudding cup?" You'd never admit it but you sort of missed the jailhouse pudding. Nothing like it. 

        He perks at the mention of incarceration. "You went to prison?"

        Your laugh is a single, mean note. "Went to prison? Mark put me there, asshole."

        At the use of his name, their name, from your mouth used on this lesser version of themselves, their eyes collectively narrow. Lips collectively thin. Baldie's hands are out like he's pleading with you, "I didn't-"

        You laugh at the response, high and involuntary, "Of course, because that what your guy's fucking logic is, right? Cuz clearly you're the same guy who ruined my fucking life, I don't see a difference." Besides the obvious baldness and alien prison jumper. 

        Baldie frowned, folding in on himself at the insult. "I came to save you. Not to force you into anything. I just wanted to keep you safe."

        "From what? From yourself? Didn't you kill me in your own world?" 

        "This isn't a good time, you're upset-"

        "I'm upset because Mark isn't fucking dead and I'm here with you people!" Your hands are trembling fists. Usual coolheadedness evaporated off your sweat sticky skin. You've said too much, again. Stupid. God damn it, so stupid. But you were just so thirsty, so hungry. So cold even by the fire. So done with all of their prodding, followed by the soft gestures. 

        "What'd he do to you?" Omni asks what they're all thinking.

        "I don't care what he did to you. I'll fuckin' kill 'im." Mohawk snarls.

        It's stupid and funny. Mark saying he'll kill Mark. Too much to process. 

        "What'd he do? You all destroyed my planet and got me stuck on this empty desert planet!" You try to calm down, taking a shuddering breath to keep the contempt for any and all versions of Mark out of your voice. "What he did to me was mutual, I fucked him over and he got payback. That's all."

        It's a lie. Gray can sense it immediately. He's unsure if the others can.

        "Bullshit." Tracksuit points at you like you're some TV show character. To him you are. "Calling it now, you're so in love with him!"

        "I only love Caligula."

        "Is that the cat?" Baldie smiles a little, intrigued. You'd loved animals. Had so many rescues that you hid from your landlord.

        His innocent smile softens you the slightest amount. Curbing your anger. "Look, I'm not your dead girlfriend or wife or whatever, please stop treating me like I am." You say, quieter, more subdued, forcing your cool. All eyes on you. A mix of surprise, interest, and deep sorrow. 

        The fire snaps with finality. This conversation is over. You can finally rest. Reel at all you've revealed. Recoup yourself. Think of what it'd feel like when your powers come back and you could kill them all.

        "Well," Lensless breaks the quiet tension like it isn't there, "I don't care if you're not the original (Y/n), cuz you're still my (Y/n)."

        Your head lifts from where you'd hung it. "I told you to stop."        

        His brow lifts with a smile. "Why don't you make me? I know you can."

        Omni, Scars, Tracksuit, and Baldie seem to grow closer. Interested in seeing your acts of spoken violence firsthand.

        You make a point of looking at Gray, your earlier savior from Lensless. Who'd been watching the whole exchange silently. Making mental notes. 

        "No." You say.

        "Is it because you can't?" His words are a dare. "You used 'em pretty liberally before. Why not now?" He's got you figured out, little fucker was smarter than he acted. And he just exposed your weakness to the rest of them.

        "Because it's not productive right now." You dodge and weave through his jabs. Hoping you didn't look scared and defensive but knowing you do.

        Under his lenses, Tracksuit rolls his eyes. "Jesus, just use 'em so he shuts up."

        "I still don't believe you made Twelve attack me. Show us." Scars goads.

        "I think you should kill the guy," Mohawk says, gesturing to Scars with a grin.

        Emperor had rolled to lay on his side. "Everybody shut up. I want to sleep." Nobody listened. He lay, one eye and ear open for all the drama.

        Omni doesn't join in the jabs but he watches intensely. Needing to know if what he heard was real. 

        "Stop." You don't expect Baldie to say it, but he does. "(Y/n)'s right. This is stupid, we know what she can do, stop goading each other. Is there any other contraband?"

        Many of them had more they weren't showing. Little keepsakes of you they refused to give up.

        Nobody came forward. He went on, "Listen, one of us should take the oxygen mask and head out now. Sooner we find help, the sooner we don't have to deal with each other anymore."

        Attention slides off you and a debate begins on who to go. You are deeply grateful. Almost feeling a little bad for snapping at Baldie. Almost.

        Cases are made. Speed and stamina are boasted with winks shot your way. In the end, Omni is the one who takes the mask. He didn't verbally spar for it. Just took it and set it on his mouth. He could hold his breath in space for two weeks, they all could. But that was without getting hit or over exhaustion. He had no idea what he would be getting into. If there were hidden threats. Best to stay on the safe side.

        The others jab at him but don't jump at the bit. Nobody wanted space duty, to be away from (Y/n) that long. He needed time to process. To think. About his darling wife turned cold killer, drug trafficker, and souped-up criminal. Just looking at you in that bloody GDA armor hurt his soul.

        He started, hovering feet off the ground, "If any of you touch my wife while I'm gone, I'll-"

       "Hey."

        He looked down at you. Felt your burning gaze through the mask. "I'm not your wife."

        Your shared vows about love reaching across spacetime said otherwise. 

       "Seriously, I'm not." You almost sound humored, "And if I ever met a version of me stupid enough to marry you? I'd murder that numb cunt bitch with my bare hands." You're being inflammatory on purpose. You're hungry and dehydrated. He knows it, but still bristles at the insult. He was hoping to leave on a good note.

        "Language," he says it with a frown before shooting off into the icy depths of space, blasting powdered sand at all of you.

        Two thousand miles away, Phantom emerges from the sand. Pulling Maskless out, heaving and coughing up the stuff. "Please don't tell me the tunnel collapsed again." They flew feet above. Watching the silky sand sink down, filling the chasm for the fifth time. "Fuck's sake."

[lakesparkles]

Why are you here? (One shot)

I finished the niche oneshot scene with Thanos and Seo-wan!

Please read it below, if you want:

(NOTE: This is an AU that may make sense only to me ^^’. Everything between [ ] is Thanos speaking English)

 That was a good day. Yes, it was.

 Thanos walked around, almost aimlessly, repeating that same phrase in his head. He even brought his thumb to his lips, biting his nail lightly in concentration.

 What he knew was that there were good days and bad days, no matter your situation.

 He'd heard about that a long time ago. When he was a kid, very young. He had vivid memories of that time, not being able to stand spending an entire day inside a classroom. He wasn't usually a good student: skipping class in the bathrooms to smoke weed; running away from school when the staff didn't pay enough attention; taking out his frustration, even in a good-natured way, on people who didn't deserve it.

 When he started coming home with a black eye more often than not... It started to become a problem.

 It was around that time when he heard about the good days thing.

 He heard that from…

 Thanos stopped in mid-step, suddenly frustrated. He could remember the conversation itself perfectly, but not who he was talking to. It was an adult, yes. Someone much older than him. He put his hand on the back of his neck, frustrated by how the gesture hadn’t been able to make his memories clearer.

 It was with... His mother! Yes, of course, who else would it be?

 Then he started walking again with slightly unsteady steps.

 That day, years back, his mother had explained how necessary it would be for him to know the difference between a good day and a bad day. Thanos didn't pay much attention, because he thought he was about to get another scolding. However, what she explained was that a good day didn't always feel like one. It just needed to be better than a bad one. If he didn't feel terrible most of the time, it would be good enough.

 And now, at that moment, he was having a good day too. His heart was beating a little faster than usual. He was sweating cold, but only a bit. He felt nervous, but not too much.

 So it was a good day.

 "Mr. Choi!"

 He looked back reflexively, regretting it a second later. With a grunt, he lowered his shoulders and started walking again.

 "Mr. Choi? Are you okay?"

 He knew those nurses too well to know that this one wouldn't give up until she got an answer:

 "[I'm great, perfect even!]" He spoke in English, still with his back turned, but waving his right hand in the air. "I'm just going straight to my room, nothing else, señorita!"

 "When you say it like that, I think you're up to something," The nurse said with a small laugh.

 "No way! Me? Never!" Thanos laughed back, increasing his pace so that she wouldn't catch up with him. "[Goodbye!]"

 He arrived in the room a few moments later, satisfied that he had managed to (literally) escape a conversation. He just didn't feel like it. Not at all. To tell the truth, his head started hurting again, so it seemed like a good idea to just go back to his room.

 Without thinking much, he walked over to his bed, throwing his weight on it and feeling the bed frame creak. Some roommate - he didn't care enough to remember his name - complained about the noise, saying that he would end up breaking that thing.

 Thanos paid it little attention, ignoring him and stretching as dramatically as he could. An involuntary yawn even came out of his mouth, it was as if he yawned more often every day.

 Something about that place was that they always tried to keep their patients busy. Maybe so that they wouldn't even have time to think. Thanos had a theory that it would fix him, but in the end, he managed to appreciate the little free time he had in the afternoon. He didn't have a damn thing to do, but he could sleep.

 After five minutes, he realized that he wouldn't be able to sleep.

 So he sat up awkwardly on the bed, rocking his body from side to side.

 He felt like his head was about to explode. He could barely keep his eyes open, so he grunted loud enough to make it a problem for everyone there. Apparently, that automatically caught someone's attention.

 "Were you cursed too? It happened to me on that last mission, remember? Next time, it's better not to cross that bridge," The man in the bed closest to his own spoke in a neutral tone, but clearly confident about what he was saying. 

 That was the funny part! So Thanos smiled, turning towards him:

 "Oh yeah, dude? Do you know if the nurses would give me a healing potion twice in the same hour? It's a healing potion you say, right?" Thanos scoffed, even though he knew that Seo-wan (one of the only names he memorized from there) would take everything completely seriously.

  "Nurses?" The other seemed confused, however. "What are you talking about, bard Su-bong?"

 "Su-bong!?" Thanos exclaimed with the same intensity as someone who just received a slap in the face. "My brother, I already told you that I'm Thanos!"

 "You are not," Seo-wan laughed lightly. "Thanos is just a fictional character, I think you're a little confused.

