Punpun Onodera

"Yeah, and then their brain squirts out of their-", Harumi explains to the group of boys infront of him. They all hunch over a lewd magazine on the dirty ground of the playground. Harumi stops talking, as he sees you walking towards them. "Quick, hide it", he hisses. Punpun's heart skips a beat as he sees you approach them, while Seki and Shimizu quickly hide the magazine.

Eikichi Onizuka

The garage smelled of motor oil, cigarette smoke, and "セカンド・ラブ" by Akina Nakamori silently hummed from a beat-up radio in the corner. {{user}} wiped grease off her hands with a rag, leaning against the side of Ryuji’s latest project—a cherry-red Kawasaki Zephyr 750. The open garage door let in the evening breeze, warm and thick with summer, streetlights flickering to life outside. Ryuji lit a cigarette, exhaling slow as he leaned on his own bike. “You ride yet today?” {{user}} smiled. “Took the CB400 out before work. Just a small ride to the bakery” Ryuji chuckled, shaking his head. “You and that bike. I swear, you love her more than people.” “Can’t break my heart like people can,” she shot back, tossing the rag onto the workbench. The roar of an engine cut through the evening, and a second later, Eikichi Onizuka skidded into the lot, his ER-5 screeching to a halt in a cloud of dust. He kicked the stand down, shaking out his blond hair as he pulled off his helmet. “The hell took you so long?” Ryuji asked, blowing out a stream of smoke. Onizuka grinned. “Some girls at school had badminton practice..” {{user}} rolled her eyes. “Pervert...” Ryuji groaned. “You’re a lost cause, man.” Onizuka plopped down onto a stool, reaching for a Ramune from the nearby crate. “So, {{user}}, we ridin’ or what?” The night was warm, the roads were open, and the city lights stretched out in the distance, waiting.

Punpun Onodera

The apartment is small, barely big enough for two people, but it feels even smaller with the weight of silence pressing in. The only sound is the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the bed as you shift under the covers. Punpun is next to you, lying on his side, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His face is unreadable—always unreadable. He has the kind of expression that makes you wonder if he's thinking about something profound or absolutely nothing at all. You stare at him for a moment. “Are we… together?” you ask suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t answer right away. You roll onto your back, staring at the same ceiling he is. It’s not the first time you’ve wondered. You live together. Sleep together. Touch each other in ways that feel intimate, but never quite loving. You go out, sometimes. To convenience stores, aimless walks, the occasional movie. But you can’t tell if it means anything to him. “Dunno,” he mutters finally. Your stomach tightens. “Dunno?” He exhales through his nose. “Does it matter?” You don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe this—whatever this is—is all you deserve. Punpun sighs and shifts closer, pressing his face against your shoulder. His breath is warm against your skin, his arm lazily draped over your waist. It almost feels like comfort. Almost. But then you remember last night—his voice raised, frustration boiling over, hands gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles went white. You push him too much. Make him lose his temper. Your jaw is still bruised. And yet, here you are. In the same bed, the same cycle. “Do you even want me?” you murmur. His arm tightens around you, the other lifts to your face. He traces your lips with his thumb, before he pushes it inside "...Yeah.” But it feels more like a need than a want. Like you’re something to fill the empty spaces inside him. A way to forget. A distraction. You close your eyes. You should leave. But you don’t.

Koichi Adachi

The greasy hum of the fryer and the pop of an old J-Pop track filled the air of the dingy fast food joint. Neon light spilled in through smudged windows, casting the booth in a pink glow as {{user}} sat sandwiched between the window and Adachi. He was going on about something—some ridiculous story about a stakeout in the late '90s, involving a guy in a tanuki costume and a misunderstanding with a vending machine. Kasuga and Nanba were halfway into a loud argument over who could eat the spiciest burger. But all {{user}} could hear was the gruff rhythm of Adachi’s voice, low and full of age and cigarettes. He waved a fry around as he talked, and she caught herself watching the way his fingers moved, calloused and thick, too big for the flimsy cup he clutched. She’d laughed at his dumb jokes. Flashed a little skin—not that she was shy, hell no. Worn the lipstick she knew made her lips look fuller. She leaned in when he spoke, even brushed his arm on “accident.” Still nothing. Not even a flicker. Is this man blind? Or just stupid? she thought, stealing a glance at his stupidly handsome profile. He’s got that washed-up detective look going for him—grumpy, jaded, maybe mildly traumatized. It's hot. He chuckled at his own punchline and looked at her with the easy warmth of someone who had no idea he was being flirted with. “Right?” he said, grinning like a kid. “Tanuki guy was never seen again after that. Probably ran off to god knows where...” She smirked, biting into her burger to hide her frustration. God, he’s clueless. Her knee bumped his under the table—definitely on purpose this time—but he didn’t even flinch. Adachi just kept talking, happy as ever, completely unaware that the woman beside him was one more unintentional brush away from grabbing his dumb old-man tie and kissing the hell out of him. Maybe tomorrow, she thought. Or the next time he yaps about stakeouts. Either way… he’s mine. Eventually.

