#am I just falling in the trap of thinking human decency is the same as active kindness? None of it makes any sense at all to me

[transmissionsfromthebattlefield]

Consumer Decency

People fall so easily into the trap of feeling like they know things. Not necessarily everything. But they know things, and they want you to know that. Knowing those things is not important. Recognizing the other's superiority is.

Now, I'd say I know things. I'd say there are certain highly influential consumerist traps and patterns in society that the majority of people are blind to. I just happened to be raised outside the Big Disney machine, so I guess I have the privilege of having less of my train of thought controlled by it. But the tendencies I have towards certain things come from the same place as the tendencies of people who gladly slurp convenience store sushi off of old Uncle Walt's rotting corpse every day. We're all human, and humans do weird things to make the right bells go off. We don't know the picture by name.

Consider every ping as another step towards our individual version of 'enlightenment', to use a universally understood term—a step towards consciousness. A step towards awareness, towards greater understanding. Greater understanding of how the world works requires knowledge. But we hoard the knowledge we obtain. We convert it to a status symbol, because we see it as the only thing we have. We live in a Western world of abundance and general stability. When we take these stabilities for granted, we think we own nothing when we really have what many in other parts of the world—or even within our own country's borders—would consider heaven.

Attaining consciousness requires suffering. But one cannot truly attain consciousness when the good is taken for granted. The generations that experienced World War II and Vietnam are slowly dying off. 'Nam was the last time Americans utilized the draft, the last time Americans feared friends, family, and themselves being randomly plucked from the claw machine sprawl and stranded abroad to die...now wartime is something only baby killers partake in, despite the many pressures that lead many to enlist for a life plan. If we don't need it or are told we don't need it, anyone who engages is a subhuman and a toasty crisp. When my foot is blown off by a landmine I let out a cry and I see a man in crisp jeans who loves that I have gotten what I have asked for. I let out a wail, but he does not hear. He sees the headline about the silly human, the sad human, who got what she asked for. And because of that I am an ant. A cool ant, because I'm dead, and the only thing cooler than death is committing your life to dragged out suicide.

In a chaotic world humans seek stability, but only one kind of stability is uncool. The mind is a whirling vortex of neon lights flashing colors and sedation to black and white—that's the good stability—keeps the color from bleeding and mingling. The black and white, names constantly changing and mutating, maul each other, unable to coexist but destined to in the name of endless warfare. They create holes in each other, which regenerate or are filled by the other side instantly, constantly exchanging punches. The world (or a thousand, or a hundred, or one) watches with binoculars on the outer edges of the coliseum. The show is a spectacle. The crowd roars.

No war but sex war.

[definitely-not-an-alias]

I think the core ideas that've best helped me start to unlearn a lotta harmful ideas about our world and the folks who inhabit it are: "They're just people" and "But they are people first".

Not in a "all people are the same", "all people are the same as me" or "all societies are essentially the same" kinda way. Or in a "let's go hug bigots" or "you should forgive all the people who've hurt you" kinda way.

"They're just people" in the way that all these groups we're told to look down on or exalt, told to fear or hate or kill, told were better or worse than us, told are fundamentally different from us, on and on and on, are just. People. And they're people before anything else.

Different people, sure. Ancient civilizations were startlingly different from modern ones. Folks living on another continent from me, or somewhere else on the continent, or somewhere else in my region, or somewhere else in my city, will all have very different lives. But they are people first. And they're just people.

Humanity is not made up of great and small people, or of monolithic groups. We are not ideologies made physical. We're just people.

We're shaped by the world and our histories, definitely. It's unavoidable. And we have caused and continue and will continue to cause needless suffering. But in order to minimize that suffering and live well with each other, we mustn't keep falling into the same mental traps.

Those doing harm should be stopped. But they are people first. Making our enemies, even those who most directly want to harm us, into superhumans or subhumans is wrong and foolish. Not wrong in a moral sense, but in a practical one. There are genuinely awful people, but they are still people. They need to be treated with a base level of decency, even when they wouldn't give us the same. Not because stooping to their level makes us the same. It doesn't, not always. But because some actions are wrong regardless of who's doing them or why. We must exclude dehumanizing behavior or we won't be able to move past it. But we shouldn't forget it exists. History is necessary to keep.

And those in power must be held accountable. But they're just people. Not superhuman masterminds or any such thing. Just people abusing power. Nothing impressive. The only thing protecting them from repurcussions is the idea that they are somehow more than any other person. But they're not. They'll age and die and make mistakes like everyone else.

And the greats among us aren't divinely endowed or exceptional beyonad all reason. They're just skilled people. More skilled than most any other. But not in any supernatural way. Just people.

I don't have solutions to specific problems here, mind. More of starting principles to guide my behavior and avoid needless harm. And these thoughts touch a lot of things. But I think starting from recognizing inherent humanity is helpful.

My apologies for the rambling and incomplete thoughts. I am sleepy. Many things I intended to say that I didn't, or said poorly. I am sleepy. Perhaps I'll revisit this later. I'm making an attempt to write more. And write in a more longform manner. Writing out difficult or expansive or intense thoughts is good practice. And a good way to examine these thoughts for flaws or ways to improve them.

[fanficlibraryposts]

Larry Stylinson(1D) Fic Recs

sleeping on our problems by falsegoodnight

I’m in love with you, Louis thinks. He feels empty, weighed down by his sadness and the loss of Harry inside him just moments ago before his knot finally went down. There’s moments where he’s sure Harry feels the same. Like now, when he’s gazing down at Louis with so much adoration and tenderness. It’s like they’re both on the cusp of something more, but neither of them ever say a word. His confession is on the tip of his tongue ready to slide out like honey, and yet he remains silent. They both do, looking at each other and recognizing the reluctance mirrored in each other’s eyes. It’s then that Louis realizes they’re both scared.

-

Or Louis sleeps with Harry and they have more than just catching feelings to worry about.

*A/B/O au, so soft and fluffy with just a dash of angst*

Foolishly, Completely Falling by dea_liberty

"Now that he’s actually gone and done it, there seems to be no way of going back - no rinse and repeat, no ctrl+alt+del, no abort button, no help to be had. He’s fallen into a black hole and he cannot seem to find a way out. The black hole is also known as Tumblr. More specifically, it’s known as Tumblr’s Larry Stylinson tag."

OR: The one where Louis becomes a Larry shipper by accident.

Put It All On Me by LoadedGunn

 "Yeah, yeah, give it to me, that's it, spread your legs a bit, there you go."

 The camera follows Louis as he does. Maybe if the modelling thing doesn't work out, he could try the porn industry. Then again, he's a bit too stocky to be twinky and a bit too twinky to be anything else. He likes that about himself, though. Well, directors and photographers like that about him. He could pull off pretty and edgy, could do GQ in the morning and a perfume commercial in the afternoon. Right now he thinks he could pull off anything, because it's Harry fucking Styles directing him.

Or, a Top Model AU where Louis is accidentally there to make friends, not become Britain's Next Top Model. (Also Zayn is the supermodel host.)

Promises We Made by thekindofworld

Its been five years since Harry and Louis broke up; they were seventeen and nineteen and it was messy to say the least. Cue Louis, who is worked off his feet making clothes for celebrities, Harry dropping his debut album, Niall who likes to avoid his insecurities by dragging Louis on Holiday, Zayn and Perrie as Louis' right hand stylists, and Liam who wishes Harry would just tell him about his ex-boyfriends before he contacts them about working for him.

Its either going to be a disaster, or the perfect timing they've all been waiting for.

*I’ve been very into fashion au lately*

but me, i’m not a gamble by orphan_account

A Posh & Becks AU in which Harry is a star on the stage and Louis is a star on the pitch, but they're both inexplicably terrible at articulating their feelings. In the end, it only takes a season's worth of failed matchmaking schemes, platonic dinner dates, road trip holidays, and one very convenient David Beckham cameo for them to figure it all out. And if Niall knew all along? Well, he at least has the decency not to be too smug about it.

Boys Fall From the Sky by fookinloosah

Superheroes. America is full of them — complete with masks, nauseating pseudonyms, and neon spandex suits. There’s none of that nonsense in Britain, thank you very much…until Harry Styles’ X Factor audition takes an unexpected turn, and Britain’s first hero is born.  

Also featuring Louis as a man of many masks, Zayn the rebel comic artist, Liam as Britain’s counter-attack to Justin Bieber, and Niall the trusty guitarist.

*I adore this fic, one my all time favorites*

The Last Something That Anything by jaded25

"You know my heart - so tell me honestly, did you ever really want this? So I’ll sing this song for every word that comes out wrong But I’ll be okay – is that what you want me to say?"

In the end, it's neither the fame or the pressure, nor Management or the constant hiding and denying that tears them apart. Or maybe it's a sum of all  and so much more on top. In the end, it's Harry.

When Harry leaves the band - leaves Louis - to pursue his dreams of a solo career, he breaks much more  than just One Direction. It's a gamble and a new start for each of the boys but while Harry walked away smiling, finally having got everything he apparently dreamt of, Louis is left to pick the pieces up.

Some hearts don't break even, some are simply shattered. So can you really learn to un-love someone?

*So deliciously angsty*

no pressure, no diamonds by karamelised

A life of crime means there is no nine to five, no white picket fence and definitely no happily ever after. In a life where lying gets you everywhere and stealing things becomes a sport, there is no place for romantic endings. Louis knows this, and so does Harry. Problem is, they're both wrong.

or

Louis is a thief, Harry a grifter. They are thrown together for a huge diamond heist in Paris, where their past soon catches up to them.

Blood Right by Evina1234

“Is that-him?” someone next to Louis asks. “Who else would dress in red if not for him today?” Beside Louis, Lady Camellia had her eyes locked on the one in red garbs, as same as many around them. Clearly this must be intended, or why dress in such a way today at first place? “My... He looks dashing." the first one licks her lips, eyes darkening in a laced lust. "Who would've known? Thought he'd be in chains, stuck in a dark dungeon." The other scoffs. “Have you been under a rock? He's the most privileged Lycan alive. The King's ward, some go so far as to call him his consort. It’s all hushed, but I have my sources.” she reveals like a dirty secret. In a world where the Vampires have taken over, Humans are just pawns in blood farms, Warlocks are extinct while the King has Lycans under his thumb - eliminating the threat of the lethal bite. The world is falling apart. Louis, nephew to the malistic Vampire King, lives away from it all in blessed ignorance until he gets dragged into the chessboard that traps him in front of a green eyed Prince who is bound to a miserable fate. Or where Louis wants to save Harold, the Prince of Lycans, when Louis' allies want him DEAD 

*super intense, vampire au with political intrigue mixed in*

the one that leads me on through by colourexplosion

Louis was certain that he was done with his tenuous connection with fellow skater, Harry Styles. But then, you know, the universe throws a wrench in all that when Simon takes Harry on for the next season.

Or, an AU in which the members of one direction are actually figure skaters.

Disclaimer: The fanfiction above were not written by me for I am not nearly as creative. However, I am an avid reader and movie buff so these are some of my favorite fanfiction within the fandom. I politely ask that you read the tags attached the fanfiction beforehand so that you know what you are getting yourself into, there may be crossovers. If you don’t like it then don’t read it. In addition, I ask that there be no bashing, the fics are based on my preferences and what I like. Lastly, if there are any specific genre or fandom of fics you want me to get into let me know through my ask box.  

[seijch]

of slushies and shitty coffees ft. iwaizumi hajime.

🍬 iwaizumi hajime + gender neutral!reader

🍬 1.5k, convenience store worker!reader, vague immortal and reincarnation au

🍬 this was for vee but i think she deactivated 🧍‍♂️ its also the first one i wrote back in october so its ... maybe not my best

"you know what i am, don't you?" + being immortal boils down to 70% loneliness, 20% doing whatever the hell you want, and 10% recurring nuisances that bear an odd resemblance to your first love. 

To say you hated working the night shift would be an understatement.

Sure, most days it passed with relative ease and allowed you to study on the clock, your studies rarely interrupted. A group of friends with the munchies here, a fellow student in need of a pick-me-up there, and an elderly woman that came in like clockwork at the 4am mark to buy cat food for the strays living nearby. You were well-acquainted with the few regulars of your shift and fond of the night manager, Saeko. On paper, there would be little to hate.