 "Huh? That you are aware of- Ah, fuck it!" Thanos cut himself off and preferred to move on to the next subject before he got bored.

 First thing, however, he got up from his own bed, pretending that his legs were not wobbly and weak. In a few steps, he reached the other's bed, making himself comfortable and sitting next to him with a smile. Seo-wan returned it with the same gesture, despite poorly disguising his discomfort with the sudden proximity.

 Seo-wan could always maintain the appropriate posture, but Thanos was good at observing people. Even though he'd known Seo-wan for a few days - a little over a week -, he could capture all the little details: the way his shoulders tensed; him changing the focus of his vision to a random point before returning to Thanos out of pure politeness; how he licked his dry lips, something he rarely did.

 Seo-wan couldn't say that explicitly, but he didn't want Thanos there. That fact wasn't enough to make Thanos leave, but it didn't feel good either.

 "Are you bored too?" Thanos began, elbowing him lightly. "I tried walking around, there's no shit to do."

 "I kinda like it," Seo-wan shrugged. A simple statement, with nothing more to add.

 "How so? Damn, I feel like-"

 "Why are you here, bard Su-bong?"

 Thanos opened his mouth to answer, but he was too surprised to form any coherent thought. Since he had been admitted to that place, he hadn't seen Seo-wan acting like that - so direct. His gaze was fixed on Thanos, who had no choice but to stare at his dilated, almost intimidating pupils.

 "What are you-"

 "You're not like this!" Seo-wan didn't even allow him to finish his meaningless question. "I know you'd rather be hunting wild boars during these hours. Or anything else. You're always in someone's company for that too."

 "You're talking nonsense," Thanos looked away, not really knowing what the hell he meant. Usually, Seo-wan's analogies were weird, but understandable. If he tried a little, he could translate half of the words in his mind. Today, his head hurt like hell. "And, like, duh! Now I'm in your company, nothing new, right? Why are you surprised? Do you happen to like watching me?"

 "A little, yes," To his surprise, he received an immediate confirmation. "You're one of the only people here who can hear me too!"

 "Everyone here can hear you, man, they just pretend you don't exist," Thanos shrugged only to finish after a short pause. "Because you're a fucking weirdo."

 "That's not true!" For the first time, Seo-wan raised his voice. "The sorceress told me about everything they did to me! She gave me some instructions on how to end this specific spell... But I still haven't managed to fully unravel the enigma..."

 "Sorceress, [right...?]" Thanos remained serious, unimpressed. "Come on, man, do you know what I mean? It's impossible to understand anything you say!"

 Seo-wan seemed to give up on the little argument, making an impatient "tsk" as he lifted his chin and closed his eyes, to see if Thanos would simply stop existing.

 Thanos was about to make another joke, but suddenly stopped.

 It was a simple gesture.

 For a few seconds, Seo-wan raised his hand to his nose, scratching it lightly. There was something in the way he did it, mixed with the way his nose moved... Even Thanos's head stopped hurting for a second.

 He had to admit to himself that Seo-wan always made him feel strange. It was like that ever since he first saw him sitting around in the halls of the psychiatric ward. His gaze met his and Thanos noticed every detail at once, from his faint freckles to the way Seo-wan always kept his hands moving, restless. He was stupidly familiar, and Thanos knew why.

 It was at that moment that he realized that maybe that wasn't going to be a good day after all.

  "Hey, Seo-wan... Wizard, whatever," Thanos remained seated in the same place, even though he looked away and forced a more serious tone of voice. "Why are you here again?"

 Seo-wan hugged his legs and rested his chin on his knees, a little distracted during the short time Thanos had been silent:

 "Hmm? I'm just a little tired."

 "No, that's not it! Not in this bed, why are you here in general?"

 "In this region?"

 "That 's it."

 "I need to defeat the fire dragon, I thought I already told you that."

 Thanos nodded slowly, his gaze completely unfocused. But, of course, he didn't find much sense in what he heard, so he continued:

 "And why do you need to do this anyway?"

 "Isn't it obvious? It destroyed everything I had!"

 "The fire dragon…?"

 "Of course! I've been training for years, I don't think I've ever been so close to achieving it! That excites me, you know? I've focused on this for so long that I don't even know what I'm going to do next. Trying to figure it out thrills me even."

 "I see," - Thanos lied, despite being entertained. He hadn't even noticed the small smile that appeared on his lips. Now that he looked at him, he realized that Seo-wan seemed to be relaxed for the first time that afternoon, even releasing his legs from his own embrace and sitting up straight next to the other.

 "And you, bard Su-bong? Why are you here?"

 With a sigh, Thanos took the weight off his shoulders, already anticipating that very question:

 "Look, there's not only one reason."

 "I could notice."

 "Fuck you," Thanos pretended to be upset. "Dude, I have a huge list. Do you want it in alphabetical order or what? Sure, man, if you don't mind listening to me for a long time! Such an honor, I know you won't mind!"

 Fulfilling his goal, he heard Seo-wan laugh lightly. It didn't necessarily sound like his laugh, but it was close enough to make his heart ache.

 The comparison hadn't been a good feeling. Nor a bad one.

 And the worst part was that Thanos wasn't just lying for the sake of it. He really didn't know how to answer Seo-wan's question. ‘Because it's the first time I've spent more than a week sober in the last decade' could be a good start, but he didn't have the patience to go into any details. He didn't want to tell him more about his headache that wouldn't go away. Or about the chills he still felt days later. Or how ironically he felt exhausted and discouraged all the time. Or about all the times he'd yelled at some nurse when he regretted having gone there in the first place.

 It wouldn't be worth it.

 So maybe he could tell Seo-wan about everything he'd been through until he got there, but it wasn't like Seo-wan would understand or even believe it. Sometimes, even Thanos wondered if his memories were true. If he hadn't created another reality just to pretend that none of that had happened to him in the first place.

 However, what ended up coming out of his mouth was:

 "I miss someone."

 It wasn't the answer Seo-wan was expecting, he could judge by his mouth slightly open in confusion:

 "Really? Who?"

 "Uh..." Thanos scratched the back of his neck in reflex, not sure if he wanted to be honest. "A guy I met a few months ago. You don't know him."

 "I know but... He ended up here in this village? Are you looking for him around here?"

 "That's not exactly it," Thanos knew he was nowhere to be found. Not anymore.

 "Are you running away from him?"

 "No!"

 After realizing that his answer was louder than expected - even making Seo-wan's eyes widen slightly - Thanos stood up with a quick movement. Standing up, he dramatically cleaned an invisible mess from the hideous pants he was forced to wear there.

 "Bard Su-bong, did I say something that-"

 "[Relax, man, you're fine!]" Thanos raised both arms in the air, doing a few turns and turning his body in the same place. "He has nothing to do with you! I'm going to sleep now, okay? Or my head will disintegrate for real."

 He knew that Seo-wan knew he was lying. And he knew that Seo-wan knew he knew. Even so, he walked to his own bed and threw all his weight on the mattress again. Then he buried his face in the pillow and remained still. He couldn't see anything around him anymore, but he heard Seo-wan sigh and clear his throat, probably changing position and going to lie down too.

 But Seo-wan didn't say anything.

 This was wrong, it wasn't supposed to be like this.

 With another sudden memory, Thanos remembered how Nam-gyu would have followed him at the same moment, complaining and whining for Thanos to spill the beans. Nam-gyu could be insufferable when he wanted to, he lost count of the last time he could even think without that bastard's voice ringing in his ear nonstop. If Nam-gyu were there, he would have a worse headache and could already give up on his possible nap.

 But Seo-wan didn't say a single word, too polite to bother him.

 This bothered Thanos immensely.

 He thought about how Seo-wan had the same hair color as Nam-gyu, only much shorter. He also had the same faint freckles. He scratched his nose the same way. He sighed like him.

 But he was far from being Nam-gyu.

 So he concluded that his mother was right all those years ago. Today was indeed a good day.

[chaoscreaturewrites]

Call of duty, ghost, angsty maybe

On my knees for you

Summary:A fun night out at an illegal fighting ring turns dangerous when Simon goes dumbstruck for a skilled fighter who takes him down quickly.

WC: 1.6k

Soap takes the guys to a not so legal fighting ring. It's fun entertainment so they stay, Gaz and Price even makes a few bets. Ghost is interested in watching the fighting styles, criticizing some moves and silent nods of approval for others.

Ghost can't believe his eyes as a short girl enters the ring, she looks tired, worn, but there's something about her he recognizes. It's a look he's seen before in battle, the look found in the ones you underestimate but are beasts, mainly because they have nothing to lose. 

He asks soap if he's seeing the same thing, but all he says is ‘ you'll see everything here’.

Ghost watches the match carefully, he notes her sharp movements, quick reflexes, but the most notable is how she could have dodged. 

The guys all suck in a breath watching that hit land, it's all they notice but Ghost sees what happens next. She took that hit to get closer and land a brutal strike of her own.

This isn't a common tactic and one Ghost has only rarely had to deploy in more dire situations to finish things quickly and when he's too pissed to waste time dodging. 

But why would she do this, this is the ring, there is time, she has the advantage of agility to dodge easily, taking the hit is not worth it.

Well that's what he thought but again she takes a hit she could have dodged and this time her strike, he didn't expect anything like it, and has only ever seen a move like that among highly skilled and trained operatives.

She gets him down and out almost instantly and that's when it clicks. The first time she took the hit and striked was a test to see if she could get in, to see what he'd do, the second time was for the take down.

She didn't face the crowd, show off, or diss the guy, once she was called the winner and the bell rang she just left the ring as if nothing else existed. It's so unlike everything else he saw that night, every other winner showboated, some had to be dragged off, but this, he needs to meet her.

He doesn't tell the guys a thing, he can't take his eyes off her, he needs to find her. He heads off through the crowd and finds his way to the back where the fighters can prepare. No guard to stop him, he walks in scanning the area for her. 

There she is. He spots her short frame standing in front of a sink, carefully unwrapping her hands. He heads for her.

He's not thinking, not processing his actions, not planning like he usually does. No, his actions are being driven by something deeper, subconscious, maybe just maybe he can meet another person like him.