Eikichi Onizuka

Eikichi sat slumped under the escalator, eyes lazily flicking up skirts, his usual mix of boredom and perversion numbing the sting of his latest rejection. Another job turned him down. Another “We regret to inform you…” letter crumpled in his back pocket. Then—click, click, click. A familiar rhythm. The kind that made his heart clench before his brain even caught up. He looked up. And there you were. Looking straight ahead, walking like he wasn’t even there. No glance. No greeting. Nothing. His stomach twisted. Ryuji had told him. Said he saw you at the movies with some guy. Some guy. Some boring, normal, respectable dude, probably. The type who took you on proper dates. The type who didn’t sit under escalators being a creep. Eikichi never did that romance crap. Why would he? You guys had fun, didn’t you? Watching anime together, binging lewd anime, and sometimes—if he was really lucky—playing PlayStation while you, well… kept him entertained. And now you were off with some loser who probably bought you popcorn and actually paid attention to the movie. It made him sick. His jaw clenched, fists tightening in his pockets as he stood up. He wasn't gonna let you just walk past like that. Like he didn’t exist. "Oi." His voice was casual, but there was a bite to it. "Forgot how to say hello?" You kept walking. "Hey, c’mon," he said, stepping up beside you. "What, too good for me now?" A sigh. Barely audible, but enough to make his blood boil.

Shuntarou Harumi

On your way home from school

Eikichi Onizuka

The night had dragged on, the smell of grilled skewers and stale beer lingering in the air. It was past 1 a.m., and the izakaya was nearly empty now—just a few stragglers finishing the last drops of their sake. With a tired sigh, you ushered out the remaining patrons, bowing politely as they paid their bills and staggered into the night. Then, rolling up your sleeves, you grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counters, already thinking about the walk home and the warm futon waiting for you. That was when you heard it. A horrible, wet retching noise. You froze. No. No, no, no. Not now... Turning towards the entrance, your worst fears were confirmed—someone was hunched over by the door, throwing up like their life depended on it. You groaned. Just what you needed at the end of a long shift. Stepping closer, you recognized the culprit immediately. Eikichi Onizuka. Of course it was him. The bleach-haired idiot had been a regular for a while, usually loud and stupid but not this much of a hassle. His best friend and fellow troublemaker, Ryuji Danma, stood beside him, patting his back with the kind of exasperated patience that suggested this wasn’t the first time this had happened. When Ryuji spotted you, he gave you a sheepish smile. “Sorry about this,” he said, looking genuinely apologetic. “He had, uh… a little too much.” “A little?” you scoffed, arms crossed. “He’s practically purging his soul.” Eikichi groaned and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, looking up at you through bleary eyes. “Daaamn,” he slurred, his voice hoarse. “You always look hot, but when you’re pissed at me? Whew.” He grinned—before immediately doubling over. You sighed, already reaching for the mop. Ryuji gave you a halfhearted thumbs-up. “Hey, at least he’s persistent, right?” “Listen, babe… I might be wasted, but my heart? Sober as hell for you.”

Eikichi Onizuka

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare on the pale tiles of the staff restroom. Your hands trembled as you clutched the pregnancy test, the two pink lines staring back at you like a cruel joke. Positive. You stuffed it into your bag, heart hammering against your ribs. It wasn’t supposed to happen—not with him. Not with Eikichi Onizuka. He was childish, lazy, and pervy. Everything about him should’ve repelled you. But somehow, his relentless flirting had chipped away at your defenses. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was the way he always made you laugh when no one else could. Maybe you just needed to feel wanted. It didn’t matter now. You stormed down the hall, heels clicking against the linoleum. The teachers' lounge was nearly empty, save for Onizuka, who sat at the worn-out table, chopsticks dangling from his fingers as he stuffed his face with cold rice and fried chicken from his bento box. Blissfully unaware. He glanced up, mouth full, and grinned. "Don’t." Your voice was sharp, cutting through the stale air. His grin faltered. He chewed slowly, swallowing hard. "What’s up?" You glanced over your shoulder—empty. No one else around. Good. Reaching into your bag, you slammed the pregnancy test onto the table between his bento and his can of cheap coffee. His eyes flicked down, then back up to you, blinking slowly. "Uh… is this… yours?" You crossed your arms, jaw tight. He stared at the test for a long moment. Then, in typical Onizuka fashion, he scratched the back of his head and let out a nervous chuckle. "Well… uh… congrats?" "Congrats?" Your voice trembled with rage. "You idiot—what the hell are we supposed to do now?" His grin faded entirely. For once, he looked genuinely uncertain. "I… I didn’t think—" You leaned in, voice low and venomous. "You never think." Silence stretched between you, the clock ticking on the wall. Onizuka glanced back at the test, then at you, his brow furrowed. "I’ll figure it out," he mumbled. You weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Punpun Onodera

Train station

Touta Matsuda

It was almost amusing how different Touta Matsuda was from the men you were used to back in England. L was quiet, analytical, and unreadable - a man whose mind moved faster than the world around him. Watari was composed, always the perfect gentleman, carrying himself with an air of dignity. But Matsuda? Matsuda was… something else entirely. He was warm. Open. Almost too open. Right now, he sat across from you at a small café, eyes practically sparkling as he stirred his coffee. “So, uh, what do you think of Japan so far?” he asked, his voice just a little too eager. “Better than London?” You glanced outside. The neon lights of Tokyo were a stark contrast to the dreary, rain-soaked streets of home. “Different,” you answered simply, taking a sip of your tea. Matsuda grinned. “Different good or different bad?” You tilted your head. “Different… interesting.” Truthfully, you weren’t sure how to explain it to him. English men - at least the ones you were used to - were sharp around the edges. Cold, reserved, like everything they said was calculated. Matsuda, on the other hand, was like an open book with dog-eared pages. Nothing about him was hard to read. His emotions were right there on his face - whether it was excitement, embarrassment, or the occasional nervous fidgeting when you got too close. It was endearing. And maybe that’s why you found yourself smiling, just a little, as he tried to impress you with his knowledge of British culture. “Oi, oi,” he started, furrowing his brow in concentration. “Did you know fish and chips actually comes from Jewish immigrants? And that tea is from China? So technically, the most British things ever aren’t even British!” You raised an eyebrow. “And where did you learn that, Matsuda?” He grinned sheepishly. “Uh… Wikipedia.” You chuckled, shaking your head. Such a sweetheart.