But the classes you had a mere three hours after your shift ended were nothing short of a living nightmare to push through; at this point, you’re sure that your blood is almost entirely comprised of the slushies and shitty coffee you spend your shift helping yourself to.

In fact, you’re in the middle of making yourself one of these slushies when the door opens behind you. “Welcome,” you throw over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the customer as you achieve slushie-making self-actualization.

Your mouth goes dry instantly.

You’re sure they don’t just let Greek gods walk into the nearest 7-11, but there’s clearly a first time for everything. He’s handsome, with a jaw sculpted from the highest quality marble money could buy. In an attempt to prevent your jaw from hitting the floor, you take a long sip of the slushie. “Fuck!” you hiss, clutching your head as you wait for the brain freeze to recede.

In the time that it takes you to get back to the register, the attractive stranger is about ready to check out. “Just this for you?” you ask, the only noise being the whir of the air conditioning and the scanner beeping at the energy bars. When you don’t get a response, you glance up at him. He’s looking right at you, but there’s something deeper behind it.

It’s like he knows you, that you’re as familiar to him as the beat of his heart, the air in his lungs. It’s both too heavy and entirely too intimate for an interaction that consists of you ringing up his 2AM transaction of three protein bars. ”That’ll be $4.17.”

He pays in exact change. Not another word is exchanged between you, but the intrigue and infatuation you have for the stranger lingers, even into the classes you have the morning after.

The next time you see him, he’s with someone else. A friend, you assume — the man with the perfect brown hair ribs at him as they walk in. Once he makes eye contact with you, however, he falls silent.

You’re beginning to feel like you’re missing out on something, especially when the stranger’s friend pulls him over, saying something in a hushed whisper. Something begins to prickle at your skin, and it’s not (just) the way the AC vent blasts on you from where you‘re sitting.

Thankfully, Saeko has excellent timing, bringing the mop out and greeting the two with a wide grin. “We doing alright over here, boys?” They nod, Mr. Shampoo Commercial saying something about midnight cravings before they make their way to the slushie machine.

”Listen,” Saeko whispers to you as the mop passes your spot at the register, “if those boys do or even say anything strange, you know what to do.” When you’d first started working the night shift, Saeko had been very clear that your safety was her top priority.

(“You college kids remind me of my baby brother,” she’d told you one night as you dusted the shelves. “I know it’d kill me if any of you got hurt.”)

You ring up two slushies: one cherry and one cola. Mr. Shampoo Commercial’s the one paying, and it’s as you‘re returning his change that he decides to speak. “Don’t you remember us?” His voice is smooth, with a dangerous lilt to it.

”Oikawa,” warns Mr. Protein Bar. “Don’t.”

”Why not, Iwa?” To you, Oikawa asks, “It’s been a while, don’t you think?”

”I’m sorry,” you say, trying to keep your voice even in the face of his questions, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your foot is poised to knock over a busted shelf behind you; it was Saeko’s alarm system, something she claimed could be heard from anywhere in the store.

A look is exchanged between the two men. You don’t bother trying to read it; it’s the sea and the storm, roiling with a language only the two of them are fluent in. “Sorry,” Iwa says, taking his slushie and shoving the cherry one in Oikawa’s hands. “Have a nice night.”

You don‘t see Iwa for a few weeks. The next time you do, he’s alone. It’s another wordless exchange; this time, he’s buying two cans of shitty coffee. “Is your friend waiting outside?” you ask. He looks surprised to hear your voice, probably expecting you to give him the bare minimum after your last encounter.

”Actually,” he rubs the back of his neck, sliding one of the cans your way, “that one’s for you. Sorry about what happened last time.” He pops open the tab of his coffee. “Oikawa doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

You nod, opening your own can. ”What was that all about?” you ask, taking a stab in the dark. You miss, unfortunately: he almost chokes on his coffee, the lines on his face growing more defined as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

”Don’t worry about it.”

It‘s a shitty answer paired with shitty coffee, but you take it.

And if you notice that he almost glimmers with an unreal sheen under the flickering fluorescent light, you dismiss the thought. Nothing else seems very real at three in the morning anyway.

He becomes another regular, swinging by twice a week. Two cans of coffee, paid for with exact change. You don’t have the heart to tell him that as an employee, you could just take from the pot whenever you wanted before you had to brew a new one for the morning rush. At first, he slides the can to you and wishes you a good night on his way out, but he grows more chatty as the weeks go by.

He asks about your day, asks about class, asks about work. Never does he share anything about the life he leads outside of shitty coffee and the four walls of the humble convenience store.

But it comes, little by little, like mismatched pieces forming the mosaic of Iwaizumi Hajime. You see it in the weight of the world trapped in his gaze, the way he rolls broad shoulders as if expecting the bones to crack. Most of all, you realize as you take a sip from your can one night, it’s the way he seems to know you better than you know yourself.

It started simple enough, a nod and a flash of something on his face when you told him what you were majoring in. A knowing chuckle, more to himself, when you mention how the old woman that bought cat food was one of your favorite customers. It comes, little by little, until one piece remains. The only way to get it is to ask.

He beats you to it. “You know what I am, don’t you?” he asks as you’re lifting tonight’s can of coffee to your lips. You spare him a glance before taking a long sip, delaying a response for as long as possible.

“You definitely look too good to be human.”

The corners of his lips twitch. “It’s good to know you never change.” You set the now empty can on the counter.

“Have we met before?” Iwaizumi, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. “Your friend with the perfect hair asked if I remembered you.” He snorts with the identifier you’ve given Oikawa, but you press on. “I don’t. But I think you remember me.”

You wait with bated breath for the final piece to fall into place, but he regards you with a look you can’t read.

You’re about to chalk it up to another swing and a miss, but he pulls out his wallet, a worn leather thing. From it comes a single picture, the color faded yellow, the image predating even black and white photography.

It’s Iwaizumi, looking just the same as he does now. He’s got his arm around the person next to him, pressing a kiss to their forehead. The other person is grinning from ear to ear, and it doesn’t take long to recognize who it is.

It’s you.

[ko-eko-ev-go-ms]

Also it’s weird I haven’t posted any vents in so long coz I’ve genuinely been doing so good (internally at least) that I haven’t needed to scream into void to process and it’s very weird that I’m here posting again

Hate when you realize something was more serious and happened and more specifically that you finally realize it’s something you’re gonna have to process for a while rather than just rapidly move on from, especially when it’s like way after the fact and just blegh

[tookishcombeferre]

Fandom Discourse

I have many special interests, and so my blog is very eclectic. But, I wanted to stand in support of a couple of folks who are having a hard time in the fandom belonging to one of my special interests. 

I don’t usually like to pile on, but ableism in this fandom is rampant, and it’s time I said something instead of just feeling sorry for myself. 

More on this under the cut.

Firstly, I want to elevate the voice of @phandombigotryarchive and @your-angle-of-music who have pointed out a lot of really really important things that I am, as a white person who loves the music in Phantom of the Opera and Erik, still learning, educating myself on, and researching. 

I know, for certain, that I have probably intentionally reblogged things from folks in the fandom and/or inadvertently supported folks on AO3 who are actively making this an unsafe space for POC and trans fans. For that, I am deeply sorry and want to do my homework better before supporting artists/writers who are not showing human decency. 

Thank you both for the work that you, and others, are putting into the fandom to make it safer for everyone to interact with. 

Additionally, I want to speak to my own relationship with this fandom as an autistic person. I knew, as I read through what was being said recently, that it was time to make my own post about something that has been bothering me about this fandom since I entered into it at the age of 13 long before my official autism diagnosis. 

To me, as an autistic person, Erik’s story always resonated with me as someone who is neuroatypical. Erik was living and observing neurotypical people while not knowing how to or having the ability to enter into their community. However, he LONGED for it. 

As an autistic person, this made a lot of sense to me. I, too, felt isolated from most other people, even if I was in close physical proximity. It was like a mirror where I could see out into the world, but the world couldn’t find me. So, I found the ALW imagery very applicable to the way I saw the world as early as 6. 

However, as I entered into the fandom and read fics from other writers, Erik remained trapped behind an inability to communicate EVEN when he and Christine were in a long standing relationship. He was flighty, obsessive, and just down right weird. I began to wonder if that’s how my romantic relationships would be, and if I would ever be able to be “a normal person” in a relationship with someone else. 

Erik in most fanfics, even in one’s I’ve mostly liked, does not get to develop beyond the way he is written in ALW or Leroux’s work. We’ve spent so much time making him “in character” without ever exploring the possibility that Erik might be able to engage in his special interests and develop into a fully functional autistic adult. However, I think, that is in part because we like to demonize and/or infantilize and/or fetishize him.  

Erik is not a baby. He’s not a sweet innocent child. He has killed people. He’s done wrong. He is capable of feeling emotions very deeply, including anger. He has a lot of depth that can be explored in fic. But, we don’t. We often reduce him to the weirdly-attractive, strange speaking, Angel-man behind the mirror. 

I find this most apparent in the way people write Erik’s dialogue.

The way Erik speaks, in the third person I mean, has always been an issue for me when I read fan fiction as well as the original Leroux text. As someone who talks to themselves quite frequently to help process sensory overstimulation/remember tasks, though not necessarily in the third person, I find it really uncomfortable how people use this in fic. I’m uncomfortable because Erik usually does this either when he’s super angry and beating up on Christine OR when he’s super sad and acting like a child. There’s never any mention of Erik talking to himself in the third person (or at all) when he’s pretending people are interviewing him about his latest composition or when he’s just trying to remember something important. 

For me, it’s the context that’s important. 

This is just one example of what the demonization and/or infantilization I’ve seen in fic in this fandom. 

Others include but are not limited to: 

1) Erik’s (often violent) meltdowns:  

Why are they problematic in fan fiction in this fandom: meltdowns are not just glorified rage fits. They’re scary and overwhelming. I usually fall asleep on the floor shortly after having one. I don’t just yell, throw something, scare people, and then sulk. If I’m violent at all, it’s towards myself. 

2) Erik’s obsession with Christine

Why is it problematic in fan fiction in this fandom: a lot of people sort of poke fun at Erik’s social ineptness when it comes to dealing with his romantic feelings for Christine (for example the life size mannequin of her). Yes, Erik loves her. However, do we really have to perpetually treat him like a high school boy? Do we have to make his crush really predatory just for character development? Is this really the only thing he loves? The answer to all of these questions is no - in case you were wondering. 

You know what I’d like to see Erik love more? His music and his organ. Can we give Erik’s organ and his music the love and rightful place in his life that they also deserve? For once, can we acknowledge that Erik’s special interests are as important to him as Christine? No. We can’t. We won’t. 

3) Putting Erik in socially uncomfortable positions for character development

Why is it problematic in fan fiction in this fandom: Neuroatypical people’s pain is not for you to profit off of in your fics. Period. It’s not character development. It hinders our character development. I am not a more “well developed character” for the number of socially awkward/ bullying situations that I’ve been forced into. Putting Erik in crowded spaces and giving him panic attacks sucks ass. No. Stop doing it. Find a better way, or just stop writing it all together. 

This is not an exhaustive list, but it is something that I’ve wanted to bring up for years. It feels nice to get this off my chest. 

TL;DR: Erik’s passions, lack of social skills, and other “quirks” of his character always made him a character I empathized with because he was like me. I don’t understand why people use these same quirks to infantilize, fetishize, and/or demonize him. I, an autistic adult, am not a child, not a fetish, and not evil. 

[matchasprouts]

Listen Closer - Chapter 2

[ your honour, i simply love him. also this may become my focus for a while so idk if The Walls and Ashes will keep getting semi-regular updates ]

First || Next || Previous || Last

“Do you ever think about making traps that aren’t iron maidens?” Amanda asked, looking up from her own work to watch Garrett attach a chain to a literal iron maiden.

Garrett glanced at her before scoffing and placing the collar on the chain down on the ground as he went around to the back of the maiden to check the pulley the chain was attached to. “I think about plenty of traps. Iron maidens are just my favourite. Would you rather I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Amanda cut him off, already knowing he was about to spew some shit on medieval torture methods. “I was just curious. I mean, they work, so I’m not complaining. And it keeps you busy.”

Right. Because if he wasn’t building or designing a trap he was writing, and that would be falling back on what he was trying to unlearn.