Before the guys, he too had nothing to lose, he didn't care what hits he took to complete his mission, his eyes were devoid of life, and if his job wasn't to fight he probably would have ended up in a place just like this, doing just what she is. So he needs to meet her, he needs to know. Not because he wants to change her, not because he wants to tell her it gets better and you can find people, he has no desire of that kind, he just needs to know there are others, even if he himself has changed.

Since the planning, and analyzing part of his brain is currently on the back burner, he didn't  come to the realization that coming up behind a fighter still rushing with adrenaline without warning was a bad idea. 

That's how he ended up on his knees,knee to his crotch,face pressed into the sink bowl, hand on his neck and a firm grip on his hair.

He's breathless, dumbstruck and probably lovestruck. 

There is love at first sight and then there is love at first take down and oh boy is he feeling it. Which isn't helping his analytical brain get him out of his dangerous hold, a bit more pressure and she could crush his tracia against the sinks rim, it's already hard to swallow.

“what are you?”

Her voice sends a shiver down his spine, like a walk home on a dark night as the rain soaks through his clothes. Most would hate that feeling, recall it as an unpleasant one, but there are plenty of things he's fond of that others are put off by. 

“ I won't ask again”

“ Simon”

She pushed down, applying more pressure to his throat, he can't help the choked sounds that escapes him. He should be fighting back, he shouldn't be taking this so happily but he is, nothing in him is telling him to fight. He can't hurt her, how would he get her number that way.

“ I don't care about your name, why did you come up on me? Last chance Simon”

The way she said that last line, his name, he could tell that chance at getting to finish him excited her. That she wanted to unleash herself on him, and oh he wouldn't mind that either, he feels a deep need to give her anything, especially if it makes her voice go into that dark dangerous tone.

Meanwhile the guys have noticed their LT is missing and not for a piss or drink, he's been gone too long, musr have found some trouble. So they execute an efficient grid search around the ring and alley but no Simon or sounds of his fighting.

 That's when Soap realizes when he disappeared. The girl, he went after the girl, so they take their search to the locker room, and walk into the most mindfuck scene they have ever seen their LT in, well top 5. 

Once they snap out of their shock they realize how compromising a position she's got him, how he isn't resisting, isn't fighting back. They can't believe their eyes, their hardass LT, Ghost, is submitting to the short fighter. 

But they can't let this continue, looks like she's ready to KO him, but who's gonna step in, no one wants to volunteer for that. So they decide not to get too close, they will just call out from here, a hopefully safe distance. 

Captain takes a crack at first to defuse the situation.

“ Excuse me, but that man is under my charge. Can we resolve this peacefully?”

Her head snaps in their direction, almost too fast, and her gaze makes their instincts activate, she's dangerous and has got one of their own. Soap find his hand drifting to his side where he gun would be, but the comforting weight is missing. 

Unfortunately none of them realized just how bad this situation is. They think they are just facing an adrenaline high fighter, but the reality is they are cornering a paranoid, adrenaline high, tiny bit delusional, sort of on the run/ hiding out, it's riddled solider. Who now thinks they have been outed and these men are here to capture or kill her and she's resolute to never be taken alive. 

“Identify yourselfs Now”

Simon's brain is still off and being overloaded with oxytocin, but the others are better grasping the situation and the state of the girl. 

“ We are solders, part of an international task force. We are not here for you, this is our night off just here for fun. That man you have is Simon Riley aka Ghost. He's not here to harm you, none of us are. Will you release him and we'll leave.”

Her delusions and paranoia has been getting worse and worse lately, it's been harder to tell truth from lies. This could be a trap, a well crafted one to overpower her, but it could just be coincidence. Does she even belief in coincidence anymore, us anything a coincidentally, what can she trust?

She examines the men then turns her gaze to Simon, the vast difference between them confuses her. She pulls Simon's head up, relieving the pressure on his throat.

“ what's wrong with this one, have to much to drink?”

“ he's not usually like this. Too much drink plus seeing you fight has gone to his head, he's infatuated.”

She finds that notion of someone being infatuated with her preposterous. She gives Simon a quizical look, looking him over from head to toe. Seems like a big empty brained lug, but he must be competent to belong to an international task force, to have men willing to vouch for him. Did she really have this mind melting effect, this wasn't a power she was aware she possessed, interesting. 

She doesn't usually takes risks anymore, doesn't take bets, doesn't leave things to chance. It's not a risk she's been willing to take. First her training told her not too, then her paranoia sent that habit into overdrive. 

But right now she's considering it, this might just be a risk worth taking. It could lead somewhere interesting, bring a new experience, one more tale for her long legend.  Even if it writes the final chapter, ‘ long hunted rouge taken down by task force playing a simple ruse’. 

Oh fuck it, she's run long enough, she's been going In circles, getting no where but deeper into her fracturing mind.  Time for a risk even if it's the final one. 

She releases Simon, slightly shoving him in his compatriots direction. He's able to gather his witts before he smashes his teeth out on the tile.  

She walks around them, shrugs on her jacket, grabs her bag and steps twords the back exit. 

“ next time we should meet in the ring, Simon”

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine with a tall female reader 🙏🏽 I need this i learned he’s a short king like somewhere between 5’5 or 5’7 and im 5’11 and im so giddy about this 😭

Eye to Eye, Heart to Heart

Summary: After a long day, Aventurine and his tall lover share a quiet evening in their home. As always, their relationship is filled with teasing banter, playful challenges, and an undeniable pull between them. Despite the height difference, Aventurine’s confidence never wavers, and he reminds his partner that no matter how tall she stands, he’ll always find a way to meet her eye to eye. What starts as a game of words turns into something far more intimate, revealing the depth of their connection beyond the risks and facades.

Tags: Aventurine x Female!Reader, Established Relationship, Height Difference (Tall Female Reader x Short King Aventurine), Playful Banter, Fluff with a Hint of Angst, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Power Dynamics, Kissing & Intimacy, Soft Aventurine Moments.

Warnings: Minor mentions of Aventurine’s manipulative tendencies, Brief references to his traumatic past (nothing explicit), Flirting and teasing that borders on suggestive but remains SFW.

A/N: He's 5'6 from what I know... Bro I'm the same height as him and I'm taller than the average women's height 😭🙏

The evening air felt crisp, threading through the cracks of the grand house you and Aventurine called home. Your shared space—an eclectic mix of luxury and calculated chaos—had a comfort to it that you’d come to treasure over time. The elegant furnishings, intricate designs, and soft ambient lighting all spoke to the grandeur of his world, a world of high-stakes gambles and unpredictable strategies, but here, in the stillness of the night, it was just the two of you.

You were standing by the large bay window, gazing out at the moonlit horizon, your figure towering in the reflection, contrasting with the smaller, more compact frame of Aventurine. His figure was barely a shadow against yours, the two of you perfectly in sync as you both observed the view.

"Careful," he teased, his voice rich with playful arrogance. "You might give me a crick in my neck just by standing so tall." He stood beside you, craning his neck to meet your eyes as you shot him an amused glance over your shoulder. His eyes gleamed mischievously, but there was no hiding the warmth beneath the banter.

You chuckled softly, turning your body to face him fully. "I’m not trying to tower over you, Aventurine. You know, I didn’t choose to be this tall. But I do wonder," you mused, leaning down just slightly to bring your face closer to his, "if you enjoy being around someone who can look down on you."

Aventurine’s lips curled into that trademark smile of his—the one that always made people second-guess whether he was joking or serious. "Oh, darling," he said, his voice dripping with honeyed amusement, "you don’t tower over me. You simply offer a more... elevated perspective." His words were deliberate, carefully chosen. And the way he leaned up just enough to brush against your ear sent a shiver down your spine. "Besides, I’ve always preferred being at the heart of the action, no matter the height."

You smirked, loving the way his playful facade masked the deeper layers of his personality. Aventurine—your Aventurine—was a master of strategy, never showing all his cards, and yet you were starting to get a better understanding of the hand he was playing with you.

"I’ve noticed," you replied dryly, your voice tinged with fondness. "And I’ve always wondered how you handle being so close to the ground while still standing so tall in the world of men." You tilted your head, watching him closely. You didn’t mean it as a slight, though you could tell by the glimmer of his eyes that he’d taken it as a challenge.

Aventurine took a half step back, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he surveyed you, his posture adopting a more calculated stance, yet there was a playfulness behind it. "Ah, but you forget something," he said, voice dropping an octave, laced with the familiar, charming intensity. "It’s not about height. It’s about how you stand tall. And I stand as tall as anyone, even when it seems like I’m just a little..." His gaze flicked up at you, eyes narrowing with a teasing gleam. "...shorter."

His words were a delicate jab, but there was a glint of admiration in them too. Despite the height difference, his confidence had never wavered in your presence. He was a man who had spent his life playing dangerous games, but the game he played with you was a little different—one that balanced between the thrill of risk and the deeper emotions neither of you had truly dared to explore before. You could see through his careful control, his need to guard his heart.

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, your gaze holding his. "You’re right about one thing," you said softly. "It’s not the height that matters. It’s what you do with it." You leaned in just enough for your lips to brush his ear, letting your words linger there. "And with you, it’s all about how you make me feel like the tallest person in the room."

His breath hitched ever so slightly, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his perfect composure. His usual easygoing demeanor faltered, his shoulders straightening as if he were bracing for the next move in your shared game. But this time, the game had changed.

"You're dangerous, my love," he murmured, his voice low and steady. Then, with a sudden movement, his hands were on your waist, pulling you toward him with a swift yet calculated motion that surprised you. For a brief moment, he looked up at you with his trademark smile—only this time, it was laced with something deeper, something far more intimate.

He leaned in to close the gap between you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of the passion that only came after a long day of carefully played strategies. You could feel his heart beating against yours, the connection undeniable, even if words had no place in this quiet, stolen moment.

When the kiss ended, Aventurine pulled back just enough to look up at you—really look at you. "No matter how tall you stand," he said softly, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck. "I will always find a way to meet you eye to eye."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, his smile didn’t just mask the strategist—the manipulator. It was real. Genuine. Because, in this moment, he wasn’t playing a game. He was simply... with you.

