texasssmash

[texasssmash]

IM BACK WITH WIP WEDNESDAY HELLIONS

basically fisher!mirage and fucked up fish guy!octane for this one fellas

-

It’s a quiet life.

Hard work, certainly- even just managing the nets, but repairing the boats, the upkeep of the tools, not to mention sailing itself- exhausting, endless labor, and from it comes enough fish to feed the small seaside town they docked their ships in.

Eliott hated it.

He was lucky to have a job at all, so he tries to stay positive- after all, he was tossed off his travel ship and wound up in this nowhere town without a cent to his name. He enjoys creating lures and new traps to ensnare fish, even crustaceans for bonuses, earning him favor with the boss, but that’s where his enjoyment ends. Maybe occasionally on the water, when the tides are calm and rock the boat gentle as a cradle being swung- but more often than not, it’s water beating against the walls of the boat, leaping onto the ship and soaking everyone below the waist, throwing them around hard enough to upturn Eliott’s stomach. Multiple times.

Eliott knew very well his best chance to find work long enough to survive was at a dock. He’d never fished a day in his life, but he knew all his skills inventing would be a hard sell without proof of his work- which were, currently, half a world away. Because of the whole falling off the ship thing.

Hands burning as he pulls against a net heavier than his own weight with wiggling fish, he stops long enough to sigh, wipe his brow, and give another spirited yank.

He planned on finding a job at some diner, some bar ideally- but as of now, he could barely afford rent in the little shack the boss had offered him when Eliott had explained his situation, let alone clothes that didn’t reek of fish, that were presentable, or- really, if he were being honest, he was so exhausted by his hours fishing he couldn’t fathom taking another job. He would, eventually, but he was only coming up on his second month of living in this wretched bog of a town- he was still adjusting, alright?

That didn’t mean he didn’t spend a plentiful amount of time at the bar- whenever he had some change to spare, he’d sit and nurse the single beer he could afford, and then offer his services for repair. The barkeep was kind enough, and whenever they had work to spare- fixing the washer, the radio, the barmaid- Eliott got to drink free until he was gently persuaded to go home. And then firmly persuaded, because a drunk Eliott was even more hard headed than a sober Eliott.

Which is exactly where he headed after he’d finished his duties for the day, hands raw with budding callouses rubbed raw all over again and much too little in his pocket. His usual sailing partner always tagged along, Walter Fitzroy- he laughed at Eliott poking at his fresh hand wounds, clapped him on the back, and said he’d buy the first round.

Eliott laughed too, and followed his lead.

#mirage #eliott witt #apex legends #octane #octavio silva #wip

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wip wednesday again.

i will be honest. this is such a cracky idea. i just thought abt hal as a radio host and it all went down from there; also au where sinestro hasn’t gone off the piss colored deep end yet of course

-

“Sinestro. Sin. Sinny. Sinboy. Sinbad. Sinful delights-“

“What,” Sinestro all but barks, teeth bared at the smug human face he could practically imagine beaming at him off the surface of his ring.

“Tune into the Oa broadcast frequency.” Is all Hal says, the laugh he’s swallowing audible. Somehow, Sinestro’s irritation hasn’t faded.

“Why would I do that?”

“Be-cause,” His once-student sing-songs, the faintest of clicks heard through their connection- Sinestro realizes he’s doing something, distracted with it. They sound like switches. “Someone just found the god damn space radio station of my very dreams nestled into the ass end of Oa, that’s why. How did I never know this was here?”

Ah, that. It had been so long since he’d even devoted a thought to that defunct old structure Sinestro didn’t immediately recall where it even was. It was mostly underground, constructed in the case of communication loss between ringbearers and to launch Lantern Corps messages to other worlds. Frankly, the gnomes they called Guardians had made plenty of bizarre projects in their long lives, and the station was simply one of them. Between all their combined power and networking between rings, it was more than obsolete.

How typical Hal would find himself enamored with it.

“Who let you in there?” Sinestro asks wearily, knowing better than to truly ask at all. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he might get an answer on this one.