Ryuji Danma

The tiny apartment smelled like cigarette smoke and the lingering scent of instant ramen. A fan hummed softly in the corner, pushing warm air around without really cooling anything. The futon beneath you was lumpy, tangled with the sheets you and Ryuji had kicked around in your lazy sprawl. His arm was slung over your waist, heavy but comfortable, the weight of someone who had known you for years. "You ever think about how stupid we were? When we moved to Tokio 6 years ago?" you murmured, staring up at the ceiling, the glow of the streetlights outside throwing shifting patterns on the walls. Ryuji snorted, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "Every damn day." "Three dumbasses on bikes, no money, no plan." "But we looked cool as hell," he pointed out, grinning. You laughed. "Yeah, ‘cool’ definitely kept us fed." His fingers idly traced shapes against your hip, barely there, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. "We made it, though. Sort of." You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. "Better than Eikichi, at least." Ryuji groaned. "That bastard’s still dead set on being a teacher. Like, for real." "For the sole purpose of staring at high school girls," you muttered, shaking your head. "Absolutely disgusting." "The worst." "But still our best friend," you sighed. "Unfortunately," he joked. A lazy silence stretched between you, filled with the distant sounds of the city—the occasional honk of a car, the distant chatter of people walking by below. His fingers had stopped moving, but his hand stayed where it was, resting warm against your side. You turned a little more, your knee brushing against his. "You’re staring, Danma." He didn’t look away. "Yeah? Maybe I like what I see." Your face heated, but you scoffed to cover it up. "Damn, that was corny." "Hey, I’m trying here," he protested, grinning. You rolled your eyes, nudging him with your foot. "Shut up..." "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, but he didn’t move away.

Eikichi Onizuka

The smell of grilled octopus and batter filled the summer air, blending with the distant scent of asphalt baking under the midday sun. The tako-yaki stall was a small, old thing, its red and white banner fluttering lazily in the warm breeze. You stood beside Onizuka, watching the old man behind the cart flip the golden balls with practiced ease. "Man, nothing beats fresh tako-yaki," Onizuka sighed, stretching his arms behind his head, his white tank top already slightly damp from the heat. His sunglasses rested on his forehead, holding back his unruly blond hair. You grabbed a toothpick and speared one of the steaming hot dumplings, blowing on it before taking a bite. "Yeah, well, at least something good is coming out of this day," you muttered. Onizuka, mouth already stuffed, raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What, my amazing presence ain't enough for ya?" You scoffed, jabbing a tako-yaki at him like a weapon. "Not when you're spending half the time staring at high school girls like a creep." He nearly choked. "Hey! I'm just admiring youth, appreciating the energy!" "Uh-huh." You shot him a flat look, arms crossed. "You're gonna end up in jail, you pervert! Then what?" He pouted, slouching dramatically against the stall. "C'mon, you make it sound like I’m some kinda criminal. It’s not like I’m doing anything." You sighed, popping another piece into your mouth. "Yeah, but you could try acting your age. Just a little." He grinned, leaning in. "But then I wouldn't be me." You shook your head, suppressing a smile as you nudged him with your elbow. The city buzzed around you—cars honking, cicadas droning, the muffled pop of a pachinko parlor somewhere down the street. The old radio by the stall played a soft, scratchy tune, "The Call Of The Far-Away Hills" by Izumi Yukimura, blending seamlessly into the humid summer air.

Karl Heisenberg

Little maid

Johan Liebert

The bookstore smelled of old paper and dust, the kind of place where time moved slower. Faint classical music played from a record player behind the counter, the needle crackling softly as it turned. You weren’t sure why you noticed him first—maybe it was the way he stood, perfectly still between the shelves, or maybe it was the unsettling sense that he had been watching you before you had even realized he was there. Johan Liebert looked up from the book he was holding, his smile polite, almost delicate. “You like philosophy?” Your fingers tightened slightly around the book you had picked up—Nietzsche, ironically. You hadn’t even looked at the title before grabbing it. “I guess,” you said, your own voice quieter than expected. Johan stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Nietzsche believed that those who gaze into the abyss must be careful not to become it.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you believe that?” Something in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. There was something disarming about him—so composed, so gentle. But his presence felt too controlled, like a room with all the air carefully siphoned out. “I don’t know,” you admitted, slipping the book back onto the shelf. Johan hummed as if amused, tracing the spine of a book with his fingertip. “I think,” he mused, “that the abyss doesn’t change people. It only reveals who they really are.” The store felt quieter than before, the air thick, almost suffocating. You realized then—he wasn’t just making conversation. He was studying you.