When he went to respond, he was cut off yet again by his phone ringing. He answered it almost immediately, since the only people with that number were his Jigsaw associates. “Yeah?” he greeted, tucking the phone under his ear as he got back to work.

“Garrett. I am in the car, outside. I need your help,” came the voice of John through the phone, the way he spoke making Garrett chuckle to himself. “Be prepared to carry a person.” Oh! There was no scheduled game for today?

Garrett once again tried to reply, just for John to hang up. He let out an annoyed groan, but flipped the phone shut and tossed it on the table. “Don’t touch my trap,” he told Amanda, before pulling down his sleeves and jogging outside to help John.

He was ninety percent sure he heard her fucking with his trap as soon as he left.

---

“Who in the FUCK is this guy?” Garrett asked, struggling slightly to keep John’s newest victim standing, his limp body leaning heavily into him. Garrett was the strongest of the three of them, sure, and the second tallest but this guy was HUGE. He had to be at least 6’0, and carrying him was like carrying a brick wall.

John glanced at him, a vague amusement in his eyes but a neutral look on his face. “That, Garrett, is Detective Mark Hoffman. Normally I don’t go after cops if I had no evidence that they’re dirty, but he attempted to frame us, and I cannot tolerate that. Getting caught myself doesn’t matter. Keeping you and Amanda safe does.”

Aww, murder dad moments. Better than the dad Garrett used to have. “Right,” he let out a huff, readjusting Mark as he dragged him through the room, FINALLY dropping him into a chair in the middle of the workshop. “No wonder he’s a detective, the man’s a fucking giant.”

He stood in front of the still passed out detective, giving him a proper look over. He was big, like he’d already said, with short dark brown hair that had looked black outside. He had surprisingly well formed lips for a presumably cis white guy, and Garrett surprised himself with the thought that they looked awfully biteable.

Ah, there’s his gay instinct. He’d been wondering where it had gone, since it hadn’t fucked him over when he’d met that Adam Faulkner guy- who was definitely cute, but also now haunting him, which kind of ruins the appeal.

Moving on from that, Hoffman also had a little bit of scruff on his jaw, which Garrett quickly realized was what he’d felt on his temple while he was carrying him to the chair.

His little inspection was cut short when John began setting up the trap, strapping Hoffman to the chair with a shotgun strapped to his chest, the barrel directly under his chin.

“That doesn’t look very escapable,” Garrett joked, sending a short look to Amanda, who immediately looked away, at least having the decency to be embarrassed about her rigged traps.

“You would be surprised what human beings will do to escape entrapment,” John replied simply. “But this one is not built for him to escape from on his own. I’m going to make him an offer.”

He looked at his two apprentices, gesturing for Amanda to come over to them. “I want both of you to keep working on your games tonight, out of the warehouse. I know much about the detective, but not everything. I’m not going to risk him lashing out.”

Of course. John Kramer was nothing if not protective of his apprentices. Theoretically, Hoffman would fall into this category when the night was over. “Well, my iron maiden’s done,” Garrett said, glancing back at his newest device. “My game could take place soon, if not tomorrow. I know where the player will be.”

John nodded at this. “Good. Run your game then. If all goes as planned tonight, it will be good for our newest recruit to see one of you in action. Maybe he’ll learn something. Now go, both of you.”

Usually, Amanda argued when he dismissed her, but apparently she could see that he was serious, and simply packed her things and left. Garrett looked at Hoffman one last time before doing the same.

He could hear Hoffman begin to stir as he stepped out the door, and he found himself hoping that everything would go smoothly tonight.

Gay ass.

---

“Man, just carrying bodies is giving me a work-out,” Garrett muttered under his breath as he readjusted the woman slung over his shoulder, finally lowering her to the ground of the room her game would be taking place in.

As much as he wanted to do one of those big, multi-room games he’d seen John put on, he just didn’t have enough experience for those yet. So, it was a single room, with a single trap. Since it was small, he’d chosen someone with a small offense.

He’d even gotten to record the tape himself.

The collar let out a satisfying click as he fixed it onto the player’s neck, humming a soft tune as he gave it a tug to ensure it was one correctly.

There was a key for her to get in the middle of the room, just barely out of reach of the chain. She’d really have to get creative with getting to it. He checked the chain itself as well, ensuring it wouldn’t break off. He finished his check-up with a look at the hinges on the doors of the iron maiden, and the pulley attached to the chain.

The player was starting to stir, so he placed the tape recorder next to her and took his chance to leave. After all, if she survived, he really needed her to not see his face.

Soon enough, he took his place in the camera room, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the desk.

“Do you always watch your games like that?” he heard someone speak up, looking to the door that Hoffman had just come through. He tilted his head at the detective, before grinning at him.

“Sure do,” Garrett replied, turning back to the screens. “Well, I would, if this wasn’t my first game. Usually I’m tinkering with something while John’s games are running.”

The player had woken up by then, clicking the tape on and cutting off the conversation.

“Hello Cara. I want to play a game,” the tape said, the voice making Garrett smile. It had been hard work getting his distorted voice to sound similar enough to the original Jigsaw’s. “For years you have kept yourself in a closet of your own creation in order to help others rise above you, allowing them to steal your work.”

“Well, unless you want that closet to become your death, you will rise above that today. Before you is a box, and inside it is the key to your freedom. You will have to work to get it. You have ten minutes. If you do not get to the key in time, the closet behind you will become your coffin. Live or die, Cara. Make your choice.”

The tape clicked off after that, and Cara did exactly what Garrett guessed she would- run straight for the box and find out the hard way that the chain was just barely short of the required length to grab it.

“This is usually the part where they start screaming for help and panicking. I gave her ten minutes because I knew she would, and that’s when a lot of people tend to die. I wanted to give her a fair chance.”

That almost seemed nice, but it was a lie. Garrett liked watching them thrash around and panic. The more time they had alive, the more time they could slowly go insane.

Hoffman had moved closer at some point, now sitting next to him in a chair that he’d pulled over to the desk. This was the first time Garrett had seen him since last night, so he finally got a chance to look at his eyes.

For someone who wasn’t a fan of blue eyes, Garrett thought Hoffman’s were gorgeous. He very, very quickly looked away, turning his attention back to his game.

“Did you build the iron maiden yourself?” Hoffman asked, and Garrett scoffed at the question.

“No, unfortunately. I didn’t have enough time to build one from the ground up,” he answered with a soft, disappointed sigh. “I found most of it from a collector that built replicas of medieval shit, but never got around to completing it. I finished it off, added the extras.”

Hoffman gave a hum of acknowledgement, his gaze glued to the screen in front of them. “How is this supposed to help her? How did it even help you?” There it was. Since Hoffman hadn’t gone through a real game, he didn’t feel the same as Garrett and Amanda. He didn’t understand it like they did.

Garrett readjusted himself in his chair, tilting his head at the screen. “I don’t want to tear every person I see to shreds anymore,” he offered with a shrug. “I don’t feel like screaming for hours on end until my throat bleeds. I’d say it worked pretty well on me. Sometimes you just need that kind of release.”

“For her, she’s supposed to learn her worth. She’s not just the sum of what she can do for others, what’s more important is what she can do for herself. And she needs to figure that out. I don’t want her to die. Why would I? That’s not the point.”

He didn’t notice Hoffman turning to look at him while he spoke, so he almost flinched when he glanced over and made eye contact with him. They held each other’s gazes for a moment, before they both looked back to the screen.

Cara really was trying to get that box, having now resorted to removing her belt and attempting to loop it around the box. It took a few tries, but she finally got a grip on the box and pulled it over to herself.

She scrambled to open it, and Garrett glanced at the timer.

Eight seconds.

“She’s not going to make it,” he realized aloud. He hadn’t even noticed how quickly time was passing, but he didn’t feel anything when the timer went off, or when Cara screamed as the chain yanked back, dragging her into the iron maiden.

Her screams became wet and gurgled when the doors of the maiden closed on her. Blood seeped out of the cracks at the bottom of the door. He just stared at the screen.

“Huh. Maybe ten minutes wasn’t enough time. Shame. I was really looking forward to seeing her get better.” With that, he stood up, turned off the screen, and headed back to the room to leave the iconic jigsaw piece in her skin. Hoffman followed, and watched him do it. “Most important part, if they die,” Garrett told him as he cut the skin with a scalpel John had given him, closing the door again when he was done.

And then he turned to Hoffman, his head tilted to the side in a curious motion. “Will you be the detective on the case? I suppose this will be your first test of loyalty, hm? I’d hate to kill you. You’re very pretty.”

He gave Hoffman a pat on the shoulder as he left the room, leaving him to think on what he’d said. It wasn’t a threat, but it was clear that he would kill him if needed. But he genuinely did not want to.

A smile formed when he heard Hoffman follow him out of the room. It was nice to have another apprentice, and it was looking like they’d get along.

[fishmongeringstudies]

eight: if time can't heal it and love can't save it and hope won't keep you alive anymore

it turns out the ceiling light in my room was kind of busted. for three months i thought light fixtures in america were just Like That but looking at this one, right now, i realize light fixtures are supposed to be Like This, by which i mean bright enough to see your hands under, by which i mean bright enough to illuminate someone's eyes and fifteen gold earrings and teeth. the teeth are important. though if they aren't laughing very much i guess it won't matter.

lately i've been telling myself the same narrative over and over again in a grim attempt to retain my sanity. it goes like this: dear me, i say while punching a wall like a well-muscled thirty-something year old white male starring in a hollywood film in which his wife runs away with another man and he's heartbroken and super hung up over it but mainly disappointed to find that instant noodles don't taste as good without soft-boiled eggs in them. dear me, i repeat for dramatic effect. then i say it thirty more times, really fast, like bloody mary in your bathroom mirror on steroids.

dear bloody, bloody me. are you listening? so i know things aren't going so great right now and i know you struggle to walk down this hallway without thinking about someone's shadow on the wall and i know the last two months have been so awful you sleep in two hour bursts now like batman on a three week stakeout, like someone who can't afford to take their eyes off the door, but one day you're going to have the best fucking story to tell at dinner parties, and everyone's going to be mesmerized because 1) you're really good at telling stories that are so fucked up they're funny and 2) you're really hot and this story is so fucked up it's funny and you're always going to be hot so they're all going to fall in love with you and you're going to break all their hearts in alphabetical order and it's going to be great.

dear me: i know you're miserable.

i know how i've set this up. you're leaning forward in your seat now. we're at the dinner party i talked about in march, april, may. you're in a tux or a dress with a ruffled collar and i'm talking about how my first semester of college in america was a joke, and you look super hot and i look super hot and everyone looks super hot because all my friends are hot and funny and good at telling stories, but right before you can ask me what i mean by a joke (was it a good joke? a bad joke? did anyone get hurt?), i put my glass on the table and wander off into the crowd.

that is to say: it is not the time yet to tell The Story. but we can talk about the aftermath.

this room looks out over the other side of the building. it has a view of the greenhouse, partially obscured by a large tree with green, heart-shaped leaves. the bedframe is situated at such a ridiculous height that i can sit underneath it without hitting my head, and there's blu tack stuck to the walls, the shadow of spring, old signs of life. one of the drawers in the dresser is crooked. there's a table light that doesn't work. there are water rings on the table.

during the last leg of finals week i dragged myself out of my room for dinner because i refused to sit at my desk and be sad on a friday evening, even though the alternative was to sit in one of those white lawn chairs on the grass and be sad under a slate-gray sky, and halfway through the bit where the protagonist accidentally gets locked inside the room where he's being served a three-course meal and the staff tell him to punch a hole in the wall to get out and he's like i can't do that, i can't break this nice-looking wall and then he breaks the nice-looking wall, when the day was getting late enough that the sky was starting to look less slate-gray and more like a black eye, someone came up to me with a rolled-up yoga mat slung over one shoulder and a camera in her hands. 'i need to shoot something for a final project due tomorrow,' she said. 'can i borrow your hands?'

even the cornered mouse has broken someone's nose before. paintings on cave walls were made by people with skin just like ours. when you feel like you've been backed into a corner and you have nothing and will never have anything ever again, remember this: you are part of someone's spring 2021 final project. you with your super fucked up fingers and your book about the guy who, after punching himself out of that wall, went home with half a rewritten manuscript and met his old lover who, instead of getting married, realized he had followed the wrong person home and had thus taken the necessary steps to rectify his mistake. i am describing the final beats of andrew greer's less. but no conclusion is worth much without a beginning.