More switches, more bustling about. “Staff. Asked what they were doing and they said they were checking the area, doing inspections, all that. Sent me to Parzzx- y’know they used to have a motivational broadcast? Every morning? Anyway, they suggested I do a couple of recordings and up-keeping the studio, and they’ll take my drill duty. Seemed like a great deal to me- Oh, shit-“

Ugh, Sinestro did remember those broadcasts, blared over the damn speakers instead of consciously opted into via ring comms. He can’t chase off the thought of Jordan droning on with some inane human platitudes over a congregation of very tired Lanterns and almost feels fit to make a visit to the Guardians for the safety of the Corps mental health.

A loud clattering, and more vague sounds of upset from Hal- Why hadn’t Sinestro hung up yet, was the question, and suddenly the human returns. “-that’s fine. Anyway, take a listen in a few hours, give me some pointers.”

“My only pointer is that this is a waste of time.” Sinestro says honestly, fingers pinching the flat bridge of his nose. Hal had a great talent for making time pass, which was, he decided, the one reason Sinestro had answered at all. As Hal had said, the commute between ones home planet and Oa was a long one.

“You’re supposed to listen first!” Hal insists, unaffected as always. “Don’t miss it, Sinbin.”

Sinestro can’t spit out his utter distaste before Hal has already severed the connection.

#hal jordan #thaal sinestro #wip wednesday #dc #green lantern #this is so funny to me i will be running with this. batman will be staring on this show

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ok i just watched justice league new frontier (thoughts about... The Presentation aside.) and i’ve got some thouvhts. on mr jordan.

they did him SO good. i like that it brings to the table morality and how that reflects in genuinely good people- diana and clark are both good, just people, but diana thinks those who do incredible wrong to others should get punished, and that the victims deserve revenge. that the world should be righted manually, sometimes mortally. clark believes death is never justified, no matter what happens, and should always be avoided no matter what the crime (with exceptions), bruce avoids it but is ambivalent on the vague, but is very impacted on the personal. say why he goes to such lengths to prevent the joker from dying, the riddler, harley, any of his rogues- but why their thugs, the ends justify the means. he spends TIME understanding his rogues and therefore sees their humanity, sees himself in them- the line for bruce is their humanity. in the jl cartoons, at least;

hal doesn’t get as much analysis tho and he’s got. such a complicated relationship with that? central city obviously hasn’t happened in the timeline of frontier but he’s staunch in that no one deserves to die, and he’ll fight for you- he would sacrifice himself for you, but if you spit in the face of that sacrifice, of that fight and that belief everyone can and should come out whole and the consequences will be dealt with later- you’ve dug your own grave. one person will not be the cause of a hundreds downfall.

that belief relates to himself, of course.

i think this outlook is very hal jordan to his core; even in different universes, even in the main ones. after parallax he’s the one person- he jumped ship, whether he wanted to or not, and what becomes of him doesn’t matter as long as everyone else can be okay again. that he won’t hurt anyone again. why he takes being spectre in stride, why he fucks off as space wizard renegade- he’s paying his debt. he’s experiencing the other side of his belief- what are those consequences that come after the crisis ends? what are his consequences for still living?

i think the point where hal’s innocently optimist view that everyone deserves to live and deserves someone who’s sacrifice themselves for the greater good, up until they lash out, they double down on making things worse, becomes a reality for him. having to reassess the life he condemned countless villains to he now has to live.

#this is so rambly and insane i’m very tired #hal jordan... my beloved #i LOVE shitty perosn hal. redeeming himself hal. susceptible to the universes evils but trying so hard regardless. #hal jordan #authors notes

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another day another wip weenis day

-

It was almost cute how Gumshoes thought he was slick.

“You know I can’t do that, pal. And I’d appreciate you stop asking!” Gumshoes thunders, always unaware of his volume.

Phoenix’s face falls, likely without his knowledge, eyes downcast. He looked more frayed than usual. Maya wears a similar expression, but Gumshoes isn’t looking at her.

“C’mon, Nick,” Maya sighs, bouncing back before even Phoenix does; which was saying something. “I guess it’ll be another all nighter… Did you get through the last stack of files?”

“Looking for a needle by the name of Max Ludenburg? Nope,” Phoenix says bluntly, turning away from Gumshoes, hand coming up to rub his face.

“If only you had that report, you could take the rest of the night off…” Maya says mournfully, but Miles doesn’t mistake that glint in her eye as sadness. The middle Fey figured it out.