Aventurine had always been a master of risk and reward. But tonight, in the quiet confines of your shared space, he seemed to have found something even more thrilling than any gamble.

And you were more than willing to take that risk with him, no matter the height of the stakes.

[cmdrfupa]

III. Marubo (マル暴・まるぼう)

Yakuza or police who investigate the yakuza. Used by police as a code word for the yakuza, and used by yakuza in reference to investigators

All CW and chapters can be found here.

I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

4.7k words

The office at the top floor of the club pulsed with low bass from the floor below, dimly lit by amber sconces that framed long shadows that danced like apparitions across the lacquered table. Hiromi sat at the head of said table, pristine in his tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the gold watch on one wrist and a thin link bracelet on the other. His eyes were sharp as he scanned the documents in front of him then up at the gathered men that sat around the table.

When his presence was needed at the club, Hiromi despised being there for any longer than he needed to be. The American inspired nightclub his father was adamant about opening was too busy on the eye and the ears for him personally.

He didn’t need a crystal backdrop to commemorate his evening out but according to his father, the patrons did.

‘Too much money and not enough sense to know what to do with it’ he always thought with each feature he would see placed in.

But tonight was a little different. It was in the air the moment he walked in.

He bought a round of drinks for some young business men and asked the DJ to play something that would make him feel like he was on vacation.

He didn’t expect Nujabes, but he wasn’t going to complain.

"Someone has been talking," he spoke plainly, voice calm, almost casual. He gently placed the folder down on the table,"Feeding scraps to the authorities and whispering in the ears of men who’d rather see us dead."

The silence that followed was thick. No one moved.

"I'm giving you all a chance,”

He looked around the table. Younger and older men. Years of loyalty tied to the Higuruma name and yet it came to this. “Be honest, and maybe it ends with a clean cut."

Still, no one spoke. A few shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting to the corners of the room like answers might be found there.

Hiromi let out a quiet breath through his nose and slowly stood, the scrape of the chair legs sharp against the hardwood. He walked around the table, fingers brushing the back of each chair with a quiet deliberateness. When he stopped behind someone old enough to know better, everyone was surprised.

"Kenji."

Kenji stiffened. "Boss—"

"I know who you met Tuesday night. And now you get to tell your brothers who also.”

Kenji tried to speak again, but Hiromi had already drawn the short blade from his waist, pressing it with eerie gentleness against the man’s shoulder.

"Loyalty isn't just a word we use around here," Hiromi expressed. "It’s a debt. A bond. And you broke it. Why?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from someone else at the table, but no one dared intervene.

Then, Hiromi’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He paused, slid the blade back into its sheath, but held Kenji by his tie and pulled out his phone.

Your name lit up the screen.

His tone shifted the moment he answered, voice warm. "Hello. Everything okay?"

"Hey," you replied, your voice soft, unaware of what you'd interrupted. "Everything is okay. I just wanted to see if you still want to meet early for breakfast tomorrow to finalize some things or push it back a little?"

Hiromi turned away from the table slightly, giving you more of his attention, though his foot pressed down on Kenji’s chair, pinning him in place. "Early is fine. I like the quiet."

You chuckled lightly on the other end. "Of course you do. I also... wanted to apologize for my behavior at the church the other day. I didn’t intend on being so hostile but.. you do see how someone could be a bit pissy after you don’t respond to their emotional tell all, right?”

Behind him, one of the other men placed a plastic tarp over the floor without a word.

“I do. And I apologize for being such a piece of work in that department. We can discuss this more in the morning.”

"Fair enough,” your end of the call went silent before you spoke up again. Did you eat tonight?" you asked.

Hiromi gave a small smile. "Not yet. Busy with something, but I’ll be sure to get something in me before it gets too late."

You didn’t question it. You rarely did. "Okay. I’ll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight."

He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket, rolling up his sleeves fully now.

When he turned around, his expression was a different thing altogether. Cold. Unapologetic.

“I would like everyone to listen to me, please." he said to the others. They sat up in their chairs, Hajime grinning as he watched closely from the corner.

Hiromi skillfully pulled his blade out as he slammed Kenji’s head to the table. “Hand out and on the table please.”

Kenji knew it was better to just do it, but he had to try.

“Hiromi, please. I wasn’t trying to do anything to hurt you or the family--”

“Hand, Kenji,” Hiromi removed his own hand from the nape of the older mans neck, letting him sit up. No one dared look him in the eye as he tried to find some sort of sign that he wasn’t alone.

“I didn’t say any names, I promise you. They were asking about my affiliation and wanted to know what I knew about the stabbing near the fish market.”

Hiromi rested his hip against the dark table. “Mind if I get a cigarette?”

Trembling, Kenji reached into his jacket pocket and held the gold engraved cigarette holder out for Hiromi.

He took one, placing it between his lips before catching Kenji’s hand, squeezing it before slamming it on the table.

“You allowed them to tap your phone,” Hiromi placed the blade at the first line of Kenjis pinkie. “They had access to each and every one of your points of contact since you decided that befriending and talking shop with an informant in Gakuganji’s camp was critical. He used your fucking phone and tapped it.”

A plea so desperate, and almost child like, filled the room before Kenji gave up on trying to wriggle out of Hiromi’s hold. “Please, forgive me, big brother.”

The unlit cigarette hung from Hiromi’s mouth as he looked into Kenji’s eyes. “My mother is now a target. My father would’ve had you killed.”

Without looking, the knife came up, then down in an instance. A pain ridden yelp left the victims throat as his whole pinky disconnected smoothly from the rest of the hand, rolling to the edge of the table.

"Let this remind everyone, including veterans, of what disloyalty costs." His voice was balanced, even. He pulled out a dark handkerchief and expertly bandaged Kenji’s finger up gingerly, a solemn, almost saddened expression as he patted Kenji’s shoulder. “Not just flesh for your behavior. But a sign to the world that you can’t be trusted.”

_____

The bathroom light hummed gently, the soft glow of the white ceiling lights washed over the marble counter tops as steam curled lazily from your recently used sink.

You dipped your middle finger into a jar of toner, dabbing onto your forehead then cheeks before working it into your skin in upward circles the way your dear friend Mei Mei taught you. It was part of your routine, a grounding ritual. And yet tonight, it did nothing to settle the weight twisting low in your stomach.

The phone was still sitting on your bed after you tossed it and the screen was dim. But it honestly could’ve been on fire at this point. You stared at it through the mirror like it was in the middle of judging you.

“Did you eat tonight?” you muttered to your reflection, mocking yourself as your lips twitched into a bitter smile. “Asked if he’d eaten like some worried housewife.”

A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, borderline embarrassed. “What am I doing?”

You leaned forward, letting the toner set in as you picked up serum, pumping a few squirts of your mucin into your palm as you met your own eyes in the mirror. “I’m supposed to be upset about this whole thing. I should hate this man. I basically told him to fuck off not even a week ago.” You patted the clear, viscous serum into your skin. “Like actually I’ve been traded like a bargaining chip, and I still called to check on him while he’s probably fucking some hooker?”

Your reflection didn’t answer, of course. It just looked back at you with tired eyes and a smudge of guilt on your brow.

“He must think I’m losing my mind.” You scoffed, grabbing your fan and fanning your face to expedite the absorption on your skin. “Maybe I am. Or maybe he’s just... getting under--.”

The fan froze in your hands for a moment. You didn’t want to finish that thought.

It would’ve been easier if Hiromi was cold, cruel, or even condescending. But he wasn’t. He was quiet. Attentive. That soft-spoken calm that unnerved you more than any raised voice ever could. Like he was always thinking five steps ahead. Like he already knew how this was going to end—and you weren’t sure whether you were being led or protected.

You wiped your hands and shuffled out to your room, throwing yourself into bed, phone still beside you, heart beating a little too fast for your liking.

“You called him.”

The words whispered back at you like a dare.

The café Hiromi chose wasn’t loud or flashy like you expected. It was tucked away on a quiet street corner, the kind of place where conversations were kept low and the scent of freshly baked bread softened the sharp edges of the morning.

You stepped inside and spotted him immediately. Hiromi sat near a window near the back of the space, a pot of tea already on the table, steam curling in lazy tendrils around him. He looked... calm. Unbothered. As if neither of you were tangled up in the mess of circumstances that brought you here.

He stood when he saw you, that small, polite smile touching the corner of his mouth. You hated how instinctively you noticed how he looked today — dark slacks, a crisp white shirt with a black, slim tie, sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, a simple watch glinting at his wrist. Every inch of him controlled and calculated, yet somehow entirely effortless.

"Good morning," he greeted you, voice low, the same even tone he always used. A small, unreadable light flickered in his eyes as you reached the table. He offered a light dip of his head.

The faintest shadow of fatigue had seeped in under his sharp eyes. As if he hadn't slept much or not at all, but wore it better than anyone should.

"Morning," you echoed, sliding into the chair. Your voice was neutral but you weren’t sure your eyes could hide how conflicted you felt.

Hiromi poured you tea without asking, the gesture smooth and automatic. You hated how thoughtful it was. Breakfast was light — miso soup, grilled fish, tamagoyaki — traditional, simple, respectful.

Hiromi plated your food and placed it in front of you. “I apologize if it isn’t enough or too much.” He began to place a few pieces of grilled fish onto his own plate. “If I need to make any adjustments, let me know.”

You looked down at your plate, “Thank you. This should be fine.”

He kept conversation easy. Your posture gave off you’d only give one word answers and he knew to keep it easy. Asking if you slept well, if your dress fittings are coming along to your liking. Small talk, polite and inoffensive. It irritated you and comforted you all at once.

At some point, while you lifted a spoon of soup to your lips hesitantly, he tilted his head slightly and broke the intermittent silence, "Thank you for calling last night."

The words stunned you more than you wanted to admit. You looked at him, finding no sarcasm or mockery in his face. Just a quiet sort of sincerity that you didn’t know what to do with.

You nodded once, quickly, and turned back to your soup.

“I’d been having a fairly rough night. Late call to fix a problem at one of the clubs had me awake far longer than I liked.”