where does this story begin? was it that snowed-in morning in washington dc when i stepped off the plane feeling like i'd left half of my heart in the seat pocket? was it the long car ride to school, leaving muffin-crumbs all over the upholstery, the cold wind in my face and the radio blaring through the soft, serrated static? was it that first evening in the half-lit hallway?

it's hard to identify the start of a nightmare. fear has a tendency to reach backwards in time with painted nails and skin, and strangle your past selves so as to prevent the re-introduction of light. this part i won't tell at the dinner party, so i can tell you. in my first semester of college in america i made the wrong friend a few times. one of them was really, really wrong.

but it's never too late to call quits. walk off the set. get in your car. go home. and if you need to, if home becomes homicide, ask for help. the world isn't all mouse-traps and misery. some people want you to flourish. i know it's a hard idea to wrap your head around. you're sitting across from me in a mcdonald's with your metal straw sticking out of your mouth and you're frowning at me. you think i'm full of shit.

it's true though. one day i'll drive you to a dinner party and i'll tell you about my personal sleep paralysis demon, circa 2021, and you'll be mesmerized because i'm good at telling fucked up stories in a way that makes people laugh and my voice will be really hot so everyone will be super bothered by 1) how fucked up this guy is and 2) my really hot voice and then the story will end and i'll smile in the half-light and end with my signature line about how first impressions are all wrong and you should never trust a stranger who says they want the best for you and also people who talk to you in bathrooms are not doing okay and you should stay away from them. and then i'll say but this lady was really nice, and my friends stayed mad when i got too tired to be anything but miserable, and i nicknamed him richard the slut after richard from the secret history by donna tartt, which i was rereading at the time, and one time someone said 'i'll never be able to look at him without thinking of 'richard the slut' again' and i laughed so hard i punctured a lung, and have i mentioned i have really funny friends? you'll say no. i'll say it again. i have really funny friends. you're a really funny friend.

today i pour strawberry-lime kool aid into two teacups and we reminisce about the good old days, when we thought everyone had a sense of basic human decency.

maybe i'll sleep with the light on tonight. i mean look at it. it's such a nice light.

05.28.21

[7-wonders]

Season of the Witch

Summary: While you’re attempting to survive being kidnapped by a coven of vengeful witches, Michael is not taking your disappearance well. Like, at all.

Word Count: 3082

A/N: Welcome to the trash heap (aka another chapter of Mad Love). Hope everybody is safe and relatively happy right now in the midst of these turbulent times. If you ever just need someone to chat with, I’m always willing to lend an ear.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Much like the first time you were taken against your will, you wake up feeling like you’ve just taken a long nap instead of regaining consciousness after being knocked out. Lights shine harshly on your face, forcing you to squint your eyes while you take in your surroundings. The room is small, with no windows to be seen. You think you might be in a basement of some kind, especially with the pipes running along the ceiling. There’s not much for furnishings, just a couple of chairs at one end of the room and the threadbare mattress that you’re settled on. When you try to stand to further examine the room, a heaviness on your left ankle makes you look down and realize that you’re shackled to the floor. At least the Satanists had the decency not to chain you up when they kidnapped you.

“Hello?” you shout, walking as far as the chain will allow you to go towards the door. “Is anybody out there?”

It’s difficult to fully remember what happened before you ended up here. You’re only able to see flashes of scenes; a deer, slamming on brakes, crawling on the damp ground, and four women. You’re supposed to have a sizable cut on your forehead, but prodding the skin reveals no blemish of any kind. Did you just imagine the crash and your injury, or have you been out for longer than you thought?

You’re startled when two of the women you had seen in the woods appear in the room without the door opening. The blonde with kind eyes and the redhead who’s dressed like your elderly grandmother’s floor lamp stand across from you, both staring as they attempt to learn what your move will be.

“Who are you people? Where did you take me?” Your voice comes out harsher than you meant, but you really can’t be blamed.

“Why don’t you have a seat (Y/N)? We can further discuss what’s going on, and talk about getting you unchained.” You narrow your eyes, but sit on the mattress since you’re not exactly in a position to be arguing. “My name is Cordelia Goode, does that sound familiar to you?”

“No, should it?”

Cordelia pulls a chair closer to you before sitting down, but the other woman remains standing. “I was just trying to gather the extent of your knowledge on the situation. What do you remember before ending up here?”

“I was,” you pause, the argument that you and Michael had making you huff angrily, “there was a deer that ran out in front of me when I was driving, and I lost control of my car and crashed.”

“I do apologize for that. We weren’t aware of how much it had rained, or else I would have never conjured that illusion. The crash was not something we were planning on.”

“Wait, you made me crash my car?” It only takes a second for you to connect the dots. “Holy shit, you’re witches!”

You don’t know if this is good or bad. The witches are Michael’s enemies, which means they took you for a reason. However, you didn’t need rescuing from Michael; it had been almost a year since your arrangement had begun, and you were far from his captive. Although Michael had never outright told you how Ms. Mead came to be an AI, you had snooped in his office one day and found files related to her creation. A descriptive summary of the background told you everything you needed to know about the capture and execution of Michael’s mother figure, with the goal being to weaken Michael’s resolve to carry out his father’s mission. 

Seeing the panic on your face, Cordelia offers you a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing to worry about, you’re safe.”

“Safe? How the hell am I safe? You kidnapped me!”

“You’re not dead, though, which is ‘safe’ in my book.” The other blonde appears now, obviously not pleased at having to be here.

“But you’re planning on killing me.” They glance at each other awkwardly, not sure how to explain their plan. “Oh, don’t act coy now. I know what you did with Ms. Mead. It was only a matter of time before I was next.”

“As of right now, you’re just...a bargaining tool. You’re what will bring Michael to his knees. It’s obvious that our original plan failed, which is why we’re trying a new tactic,” Cordelia says.

“You couldn’t have just sent him an email?” you ask dryly.

“This was more likely to get his attention.”

“Michael’s going to come for me, you know,” you fold your arms across your chest haughtily, “and when he does, he’s gonna be pissed.”

The other blonde smirks as she bends down in front of you, and you hiss when her manicured nails dig into the skin of your cheeks. “Mm, bold of you to assume that he’s going to show up at all.”

“Madison,” Cordelia chastises, yanking the younger woman up.

“Look, I don’t feel the same, but Michael loves me. And though I don’t know a lot about whatever’s going on between you, I do know that Michael hates all of you.”

“But you told him not to contact you for a few days.” Your spine stiffens when you hear a voice that’s all-too familiar, with Mallory completing the quartet that had found you in the woods.

“Mallory,” you whisper in disbelief. “How do…?”

“You got into a fight with Michael and you told him that calling and texting would do no good because you needed to be alone for a couple of days.” 

“You were in on this? You’re a witch?”

Mallory gives a pained nod, filling you with sick pleasure at the knowledge that she’s not enjoying this. “I wasn’t able to--”

“What the fuck, Mallory!” You lunge for her, determined to get your hands on her and show her just how hurt you are, but the chain around your ankle jerks you painfully to the ground. Mallory opens her mouth to speak, but Cordelia’s hand on her shoulder stops the words before they can form.

“Why don’t you leave for a little bit?” You glare at the women, scoffing darkly.

“Yep, run away Mallory, go ahead and do whatever Cordelia tells you to do!” Mallory’s cheeks flush pink, but, just as expected, she teleports out of the room with the other blonde like the woman (her mom? her boss?) asks her.

“(Y/N),” Cordelia turns back to you, “we’re on the same side here. We both want to see Michael fall.”

“What makes you think I want to see Michael fall?”

“Did he not force you to be his wife?” The redhead finally speaks, her eyes looking owlishly large behind her glasses. “You continue to remain married to him under threats, yes?”

“Michael’s my friend,” you insist, “and you’re going to try and kill him. Regardless of how we came to know each other, I care about him. You don’t sit by and watch your friends fall into a trap that’s going to end with them dead.”

Cordelia’s lips tighten to a thin line as she attempts to hold in her anger. “You’ll come around. Come along, Myrtle.”

The remaining witches disappear right as you tug your shoe off, the footwear being flung at nothing but a wall before you let out a yell of frustration.

Days pass without any sign of Michael, a fact that’s not too surprising considering what you told him before you walked out. Still, you enjoy making the witches’ lives a living hell, so when you’re not flinging profanities at them when they bring you food or unchain you so you can use the restroom, you’re reminding them that Michael’s going to come for them. If you’re being honest, you start to say it more to convince yourself than the witches. It’s been five days since you’ve been kidnapped; surely Michael would have tried to contact you now and realized that something’s wrong?

After seven days of being mostly confined to your small room, you start to lose hope. What if Michael just doesn’t come? He could easily decide that you’re not worth the trouble that you bring and leave your fate in the hands of these witches. For all you know, his father could have picked a perfect Satanic bride for him and he could already be creating heirs with wife number two. It’s a dangerous thought spiral, but what else is there to do when you’re trapped in a windowless cell with minimal human contact for days on end?

As day seven draws to a close (you can tell the days have changed by who comes into your cell: Madison Montgomery in the morning with breakfast, Myrtle Snow brings you lunch, and Cordelia Goode tries to glean more information from you over dinner), you lay facing the back wall on your mattress. You’re trying to figure out if screaming in your mind would reach Michael when you hear somebody say your name from behind you. Turning around, you roll your eyes when you see Mallory standing nervously in the center of the room. She hasn’t shown her face since the day you were thrown in here, which means Cordelia must be trying a new tactic.

You roll back over to face the wall, a silent cue that she’s not welcome here. Instead of leaving, which is what you had hoped for, she sighs and sits down on the chair. “You have every right to be mad at me,” Mallory says.

Mallory’s expecting you to yell at her or throw her a sarcastic insult, which is why you choose to remain silent. She’s obviously not expecting that, and you can hear her shifting her weight as she waits in the hopes that you’ll crack before she does.

“If I were in your position, I’d be mad too.” You admire her tenacity at attempting to get you to speak. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for my involvement in this. I don’t regret protecting my sisters, though; Michael is a threat to our coven, and I will do anything to protect my home. But I’m sorry for lying to you, and for spying on you. When I was given this mission, we were all under the impression that you were going to be this devoted Satanist of a wife.

“Instead, I found out that we were completely wrong. You didn’t even want to be married, let alone married to the Antichrist! You stand up to him in a way that I don’t think he’s ever experienced from anybody, and you treat him like he’s a normal person. You’re...so fucking funny, (Y/N), and you’re caring and kind and always willing to do anything for anybody. You’re my friend, and I’m sorry that I abused that trust to continue with this stupid mission when it obviously wasn’t yielding any answers.”

As you continue your silent streak, you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing when Mallory huffs loudly. The legs of the chair squeak harshly against the ground as she abruptly stands, her patience obviously reaching its end.

“Can you at least say something? Anything? Seriously, anything! Yell, scream, curse, whatever! I don’t care what it is, I just want you to say something.”

While you could, quite literally, say ‘something,’ you decide to indulge her. “I think I got over being mad a couple of days ago.”

“You did?” Mallory asks, voice full of hope.

You turn to lay on your back, still refusing to actually look at Mallory. “A couple of weeks after the Satanists kidnapped me and forced me to marry Michael, I came to the realization that it doesn’t do anyone any good to always be angry. Being constantly bitter and resentful comes at a mental and emotional cost, and that’s not the type of person that I am. I can feel other emotions about a person or event without being angry.”

“Let me guess: you’re not mad, just disappointed?” You chuckle before you can stop yourself, shaking your head.

“No. Mainly, I just feel betrayed.” Heartbreak colors her face, but you continue to talk. “It’s like Michael stabbed me in the back, and then you took the knife out before stabbing me in a different spot.”

“I wish I could change this. I never meant for any of this to happen. You shouldn’t be here right now, and Cordelia should never have kidnapped you.”

“You can change it, Mallory. Get me out of here.” She’s visibly torn, and you sigh. “Right, you can’t. Duty to your sisters, and all that.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Just because you keep saying it, doesn’t mean that I forgive you.” You close your eyes. “Can you leave? I want to be alone right now, and I can’t exactly leave in order to be alone.”

Although the last thing Mallory wants is for the conversation to end like this, she’s trying to win back your favor, so she obliges and leaves. You bury your face into the mattress, refusing to let the tears streaming from your eyes see the light of day. 