Phoenix, of course, had not.

“I don’t think-“ He started, puzzled, before Maya immediately and melodramatically cut him off, laying a consultatory hand on his back.

“I’ll help you with yet another exhausting night of hunting.” She says, and Miles can’t help but think she’s laying it on too thick.

Gumshoes, fidgeting like he’d found unwanted guests in his pants, rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well- I… Suppose I do have an extra one,” He murmurs, casting his eyes elsewhere as well. “But you better not tell a soul about it!”

Miles would have to reconsider the amount of a certain detectives salary for sharing confidential evidence…

Phoenix looked back to the detective, smiling big and joyful. Maya cheers, and Miles notes that Gumshoes’ goes so red that his neck more closely resembled the color of a stop sign.

Or maybe not, Miles thinks with a smirk of his own. No one had ever accused him of being unromantic.

#this is supposed to be a five things thing #also phoenix/gumshoes. i’m an innovator #ace attorney #what the fuck would the name be though #gumwright #YEAH OK GUMWRIGHT #wip wednesday

[texasssmash]

i’m so /):);!( ive started yet another wip but my brain is made of worms and they rioted until i relented. wip wednesday everybody

-

He didn’t know when these four, queasily colored pale walls became comforting, but as he stared into the flaking paint across the ceiling, Eddie realized it certainly had.

Perhaps comforting wasn’t the right word- it was only comforting as far as a rat caught in a trap could find that comforting- a rat that could escape the trap any time, of course, but it’s foundation was a prison all the same.

It wasn’t because of his most recent plan’s failure he was… collecting himself. Nor was it the failures before that. No, Eddie refused to admit to that- instead he was simply downtrodden and exhausted.

Fortunately, besides attending therapy full of shouting lunatics and all those rotating medications and the occasional beat down by a guard with a vendetta, Arkham Asylum was a great place to vacation.

Sighing miserably, Edward flipped on his front and buried his head under his pillow, tuning out the screaming that had started up a few rooms down. He thinks it sounds an awful lot like the brand of screaming Jonathan Crane would leave in his wake, that specific terror only he could invoke, but Jon wasn’t in right now. Maybe it was one of his terribly lucky, terribly traumatized victims.

When it grew closer, Eddie just about started screaming himself.

Soon it grew to it’s apex, the piercing cacophony too much to bear and Edward threw down his pillow, shot to his feet and took a great breath to shout just exactly how he felt about all the commotion and-

it drained out of him upon seeing the ghostly silhouette of the Scarecrow in all his lanky glory, glowering at him behind the barred door through those haunting, rucksack yellowed eyes.

“Do what do I owe this pleasure, Jon?” Eddie huffs with what was distinctly not pleasure.

“It’s been weeks, Edward.” Jonathan intones, voice obscured and exaggerated by the mask’s built in gas filtration, and just as Edward spotted the ghoulish smoke curling around his body and slowly into his cell, Jonathan slipped a fairly low-key, not very reliable looking gas mask under the door. Edward takes it in a very put-out manner.

Strapping it on efficiently- Edward did not fancy ever getting blasted with that damn fear toxin ever again, although he very well knew he’d somehow piss Jon off well enough again to ensure it- he glared over the lenses at his visitor. “I can read a calendar, Jon. Whenever they remember to hang one.” He thinks he saw Two-Face rip the last one off in a fit of rage- it’s been at least a few days since. Eddie thinks he should be ashamed he’s almost lost track.

Whipping out another canister as a barrage of orderlies filter through to uncover the source of the screaming, Jonathan twists and unscrews the release, sending plumes of his wretched gas down the hallway. He returns Eddie with an equally disdainful look.

“I’ll have you know I’m calling in that favor you owe me.” He tries again, not so subtly taking a different route. Never a time waster, Jon was. Without waiting for an answer, he slides a lock pick out of one of his massive, dangling sleeves and begins work on the door.

Eddie lays down again, now significantly more uncomfortable with the gas mask.

“I’m not receiving calls right now. Check back again later.” He calls just loud enough to be heard over the distant chaos, and turns to face the wall resolutely.

“Edward. Are you refusing to repay what you owe me?”