  You didn’t reply. Instead, you slurped your soup, smiling, feeling a humiliating flame of fire in the pit of your stomach as he talked. ‘You could always tell him you don’t care. You’ve told a man that before’

  a small, almost imperceptible smile was perched onto your face as you brought your mug to your lips.

  Imperceptible to everyone but Hiromi.

  A dimple formed at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

  “If you do almost hate me, that phone call said otherwise to me personally. But what do I know.”

   Unsettling. Completely unsettling.

__

Itadori drove you to the ring fitting which left for no kind off reprieve or word if you did in fact want to speak with Hiromi. Itadori had something to talk about for every second that passed in the car.

  Pulling into a private entrance, the car came to a stop and Hiromi made gentle haste with getting out to get the door for you. Your low heels clacked against the gravel as you approached blacked double doors at his side. The jewelry store was tucked inside an older discreet studio, all clean lines and warm lighting as the receiving room smelled of warm jasmine and gardenias.

  The jeweler, an older man with nimble fingers and sharp eyes, greeted you both warmly. You were led to a small lounge where velvet trays were brought out, glittering with pieces made of gold, precious stones, and platinum cut so precisely they almost looked fake.

  You sat on the furthest end of the couch. Hiromi sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, but he didn’t crowd you. His hands rested on his knees, relaxed and patient while you placed your bag across your knee.

  “I can take that for you?”

You eyed the dark haired young man who approached you from a desk near the wall. “I’d rather keep my belongings with me, thank you.”

He nodded, walking backwards before turning to head back down the hallway.

  “Kamo-sama. Thank you for seeing us so quickly.” Hiromi gave another subtle head bow.

  Kamo smiled, sitting a warm kettle on the small table near you all before he came to take a seat.

  “Its a pleasure, Hiromi. The news of your marriage has spread like wildfire. Which,” Kamo bowed his head slightly in your direction. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Hiromi nodded once and then gestured toward you, offering your name with a quiet, respectful lilt. The jeweler beamed at you like you were royalty and proceeded with showcasing the jewelry on the table before you.

  “While he has already created your wedding ring, this will be the accessories you can choose from for your traditional ensemble.”

  You looked over at Hiromi, “I want to see it. My ring.”

  Hiromi didn’t tear his eyes away from yours as he slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved an emerald green velvet box. He flipped the lid then placed it on the table.

  “You’ll need to try it on in case adjustments need to be made.”

  The ring was... beautiful. A perfect blend of traditional design with subtle modern detail. The gold band curved like silk around your finger, neither flashy nor plain, just intentional. It fit too well — and something about that irritated you more than it should have.

  You tilted your hand in the light and feigned a quiet gasp. “Oh,” you said, softly. “You really have been listening to my mother.”

  Hiromi raised a brow, catching the teasing edge tucked in your voice. “I take her words seriously,” he replied smoothly. “She has very strong opinions when it comes to design.”

You glanced at him in the mirror that sat on the table, letting your smile sharpen just a touch. “And what about my opinions?”

He was quiet for a moment — not caught off guard, but considering. “I’d like to think I’ve paid attention to those too.”

You hummed, twisting the ring slowly around your finger, letting your shoulder brush just slightly against his as you stood up from the couch. “Careful. Saying things like that might give a girl ideas.”

Hiromi’s lips curved — a small, patient smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What kind of ideas?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you walked slowly around the room, pausing at a nearby display case. You traced a fingertip along the glass and shrugged lightly. “That you actually care how I feel about all of this.”

He watched you from where he stood, hands folded neatly in front of him. “Would it be so bad if I did? Though you’re the one who called me so I think you care more than you lead on.”

That stopped you. The air shifted — not heavy, not cold. Just... still. He hadn’t said it like a threat. He’d said it like he meant it.

You looked down at the ring again and gave a soft, ambiguous laugh. “Don’t be fooled. I just know how to play the part.”

Hiromi’s gaze didn’t waver. “Good. Because so do I.”

-

Kamo thanked you both profusely as you left, offering blessings for your union and bowing until you disappeared through the door.

Outside, the day had brightened as afternoon approached. The golden sunlight filtered through the narrow streets, and just ahead, a tucked-away shrine garden waited in silence.

“I thought you might like some fresh air before we go our separate way for the day.” Hiromi said quietly, nodding toward it.

You said nothing, but followed him up the stone path. The shrine was modest, ringed by mossy steps and lanterns, with a small koi pond tucked beneath the trees. Cicadas buzzed gently in the distance, and the quiet rustle of leaves felt almost sacred.

You walked a few steps ahead, letting the silence stretch, pretending not to care when you felt his gaze on your back.

“I know you’re still deciding what to make of all this,” he said suddenly, his voice low behind you.

You turned halfway, arms folded lightly. “You don’t say.”

“I’m not asking you to pretend,” he continued. “But I’m not pretending either.”

There it was again — that quiet steadiness. The unnerving calm. You didn’t know what to say, so you looked away first.

He stepped beside you, pausing at the edge of the pond. A gold band you hadn’t noticed before was now sitting on his left ring finger.

“I think the ring looks good on you,” he said, softer this time.

You scoffed lightly, turning your face away. “That makes one of us.”

But your hand didn’t move to take it off.

And his eyes didn’t leave your face until the approaching car signaled him to turn away.

The room was beautiful. That was undeniable.

Warm lighting spilled from chandeliers like liquid honey, catching on crystal glassware and the delicate folds of white linen draped across long banquet tables. A soft quartet played in the corner, the melody polite and inoffensive. Laughter buzzed under the music — warm, familiar, expectant. It was all perfect. Exactly the kind of rehearsal dinner your mother would plan.

Three days.

Three days until the wedding. Until your family would finally call themselves whole again. whatever that meant. Until the promises you never made, but were forced to keep, became permanent.

Everything felt dulled lately. The days passed, one bleeding into the next. Your body moved, dressed itself, smiled on cue. But inside, you were distant. Suspended.

Hiromi has made himself sparse trying to finish getting your home prepared for your move in and arranging for your things to be moved.

It made your continuously confusing feelings a little easier to sort through knowing he was at least fours away for 2 days.

You stood near the edge of the room closest to the garden entry, barely listening as polite laughter drifted from the patio. A glass of untouched champagne in your hand, chilled against your fingers. You felt eyes on you all night — your mother's, your father’s, his father's. Measuring your posture. Your smile. Your compliance.

Then, a shadow crossed into your peripheral vision.

"Kento-san is asking for you," a voice said behind you. One of Hiromi’s quiet attendants.

You turned slowly. Across the room, Kento waited near the opposite garden doors, hands clasped behind his back like always, expression unreadable.

Hiromi stood beside him. He met your gaze, gave you a slight nod before turning to go back into the venue. Not permission. Not possession. Not quite. But it still made your stomach twist.

You made your way to the doors and followed Kento outside.

The silence between you was comfortable at first, like it always had been. The cool air kissed your skin, brushing away the warmth and suffocation of the reception.

"Beautiful night," Kento said softly, as you both walked beneath a canopy of wisteria blooms strung with fairy lights.

You didn’t answer.

He waited a few beats before glancing at you. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You don’t look fine."

The words weren’t cruel, but they cut like they were meant to. You stopped walking, your heels sinking slightly into the grass as you turned to face him.

"You dragged me out here to tell me I look like shit?"

"No," Kento said. "I dragged you out here to ask why the hell you’re letting this happen."

There it was.

You blinked, your throat tightening. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he said, tone even. "You’re marrying into a family with blood on their hands. A man you barely know. You don’t look in the mirror anymore. You barely make time to do anything. And you flinch every time someone mentions your future.”

You swallowed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’ve convinced yourself you don’t have a choice,” Kento said. "That playing the good daughter is your duty. That this is noble. It’s not."

You turned away, pretending to focus on a lantern swaying in the breeze.

“Do you hate him?” Kento asked.

You hesitated.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Sometimes I think I do. But it’s not really him I’m angry at.”

“Then who?”

You laughed, bitter and small. “Everyone. Myself. My father. The whole damn arrangement.”

Kento stepped closer. “You don’t owe them your life just because they broke it and glued it back together in the shape they wanted.”

You exhaled. “And what do I do? Run away? Disgrace my family? End up dead in a ditch somewhere because I spat in the face of a deal that saved them?”

Kento’s expression didn’t change. “If it ever comes to that,” he said, voice low and even, “I’ll handle it. But don’t lie to yourself while you still have time to make a different choice.”

You looked at him. Then really looked.

"You really think I'd be safer running?"

"I think you'd be happier not bleeding yourself dry for a name that isn’t yours to carry."

You stared at him for a long time, silence swelling again between you. But this time it wasn’t warm. It was sharp. Raw.

“I called him the other night. On a whim,” you murmured.

Kento’s brow rose. “You?”

“I asked if he’d eaten.”

“You did?” he asked, clearly surprised.

You nodded. “He didn’t make a joke out of it. Just... answered. And thanked me.”

Kento’s jaw tightened. You could see the shift in his eyes, the way he masked his thoughts. But he didn’t speak.

“I don’t trust him,” you said, softer now. “But I don’t know if I’m supposed to.”

“You’re not.”

“But he listens.”

“That’s what good manipulators do.”

You looked down.

Kento reached for your hand, gently brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “I’ll be here, no matter what you choose. But I won’t lie and say I know this is a choice made with your heart.”

A beat passed.

“I know,” you whispered.

From inside, someone called your name.

You both turned toward the sound.

“Go,” Kento said.

You nodded, stepping past him — then pausing. You didn’t look back, but you said it anyway.

“Thank you.”

When you were gone, Kento remained under the wisteria, unmoving.

He knew what he saw in your eyes. You were opening up to the idea of being okay with this life.

And he hated it.

__

The drive home was quiet, almost too quiet. The low hum of the engine filled the space between you and Hiromi like fog. Streetlights passed in slow intervals through the tinted windows, creating long shadows over his profile.

He didn’t look at you.

You didn’t look at him either.

Your phone sat in your lap, screen dark, clenched a little too tightly between your fingers. The lingering echo of Kento’s words in the garden buzzed in the back of your head like a splinter you couldn’t reach.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting from Hiromi after that — silence, maybe. Or distance.