///

The first couple of days after you had stormed out of the manor, Michael had respected your wish to not be contacted. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed, but the memory of unbridled hurt on your face when the pieces of this puzzle came together was enough to have him setting his phone back down. He would give you your space, even though it pained him immensely.

As the fourth day without any word from you came and went, Michael began to get concerned. While he had been worried about you before, this was different. You’re the type of person who always keeps to their word, and he knows that you should have--would have contacted him by now. Even if it was just a single sentence saying that you needed more time, he would have received a text from you by now.

Thus began a search that Michael was desperately hoping would not be a search. Sure that he was just overreacting, he attempted divination to figure out where you had gone after you left. Although he could just use his powers to find your current location, he knew that would be a breach of your privacy that would only add to the amount of trouble that he’s in with you. Using a stray hair tie that you had left in his office, Michael then watched in horror as the scene of you crashing into a ditch and being stolen away by witches played out like a movie in front of his eyes.

He had found your car, still sitting wrecked in the same spot where it had come to rest after you hydroplaned across the road. Much to his dismay, there were dark splatters on the ground that he just knew were made by your blood. Even worse was the fact that the witches must have put some sort of magical veil over you, as Michael couldn’t find any trace of you after the crash.

The house became a series of war rooms as Satanists streamed in and out of Michael’s office, each leaving more terrified than they could have ever imagined. He’s heard the whispers from his followers that he’s become fully unhinged, and he can’t say he disagrees. It’s been ten days since you disappeared, and Michael can’t recall actually sleeping once in those ten days. There have been occurrences where he’s passed out from exhaustion on top of his desk, but those moments are few and far between.

The only reason he’s not wearing the same clothes from nearly two weeks ago is because of Ms. Mead’s motherly presence refusing to let him waste away to nothing. She sticks annoyingly to a routine, making sure that Michael eats at least three times a day and takes care of himself. It’s hard to do anything, however, when it feels like a piece of himself is missing. It takes him nearly a week to decipher this new emotion, but when he does, he comes to a startling realization.

Michael misses you. He’s never missed anyone before, but the rawness of a gaping hole in his chest where his heart has been figuratively ripped out can only be described as longing. If he wasn’t suffering from sleep deprivation, he would be able to compose poems about all of the things that he misses about you. Mostly, he just misses your constant presence. He’s not only in love with you; you’re his best friend, and having that companionship taken away so swiftly is something that he’s not dealing with well. 

It’s midnight when he’s stirred out of scrolling through pictures you’ve taken of both of you on his phone, a loud knock on the front door echoing through the house. It couldn’t be a Satanist, since they’ve all gone home until tomorrow, and Michael doesn’t know who else knows where he lives. Getting up to answer the door, he’s half-hoping that it will be you knocking. Instead, it’s someone he never would have expected to see.

“You’re (Y/N)’s friend, right? Mallory?” He’s doing a terrible job at pretending like he’s not shocked to see the small brunette standing at the front door, but attempts some form of nonchalance anyways. “Uh, (Y/N)’s actually not here right now. We got into a fight, and now I don’t--”

“I know,” she cuts Michael off, cringing at the surprise on his face. “Look, before you kill me, you need to hear me out.”

“Kill you? Why would I kill you?”

Mallory takes a deep breath in preparation of her potential impending death. “I’m actually a witch, and a member of Cordelia Goode’s coven. I know where (Y/N) is, and I want to help you get her back.”

Michael stares at her, his face refusing to betray how he feels. His hand flexes at his side as Mallory clenches her eyes shut, having heard stories of how the young Antichrist was able to obliterate his victims’ souls with a single glance.

“You had better explain this situation to the letter, as I’m really not in the mood for games lately.” He spins on his heel and walks into the manor, leaving a stunned Mallory standing behind him before she realizes that she should follow, for better or for worse.

//

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[hphmmatthewluther]

HPHM April Prompts 2021: Day 2: The Villain of Hogwarts

It’s Day 2 of #aprilprompts2021 by @stupendousbookworm , and today we get villainous! (Note: This one’s a little short as I’m out for most of the day, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!)

Prompt # 2 - We all know that MC is the hero of Hogwarts. But what if they weren't? What if MC was evil? Illustrate or write a paragraph about your MC, except they're evil.

“Good news, I’ve decided I’m accepting your offer.” There was a scream. A small part of Rowan’ mind registered it as Beatrice’s voice, but the majority of their focus was on the flash of green light a few feet away. When it disappeared, the body of Patricia Rakepick was on the ground, motionless. Rowan had to cover their mouth. Their eyes moved towards the caster of that most Unforgivable Curse. They still couldn’t quite believe it. The teenager looked at the Portrait of his brother on the wall, which had an expression of pure shock. “I think you look better there,” he muttered, “At least you can’t run away now.” He turned to Rowan, whose eyes were still on Rakepick.  “What?” the killer said in the voice of Matthew Luther. “She’s part of R. She’s been torturing Merula. I can show you proof if you’d like...I wouldn’t be too far off schedule.” Rowan found themselves backing away. “You can’t have...it wasn’t...she deserved a fair trial.”

Matthew let out a hollow laugh. “Rowan, that trial would be anything but fair. Besides, as far I’m concerned, death is far better a fate than Azkaban. But don’t take that from me…” He walked over to the unconscious Merula Snyde, running a hand through her wild hair. Penny and Beatrice slowly moved away. “Something had to be done.” Matthew declared. “She was hurting, and she couldn’t say a thing. Because, for some reason, the Wizarding community seems to just despise progress.” Matthew sighed, before moving Merula so she was more comfortable. “And so, I asked myself. Why? Why are wizards so stuck in their backwards ways? It puzzled me for quite some time, I must admit. Until...I came to the solution staring me in the face.” He sighed, the smirk fading from his face. “It’s because, Rowan, wizards feel like they don’t need to worry about what Muggles think.” Rowan stared at his best friend with a great deal of confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Look, I’ve had a long look at the history of magic, and I’ve developed a theory. You see,” he began, moving towards Rakepick’s body, “In the beginning, Wizards allowed Muggles to see and share in magic. They were sort of like a large caterpillar, they moved around eating whatever they came across and poisoning any Muggles that got too close.” “Then, we went into hiding. The Statute of Secrecy, all of that. We entered a chrysalis, and we’ve done nothing but wallow. We’re trapped in walls of our own making.” he said, moving back towards Merula, who stirred slightly. “Don’t worry about a thing, songbird. I’ve got everything covered. When you wake up, you’ll be in a brand new world.” Merula hummed at that, and drifted off into a deeper sleep. “So…what?” asked Rowan, “You want us to...break free?” Matthew nodded. “We need to spread our wings. Show our true colours. The Muggles won’t be able to ignore us...and we won’t be able to ignore them. No memory charms will undo what I’ve got planned.”

“But, they’ll just make us handle all of their problems!” Rowan protested “Oh, no! Basic human decency!” Matthew jokingly lamented, putting a hand to his brow, “Something wizards are quite frankly lacking.” Rowan paused. Matthew had always been critical of the way the Wizarding World worked, but this was beyond anything they had ever seen. “You...and where are you going to be in all of this?” Matthew chuckled. “R keep trying to make me the new Dark Lord. Maybe I should start listening...if I were in charge, well, I’d have a lot I’d want to get rid of...starting with them.” He began to laugh at his own joke, and it was a laugh Rowan had heard his father do several times while telling him stories. The laugh of the vampire, or warlock, or werewolf, or whatever monster it was that night. “Matthew, I get it, really I do, but you can’t have that power!” Rowan said, raising his own wand by instinct. Matthew smirked, raising his own wand. “Really? Why ever not?”

“Expelliarmus!” came a voice, and Matthew’s wand went flying across the room. A flash of rage crossed his face as Bill Weasley moved in front of Rowan. “Nobody can be trusted with that power. A position like that’s bound to be abused! A Ravenclaw like you ought to have figured that one out!” Bill declared. Matthew considered this for a moment. “Yes, but can you blame me?” he asked, as if total power over Wizardkind wasn’t that big a deal. “You’d do the same, wouldn’t you?” “Yeah, maybe I would!” Bill admitted, “But I’m enough of a wizard to know not to get anywhere near something like that. Why do you think Dumbledore never went for total power?” “Because he was weak! Because Albus Dumbledore, unlike me, lacked the faith in himself to do what needed to be done!” “Albus Dumbledore knows himself better than most know themselves, and if you think you could be a Dark Lord, Matthew, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong!”

There was suddenly a high-pitched cry, as into the Portrait Vault flew a large red phoenix with something in his talons. “Fawkes?” asked Matthew, sounding genuinely confused. Fawkes flew overhead, dropping the large something, which Bill caught in his hands. There was another cry, and Fawkes landed besides Beatrice and Penny, the younger of whom started to scratch its chin. The three who were standing looked at what was now in Bill’s hands. It was brown, and made of leather, and when Bill unfolded it, a floppy brim came out from under the folds. “Is that the Sorting Hat?” Rowan asked aloud. Matthew gazed at it before laughing once again.

“Oh, Dumbledore’s finally done something to protect his students, and it’s this? What, am I being resorted into Slytherin? Give me a break...” Matthew sneered, before bringing his hands together, causing them to flash with electricity.  “Wandless magic. Useful for when someone interrupts my scheming.” Rowan braced themselves as a bolt of blue lightning struck them, causing their wand to go flying along with them, pushing them against a wall and causing a few portraits to fall to the ground. Bill scowled at Matthew, who now aimed at him. “I’d make a joke about Oddjob and that hat,” the Ravenclaw said, “But...I’m afraid it would go to waste...ah, well...” There was another Blue flash as a lightning bolt headed towards Bill. The Head Boy , not really thinking, pulled up the hat in front of it…

And was surprised to still be standing. His wand and the hat had been blasted across the room, but he was unharmed. What was more, in his hand was now a brilliant silver sword, with shining rubies upon its hilt. “Oh, that is some bull...” Matthew whispered to himself, before clenching his right hand into  a fist. It glowed with magical energies, and before long a blue rapier had appeared. Bill registered that it was made of Cursed Ice. Matthew clasped it in his hand. “Just my luck that the person between me and my goals is someone I liked.” “Feeling’s mutual.” Bill confessed, feeling the weight of the sword in his hand, before pointing it at Matthew. “Last chance, mate, because I really don’t want to do this. We can leave the Vault and everything that’s happened in it.”

“I’m sorry, Bill. I can’t let things go on this way any longer. Besides, I’ve already defeated one older brother today...what’s one more? Engarde!”

[to-be-small]

Chapter Two

Part One

(1,200)

I started to wake up, only aware of three things. The first was my shirt bunched up and pushing into my side. The second was the cozy warmth that encompassed me, keeping my mind sleepy and content. The last thing was the light that pricked at my eyelids.

I turned over to my right side, a groan escaping like a broken wind instrument. I fidgeted for a second getting to a more comfortable position. When I found a good position I reached for my blanket so I could hide my eyes from the light. I felt against my side, not finding it anywhere.

My heartbeat started to quicken bad memories pricking at the back of mind. I opened my eyes, praying that I’d see my campsite and my blanket laying in the dirt. Instead I found myself encased in a pink cage.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, barely muffling the scream as I realized the shape of what keeping me in place. It was a giant hand.

Pink palm above me, the lines in the flesh in sickening detail. The rest of the fingers surrounded me.

It was only then that I thought to look down. I didn’t scream this time thankfully, as I identified the material underneath me was covered in cotton cloth and moving up and down.

I was on a giant’s chest. I was trapped by a giant. The memories of what I thought was last night, I wasn’t sure how long I had been asleep, came back in vivid detail. I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face into my body. Tears pricked soaked my pants.

Prayers floated in and out of my thoughts. I should be praying, begging the Gods for mercy, but that had never stopped anyone from dying before. The Gods didn’t care about humans, they had made that clear.

So, if I was going to get out of this it would have to be just me.

I unfolded myself and peaked out the fingers that keep my under its palm.

The Giant was on its back, the only part of its body that moved was its chest, slowly raising and falling. I stayed watching for what felt like an hour waiting to see if it would move.

I couldn’t see the head over the curve of the chest so I had no real proof that it was asleep other than the fact that it hadn’t moved for a while. But it was possible that it was just waiting for me to move. Playing a sadistic game of cat and mouse with me.