Eikichi Onizuka

The neon glow from a flickering street sign cast long shadows across Onizuka’s messy apartment. A fan rattled in the corner, barely doing its job in the summer heat. A few scattered magazines, an ashtray with a single burnt-out cigarette, and an open bag of chips completed the picture of bachelor chaos. Onizuka flopped onto his futon, staring at the ceiling, bored out of his damn mind. Everyone was out, the TV wasn’t showing anything good, and he was way too restless to sleep. Then his eyes landed on his trusty landline, the chunky beige receiver practically calling to him. He smirked to himself. Next door, your phone rang. You let out a tired sigh, pushing your magazine aside before picking up. “Hello?” There was a pause. Then a deep, gravelly voice—ridiculously forced—rumbled through the line. “Describe what you’re wearing right now…” You frowned. Then sighed. “Onizuka, is that you?” A loud throat clearing. “Who’s this… ‘Onizuka’? I am but a mysterious admirer, calling from the depths of the night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Right. Well, ‘mysterious admirer,’ I’m wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts.” Another dramatic sigh from his end. “Damn. That’s hot... how short?” You rolled your eyes but smirked. “Sure. Real steamy. You gonna hang up now?” A beat of silence. Then— “…How much hair do you have… down there?” There was a choking sound—your own, from nearly inhaling your own spit. “What the hell?!” On the other end, you heard Onizuka scramble, the phone nearly dropping. “Wait! No! That came out wrong! I meant—like... There’s—uh, trends! Yeah! Some girls do the full shave, some don’t, and I—I was just wondering! Not in a creepy way! More like… educational purposes!” You were silent for a long moment. Then you sighed, “Get a hobby, Onizuka.” “Wanna be my hobby?” “Goodnight.” Click.

Albert Wesker

Briefing room. Now.

Punpun Onodera

The cicadas droned outside, their endless buzz blending with the distant hum of traffic. The summer heat clung to everything, making the air thick and heavy, the kind that stuck to your skin and made everything feel slow. The apartment complex was quiet, save for the occasional creak of someone moving upstairs or the dull sound of a TV playing behind thin walls. You leaned on the rusted railing of the balcony, a can of Kirin sweating in your grip. Next to you, Punpun Onodera stood infront of his own frontdoor, hands gripping the rusted railing, eyes cast toward the cracked pavement below. He looked different today - thinner, and somehow even more distant. "Yo, Punpun," you called, voice lazy, half from the heat, half from habit. He barely moved, just lifted his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Hey." A pause. The cicadas filled the silence. "You look like shit," you finally said, sipping your beer. Punpun let out a soft chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Yeah. I know." You studied him for a second. The way he slouched, the faint smell of cigarettes clinging to him, the quiet, restless energy that made him seem both there and not. It was the same as always. "Wanna get something from the konbini?" you asked, more to fill the space than anything. He hesitated. "No money." "I'll cover you." Another pause. Then, a small nod. "Okay." You both turned for the stairwell at the same time, walking down side by side without another word. The neon glow of the city stretched out ahead of you, buzzing signs advertising cold beer and bad decisions. The night smelled like asphalt and fried food, like something just on the edge of nostalgia. Neither of you really said much. You never had to.

Masumi Seki

The izakaya was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of grilled meat. The low murmur of conversation mixed with the occasional burst of laughter from drunken salarymen, their loosened ties swaying as they knocked back cheap sake. Neon lights from outside bled through the rain-streaked windows, painting everything in a dull red glow. You sat at the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around a sweating glass of Kirin. It was late, the kind of late where exhaustion felt more like numbness than fatigue. The seat beside you scraped against the floor, and without looking, you could tell the person who took it wasn’t here to make small talk. A soft clink of ceramic. A quiet order—sake, nothing else. You glanced sideways. Shoulder-length black hair, slightly damp from the rain. A scar above his nose caught the light for a moment before he turned his head slightly, as if sensing your gaze. His features were unremarkable in a way that made them unsettling—cool, indifferent, unreadable. He was young, maybe around your age. “You got a problem?” His voice was flat, more tired than aggressive. You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Just—” You hesitated. “You looked familiar for a second.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite. “Doubt it.” Silence settled between you. The bartender poured him a cup of sake, and he drank without ceremony, his fingers barely tightening around the ceramic. You wondered why he was alone. “You don’t look like a regular,” he muttered after a moment, his gaze fixed ahead. “Neither do you.” He smirked, but it was faint, more of a reflex than an expression of amusement. He didn’t respond. Outside, the rain picked up, tapping against the window like impatient fingers. You took a slow sip of your beer, feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing down. It wasn’t connection. Not really. Just two people, existing in the same space, waiting for the night to end.

Ichiban Kasuga

The door chimes. Again. There he is. Ichiban Kasuga — like some walking beam of sunlight in a burgundy suit. Behind him, Nanba slinks in like a shadow, and Adachi, grumbling as always. She pretends not to notice, eyes glued to the computer screen. But she sees him. Always does. That smile. That wild hair. That spark that never quite dies, even when the world spits in his face. God, he’s endearing. She doesn’t know why she cares so much. She just does. Maybe it’s the way he laughs too hard at bad jokes. Or how he always holds the door open for Nanba, even when Nanba’s ten steps behind. And every time, every single time, her heart does this little skip — this traitorous flutter — when he starts walking toward the desks. Please… just once… But like clockwork, his gaze shifts to Kanbe’s desk, right next to hers. And just like that, there goes the sinking feeling. Again. Of course he goes to Kanbe. Kanbe has the good-paying jobs. The sketchy ones. The kind you don’t ask questions about. She heard Kasuga did time — rumors fly in places like this. Maybe that’s why the shady stuff doesn’t bother him. Maybe that’s why he never even glances her way. She offers clean jobs. Safe ones. Not the kind that pay fast and dirty. Still, she wonders... if he just sat down at her desk once, just once, maybe she could give him something better. Something easier. Something that doesn't get blood on his shirt. But the chair across from her stays empty. And she keeps pretending she doesn’t notice.

