#hungerred

marcus the worm sentence starters - part 1

The call of hunger could never be ignored nor postponed, this had learnt early on after his accident. After enduring a complete cellular reconfiguration, that left him with an unpredictable appetite, and a tendency to gorge infrequently, rather than eat every few hours. As such, caught between missions, he knew that corrective measures were needed immediately, rather than later on; no matter what it took to do so.

"There's more than that available here." Contributing a stray thought, each word shared was selected carefully, preferring to avoid starting any kind of dispute with the other that held the potential for causing collateral damage, given that they technically were breaking and entering into someone else's property. Taking advantage of the late hour, a supermarket that had fully closed for the night became their mutual target, the rule of law quietly falling by the wayside for now as exterior camera systems are torn off walls and internal alarm systems, both loud and silent, were disabled.

Having removed all other obstacles, access was gained through a service side-door rather than any other route, lock disposed of with a quick scoring of talons upon metal as an "After you" is aired, electing to follow rather than lead their voyage inside. Upon emerging, beneath lights turned to a dimmed setting, banners and stall posters announced that they stood amongst the bakery section, with their true destination of the chilled meats and frozen food freezers visible a few aisles away, in front of them. The reduced luminance, if anything, came as a benefit for Miguel, rather than a hindrance, but he was less certain on how it would be for fellow starved.

//if you are still accepting 🫰

🔥 call this bitch out, or something - accepting!

HE'S MID-BULLSHIT to his usual audience of z team losers when she cuts across him. not even a polite interruption either, no social lube. just @hungerred, from two tables over, dropping that line into the SDN breakroom.

Flambae still has one boot hooked on the chair, body pitched forward into the performance of it all. he'd been in the middle of explaining, very accurately, how if their bitch dispatcher stopped wasting his time pairing him with untrained fuckin' liabilities and sent him out alone or with competent people, he could clear twice the jobs before lunch and still make it back in time to watch the rest of them collapse on the cheap couches. some embellishment, sure. some peacocking. that's called morale. gotta make 'em work harder, keep up with him.

now all of it catches in his throat for a painfully awkward moment. not because she's wrong, fuck that, but because she did it in public, and that gets under the skin different. his hackles go up so fast you could almost expect to hear a hiss. there's a mean little pulse under his collarbone, and he knows without looking that the jarring overhead lights just got a fraction less necessary around his end of the table.

slowly, he turns his head. Aisha's standing there with a roadkill-picking stare. he leans back instead of forward. then he smirks, all gap-teeth and insolence.

"she wants me to say it slower?" he says loudly, cutting a sweeping gaze briefly to the room like he's inviting them in on the joke. "fine. I. do. shit. better. than. most. here, bitch." each word lands with a tap of his finger against the table.

because obviously he can't just let it go, can't let her have the last clean hit in front of an audience. his pride won't let him and his pride, unfortunately, pays rent here. so he pushes off the table and stands to unfold to full height, shoulders broad, heat radiating in invisible waves. the old instinct, the villain one, still lives in the marrow: if you feel cornered, get bigger. get brighter. and because he hates how exposed he suddenly feels, how she managed, in one sentence, to make him feel like some loudmouth kid showing off at the wrong lunch table, he does what he always does.

he doubles the fuck down.

"so unless you're about to challenge my scores, my clearance times, or the fact I look this fuckin' good while doin' both..." he says, gesturing at himself, "you can either shut the fuck up and keep eating your mystery meat, or make this a lunch-break-and-a-show."

"What? No. I'm an Avenger, I don't gotta fake anythin'. These are all natural."

He's lying.

He's practicing his fake cough so he can feign sick and ditch the next meeting--

     ❝ Can we stop by a gas station   ?   I'm hungry. ❞     Once again, Aisha was dependent on someone else ( 's money ).    ❝ Or a pizza place, whatever is closer. ❞

"Dude, you already demolished my glovebox pretzels. And you ate that one guy's bag of pepperoni--"

Clint glances to her like he's trying to make sure he's hearing this right. Shit, he thought he was a bottomless pit. (Was this what Buck felt like when traveling with him?)

"..I could go for a pizza."

He relents at the mention of pizza because... bro, pizza.

"Unless you're itchin' for some gas station meat..? Can you wait, uh, maybe seven minutes? Traffic should clear up n' we can grab some pizzas on the way back to base."