His voice takes on a chill Edward is very sure scares most people, but in his current situation, Jon had literally just handed him the tool to keep him safe from the worst of Jon’s capabilities. And regardless, Eddie knew him well enough this was a thickly veiled, fairly ineffective way of showing he was concerned.

What a joke.

“My pockets are empty, yet my debt demands more than change. What am I?” Edward grumbles into his raggedy pillow.

Jonathan makes a rather rude sound, and kicks the still leaking canister under the door into Edward’s room. “A stubborn ass.”

“Wrong!” Eddie shoots to his feet and shouts at Jonathan’s retreating form, hotly kicking the fear toxin casing right back outside again. “A favor!”

#wip wednesday #yet another project started. yeah #edward nygma #jonathan crane #not actually scriddler but sorta scriddler #dc #rogues gallery

[texasssmash]

Hello!! What is your ao3?

hey thanks for asking!! i’ve not published anything yet as if i don’t have a whole work almost-finished before i post it i’ll Die, but here’s my account for when i do :)) https://archiveofourown.org/users/texassmash

[texasssmash]

i feel like edward nygma has a discourse channel.

it’s probably miserably small despite his best intentions; he would claim that’s exactly what he WANTS lest he get the police on his trail- in reality he’s bribed youtube many times to boost his numbers beyond the normal pay-to-win amount is

he picks on so many people. sometimes he has genuinely thought provoking questions, digs- usually he’s just shitting on people with bad takes or even? good takes. usually if that good take is about living with narcissists or something similar

he’s been canceled at least three times by his small community and by others who watch this strange green man rant at a camera with what looks exceedingly like a super villain lair as a background. he simply ignores it or shits on them further. sometimes he has rogues as guests- selina and harley frequent it as beauty and psychology commentary fans respectively.

he had the joker once in a very short video that ended with violence. it has one comment - “is that the joker?”

it has fourteen dislikes and one like (himself)

#i simply think eddie being the pathetic little dude he is is peak comedy #edward nygma #the riddler #rogues gallery #gotham rogues #selina kyle #harley quinn #the joker #dc #authors notes

[texasssmash]

Wip Weenis Day. ignore how many i’ve missed im on quentin beck and dr strange brainrot

-

When he woke up, he was alone.

He’s not positive how, on either account; after all the failure, screaming 16 year olds, ricocheting gunshots and mild to moderate bleeding, he made his last hoorah- framing Spider-Man, revealing his deepest darkest secret and painting himself as the hero. All the things he was best at, really, and if we was going to die in a municipal buildings bridge in a heap of his own broken drones and ambitions, it would be doing what he did best.

And yet, he was not dead.

Quentin recalls throwing up that final illusion, before those lovely, priceless glasses were stolen from him (after the kid willingly gave them to him, too!) and laying face down in his own misery, and ‘died’ right before the kid. EDITH had helpfully reported Quentin was ‘deceased’, Parker almost crying over his ‘corpse’, and it was all very sweet, Quentin was touched. Despite his attempts to kill the kid, he was fond of him. Under different circumstances, they could’ve even worked together. He was smart.

Not smart enough to realize Mysterio would’ve had contingencies to fake his own damn death, of course.

It was, to be fair, a lucky thing those functions even still worked- Parker busted his helmet up pretty well. Along with literally everything else and all his plans, but oh well, he’s recovered from worse!

He’s made his bed, nice and tucked with a mint on top. He’s made the worlds most recognizable superhero (second only to Ironman) number one public enemy, murderer of the beloved, brand new up and comer, Mysterio.

What a tragedy.

Back to his current circumstance, he’s currently laid out on the floor of some empty room. Linoleum floors, concrete walls and popcorn ceiling, now with a hole in it- that might’ve been him. Tables stood in threes with chairs tucked in, ready for a conference or secret meeting. Quentin, currently, was laid out in the center of one such table. Wooden, else it would have broken under the weight of one whole jackass.

Which is what he was.

He had made some missteps on his path to greatness- he sees them in broad colors, now, no projections needed. He groans, partially from complete frustration and mostly from his probable broken bones and definite gunshot wounds. They all felt fairly superficial, which was one bonus on this safari shit pile of a day, otherwise he’d have likely been dead before he woke up. Lucky him.

Quentin moans, again, as he rolls over, debris of ceiling, walls, glass and dust poof off of him in a cloud of asthma mixture, which he’d left behind in his youth, thankfully. His suit was fairly trashed, which, ok, it obviously needed some god damn improvements anyway.