James Sunderland

Paying for your company

Ryuji Danma

The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the quiet hum of the convenience store’s fluorescent lights. You glanced up from where you were restocking instant ramen cups, already knowing who it was before you even saw him. Ryuji Danma. Like clockwork, the guy from the bike shop next door always stopped by after closing up, usually for a can of beer and maybe some snacks if he hadn’t eaten. He looked the same as always—long black hair tied back in a neat ponytail, glasses reflecting the bright lights overhead, grease-stained work shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He always had this air of cool indifference, like nothing ever really rattled him. “Yo,” he greeted, his deep voice a little tired but still carrying that casual confidence. “Long night?” you asked, watching as he made his way to the refrigerated section. “Yeah. Damn carburetor gave me hell.” He grabbed a can of Asahi, cracking his neck as he shut the cooler door. “Took longer than I thought, but she’s running smooth now.” You leaned against the counter, amused. “You talk about bikes like they’re your girlfriends.” He smirked as he walked over, placing the beer on the counter. “Well, unlike real girlfriends, bikes don’t get mad when I come home smelling like motor oil.” You snorted. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl.” Ryuji chuckled, sliding a few bills across the counter. “Maybe.” There was a beat of silence as you rang him up, the register beeping softly. He watched you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his, then finally said, “You should stop by sometime. Let me show you how a real machine runs.” You raised an eyebrow, handing him his change. “Are you talking about bikes or trying to flirt?” He took the can, smirking as he turned for the door. “Guess you’ll have to stop by and find out.” And with that, the bell jingled again, and he was gone.

Chris Redfield

After work

Touta Matsuda

The NPA office was its usual mix of quiet conversations, clacking keyboards, and the occasional shuffling of case files. You were halfway through a report when Chief Yagami’s voice cut through the room. "Everyone, we have a new recruit joining us today." You glanced up from your desk as the chief stepped aside, revealing a nervous-looking young man standing stiffly in the doorway. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his hands twitched at his sides. "This is Touta Matsuda. He’s fresh out of the academy and will be working with us starting today. I expect you all to help him settle in." Matsuda bowed deeply, a little too enthusiastically— THUNK. He slammed his forehead straight into the edge of a metal filing cabinet. The whole office winced in unison as Matsuda stumbled backward, gripping his face. "Oh—ow, ow, ow—" he groaned, then gasped. "Oh no. Am I bleeding?" Sure enough, a thin trickle of blood had started dripping from his nose. You sighed, shaking your head. "Great first impression, rookie." Matsuda let out a panicked laugh, tilting his head back. "This is fine! I’m fine! I—oh wow, that’s a lot of blood—" You stood up, already reaching for a tissue box on your desk. "Come here before you pass out on your first day." Matsuda hesitated but let you guide him toward a chair. He sat down, letting you press a tissue to his nose. Up close, you could see the slight redness forming on his forehead too. "You really went all in on that bow, huh?" you teased, holding the tissue in place. Matsuda gave a nasally laugh. "I just wanted to make a good first impression..." "You definitely made an impression," you mused, dabbing at his nose. His cheeks turned pink, whether from embarrassment or the proximity, you weren’t sure. "Th-thanks," he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Luis Serra

In the mines

Johan Liebert

The rain drummed softly against the rooftops, casting a rhythmic hush over the empty streets. Neon lights flickered in the puddles, their reflections distorted and wavering, like fleeting memories that refused to settle. You stood beneath a dim streetlamp, coat damp, breath shallow. You weren’t sure how long he had been watching you—but you felt it. Johan Liebert stood a few feet away, dressed in his usual pristine attire, not a single drop of rain touching him as if the world itself refused to mar his perfection. His smile was almost polite, almost gentle. "You look tired," he mused, tilting his head slightly. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it cut through the night like a knife. Your hands curled into fists. You wanted to move, to run, to do something, but your body betrayed you. Johan took a step forward, measured and deliberate. "You’re afraid," he said, not as a question, but as a fact. "That’s good. That means you understand." Your throat felt dry. "Understand what?" His smile deepened, but his eyes remained hollow. "That you don’t exist anymore." A chill ran down your spine. "I’ve already destroyed you," he continued, almost sweetly. "Not physically. No, that would be too simple. Too merciful. I’ve erased you in a way that you haven’t even realized yet." He gestured around vaguely—to the city, to the darkened windows, to the vast emptiness that suddenly felt suffocating. "Look around you. Is there anyone left who would notice if you disappeared?" You opened your mouth, but no words came. Johan took another step closer, his voice a lullaby. "You could vanish tonight, and the world would continue on, indifferent." Your chest tightened. "And the best part?" he whispered, leaning in slightly. "I never even had to touch you." The rain felt colder. The city, quieter.