But instead, he spoke, voice placid, measured.

“If you’d prefer to live in separate homes after the wedding, I won’t oppose it.”

You blinked slowly, turning your head toward him.

His eyes remained on the road. "And, if you’re already involved with someone else, I won't interfere. I’m not here to police your personal life. Not unless you want me to.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a pressure point.

You inhaled slowly, your gaze narrowing. “That’s an odd thing to say.”

He glanced at you now, briefly. There was something unreadable in his face, something like calculated concern.

"Is it?"

“Yes.”

Hiromi gave a faint shrug, like it didn’t matter. “You’ve made it clear I’m not wanted. I'm simply offering solutions.”

Your jaw tensed. “You’ve been talking to someone.”

“I’ve had... conversations. Listening to more than talking to,” he said smoothly. “With people who seem to care a great deal about your safety and comfort.”

He didn’t say Kento’s name.

He didn’t need to.

You turned away, watching the city blur past through the window. “And what did this caring person tell you?”

Hiromi didn’t answer right away. “That you're unhappy. That you feel trapped. That you may already have someone who treats you the way you deserve.”

You scoffed under your breath. “And you just believed them?”

"No," he reassured, voice softer now. “But I listened. Which is more than most people in your life seem to have done.”

The car slowed as it turned onto the next street. A sharp pang hit your chest before you could bury it again.

“So what is this?” you asked. “An exit clause? Guilt relief?”

Hiromi finally looked at you fully, his expression still maddeningly composed.

“It’s me giving you your power back that I have seemingly taken from you,” he said. “If you don’t want this, if you want a partner who lets you go where your heart wants, I’ll make that possible.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

The car came to a gentle stop.

Your family home.

Hiromi got out of the car and quickly walked around to open yours.

A thread of something unreadable found its way into his tone as he walked you to your front door.

“But if you decide to stay, I’ll be your husband in full. Not a placeholder. Not a villain. Not a man you have to hide from.”

You didn’t move right away. He didn’t push.

“Good night,” he took a step back, bowing his head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You watched him walk back to the car and lean against it as he waited for you to go into the house.

Realizing what he was doing, you made haste with going inside just to look out the window.

As the car pulled away, you realized something cold was curling in your stomach. It wasn’t fear, not resentment. Something like... dread.

Because for the first time, Hiromi hadn’t sounded like he was playing along just to satisfy you anymore.

He sounded like he meant it.

[ficfield]

A Soldiers Return.

Request: Soft, slow, sensual sex between Chris and reader....  Thirsting for gentle Chris

Chris Redfield x Reader Smutty smutty smut smut smut

The dim evening light spilled into the living room, bathing everything in a soft amber glow. Chris stood in the doorway, his massive frame taking up the space with an almost tangible presence. Months apart had carved new lines of exhaustion into his features, but none of it dulled the raw magnetism he exuded.

He had shed the weight of his mission along with his gear, now standing in just a fitted black t-shirt and worn tactical pants that clung to every inch of his thick, powerful thighs. His hair was a little messy, his jaw shadowed with scruff. Her chest tightened painfully at the sight of him, her protector, her heart.

She rose from the couch, every movement slow, reverent. When their eyes met, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.

“Welcome home,” she whispered, her voice trembling under the weight of months of longing.

Chris crossed the room in two strides, his hand catching hers in a grip that was sure yet gentle. “God, baby,” he rumbled, voice thick and low, “you have no idea how much I’ve needed to hear your voice.”

Without waiting for another breath, he gathered her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. She melted into him, breathing him in, the clean scent of soap and the lingering, wild note of him underneath. His hands slid over her back, large palms mapping her body as if committing her all over again to memory.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then to her temple, and finally, his mouth found her ear. “Missed these soft little sounds you make,” he murmured, voice a slow, deep stroke against her skin. “Missed everything about you.”

Her body shivered under the intensity of his words. The months of loneliness and unspoken need wrapped around them like a noose, and she whispered the only words that mattered: “Take me to bed.”

Chris didn’t need to be told twice.

He swept her up into his arms, effortlessly, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. As he carried her down the hall, his mouth grazed the side of her neck, catching the delicate skin between his teeth just enough to make her gasp.

“You smell so fucking good,” he growled into her throat. “Bet you taste even better.”

By the time they reached the bedroom, she was trembling with anticipation. Chris laid her down gently, looming over her like a man starved. His rough hands found the hem of her shirt, and he lifted it over her head in one smooth motion. He paused, looking down at her with a heat that made her entire body flush.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re perfect. Look at you… all soft and pretty for me.”

His hands framed her breasts, reverent but greedy, thumbs brushing over the fabric of her bra with slow, purposeful strokes that made her arch into him. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above the swell of her breast.

“Missed these more than I should admit,” he muttered, nipping lightly at the top of her cleavage. “Been dreaming of getting my mouth on you every damn night.”

She whimpered, her body aching for his touch. Chris chuckled darkly against her skin, sliding the straps of her bra down her arms, peeling it away until she lay bare before him.

He didn’t rush. His hands cupped her breasts fully, thumbs flicking over her nipples until they peaked under his touch. He watched her face as he leaned in and wrapped his lips around one tight bud, sucking gently before flicking it with his tongue.

“You always get so sensitive for me,” he murmured between licks. “Love how you fucking squirm when I play with you.”

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. Chris obliged, shifting between teasing and worshipping, his dirty whispers seeping into her skin like molten gold.

“Could spend hours here,” he groaned, squeezing and kneading as he moved from one breast to the other. “God, baby… every inch of you’s made for me.”

When he finally dragged his mouth down her body, leaving a hot, open-mouthed trail, she was panting, her hips rolling needily. He caught her gaze and smirked, wicked and tender all at once.

“Bet you’re already soaking wet,” he teased, voice dark velvet. His fingers traced the waistband of her pants, dipping teasingly beneath. “Aren’t you, sweetheart? All this for me?”

“Chris,” she gasped, hips lifting.

He chuckled, peeling her pants and panties off in one slow, tantalizing slide. His rough palms brushed up her thighs, parting them wide. When he settled between them, he didn’t dive right in. He hovered, breathing her in, eyes dark and hungry.

“Fucking beautiful,” he muttered, dragging a finger through her slick folds. She jolted under his touch, her whole body crying out for more.

“So damn wet,” he murmured, teasing her entrance with slow, maddening circles. “Been needing me this bad, huh?”

She moaned, trying to grind down onto his hand, but he held her hips steady with an iron grip.

“Patience,” he growled, licking a slow stripe up her slit that made her cry out. “Gonna taste every inch of this pretty little pussy first.”

He feasted on her with slow, devastating precision, his mouth relentless in its worship. His dirty praise never stopped, a constant stream of murmured filth that made her toes curl.

“Such a good girl,” he groaned against her. “Taste like heaven, baby. Could drown in you.”

When he slipped two thick fingers inside her, curling them just right, her orgasm crashed over her so hard she sobbed his name. Chris kept working her through it, mouth and fingers relentless until she was trembling.

Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking utterly wrecked and still starving for her.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice rough with need.

“Please,” she whimpered, reaching for him.

Chris stripped off the last of his clothes, his cock heavy and flushed, standing proud against his stomach. He pumped himself once, lazily, eyes locked on her.

“Look at you,” he said hoarsely. “So pretty, so mine.”

He positioned himself between her thighs, rubbing the thick head of his cock against her soaked entrance.

“Gonna fill you up real slow, baby,” he promised. “Make you feel every damn inch.”

When he finally slid into her, inch by devastating inch, she gasped, her body stretching deliciously around him. He buried himself to the hilt, groaning low and broken against her mouth.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, stilling to let her adjust. “Feels like coming home.”

She clung to him, her legs wrapping around his waist, urging him to move. Chris obeyed, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had her gasping into his mouth with every thrust.

“That’s it,” he whispered against her lips. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

Every roll of his hips hit deep, deliberate, designed to drive her crazy. His hands never stopped moving—cupping her breasts, gripping her hips, threading through her hair. He kissed her like he needed her to breathe, moaning low whenever her walls clenched around him.

When her second climax built, slow, unstoppable, Chris felt it.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” he coaxed, his voice dripping with filthy tenderness. “Come all over my cock, baby. Show me how good I make you feel.”

With a sob, she shattered, her body convulsing around him. Chris cursed low and beautiful against her skin, driving into her a few more times before groaning her name and spilling deep inside her, holding her so tight it felt like they’d never part again.

After, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his chest, their bodies sticky and sated. He kissed the top of her head, whispering against her hair:

“Never leaving you again, baby. Never.”

And in the quiet after the storm, with his heartbeat thudding against her ear and his arms locked around her, she believed it with every fibre of her being.

[sturniolohohoho]

Sold to the Sturniolo Triplets...

it was the morning after the big move and you swept your messy dark brown hair that was slightly wavy with sun kissed natural blonde streaks in it up into a messy bun. a perfect bun that little waves fell out of, framing your doll-like freckled features.

I swiped mascara across your thick lashes that brought out your shining blue ocean colored orbs. you didn't wear ANY other makeup though, you were perfect and didn't need it...

getting up to get changed, you threw on the large frumpy sweatshirt that i had thrown on the floor the night before. you haphazardly, shove your glasses on.

i heard the doorbell ring from downstairs. “y/n!” your mom yelled “get down here quick!”

“what is it mom?” i yelled back, she was so annoying sometimes.

also you didn't have the best life escpically with your mother being a alcoholic and her not there supporting her. Being bullied at school didn't help her either, but being smart as a straight A student made her strong. Until her mother was having trouble with money.

“your new owners are here,” she stated. “my- what?” you stammered, perfect pink lips opening in shock. “yes honey, how else do you think i was able to pay for this house and my alcohol addition? now open the door”

"WHAT THE FUCK MOM?" you scream. "WHY?"

"because I love drugs and hate you!" i stormed upstairs and felt the tears start to stream down my face. there was no way I was going to let her sell me to a creepy strangers! I grabbed my backpack and filled it with some clothes and my favorite books. I tossed in my iPhone 4s– I decided I was going to have to run away. Since I'm not like other girls, I don't have very many friends. my only guy friend was mean, but he lived like a block away. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and slipped on my beat upconverse.