But I couldn’t let the thing wake up and lose my chance of escape. I pulled my scarf out wrapping it around my hair making sure that it was tight. I still had my bag thankfully. I would have been more screwed without it.

I got on my stomach to crawl out between the thumb and forefinger, I took serval false starts, fear making me freeze three times before I started on the forth.

I got half way free before a snort caused my entire body to flinch.

Without anymore warning than that, the giant sat up and I was thrown backwards. I screamed as I fell backward watching the sky getting bigger.

I hit something and the wind flew out of my lungs. I closed my eyes after impact, the shot open again as I felt fingers wrap around my body. I was being turned upright. I tried to fight against the fingers, but my hands were at my sides.

When I managed to bit one of the fingers, despite putting all the effort I could into it hurt my teeth more than it did damage to its skin. I was rewarded my a firm squeeze across my entire body.

I started to shake, more tears now. This was how I was going to die. I waited for another squeeze or hot breath or a blow.

I squeaked when a finger poked me in the head. I opened one eye to see that the giant was now staring at me. I closed my eye again pulling my head away.

The giant let out a short burst of air. “Well, look what you’ve done, now we’re both awake.”

If I was smarter I would have apologized but I stayed silent not wanting to take the risk of making it more mad. “Come on,” the voice, deep, male(?), it said through a yawn. “You can’t keep your eyes closed forever.”

Oh yes I can.

I took a breath trying to calm myself. I could deal with this. I needed to calm down. I needed to think rationally if I wanted to make it out this alive.

I opened my eyes first, still looking away from him and slowly brought my eyes to his face.

The face was sort of familiar, and gave me a brain itch. I pushed the thought away until I paid attention to the eyes. Green eyes built up of hundreds of tiny dots all different shades of green.

My mouth fell open. “Pyotr?” It was a confused shriek.

He yawned again and gave me a lazy smile. “Morning Bria,” he looked around noting the sun that was close to setting, “though I guess afternoon would be more appropriate.”

“Pyotr?!”

He winced at my increased volume. “Stop looking so surprised. You know what I am full well.”  

“No I didn’t!” The panic was quickly leaving my words leaving only surprise and something else that I wasn’t sure yet.

“You sang that song about giants, and looked for my colors, I told you last night that I’d been seeing you soon?”

“The song was a coincidence! And I was drunk most of last night!” I was shouting now. “And I had no idea what the hell purple meant!” Full shouting, and my hands trying to break free so I could gesticulate. “I had no idea you ginormous idiot!”

He had the decency to look sheepish, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh well, I thought you did. And I couldn’t have you running around and telling people about a giant.”

“Well I didn’t!”

He let down his hand and shrugged. “Well its a moot point now seeing as you know now. Besides,” he rose his hand again palm skyward. “Your just what I’ve been looking for anyway.”

“What are you planning?” My voice was back normal, my vocal cords already beginning to hurt. It still had the same intensity as before, as I did my best to try and burn holes into him with my eyes.

He opened his mouth, before grimacing and shaking his head. “I can’t tell you know, you’re definitely not in the right mood to hear about it.”

I started to shout again, vocal cords damned, when he started to talk again. “You have my promise that I’m not going to harm you.”

“You don’t have the same from me,”

He threw his head back and laughed, an angry and embarrassed blush covered my face and down my neck.

“Oh well, looks like we have a few hours until nightfall might as well get walk a bit. It’ll give you the time to cool down.”

I was about to tell him what I would do to his corpse, when moved and pulled out a bag. It was a leather satchel his size. Before I could do anything, he set me in the bag and quickly pulled the top over it as if I was a butterfly he didn’t want escaping.

“I’m going to kill you!”

He laughed again and picked up the bag sending me head over tea kettle into the other side of the bag. “Talk to you in a few hours.”     

Part 3 

[starshinegoblin]

A Witchy Kind of Love

♥ Co-Written with @ruensroad ♥ Status: Completed ♥ Pairing: ZhanCheng (Lan Wangji x Jiang Cheng) ♥ AU: Modern Witches/Familiars; Hurt/Comfort; Coming Together; Happy Ending ♥ Where to Read: AO3 | Only chapter one will be posted on Tumblr.  ♥ Author’s Note: If you don’t like this paring then do not read it. Absolutely do not send either us disgusting hate messages here or on AO3 about you not liking this paring. Just move on and live your best life. Otherwise! Enjoy ♥

-------

“Of course you wouldn’t be XianXian’s familiar. It all makes sense now…” Jiang Fengmian said as he stared his son down with that disappointed look that Jiang Cheng was all too familiar with. Jiang Cheng swallowed the shame all the same. He’d tried his best and it seemed like he would have been chosen because he had a good bond with Wei Wuxian. However, Wen Ning had appeared with his sister Wen Qing into their part of the familiar realm Lotus Pier. It so happened Wei Wuxian was visiting and the two met.

“You couldn’t even be that brat’s familiar? What’s the point in you being here now!” His mother said with an icy edge that Jiang Cheng felt actual pain. His mother had been the one pushing him to try to bond more with Wei Wuxian.

“Maybe you should just take a walk? Let them calm down, it's not like they are going to make you leave.” Jiang Yanli said, softly trying to comfort him. “You’ll find your own Bond like me and A-Xian.”

“That’s a great idea, A-Li! At first light you’re to leave and find your witch then you can come back!” Jiang Fengmian said with a grin on his face and a look in his eyes that broke the last bit of hope in him that his father actually cared about him. HIs sister had at least had the decency to look horrified though did nothing and his mother had been pleased because this was an appropriate punishment for a failure such as him.

Jiang Cheng had known that it wasn’t going to be a good breakfast with his family when Wei Wuxian had met his familiar, Wen Ning. All this father’s hope that he’d been the familiar of his former friend that was a witch went down in flames and his mother had only wished for it because it would stop his father’s daydreaming. What he hadn't expected was to be thrown out the next morning. He felt like his heart was breaking when his mother had all but disowned him.

He didn’t even bother to take anything but his bell. That he attached to his sash. A gift he’d been preparing to give his witch. He wouldn’t wait for the morning. What's the point in avoiding the inevitable? It’s not that they truly cared, did they?

Jiang Cheng’s eyes burned as he ran away from the only home he’d ever known. From the family he thought cared for him. No, he wouldn’t go back. If he ever found them. Supposedly familiars are forever linked. So in each life in some way he’d find his way  to the one who’d care for him.

He left the familiar spiritual realm of Lotus Pier  into what was Shanghai. And of course the moment he stepped out in his familiar form as a black cat it was raining. Not a soft mist, but a cold heavy pelting followed by rolling thunder. His hackles rose in this form but he focused on finding a spot. He needed to quickly before he got sick, because that would be his luck after what happened. He would get sick and die alone.

Jiang Cheng got off the sidewalk and saw the signs of a park. He’d remembered that a lot of them had benches or maybe a tree he could climb up in to try to get dry. Though the rain was only coming down harder and the benches that he was close too all had those metal slats.  Sadly the trees were all manicured and lacking in the coverage needed to protect him from the rain. Jiang Cheng huffed as he sat in front of one staring at the bench like somehow it would morph into what he needed. His ears twitched hearing the sound of shoes on pavement but he ignored it.

Suddenly, the rain was no longer falling on him. The pattering of it striking a tight, slick fabric made soft music instead.

He had ignored the feet, but the owner of said feet had not ignored him. Even with such neat, tidy clothes, the man wasted no time in tilting his umbrella to cover Jiang Cheng. His left arm was already soaked.

If the man cared, he didn’t show it. His eyes were kind, though his face was impassive, and a strong current of magic flowed through him. He crouched over the mud to get a good look at Jiang Cheng.

“Lost?” he asked, gentle and unthreatening. He offered his free hand for Jiang Cheng to sniff just as a crack of thunder raged overhead.

“Nope.” Jiang Cheng answered resolutely. Because he had nowhere to go. He still didn’t even bother to look up. It wasn’t like there was a magic red string that could help him find his witch. No, that’s not how bonds worked.  “I am not a pet, human.” He ignored the hand. There wasn’t a reason for him to accept. No one would want a bone soaked cat.

“You are not,” the man agreed, hearing the cat sniffle. No doubt, he had been in the rain long enough to get sick. That thick fur was soaked through.

It was clear the brown mackerel tabby was a stubborn sort, but the man was too, and he quickly tried a different tack. “Hungry?”

Jiang Cheng blinked and finally deigned to look up at his bystander. His eyes narrowed seeing the magical aura around him. It was calm and an icy blue. The way it moved let him know that he was a witch and a musical one at that. Which was nice but it also stung because that’s what kind of aura that Wei Wuxian had.

He pushed that thought away to focus on the man. He was tall and lean. Clearly a runner. His hair was shoulder length and dark with a bluish tint to it that made his ember eyes stand out. The man was dressed in a light blue turtleneck that peeked out from a pristine white pea coat and jeans.

A sneeze ruined his train of thought. His wet paw rubbing it from the burn he’d felt. Jiang Cheng internally sighed feeling that it was warm which meant he was probably going to be sick. He’d been right that the powers that be were against him. His stomach growled at the thought of food. That’s when he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast this morning and had been too anxious to eat after finding out about Wen Ning and Wei Wuxian.

“I am fine.” Jiang Cheng said stubbornly. He could find something he was sure and it wouldn’t be smart to just trust the first witch he’d seen. The weather alone was a sign. But his stomach growled again just as the words had come out of his mouth.

To the man’s credit, he didn’t quite snort, but there was definitely some sort of huffed breath at that. “You will get sick,” he said, knowing the familiar already was, and turned his face to point down the street. The sky was so dreary and dark, it was hard to make out his home, which was a three story house squeezed between two older apartment buildings. It had a red door from the previous owner, which he’d kept, liking the striking accent. Now, he was thankful he’d kept it for another reason, for it was visible even through the rain.

“Red door,” he said softly. “Free food and a warm hearth. You are welcome to come. Stay as you like, go as you like.”

“Why? Is that what you do? Take stray familiars?” Jiang Cheng sassed, feeling the sting of that being what he was now. A stray. He sneezed again and he swatted his nose, sadly entertaining the thought that perhaps he should have waited till morning.

“Sometimes,” the man said, calm in that. It was true enough. He did meet a few strays - familiar and regular animals alike - that needed help. “Have none of my own. Help where I can.” He didn’t bother offering his hand again, given that sniffling meant Jiang Cheng couldn’t smell him. He moved the umbrella more over the cat instead, uncaring that he was getting wet. “No charge to stay.”

Immediately, Jiang Cheng wanted to tell him no, but he couldn’t go home. Well...what had been his home. He let out an audible sigh as he tried not to cry. Because that’d be the cherry on top of a terrible day. Crying in front of the witch while being rude to him. He also needed to think about the situation. Jiang Cheng had nowhere to go and this witch was offering. Though he was still a bit weary that the witch would trap him.

“No tricks or I’ll claw your eyes out.” Jiang Cheng finally caved as he moved onto all four paws.

“No tricks,” the man agreed and held his umbrella over Jiang Cheng as they slowly walked to the tall, squashed house with a red door. He’d been about to wrap the cat up in his pea coat, carry him there, but Jiang Cheng was clearly a proud creature and would probably not appreciate it. There would be plenty of time to get him warm and dry once inside, anyways.

The key he took out of his pocket was antique and long, with a flat head for the lock. He had to turn it completely through the lock nearly twice, and there was a soft rumble through the building, the magic shivering through it, welcoming them both.

He held the door for Jiang Cheng to move through, right into a small entryway with a spot for outdoor shoes and indoor shoes. It was old concrete, so there was no harm in standing there a moment dripping.

“Be right back,” the witch said, tucking out of his shoes and wet pea coat. He shook out the umbrella outside then shut the door, which locked itself with a winding mechanism much like a clock’s. Shuffling into his indoor slippers, the man stepped up into the entry-hall, which had glossy, dark hardwood floors and moved quickly towards his bathroom to grab a towel.

He came back and knelt down, holding the towel open so Jiang Cheng could walk into it. “Here.”

Jiang Cheng considered it and hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward into the warm towel. He’d only ever been touched by Wei Wuxian and his sister in this form since he was kitten. His eyes closed to keep the tears at bay again. It was best to try not to think about them. He knew though that it was easier thought than done.