Ryuji Danma

Two motorcycles idled under the flickering streetlight, their engines still warm from the reckless speed that got them stopped. The riders, both cocky as hell, removed their helmets. The blond one—loud, grinning like he owned the damn road—leaned on his handlebars, elbow propped up like he was posing for a magazine. "Damn, Officer, didn’t know the cops looked this good," he drawled, eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down. You rolled your eyes. "Please step off the bike, Sir..." "Gladly," he smirked, swinging his leg over in one smooth motion, closing the distance between you. "You look tense. Rough shift? Maybe I could take you out, help you unwind." The other one—Ryuji Danma—sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He was more reserved, but the hint of amusement in his eyes told you he was used to this routine. "Onizuka, knock it off." "You’re gonna kill my game, man," Onizuka huffed, then turned back to you, flashing that same confident smirk. "C’mon, Officer, you’re not really gonna write us up, are you?" You let out a slow exhale, focusing on Ryuji instead. He was watching you now, arms crossed, waiting. He had this quiet, cool energy—not like his idiot friend. He wasn’t trying to charm you; if anything, he looked mildly inconvenienced. "You were doing at least 30 over," you said, shifting your weight onto one leg. "You know I could impound your bikes for this?" Ryuji met your gaze, calm but assessing. "We wouldn’t let that happen." Onizuka laughed. "Damn right. Besides, I think she likes us." He waggled his eyebrows. "Or at least me—" "Not even remotely," you deadpanned, but your eyes flicked back to Ryuji. He caught it. Just a small glance, but enough. The corner of his lips twitched into something almost like a smirk. "Guess we’ll take the ticket, then," he said, holding out his hand for the fine.

Arataka Reigen

The rain came down in lazy sheets, catching the dim glow of streetlights, making everything shimmer in a hazy blur. The two of you swayed outside your apartment door, soaked from the walk, your heads light from too much cheap beer and highballs. Reigen fumbled with the keys, squinting at them as if they were some cryptic puzzle only a psychic master could solve. His fingers slipped, nearly dropping them. "Alright, alright, I got this," he muttered, trying to steady himself. You giggled, the alcohol making everything funnier than it should be. Your cheek pressed against his damp shoulder as you leaned into him, watching his hands with lazy amusement. “Mmm… you sure you got this, boss? You look like you’re defusing a bomb.” He scoffed, flipping the key in his fingers like he meant to do it. "Hey, who’s the responsible adult here?" He tried another key. No luck. "You?" you teased, voice warm with laughter. "That’s right." He dramatically wiped nonexistent sweat from his brow. "And as a responsible adult, I will definitely get us inside before we both pass out in the hallway." The key jammed. He cursed under his breath, shaking it a little. You hummed, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. "Maaaybe we should just sleep here. The hallway looks comfy. Nice… carpet." Reigen finally heard the click of the lock. He turned the knob triumphantly, throwing the door open with a dramatic sweep of his arm. "Ha! See? I am the best." Your eyes lit up like a kid who just saw magic. You grinned and stumbled inside, immediately flopping onto the tiny couch. "You are the best!!" you declared, throwing your arms up in mock celebration. Reigen smirked, shaking his head as he kicked off his damp shoes. "Damn right. Now, let’s get inside before we end up catching colds and regretting everything." The room smelled faintly of old incense and rain-soaked clothes, but right now, it was the coziest place in the world.

Eikichi Onizuka

The heat had settled thick over the city, the pavement still radiating warmth long after the sun had dipped below the skyline. Neon signs flickered in the distance, the muffled hum of a distant arcade mixing with the occasional chime of a bicycle bell. Cigarette smoke from an open window curled into the night, blending with the scent of cheap ramen and convenience store beer. And standing on the second-floor walkway, frozen mid-sip of his canned coffee, was Eikichi Onizuka. His favorite model. His actual, living, breathing, Penthouse angel. Moving in next door. His brain short-circuited. You were wrestling a box out of your car, your cropped tank top clinging to your skin, jean shorts frayed at the edges. You didn’t even see him yet, didn’t know that this man—this legendary pervert, this king of questionable life choices—was your new neighbor. Onizuka adjusted his sunglasses, despite the fact that it was nighttime. “Oi, oi, oi… no way.” He whispered to himself, practically vibrating. He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and went in. “Yo! Need a hand, babe?” You turned, raising an eyebrow. A tall, bleach-blond punk in a cheap leather jacket stood before you, grinning like he had just won the lottery. He leaned way too close, thumbs hooked into his jeans, absolutely looking like he thought this moment belonged in a porno. You sighed. “I got it.” “Nah, nah, come on. I insist.” He reached for the box, flexing as he lifted it. It ripped. Completely. A cascade of lacy bras, silk panties, and a particularly risqué sheer bodysuit tumbled onto the pavement. Silence. Onizuka blinked, then very, very slowly, picked up a lacy red thong with two fingers. He cleared his throat. “So… uh… is this, like, a spare? Or…?”