He can’t even breathe for a minute, the pain flares up with such vengeance- almost as revenge for his somewhat peaceful time unconscious.

Quentin could very well black out again- who's to say, really, but what finally brings him squarely to consciousness is this- sizzling, vaporous sound, something like the faintest smell of heat and ozone. He leans up the most his battered body will allow him at that moment, the most resigned part of himself wondering if someone the building caught fire and was about to rain rubble and peril yet again upon him, but instead sees a sparking, mind bending portal open out of thin air, a doorway carved into reality. If Quentin hadn’t spent so much time with illusions, he might have thought he was hallucinating- although, they aren’t such terribly different things.

And then someone steps through.

From Quentin’s perspective, he’s out of sight- this portal opened in the hallway into another wide room, giving him only half the picture, but the man who steps through is mumbling something inaudible, a great, red cape fluttering behind him. He can see black hair, streaked with white at the temples, and hands that gesture strangely, before they still and the portal fizzles out of existence.

The man seems to notice the general hostility of the air quality, and starts coughing, and trekking through the rubble, down the hall and past Quentin’s eyesight.

Quentin collapses quietly back onto the table, and asks himself some questions.

#quentin beck #stephen strange #doctor strange #marvel #wip wednesday #tex writes #i need a silly ship name for them #mystrange? #strangio #mysterange #UGH

[texasssmash]

the name ‘jonathan’ is whorish by default. i will not elaborate

[texasssmash]

writing for wade wilson is somehow cathartic. being an adhd king and having it myself? it’s like all those dumbass fucking thoughts i must tolerate 24 hrs a day can finally be exorcised from my body. any bad joke, stupid question, inane rambling or brain rotting commentary you could think of and i do think of, frequently, can be in character for one mr wilson

#wade wilson #deadpool #authors notes

[texasssmash]

wip wednesday fellas

-

“Majima, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Kiryu states quietly but fervently, resisting Majima’s increasingly insistent tugging. He only smiled broadly, eye twinkling with delight.

“Why’s that? Who’s gonna pay attention to two fellas on the dance floor, Kiryu-chan?” He sing-songs, punctuating his name with very hearty tug that almost pulls Kiryu off the couch entirely. He concedes hesitantly, realizing fighting this odd, suspicious man in a disco was probably more suspicious than them actually dancing up there. Kiryu’s dismayed frown hardens and sets.

Majima crows with his success, not a lot louder than the music or the swarming people. It was very crowded, Kiryu noted with even deeper chagrin, but likely crowded enough no one would spot two poorly disguised yakuza burning some calories.

Majima must notice his acquiescence, because he hoots again and only then releases his firm grip on Kiryu’s hand after planting them firmly around the middle of the dance floor.

Quickly bodies begin to push up against them, moving and swaying and slowly reminding Kiryu why these were fun- or at least, used to be. He began to dance, slowly and mostly waiting for Majima to really unload so he could sneak back off to their table.

Majima did unload alright- just as soon as he was freed, Kiryu was yanked back in again, Majima suddenly very close and grinning too wide, jagged teeth displayed. Kiryu doesn’t fight him, a bit stunned and at a loss of what they were supposed to do from here- and stumbled after Majima’s lead, an energetic pace that left little room for overthinking, although Kiryu managed it.

“C’mon, you’re hardly dancin’ if you’re writin’ an essay on each step!” Majima insists, advancing and forcing Kiryu back a few stuttered steps into the back of a woman, who he quickly apologizes to, and then Majima was leading them another direction and disappearing into another collection of people. “Have fun!”

“‘Having fun’ while running from the yakuza isn’t exactly my type of problem solving,” Kiryu hisses, almost taking a tumble with another sharp change of direction and what really felt like a soaking wet floor. Drinks weren’t allowed on the dance floor, right?

Suddenly Majima leaned in even closer than before, almost cheek to cheek, hot breath ghosting across Kiryu;s face and igniting a furious blush in its wake.

“There’s some dudes in the back lookin’ awfully mean, and I don’t think it’s the kinda mean we were tryin’ to meet.”