I bolted down the stairs and towards the front door when you opened the door and saw them on the doorstep, the sturniolo triplets. they looked mostly bored but matt opened his arms and gave you a brilliant smile, his pearly white teeth glistening in the sun.

“Ello love! We're your new owners. grab your stuff. we bought you off facebook marketplace.”

nick adjusted his hat and gave you a once-over. “she looks like she reads at concerts,” he muttered.

“uh… do you need help packing?” matt asked, peering past you awkwardly.

"no what the fuck! i dont want to go with you guys!"

chris shook his head. "Oi, don't be so rude! girls love, haven't you been on tumblr?"

"well i'm not like other girls! i want to stay here"

your mother comes up behind you, seething. "YOU BETTER GO WITH THEM, y/n!"

you sigh in defeat.... i guess there's no way out...

"so, you coming?" matt responds, his icy blue orbs looking into your shining blue ocean colored orbs adorned with perfect lashes.

"I guess..."

UNRELATED FIC, BUT THE SAME MEME/TREND:

the arena was shaking. lights flashing. bass booming. teen girls were screaming so hard it created a minor earthquake in the tri-state area. someone in the crowd was crying because matt glanced vaguely in her direction.

and yet—there you were.

front row. sitting on the grimy floor of a stadium. cross-legged, legs covered by an oversized hoodie that could fit three raccoons and a bad breakup. your hair was thrown up in a messy bun that said “i don’t dream of labor.” and in your lap?

a copy of the bell jar by sylvia plath. annotated. aggressively.

nick was the first to notice. mid-sentence. mid-shout. “WHO’S READY TO LOSE THEIR MINDS TONIGHT?!” he screamed into the mic. the crowd screamed back.

except you.

you… turned a page.

his eyes squinted into the front row. matt leaned over to him. “yo is she… is she reading?”

chris tilted his mic away. “nah there’s no way. maybe it’s a lyric book?”

nick stared. “bro that’s like… a real book. like with metaphors and stuff.”

matt stepped forward, still out of breath from jumping around. “yo. you. in the hoodie. what are you doing?”

you looked up slowly. “i’m reading.”

chris leaned into the mic. “reading? like, for school?”

“no,” you replied, voice calm. “for myself.”

nick was flabbergasted. “you’re at a sturniolo triplets live show. you paid for this.”

“my friend paid. she won them in a giveaway. i don’t believe in idolizing influencers,” you said, folding the corner of your page. “parasocial relationships are a symptom of capitalist decay.”

the entire crowd gasped. someone in section 23 fainted.

matt looked personally attacked. “but… we’re the sturniolo triplets.”

you nodded solemnly. “i don’t engage in manufactured personality branding.”

chris was now fully crouched at the edge of the stage. “okay but what chapter are you on though.”

you stared him down. “chapter nine.”

he swallowed. “that’s… that’s a good one.”

nick put a hand over his heart. “she’s different... she's not like the other girls here.”

matt shook his head. “she’s terrifying.”

“you’ll never understand me,” you said softly, turning back to the page. “and that’s the point.”

a/n: 100% satire, so is the goofy ass writing style.

a/n again: the interchanging between "i" and "you" was also on purpose, it hurt a lot to write so sorry

ps: the alcoholic mom thing is a part of the original meme, i'm not making fun it, nor am I trying to make it just a joke

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

taglist - @sturniolosrtewsexy @sturnbrooke @emely9274 @babytomatoes21 @arianna1342 @gemzyy @namelesssav @chestersturn @ellieluvssturniolos @tits4matt @vanteguccir @luke8989 @matt-sturnioloo @glee2skkii @riggysworld @sturnslux3 @cass-sturn @auttysturnz @oopsiedaisydeer @chrismakesmewet @whore4chris @chrisspussygang

(was debating not tagging yall for this ABOMINATION of a fic, but whatever, enjoy!)

comment to be tagged for all my works!

[domesticatedstew]

its been a few days, but I finished another gaslight district fanfic!! Mel and Ken are apart of a cooking show episode in the style of like diners, drive-ins and dives. basically just a lot of dialog and descriptions of fly guts

idea came from @loaf-of-wren !!

"C'mon people we gotta schedule to follow!! We need this crap filmed and edited by next WEEK!!!" There was frantic scrambling, multiple rotlings holding filming equipment were struggling to hide behind the singular camera as to not get into frame.

Ken and Mel stood behind the center island in the kitchen, making sure all their equipment was laid out. "We got all the knives we need, could you grab a couple of jars so we can use some of the innards for jelly later," Ken pointed over to the cabinets where they usually kept their clean dishes (if they ever had any dishes clean at the time.)

Thankfully this was one of those times, Mel brought back nearly 10 whole jars. "Sheesh, seems like a bit of an overkill but alright kid," Mel would've glared at the microphone guy if it weren't for the fact they director signaled they were about to start recording. Suddenly a tall, and rather beautiful, rotling with a deep brown wig strut up in front of the camera. "Welcome back citizens of the Gaslight District!! I'm your host, Ramona Ray, and today we're featuring the lovely Whale Belly Butcher Shop!"

Her voice sounded so professional and yet so attractive. Ken gave Mel a worried side glace, Mel knew exactly what he was worried about, her nose bleeds. She gave him a quick reassuring pat on the back before the stunning rotling turned to look at them. "So, you two are the father daughter duo that keep this ship running smoothly, what's it like working together?" The camera came in closer and so did the swarm of people behind it, getting a good angle of all 3 people.

"Well us being family for sure has its perks, my daughter Mel is an excellent worker and isn't afraid to get her hands dirty with her old man!" She knew what Ken would've said if they weren't being recorded, but they needed to look good for publicity. "Mel, why don't you tell the beautiful lady what we'll be making them today?" Ken laid it on thick with his flirting, and if they weren't on TV she would've gagged.

"Today we're gonna show you how we make our most popular dish, the platter! While also making some of our in house fly spread," Mel made sure her voice sounded pleasant for the viewers, as per the director's request. She thought the director guy was full of shit, but Ken insisted they listen to him for the sake of the restaurant's publicity. "You need to go and actually get the fly," Ken whispered as he began shoving her towards the dining room.

She would've talked back if he hadn't immediately turned his attention back to stupidly pretty Ramona Ray. Mel waltzed into the front room where they kept the fresher fly corpses in a glass case. She quickly found the (much higher quality than what they normally serve) carcass and heaved it over her shoulder. It didn't drip like the normal flies they sold, so clearly something was going on and it was Ken trying to look good for the cameras (and for the hostess.)

"Ah there you are Mel! Took your sweet time getting our main ingredient, didn't you?" He chuckled but it was obvious that Ken was trying to say 'move your ass so we can finish filming this crap.' "Sure thing dad," Mel didn't hide her frustration as she plopped the fly onto the center island.

"Wow, such a fresh corpse! You guys specialize in only the best, don't cha?" Ramona Ray batted her eye lashes at the butcher, who was enjoying all the attention he was getting. Mel had to refrain from making grosses out faces. "Oh you better! We only serve the best of the best here, isn't that right Mel?" All she did was nod along, worried that if she spoke it'd come out the wrong way and they'd have to reshoot.

Ken pulled out a butchers knife (not the one in his head) and made a swift chop, loping off the flys head. "To start, we need to chop the head off as that's the centerpiece of our platter! And it makes it easier to pull the spine from the body," as he said that, he dug his fingers into the base of the headless nub and violently ripped out the spine. Ramona Ray seemed extra impressed with Ken's strength, Mel just had to stand there and not cringe.

"We usually save the bones and spine to make stock, but since we're just making a platter and some jelly we'll just be throwing this out," Ken tossed the spine somewhere where the camera wouldn't see it. Mel watched one of the crew members practically slither over and start gnawing on it, nasty. Suddenly the carcass was now flipped onto its back, exposing the gross translucent wings. "Now we gotta clean up the rest of the body, get rid of the wings and the lil hairs," Ken, now using a smaller and slimmer knife, sliced all the wings off and begun basically shaving the dead fly body.

They'd usually skip the shaving part, especially since they don't serve the skin to begin with. But whatever makes them look better on TV.

"Mel, would you do the honor of scooping out the guts for our jellies?" Finally!!! Something for her to do that wasn't just standing there to emphasize the father daughter thing the director was really trying to push. "Hell yeah I will!!" She said with all the excitement she's felt so far.

Without hesitation, Mel grabbed a knife nearly as long as her forearm and plunged it into the center of its back, dragging it down while it made disgustingly loud squelching noises. Ramona Ray leaned in closer to watch Mel disect the insect person, which made her face flush from the sudden attention. Damn hot lady.

With the back now open and exposing the other side of the organs, Mel began pulling fistfulls of the organs they didn't need for the platter. She made sure to get every single bit of gross, nasty, red blood and guts into each individual jar. Mel realized she probably needed to explain what the hell she was even doing, "We usually just place the guts we don't need for the platter into these jars, then we let them sit for a bit so they get all jelly like and then you can eat them."

The director looked disappointed with how flatly the delivered that line.

Ken simply sighed, "Now that we've got the desirable organs left, we plate them up!" And he did exactly that, placing the intestines, trachea, and the heart in a fancy little pattern. Again, something he usually didn't do. "Now for the final touches," Ken said as he gently placed the decapitated fly head onto the pile of its own guts.

A grotesque yet delicious sight, Mel could've sworn she heard one of the crew members stomach growl.

"That looks fantastic!! May I have a taste?" The brunette wig wearing rotling pointed to the plate with hunger in her eyes. For a second she thought that the hostess was going to snatch the plate from Ken's hand and swallow the food whole. It wouldn't have been the first time someone's done that.

Ken handed Ramona Ray a fork, who promptly scooped up a large chunk of innards and blood and nearly swallowed the fork in the process.

She proceeded to let out the most shrill, annoying squeal, "Oh my GOODNESS!! This truly lives up to the hype!! I might have to just take this whole platter for myself," Ramona Ray let out a forced, yet still beautiful sounding, laugh. Mel could feel her face heat up again and it seemed like Ken felt the same way since his face turned the faintest bit purple.