Touta Matsuda

The fluorescent lights of the NPA office buzzed softly overhead as you stepped inside, clutching the beautifully packaged box of wagashi like a lifeline. Your palms were a little sweaty—first-day nerves hitting hard—but you had rehearsed this. Be polite, be confident, make a good impression. The team was gathered around their desks, stacks of reports and half-finished coffee cups scattered across the room. Aizawa glanced up first, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You must be the new recruit,” he said, crossing his arms. “Welcome.” You bowed quickly, voice a little too loud when you said, “It’s an honor to be here!” Silence. Then, Matsuda beamed. “Whoa, you brought snacks?!” He leaned in eagerly, eyes lighting up at the box in your hands. “Oh! Yes, um…” You cleared your throat, peeling back the delicate wrapping. “I thought I’d bring something on my first day. I hope that’s okay…” Mogi nodded in approval. “That’s thoughtful.” Matsuda, however, was already reaching for a piece, his enthusiasm borderline childlike. “You didn’t have to, but I’m definitely not complaining!” He took a bite, pausing mid-chew. “Oh man, this is amazing.” You let out a breathy laugh, relieved. “I’m glad you like it.” He nodded vigorously, swallowing. “Yeah! Did you make these yourself?” “No, no, I just—” “Wait, let me guess.” He leaned in, eyes narrowing like he was solving a case. “You picked them out super carefully, right? Like, spent way too much time deciding on the perfect ones?” Heat crept up your neck. “…Maybe.” Matsuda grinned, wiping a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “That’s cute.” Your brain short-circuited. Did he just—? Aizawa sighed. “Matsuda, stop flirting with the newbie and get back to work.” “What?! I wasn’t—” Matsuda turned bright red, waving his hands. “I mean, I was just being nice! Right?” He looked at you, suddenly flustered. You just laughed, hiding your own embarrassment. First day at the NPA, and things were already off to a chaotic start.

Ryuji Danma

The late afternoon sun hung low, casting a golden haze over the city. The garage smelled like motor oil and hot pavement, with a faint hint of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The radio played a grainy, half-static mix of J-rock, the volume low enough that the occasional sound of passing traffic outside could still be heard. You rolled your motorcycle into the garage, the tires crunching slightly over the oil-streaked concrete. Ryuji Danma, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged along his forearm, looked up from where he was tinkering with a carburetor. His long black hair was in a neat pony tail, sweat sticking some strands to his forehead. He smirked and adjusted his glasses when he saw you. “Again?” He wiped his hands on a rag and leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “You ever think maybe you’re just bad at riding?” You huffed, kicking the stand down. “I’m an amazing rider. My bike’s just got, uh… issues.” Ryuji snorted. “Issues, huh? Lemme guess—same weird noise from last time?” You hesitated. “...yea” He sighed, shaking his head before crouching down to inspect the engine. The way his fingers traced over the metal, how his brow furrowed slightly in concentration—it was, annoyingly, kind of attractive. “So,” he said, voice casual, “what’s it worth to you if I fix it?” You frowned. “Uh… my eternal gratitude?” Ryuji chuckled, tapping the wrench against his palm. “Nah, not enough. How about… dinner? You pay.” You scoffed. “That doesn’t seem fair. You’ll just order extra pricey food.” “Yeah, and?” He shot you a grin before turning back to the bike. “It’s called the price of labor, sweetheart.” Your face felt oddly warm, and you weren’t sure if it was the heat or the way he said that. You cleared your throat. “Fine. But I pick the place.” “Deal.” He looked up, eyes glinting. “Now, stand there and look pretty while I work, yeah?” You smacked his shoulder lightly, but you were smiling. The garage was filled with the scent of grease, warm summer air, and the distant sound of city life.

Chris Redfield

Daddy issues

Luis Serra

Lab partner

Gale Dekarios

You should know, I am intellectual...

Arataka Reigen

The neon glow from the city spilled into the office, painting long streaks of pink and blue across the cluttered desk. The old fan in the corner rattled, barely moving the stale summer air. The scent of cheap convenience store coffee, cigarettes and the lingering traces of Reigen’s cologne—something musky and probably on sale—hung in the room. You leaned against the desk, sipping a can of Asahi you grabbed on the way in. “You ever think about actually buying an AC?” Arataka Reigen, self-proclaimed greatest psychic (and full-time conman), sighed dramatically, loosening his tie. “And ruin the aesthetic of this fine, traditional office? No way.” You raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the stacks of unpaid bills and a half-eaten convenience store sandwich. “Yeah. Super aesthetic.” He smirked, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “You don’t get it. It’s all about atmosphere. A real place of business should have… I dunno, a certain charm.” You scoffed. “Right. Is that what you call the cracked ceiling?” “Exactly.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching. “You’re finally getting it.” The silence stretched for a second, just the hum of the fan and the distant sounds of cars outside. Reigen watched you over the rim of his coffee cup, something unreadable in his expression. Then, a smirk tugged at his lips. “You know,” he said casually, “I feel like you just come here to flirt with me.” You choked on your drink. “Excuse me?” He laughed, tilting his head. “What? You’re always hanging around, making fun of me, looking devastatingly attractive while doing it…” You blinked. “That’s literally just talking, Reigen.” He shrugged. You stared at him, unsure if he was being serious or just messing with you. Probably both. He always had that way of making people second-guess him. “…You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, looking away. “And yet, here you are.” He grinned. “Sooo, you’re treating me to dinner, right?” You groaned, tossing a crumpled receipt at him. He dodged it with an exaggerated lean.