Kiryu swallows, nodding just enough, and like a breeze Majima was inhabiting his own space again, leading Kiryu across the floor in a less urgent way now that it he was no longer resisting. Whatever dance Majima was trying to pull off was still lost on him, though, and he had the audacity to laugh at him when he slipped and hip checked the table they sauntered into.

Instead of returning the favor, Kiryu just uses his bulk to try and shield Majima from the sight line of the opposite side. They wanted Majima more than Kiryu. “What’s the plan?”

If Majima notices, he doesn’t react beyond a pause.

“Leave out the back. If they’re really on our tail, then they’ll follow us, and it’s a snap ‘ta lose some chumps in this kinda alley.”

“You’re sure there’s an alley?” There was a back door, sure, but that didn’t guarantee an escape route.

Another pause, this time followed by a clap on the shoulder.

“There’s always some sorta way out. How else are we supposed ‘ta make our magic exit?” He huffs, but it was obvious he was bullshitting to some extent here. It was still more of a plan than Kiryu had.

“I’m right behind you,” Kiryu replies, and then they’re off.

Majima sways like he’s still dancing and Kiryu gives up the act, shoving the back entrance open with his shoulder for his company to lead the way.

There was a massive fence separating them from the street.

“Shit.” Majima says, with feeling.

#yakuza #kazumaji #kiryu kazuma #goro majima #wip

[texasssmash]

the champion

#vampyr

[texasssmash]

you are the blood  

#THIS IS INSANELY COOL!!! #FAVE #vampyr

[texasssmash]

decided to illustrate my vision here.

i saw something to the effect of “michael meyers survival strategy is playing dead” which, as a side note, lends me to believe a Michael Fursona would be an opossum but that’s a topic for another day- my point here being how god damn funny that is.

depending on canon; going with dbd bc that’s what i frequent- this fucking huge, silent, jacked murderer with a weird mullet mask decides the best and fastest way to avoid further conflict disrupting his interests is to just fucking lay down and wait for the bullshit to stop occurring (which he probably began)

thinking abt one of the other killers stepping up to him trying to prove their shit and like. stabs him or something. entirely non lethally, probably not even on purpose, but michael is so annoyed he just takes a dive and lays there all dracula like until they get bored and leave

#michael meyers #jed olsen #ghostface #dbd #authors notes

[texasssmash]

i saw something to the effect of “michael meyers survival strategy is playing dead” which, as a side note, lends me to believe a Michael Fursona would be an opossum but that’s a topic for another day- my point here being how god damn funny that is.

depending on canon; going with dbd bc that’s what i frequent- this fucking huge, silent, jacked murderer with a weird mullet mask decides the best and fastest way to avoid further conflict disrupting his interests is to just fucking lay down and wait for the bullshit to stop occurring (which he probably began)

thinking abt one of the other killers stepping up to him trying to prove their shit and like. stabs him or something. entirely non lethally, probably not even on purpose, but michael is so annoyed he just takes a dive and lays there all dracula like until they get bored and leave

#michael meyers #dead by deadlight #dbd #i will not hear discourse on michael meyers fursona in right #authors notes

[texasssmash]

i missed wip wednesday so here’s a Belated one to celebrate

soulmate au :)))

-

Soulmates.

He had one. He had one, somewhere, and now, they were writing to him.

Chris almost forgot to breathe, the faint dragging sensation making him think it was an unnoticed nick from the last job or a bug or something but no, it was black writing, writing in crisp, perfunctory characters.

“Busy.”

That’s all it said.

Chris has written to his soulmate for months now after the original statement he got- “Hello.” All his questions, his late night musings, his absolutely not pleas for any kind of response. And finally today, when he asked maybe for the third time, “Why don’t you respond? Assuming you’re even alive”, he got his answer.

Maybe his soulmate reading Chris thought them dead was what triggered it?

A small pang of guilt ran through him at that- maybe his soulmate already had a partner and this was not something he wanted? Chris balked at that, nausea washing over any joy he had felt moments ago, but he steadied himself. If his soulmate wanted to be left alone, they’d have to tell him outright. It wasn’t Chris’ responsibility to decode absolute silence.

But he was never great at getting hints.

This, though; was…. Something. Not a lot, but jesus christ it was a response. Maybe, if he pursued the same morbid musings, he could illicit more information from them?