"And I can't forget the jelly you made Mel!! I've gotta take it home to see how yummy it is," Ramona Ray took one of the jars full of liquidy red organs, practically staring into Mel's soul. God damn hot creepy lady.

"And that's a WRAP!!" The director called out and nearly everyone in the room let out a sigh. "Thank you so much for having us on your show Ramona Ray, can I add how gorgeous you are?" Ok Ken was really laying it on thick, but since they werent being recorded anymore Mel could finally fake gag in response to her dad's cheesey flirting.

Ramona giggled, "You're quite handsome yourself Ken, maybe we should plan a date sometime soon!" Ken gave her a kiss on her hand, signaling that he was more than willing to go on a date with the gorgeous rotling.

Mel had enough of this crap. She shoved her way past the swarm of rotlings and finallt got some space in the dining room.

She wished she had gone with Mud and Breadhead to go do a hit instead of listening to Ken's non stop flirting and having to make food for a camera.

[sailorblossoms-rankane]

I usually ignore replies disagreeing with me because I don't want to argue with others, it's exhausting. But I see how this might be a response to me failing to elaborate on what I mean, and that's on me.

"It's not that girl Ranma is particularly sexualized in the anime"

Do you see a difference between this

and say.... this

Do you not see a difference between setting up something like that just to stare at a cleavage and image a proposition, and something that's framed far more childishly and has an immediate follow-up such as this one to break any horny illusion?

Ranma over time becomes more comfortable with his girl half in general and in using his femininity to get what he wants.

We agree

And that's also in both the anime and the manga

Yeah... but is this not different?

(also the anime adds a lot of emphasis the manga doesn't have on Ranma wanting to cure himself to the point they change important parts in manga arcs, like in the goddamn soap episode. This same episode invents a scene where Ranma says he's ashamed of being seen as a girl, and reaffirms it by turning him back into a guy in scenes he had as a girl in the manga)

In point of fact female Ranma flirting with Ryoga in order to manipulate him is a constant throughout the story

We agree there, but framing and delivery make a difference. The way you present information is important.

There's humor and innocence in the delivery here

So no, I don't think this version of Ranma pretending to be in love is going further than washing Ryoga's naked back while he's saying this

When he touches Kuno in a similar situation, it's to kick his face (haven't seen the anime episode that adapts it, if it does btw). There's a difference between staring at someone with big cute eyes, leaning on them while keeping your hands to yourself, both fully clothed, and washing someone's naked back while praising their muscles. Ranma wouldn't do the latter. (In fact, I look at both of these examples right now and I notice how Ranma only uses a "big strong man" line to talk about himself)

This is the manga version

There's a different between washing his naked back, calling him a hunk and this too

Ranma is not meant to be some sort of invincible paragon of martial arts.

We agree. I read this part and went to re-read what I said in case I used an example that could be misunderstood as me powerscaling a manga that it's absolutely not for powerscaling (we agree on the rule of funny) but I mainly used his protectiveness (and there is logic to this) still, this one is on me cuz I didn't really elaborate, I'll give you that. Manga Ranma does need help, and this is a good thing, but when and how matters.

I watched the Shinnosuke OVA after I watched the movies (bad way to start watching that old adaptation btw) so it stood out to me that, while Ranma is not unbeatable, he's no average bitch either (part of what makes him different is that he can't stand losing, that's what I mean by "manga ranma wouldn't let losing against a child stand." If he loses pathetically, prepare to see him behaving pathetically to chase that win) There is logic in "if Ranma is behaving like a pathetic loser for a win, there will be no real reward" but that's still not what I meant by "he's needing help where in the manga he doesn't need it"... in the Herb arc, Ryoga helps him recover the kettle to become a man again (he's kind of redeeming himself here, given both Mousse and him "betrayed" Ranma earlier and Ranma behaved like the better person anyway) but the anime has patterns, so if girl Ranma is screaming for Ryoga, I'm comfortable assuming some damsel shit is going on... because the anime liked doing that.

I also mean unimportant shit (but annoying when it builds up) like when he needs Akane and Mousse's help to kick him to get impulse in the Shampoo's cursed kiss episode (also cursed episode) while in the manga, he just can do that jump all by himself, because, again: he's no average martial artist. This isn't really a "power of friendship and teamwork" type of story, it tends to makes fun of that stuff with the cast of questionable clowns. It makes it stand out that Akane and Ranma do work as a team (it is ultimately her help what results in Ranma defeating pantyhose the first arc he shows up) (there's also logic in: if the manga needs Akane to help Ranma, she will get it done no matter what, but if it wants a rescue, she will be limited... and while Ranma is helpful to everyone, his romantic rescues are reserved only for Akane, which is why he's never much help when Ukyo or Shampoo are in the damsel role. Akane and Konatsu do more to rescue Ukyo when Konatsu's family kidnaps her. When both Ukyo and Akane are chained on that tree, good ol' Ranma doesn't even see Ukyo, he's only seeing Akane. In the arc with the Chinese twins, Ranma tries to save Shampoo – when she's pretending to be a damsel as a romantic move... notice how, when she's unconscious, the twins beat the shit out of her and nobody helps her, she protects herself when she starts fighting even unconscious – then Akane has to help Ranma, and he ends up with his legs broken for his troubles, which is the type of thing telling you Shampoo only ever creates problems for him, and Akane always has his back. This is intentional)

One of the movies has more annoying example

This might not be the series for powerscaling girlies, but there are still rules. Anything goes in comedy, but Ranmas still tends to be the bar for his peers (among the regular cast at least). It's Ryoga who's trying to catch up to him. Guys tend to be far stronger than the girls (strong female fighters tend to be tied to sexual harassment, see the constant boob jokes with Hinako, or how both Ukyo and Shampoo are attrociously clowned on by male fighters... it is what it is) nothing summarizes it more than when Herb turns into a guy and he's immediately ridiculously stronger. Ranma's girl form allows him to take on challenges and does things he wouldn't be able to as a guy, it can be a strenght, but it's also a handicap against strong male opponents in more "traditional" fights. One could say "he has shorter limbs, less strength etc it makes sense" and sure... I'm gonna move on.

Shampoo will give Ranma trouble when the plot or the humor demands it (it will tie Ranma's hands and feet if necessary) but she's not a match for him in a more traditional fight. If Ranma has a serious fight against an opponent that's about to kill him, Shampoo has nothing to do here. Yet she shows up to heal Ranma earlier in the movie, and then she shows up to save him. You can't even argue this is good in the sense that "they're making a female character less of a damsel" cuz you don't even see the damn fight (Shampoo is never a damsel anyway, even when caged or brainwashed she's still pursuing her interests) you're only shown her "heroic rescue." And I find that... suspicious. "But that's the movie, the show is different"... is it? the show where I keep finding our friendly neighborhood catgirl, a character who doesn't exist in the manga?

Fighting in Ranma isn't something I'm super invested in debating (what the anime does stands out to me precisely because I'm not super interested in this and I'm, still noticing... why is Ranma struggling while literally everybody else isn't, for example) so we're gonna have to agree to disagree. Also, if you're someone who's invested in the anime and think it does a good job adaptating the manga (whenever they try to) we're definitely not going to agree.

I find myself cringing (like foaming in the mouth and full-body twitching) when female Ranma asked screamed for Ryoga to help him. LIKE URGH—Ranma will absolutely do a somersault and a backflip going to the volcano's pit instead of asking Ryoga's help! Man, the old version is so goddamn weird.

the old anime is indeed weird as fuck.

I haven't seen what you mention, but in general: anime Ranma is generally just a fraud. He constantly has to be saved or helped in situations he would neveeerrr need any help. They often make him look like a common clown. There's a filler where he has a fight with a child and he LOSES (and this is somehow no big deal for him. Manga Ranma would never let this shit stand) whenever I watch anime original content (don't get me started on the movies)... i have yet to see anything that truly underscores that bro is built different. They even change manga content to make him look more useless like

it's even worse with girl Ranma because girl, which means male fantasies. Part of this is this thing where they give girl Ranma weirdly sexualized lines or behavior to sell her as "available" for a male audience, sometimes they use Ryoga to deliver them ("she says it to him" but it's actually for you) (there's this WEIRD scene in the soap arc where the anime has Ranma washing Ryoga's back while calling him a hunk the ladies die for, which is part of the fantasy for the audience... in the manga, Ranma simply knocks him out with a blow and runs. He would kill himself before saying or doing some of the shit they have him doing in that show) I don't eve going to take screenshots of the tweets where I show examples, I might start foaming myself. So let's focus on the next fantasy: the damsel.

Girls' gotta be fragile, so they do this in the pantyhose episodes: instead of Ranma protective Akane with his body and looking fierce, they do a "scared girl" closeup

they also omit Ranma making it clear he's angry cuz Akane almost got hurt btw, so you might think part of his anger was bro (feminine) just being afraid of the big bad boulder

speaking of damsels

however, because this is indeed a very strange show, in the shinnosuke ova they do the opposite (an ova where they remove practically all of Ranma's vulnerability and the depth of his feelings for Akane... they have bro SNORING when they reveal Akane is MISSING and no, I'm not making it up or exaggerating, but anyway...)

in moments where girl Ranma is meant to look vulnerable, they show her like an action hero

(why the fuck is Ranma saying this to Akane after saving her is beyond me. makes it seem like Ranma can't help but put her down, even when it's dead serious, which he also does in the movies)

bro is meant to be heartbroken </3 (they also ommit all the instances of boy Ranma looking like he lost his will to live, god forbid that motherfucker shows how bad he has it for her)

[vulpinesaint]

i don't talk about alucard castlevania very often because the last season of castlevania was so bad to me that i just don't engage with the show anymore like that but make no mistake. i have many thoughts and opinions on that man.

[paverage-blog]

I’ve been in love with this painting since I saw it and was delighted to see the prints available! I added it to my Holmes-themed study and it’s just perfect. So happy to have a print of this!!

Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes, acrylic on illustration board, 9”x12”. Selling for $225, purchase here

[dellamortte]

one of my lucanis prints just fell off the wall and scared the hell out of me omg… don’t do that to me babygirl