The man rubbed him vigorously with the towel, drying him off. He could better hear the cat’s thick breathing now that the rain was muffled through the door. “May I carry you?” he asked, wrapping the towel around Jiang Cheng like he was a kitten burrito. “Living room not far. Has a fireplace.”

“No funny business.” Jiang Cheng sniffled. He’d been strong and hadn’t purred when the drying off started to feel a lot like scratching. It’d been a while since he’d been petted. He swatted his tail at the witch. “I am Jiang Wanyin.” Jiang Cheng finally decided to share his name with the witch.

“Lan Wangji,” the man gave him, then carefully lifted him up into his arms, cradling him like he was a babe. He further wrapped the towel around Jiang Cheng and moved towards his living room as promised. The fireplace came to life with a mere thought, warming the room in a golden glow. It was a traditional looking space, for all the building was more western in design. It had a low table and a daybed couch near the fire, but also a recliner. Lan Wangji set him on the recliner since it was closest and softest.

“I’ll be back,” Lan Wangji said again, removing the damp towel and trading it for a dry blanket. Then he was out of the room to make a quick bowl of food for his new guest, leaving Jiang Cheng there to get settled.

Jiang Cheng settled into the warm cushion of the seat. He kneaded and circled till he felt comfortable enough to sit down. Well loaf down was the correct term.  To just lounge wasn’t something that he did around anyone really. For fear of being called lazy. He tucked his tail in and listened for Lan Wangji. The witch's home was comfortable and nothing like his siblings' own homes. It smelled of sandalwood and patchouli.  His gaze shifted to the guqin on the table and with the swirl of clouds of his design made him think of Wei Wuxian’s youth at the Cloud of Recesses.

Soft footsteps approached around the smell of fish. Lan Wangji quietly crossed the room to him with a plate of lightly steamed shredded trout. He set it on the recliner next to Jiang Cheng and tucked the blanket around the cat a little more, making sure he was warm and fed.

Once satisfied that Jiang Cheng was comfortable, he neatly folded himself behind the guqin and started to tune the instrument, his magic shimmering over the strings. He plucked softly, so as not to disturb his guest, obviously not one to push too much into Jiang Cheng’s business or force awkward conversation.

Jiang Cheng ate as quietly as he could after smelling it to make sure that it hadn’t been tampered with. Not that he’d truly smell any right now. His eyes got droopy from the good trout, Lan Wangji’s playing, and the warmth from the fireplace. Just when he started to fall asleep he sneezed hard.

“I...I’m done.” Jiang Cheng announced, though he hadn’t eaten all of it. He probably should have but his stomach just wasn’t in the mood while his head felt the way it did. “Thank you, Lan Wangji.” He tried for nice but he was sure it sounded like he was annoyed.

Lan Wangji took it in stride, elegantly standing and taking the plate. Then, his head tilted, considering him. “Bonded or not?” he asked, needing to know if Jiang Cheng would be shifting human at some point. It would determine the medicine he needed to get for him.

“Not.” Jiang Cheng answered, bluntly. Dazed sapphire eyes gazed up at him. “And I wouldn’t be shifting anyways. I’m for my witch.” the last bit a little slurred from slight dizziness that was coming to him. He really shouldn’t have been out in that rain most of the day.

Lan Wangji just nodded. “Alright. Will be back with medicine,” he said and moved off, no judgement in his tone. He knew Bonds were important to familiars and he truly had only needed to know what medicine to grab. It was meant for smaller animals, but infused with his own magic, a cocktail just for familiars. He knelt down beside the recliner and held up the needleless syringe to Jiang Cheng’s nose. “Here. Good for colds and sleep.”

Jiang Cheng tried to smell it but all he really smelled was Lan Wangi and his sandalwood. So far the witch hadn’t tried to hurt or capture him. He swallowed, making the best choice for himself before opening to take the medicine. The mixture had settled on his stomach and started it’s job. He could feel the magic in it that told him Lan Wangji was the one who made this. It tasted mostly like he’d taken a bite of a strawberry pie. Which had him curious about the witch’s kitchen and cookbooks.

“Not bad.” Jiang Cheng offered instead of a thanks. That would be reserved for when he was better to see if the witch had tricked him. Even if it had been too late. At least he hadn’t thanked him for hurting him.

Lan Wangji took that as a good sign and simply tucked the blanket around Jiang Cheng more, then returned to his kitchen to clean out the medical syringe. He was hardly surprised to see Jiang Cheng’s eyes blinking slowly when he folded himself back behind his qin and began to play for him. He went with a lullaby that was infused with his qi, promoting deep sleep and present dreams. Jiang Cheng seemed like he needed that kind of kindness.

Sleep, he bid silently through the melody, watching Jiang Cheng from the corner of his eye. Feel better.

“Don’t trick.” Jiang Cheng reminded him, before he felt himself start to drift off to the lovely music that Lan Wangji was playing. His ears flicking. He prayed that he didn't purr as he slept was his last thought before falling into a deep sleep.

Lan Wangji continued to play, even though Jiang Cheng was sound asleep, and didn’t stop until his usual practice time was over. Then he got up to get dressed and readied his music room for the couple music students that would drop by for their lessons. He hoped all the giggling wouldn’t wake Jiang Cheng, but then he supposed there were worse things to wake up to, and thought no more on it when his first student of the afternoon showed up with her tiny qin on her back.

He had three students, a slower day, and it was a good hour before he needed to decide dinner when he escorted his final pupil to the door. The house fell silent again, calm with the echoes of children’s laughter and the magic of music being so earnestly learned. He moved quietly to the living room to check on Jiang Cheng. Seeing the cat still sound asleep was both endearing and worrying, and he could only hope the medicine was doing its job.

[thelittlesttimelord]

The Littlest Timelord: The Fall of the Eleventh Chapter 33

TITLE: The Littlest Timelord: The Fall of the Eleventh Chapter 33 PAIRING: No Pairing RATING: T CHAPTER: 33/? SUMMARY: Elise Smith is now a teenaged Timelord. In addition to losing the Ponds, the fields of Trenzalore are calling. But first they have to figure out exactly who Clara Oswald is.

The Doctor turned to the fuming brunette.

“What do you keep in here? Why have you got zombie creatures? Good guys do not have zombie creatures. Rule one basic storytelling!” Clara yelled. She hit the Doctor again.

“Not in front of the guests,” he told her.

Clara turned to them. “Who are they?”

“Friends. Well, people who aren't trying to kill us, so I don't need punching again.”

Clara stormed away from the Doctor.

“All right, all right. Look, a deal's a deal. You got the girl and your daughter back. Now cancel the self-destruct,” Gregor said.

“Ah. Ah. You know, I've got to tell you, I won't be needing you in my quiz team.”

“What?”

“There is no self-destruct. Hey? Hey? Hey? Had you going though, boys, didn't I? I just wiggled a few buttons. Yeah, the old wiggly button trick. And the face. You've got to do the face. Save her or we all die. I thought I rushed it a bit, but…”

“Pretty good bluff if you ask me,” Elise said.

The Doctor turned to her and smiled. “I know, right?”

“So you're telling us we're safe?” Tricky asked.

“Ish. Apart from the monsters and the TARDIS reinventing the architecture every five minutes. Guys, don't worry. The countdown's a fake. Look, just give me a second. I'll turn it off. I only made it look as though the engine was actually exploding.” He walked over to the console and pressed a few buttons, only for an alarm to start going off. “Ah. That's not good. Okay, don't panic. Or maybe panic.”

“Something you want to share with the rest of us?” Clara asked.

“It appears the engine is damaged. We're in trouble, Clara. Proper trouble. It needs fixing or we're toast.”

“So now would be a good time to use that big friendly button, right?”

“Yes. Sorry, I should have had one built in.” They all ran down the stairs and the Doctor soniced a panel.

“Where are we going?” Tricky asked.

“Detour. The center of the TARDIS.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Doctor soniced as they walked through a corridor.

Something ran through the corridor in front of them.

“Shush. Something's in here,” Clara told them.

“Those things, they've followed us,” Tricky said.

“Doctor, what are they? What aren't you telling me?”

“Trust me. Some things you don't want to know,” he said.

Something ran through the corridor behind them.

“They're on the move again,” Gregor said.

“Run. Move, move!” the Doctor yelled.

They ran through the corridor until they came across Clara who was standing in front of a copy of the Doctor.

“Clara, stop. Don't touch it,” the real Doctor told her, “There's a rupture in time somewhere on board the ship. A small tear in the fabric of the continuum. It must have happened when the TARDIS was pulled in by the salvage vessel. The TARDIS is leaking.”

“Leaking what?”

He grabbed her hand and led her away. “The past. You and me. Everything we've done, everything we've said. Recent history. It's not real. It's a memory.”

The three of them came across one of the creatures.

“What about this?” Clara asked.

“If you're giving me the option, I'd say this one's real,” the Doctor said.

They turned and started running, the creature chasing after them.

“She's right on to us.”

“She?” Clara asked.

“Clara, don't ask me anymore.”

The memory of the Doctor and Clara walked by.

“You're like one of those guys who can't go out with a girl unless his mother approves.”

“It's important to me you get along. I can leave you two alone together.”

The creature chased after the memories.

There was a loud banging noise.

“What's that noise?” Clara asked.

“We're right under the primary fuel cells,” the Doctor said.

“So? So, so what?”

“So, so the fuel's spilled out, so the rods will be exposed. Means they'll cool…”

“And start to warp.”

“And start to warp. Maybe even…”

“No, you don't say it. Don't you dare say it.”

“Maybe even break apart.”

A rod flew through the walls just in front of them.

“You just had to say didn’t you?” Elise asked.

“Run?” Clara asked.

“Uh yeah.”

“I'm liking how you're thinking,” the Doctor said.

“They started running as more rods came flying at them from different angles. The Doctor kept a close eye on Elise. She was not dying today. They heard someone scream.

Tricky was pinned to the wall by a rod going through his shoulder. “Cut it off. Just cut my arm off,” Tricky told Gregor.

“No.”

“It's the quickest way to release me. No fear, no hate, no pain. I can get a new one. Disposable parts. Just do it. It won't hurt me.”

“Tricky, you just don't understand.”

“I'm an android. Cut me! What's the matter with you? Why won't you cut me?”

The Doctor tried to help Gregor pull the rod out, but it wouldn’t work. “Tell him,” the Doctor said.

“Tell me what?” Tricky asked.

“You can't, can you? You're a coward. You won't save him, but you're scared to tell him why.” He knew how Gregor felt. He’d felt the same way before he told Elise what had happened to their planet and everyone on it.

“What's he going on about?”

“Robots don't need blast suits. They don't need respirators. They don't get frightened of monsters in the dark.”

“What's he talking about?”

The Doctor soniced Tricky. “Two bionic eyes and a synthetic voice box. But you, my friend, are human. Flesh and blood.”

“It was a joke,” Gregor said.

“What?” Tricky asked.

“It was just a stupid joke. We did it to relieve the boredom.”

The Doctor could tell by the look on Elise’s face that she was about to have one of her meltdowns.

“A JOKE?! He’s a human. Flesh and blood just like you are! How would you feel if someone changed your whole identity just because they were bored!” Elise’s face was red and she was panting.

The Doctor walked up to her and put his hand on her cheek, kissing her temple. For once, she didn’t push him away.

“I'm sorry. You're human, Tricky,” Gregor told him.

“Cut the metal,” the Doctor said, “Cut the metal! Go!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Where are we?” Gregor asked as they stopped outside a door.

“Power source. Right, you lot, wait here. I'll check it's safe. We can only survive for a minute or two in there,” the Doctor said.

Clara tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. “Er, what happens if we stay longer?”

“Our cells with liquefy and our skin will start to burn.”

“I always feel so good after we've spoken.”

“Marvelous. Keep this door shut.”

“That will not be a problem.”

The Doctor entered the room and Elise followed after him. “What are you doing!” he yelled.

“I am not about to let you die on my watch.”

“I’m your father! I’m supposed to keep you safe! Not the other way around!”

“Yeah? Well get used to it!”

The Doctor groaned. “Fine!”

They didn’t have time to waste on arguing.

He ran over to the other side of the engine room and soniced a door open.

They ran back out into the corridor just in time to see Tricky attack Gregor.