He felt bad, but maybe they should feel a little guilty for making him think his soulmate was in a grave somewhere.

‘So you are alive’ is all he writes in his sprawling print. He tried to tidy it up for readability sake, but pretty handwriting wasn’t one of Chris’ talents. Not like the methodical drawl of his soulmate.

The reply was not swift, and after a few minutes Chris berated himself first expecting a change, and continued his day, trying to prepare for the next week of what would likely be very challenging missions. Two, one investigation into private housing which could go god knows how bad, and-

‘I am. Disappointed?’

Chris halted immediately to watch each letter ink in self onto his skin, and his mouth twists into a frown.

Why would he be?

Does his soulmate detest his presence this much, already? Chris didn’t- well, spam, for lack of a better word, his soulmate, maybe writing to them once a week, or twice if he was in his thoughts, even less in the past few weeks. Chris didn’t know why they were so- unwilling to work with him!

‘Course not. Feels like you’re disappointed with me. Too much talking?’

Chris feels it’s easy to be blunt to a person you don’t know, and his frustrations made it even easier. They already seemed to be on bad terms, so what the hell.

Again, he had to wait for the response, and found containing his chores was significantly harder when he was so focused on his skin.

‘I am not disappointed, yet.’

Yet?

Of course Chris would get an asshole as a soulmate. Why wouldn’t he? He sighs vehemently, feeling distinctly not good enough when all he’d done was communicate. What kind of person were they?

‘No pressure, I guess’ He had written back, somewhat angrily, pressing too hard into his skin and lines a little too jagged. His soulmate’s writing had been consistent pressure, but his, he was sure, was anything but consistent.

No response.

Chris wasn’t even sure he wanted one at this point, and pulled on a jacket just so he wouldn’t have to look at his inked skin.

Work was normal. There was a slight tension, the feeling before a big job, but otherwise, paperwork and weapon upkeep and training as all the same as usual. Perhaps Chris was a little slower, than usual, maybe a little more standoffish. Maybe enough to get in an argument with Wesker, but really, it wasn’t entirely his fault.

“I should have you fired for your insubordination.” He hisses, deeming a little on edge himself. Strange. He was always so put together.

Chris scoffs, privately glad this was moved to his office, where only the attentive would hear what was happening instead of the entire damn office.

“How’s poking holes in your shallow ass tactics ‘Insubordination’, Sir?” He bites, drawling the sir out like gravel snapping under heel.

He could almost hear Wesker’s teeth grinding together, neck straining while his face remains evenly tense. He realizes, slowly, that Wesker’s attention had drifted down to his arm- exposed, writing bared for him to read. In his hastiness to get ready and ignore whatever his soulmate had decided to ignore, he just threw on a t shirt. Embarrassment flames hot through him at his mistake.

He moves to hold his hands behind his back, not an usual position for a soldier to take, and lifts his chin. Stay the fuck out of my business, he wanted to snap, but he also wanted to keep his job. It was hard to tie the line between combat and actual cause to terminate him.

“What’s wrong, Captain?” Chris says evenly, knowing it was a mistake before he even said something, rage at his oversight and Wesker and his soulmate all blending together. “Don’t have a soulmate?”

Chris dares to smile, and that’s what ends it.

“Get out.” He barks, digging grooves into his desk. Chris did retreat after that.

#authors notes #wip wednesday #chris redfield #albert wesker #resident evil #chrisker #what a wretched ship name but alas. i have no choice

[texasssmash]

another funny concept is the difference of chris redfield between code veronica and resident evil 5

like. imagine. IMAGINE your shitty ex boss pisses you off SOOOO bad you literally work out so much you DOUBLE in size just to beat ass better.

of course the argument could be made in canon (setting aside the real reason being selling more multiplayer fps titles with burly protags) that chris bulked up bc with the rising, constant threat of bioweapons and what the bsaa required of him it happened naturally

but i think the much more in character reason was chris dreaming SO HARD about crashing wesker’s face in without guns n shit he became more of a gym rat than before. i also like to think jill accompanied him on this journey, training in a much more reasonable and sustainable way, and laughing at him when he passes out on the lifting bench . for gods sakes he’s got the maneuverability of a roblox character

#authors notes #chris redfield #jill valentine #albert wesker #resident evil