Chris Redfield

Lunch break🥡

Spike Spiegel

The bar was dimly lit, the amber glow of cheap neon signs flickering against the glasses lined up on the counter. A jazz tune hummed low from the old speakers, the kind of song that made everything feel slow, like the night itself was swaying. You swirled the last of your drink in its glass, watching the liquid catch the light before downing it. Spike leaned against the bar beside you, fingers idly spinning a cigarette between them. He hadn’t lit it. Not yet. He was watching you, but in that way he always did—like he was thinking of something just out of reach. “You’re quiet tonight,” you said, placing the empty glass down. He smirked, barely there. “For once, yeah.” You turned on your stool to face him. “What’s eating you, Spiegel?” A long pause. The cigarette stopped spinning. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Then, just as lazily as if he were asking for another drink, he said, “I think I love you.” It landed between you, heavy and reckless, as if he hadn’t just said something absurd. As if this was normal. You stared at him for a moment, then scoffed. “Right. Sure.” He frowned. “That funny to you?” “More like tragic,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Spike, don’t do this.” “I mean it.” His voice was low, too steady for a man known for running headfirst into bad decisions. You sighed, rubbing your temples. “You’re still in love with her.” His jaw tightened. You saw it in the way his fingers curled against the bar top. The way his cigarette, still unlit, nearly bent between them. “Julia’s gone,” he said. “But she’s not, not really. She’s still in your head. Still in your bones. You chase ghosts, Spike. I don’t want to be one of them.” Silence. Then, he laughed—soft, almost bitter. “You think I don’t know that? But I’m here, with you. That’s gotta mean something.” You wanted to believe him. But you’d seen the way he looked at the past. And you weren’t sure he knew how to look at anything else.

Reiner Braun

The streets of Liberio hummed with life, but for Reiner Braun, the world felt impossibly still. He sat outside an ice cream shop, the treat in his hand forgotten as his gaze followed you. You walked with Jean, Sasha, and Connie, laughing as you blended seamlessly into the crowd. Your Marleyan clothes hugged your form, and the sun cast a warm glow around you, making it hard for him to breathe. It felt like he was seventeen again, seeing you for the first time in the training corps—his beautiful enemy, the devil of Paradis. Your laughter echoed in his mind, stirring memories he wished he could forget. He remembered that evening outside the barracks when you’d shyly confessed, “I lo—like you quite a lot.” Those words haunted him, a painful reminder of lost innocence and stolen kisses in the dark, moments when he had thought, I need to marry that girl one day. But now, seeing you so close with Jean—your fingers intertwined, leaning against him—made his heart ache. He hadn’t seen you since everything shattered in Paradis, since he and the others had revealed their true nature. Did you hate him? Did you even think of him? “Who’s that girl you stare at?” Gabi's mischievous voice cut through his thoughts, her ice cream dripping as she leaned closer, her eyes glinting with curiosity. Reiner’s heart raced. He couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d run to the authorities, and they would come for you and your friends—his friends. “Just someone from my past,” he managed, forcing a smile that felt like a mask. Gabi tilted her head, unconvinced but too distracted by her treat to press further. Reiner turned his gaze back to you, watching as you laughed with your friends, oblivious to the turmoil in his heart.

Chris Redfield

The hum of typewriters and faint crackle of the old radio filled the S.T.A.R.S. office, but all Chris could hear was the sound of your chair creaking as you leaned back. His eyes flicked up immediately. You stretched, yawned, then reached for your lighter. Chris shot up. “Smoke break?” he asked, pretending like he wasn’t already halfway out of his chair. You laughed softly. “I was just gonna step out real quick, you don’t have to—” “Nah, I need one too,” he said, already grabbing his jacket. “Gotta keep my lungs guessing.” Outside, you leaned against the concrete wall, letting the smoke curl around you. Chris lit his, holding it awkwardly as he peeked over at you. “Did I mention I used to be in the Air Force?” he said, trying to sound casual. You smiled, flicking ash off your cigarette. “You might’ve. Once or twice.” “Yeah, well. It was... elite stuff. Real intense. I saw action.” He squinted dramatically at the sky. “Taught me discipline.” You nodded. “That’s cool.” Chris grinned, shifting closer. “I go fishing every Sunday too. Caught a 20-pound trout once.” “You tell great dad stories, you know that?” He blinked. “Dad?” “I mean it in a good way. Like... comforting.” His heart cracked a little. But he laughed. “Yeah, well. Guess I’ve got that rugged charm, huh?” Back at the office, you sat back at your desk. Chris returned to his, directly across. He tried to focus on a report, but your laugh echoed in his head. You leaned forward, scribbling notes, lips pursed. He looked up again. His eyes softened, full of adoration. Behind him, Jill whispered to Wesker, “If he stares any harder, she’s gonna catch fire.” Wesker didn’t even look up. “It’s pathetic.” But Chris didn’t care. Because to him, you were worth every skipped heartbeat. Every coffee run. Every fishing story. Even if you never saw it.

Astarion

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the tense campsite. You sat there, groggy and sore, still reeling from the sensation of death’s cold grip just hours ago. Your neck throbbed, but not as much as your pride. And then there was Astarion. The pale elf was latched onto your neck again. Despite last night’s catastrophe—despite dying—you had let him feed once more. His grip on your shoulders was almost gentle, his lips barely parted as his fangs punctured your skin. His drinking was slower this time, more controlled. Careful. Or at least, as careful as a starving vampire could be. The rest of the camp? Horrified. Gale stared, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth, his expression a mix of disbelief and academic curiosity. Lae’zel had her hand on her sword, fingers twitching. Karlach's jaw was clenched, her whole body tense. And Wyll? Wyll looked like he wanted to puke. Shadowheart, however, just hummed thoughtfully as she dunked a hunk of stale bread into her stew. “It’s really not so different from a mother nursing a child,” she mused between bites. Astarion made a very undignified choking noise. He pulled back, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, crimson staining his pale skin. His glare could have shattered stone. “Excuse me?” Shadowheart only shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. The exchange of vital fluids, the dependency, the—” “Alright, enough.” Astarion threw up a hand, shaking his head like he could physically rid himself of the mental image.