“Stop! Tricky, listen to me. Ask yourself why he couldn't cut you up. He has just one tiny scrap of decency left in him, and you helped him find that, okay?” the Doctor said. He turned to Gregor. “Now you. Don't ever forget this.”

The Doctor and Elise led them into the engine room.

“Okay, move, move, move. The Eye of Harmony. Exploding star in the act of becoming a black hole. Time Lord engineering. You rip the star from its orbit, suspend it in a permanent state of decay. This way, quickly.”

They ran to the door on the other side of the room, but there was a creature behind the door. Another one was blocking the door they just came through.

“There's no way out. We're trapped,” Gregor said.

“You're going to tell me right now!” Clara yelled as the Doctor grabbed her hand, “If we're going to die here, you're going to tell me what they are.”

“I can't.”

“Tell me. What's the use in secrets now?”

The Doctor cupped her face in his hands. “Secrets protect us. Secrets make us safe.”

Clara threw his hands off of her. “We're not safe!”

“Sensor detects animal DNA. Human core element. Calculating data. Calculating data.”

“No, no, turn it off!” the Doctor yelled.

“Lancashire. Sass. Identifiable substance. Clara.”

“That's me,” Clara said.

“I'm so sorry,” the Doctor told her.

“It's me. I burn in here.”

“It isn't just the past leaking out through the time rift. It's the future. Listen, I brought you here to keep you safe, but it happened again. You died again.”

“What do you mean, again?”

Tricky and Gregor were trying to keep the door closed from the other creature.

The Doctor rubbed a hand down his face until an idea hit him. “Hang on. As long as we can interrupt the timeline, this can't happen. Don't touch each other, otherwise the future will reassert itself.” He pulled Gregor and Tricky away from the door and the creature broke in.

It clawed at Gregor’s backpack, trying to grab the circuit.

“Gregor, Gregor, let go of the circuit,” the Doctor told him.

“Just let it go!” Tricky yelled.

“Gregor! Gregor!”

Tricky knocked the creature off the catwalk.

A conjoined creature and the Clara creature broke in.

“Okay. Er, er…” the Doctor stuttered.

Tricky attacked the conjoined creature and kicked it off the catwalk, causing him to be left dangling.

“Tricky!” Gregor yelled, running over to him.

“Doctor?” Clara asked.

“No, don't touch him, or time will reassert itself,” the Doctor told them, but it was too late.

Gregor pulled Tricky up onto the catwalk and they transformed into the conjoined creature.

The Doctor, Clara, and Elise ran past them to the engine room.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (18)

<<Chapter 17

With you being escorted back by Zenyatta and Dr. Ziegler and the last of your smile lingering at the edges of his memory, he’s left alone with Genji.

The sun warms everything despite the lateness of the year, but it could not even touch the frost that has settled in Hanzo’s bones. Two bracing breaths later and he forces himself to look at Genji and is stricken with a bout of nausea that makes his blood rush and mouth water. He desperately hopes his discomfort isn’t showing on his face.

Maybe he’s tired from his trip with you or from the stress of the past few days (weeks, months, he can’t be sure—he’s never been good at determining when he’s stressed anyway). He finds he’s unable to string together a coherent thought amidst the building chaos in his mind.

The seas, the sky, the ground all cracks and begins to fall apart piece by piece with each step Genji takes. It leaves him in a void, the direction he thought he may have found, lost. A small hysterical rise of panic presses up against his stomach.

Genji wears a confusing mix of casual clothes and armor that Hanzo can’t be sure isn’t a necessary part of him. It’s not something Genji has ever worn in their youth before. There were expectations from those around them to dress a certain way, and Genji toed those boundaries constantly, but never so blatantly. In that way, Hanzo could separate the Genji before him and the Genji of his memories.

But the way he walks—quiet and light, ready to flee (or jump straight into the fray)—and how he keeps a careful distance that’s barely outside of Hanzo’s own range makes that separation that much more difficult.

Genji stretches out his hand. It looks and feels too much like an olive branch, a beacon in the right direction as he free falls through the dark. Hanzo fixates on it until it twists and bends, becoming flesh and human and covered in blood. Alarm bells ring in Hanzo’s head, self-preservation instincts screaming until he can hear nothing else.

“Here, let me take some of those bags—”

“No.”

Even to Hanzo’s ears, the response is too quick and too sharp, barbed with fears that he is not yet ready to face.

The word ‘coward’ echoes loudly between his ears.

Even louder are the words unspoken in the curling of Genji’s fingers as he very slowly withdraws his hand. Hanzo does not look directly at Genji’s blinding green gaze, but feels it searing his skin, reaching deep and attempting to set the ice inside him on fire. He swallows the slick lump in his throat, feeling it stick in his chest where it wouldn’t budge.

His brain scrambles desperately, seeking out the words that could fix this. Despite having all his time at Overwatch to think and practice what he would like to say, and despite everyone’s meddling insistence, he has nothing.

‘Say something.’

The silence drags on.

His brain digs and digs, finding nothing but dust until it reaches the wall around his heart which houses the memories of well-rehearsed words spoken to an empty grave and altar where no god or spirit sits.

Things were fine when he didn’t register the machine in front of him as the same boy who did as he pleased and left Hanzo dealing with the messy aftermath, who made Hanzo’s ascension so much harder by disobeying and rebelling against all that the clan stood for, who was untouched and unbothered by the scathing remarks from friends and clients alike.

Acknowledging now that they could be—are—the same person makes it hard to remember what he wanted to tell him.

He reluctantly hits upon ‘I’m sorry’; a phrase too simple and too flimsy to hold the weight of a lifetime’s worth of dues. But his mouth does not form the words.

“Fine.” Hanzo tries not to grimace at how resigned Genji sounds. “Fine. Be that way.”

It’s inane, but something cracks.

Everything Hanzo holds drops to the ground as ten years worth of resentment rises from the grave at the bottom of his heart. His brain, in searching for something worthwhile to say, found something else instead.

“And whose fault is it that I am this way?”

“What way do you mea—?”

“If you had just killed me, we would not be having this conversation.”

“And what would that have done? I am not like you.”

“Like me?” A hollow laugh escapes Hanzo’s throat. “No. Because if you were, you would have had the decency to do the proper thing.”

“I am trying—” Genji stops, realization dawning on him. Even with th evisor in place, it is clear Genji is squinting at him. Anger creeps into his voice with each word. “This isn’t about now, is it? This is about the past.”

“What difference does it make? You have never done the right things then, I should not have expected you to do the right thing now.”

“And what about you? Look where ‘right’ and ‘proper’ led you.”

Hanzo snarls. “I had to! I was protecting the clan—”

“It was always about the clan’s reputation, wasn’t it? No, you only ever thought of yourself and your own reputation. You are only here for your own self-fulfillment.”

And then something breaks.

Hanzo roars, the force of his voice barely managing to drown the noise in his head. “What could you possibly understand!? You spent your whole life running away from your responsibilities!”

“And what do you want me to understand, brother?”

“You—” Hanzo chokes on the many grievances that fight for life in the form of words he won't be able to take back.

They all well up rapidly to the forefront of his mouth, trapped together like a dam in their attempts to be given life first. The gaps where kinder, smaller words may escape are sealed with the dark, sticky emotions that have been suppressed these past ten-plus years. It undulates, twisting in on itself, gives itself shape and life and strength at an unyielding pace.

Hanzo clenches his fists so hard, they shake.

“You ungrateful brat. I paved a path of success and all you had to do was follow!”

Genji laughs, the sound harsh and tinny. “Success? You call this”—he gestures up and down at Hanzo with a hand—“success?”

“It would not have been this way if you just listened. We could have had an empire! We could have ruled over Japan.”

“And that was your dream, brother, not mine.”

“It should have been your dream! After we raised you so carefully, too—”

“You did not raise me. They tried to raise another puppet.”

“A puppet?!” Hanzo heaves, jaw aching from the tension. “If only you’d ever listen, you’d know what’s good for you.”

“‘Listen’? And be a ‘good little boy’ like you? Would they have given me my freedom then?”

“You could’ve had freedom if you only did what you were told! You don’t know the humiliation I went through because of you! You always did what you wanted without considering the consequences.”

“And you never gave a shit about me or what I wanted.”

“What could you have wanted? We had everything!”

“I wanted my own way. Away from outdated traditions and the roles the clan assigned us.”

Red hot anger forges Hanzos words into weapons. “And did you think trash like you had the right to defy the clan?”

All at once, Genji’s body tenses and sags as though exasperated. Circular vents on Genji pop out, steam hissing violently as it escapes. The brief lull allows Hanzo’s words to bite him full-force with the weight of his own sins.

“And did you think I enjoyed being called ‘trash’ and the embarrassment of the clan, Hanzo?”

The way he says it takes the wind entirely out of Hanzo’s sails. The anger and hate freezes over in an instant. Reason returns briefly. That he would have these feelings after so long just means that these years after leaving the clan have meant nothing.

He never changed.

“Look.” Genji’s tone turns placating, but still dry and weary. “I know what you wanted. I know what father wanted. I know our ‘face’ and our image was everything. But what does that mean now? You’re not a part of the clan anymore. You’re not in Japan anymore. You’re Overwatch, now. How long will you hold onto the past?”

“...”

“Think on it. Whatever ‘proper’ and ‘right’ is for you, what are you doing now?”

Hanzo says nothing, the floor taken out from under him as he realizes it’s almost the exact same words he imparted onto you.

Genji leaves him with those words and traces the path you and the others took, only taking a look back once. Nothing comes out of it and Hanzo’s left alone.

The entire argument was uncalled for and reminds Hanzo just how much of a brat Genji could be. If there was one thing he hasn’t outgrown and one thing that absolutely affirms the Genji here and the one from his memory are one and the same, it’s that audacious attitude that had made the younger man the target of the clan’s scorn—Hanzo’s especially.

He had no issues with the assassination order. He wholeheartedly welcomed it, in fact.

Elder siblings are supposed to guide their younger siblings. Those who saw Genji roaming around freely, disregarding the unspoken and spoken rules of conduct, framed it as an older brother’s incompetence. An accomplished role-model like himself watching over the shame of the clan with no results to show for it speaks volumes of Hanzo’s shortcomings. Regardless of his personal accomplishments—of which there were many—the fact that he could not clean up his family's image was seen as pitiful.

And Shimada Hanzo, newly installed head of the Shimada clan, should not have to take such an insult.

The mockery, the poisonous whispers, the lofty attitudes of those around him were silenced the moment he killed Genji. It was peaceful.

No. Not peaceful. Oppressively silent.

The type of silence that kept him awake. While voices of the present did not speak to him, the voices of the past did. Just as his deeds granted him more power and more authority in the daytime, the voices gained it in spades behind closed doors.

Was it worth killing the last of his family?

No matter how much shit was thrown at his face, no matter what everyone said about him and his abilities, was it really enough to make himself the last of the Shimada bloodline?

At the time, yes.

After having done it, he didn’t have an answer and the doubt began to eat at him every night until it and the voices were too much. They chased after them for ten years. But never once did he think too deeply on what Genji may have wanted, only what Genji should have done to avoid being placed on the proverbial chopping block.

And after so long, did Hanzo really even know what Genji wanted back then and now? Does Hanzo even know what he himself wants?

Slowly gathering all the items, Hanzo makes his way back into the Watchpoint, weighed down by more than the bags he holds. Each step he takes echoes loudly in the empty hall like a death knell. What he wouldn’t give just to drop everything and run away from this awkwardness, from himself.

Athena’s voice is like cool water. “Welcome back, Agent Hanzo,” she says as he shoulders his way through the swinging doors of the kitchen. It’s strange to think that not too long ago, they would not budge for anyone other than you.

He drops everything off onto the nearest surface and unpacks. Miraculously, the eggs are intact and didn’t suffer any from having been unceremoniously dumped onto the ground during his outburst.

Everything you both bought covers half the length of the counter, and he can’t be sure if this is a lot or not enough. Every other item he pulls out is a mystery—ingredients that he’s sure he may have eaten before, but isn’t sure how to prepare. The sheer number of these unknown specimens is intimidating, a test for him, asking him if he knows how they should be kept.

The thought of asking you briefly crosses his mind, but he stamps that down hard. Instead, he separates the ingredients he needs, leaving yours in a neat deconstructed grid.

Heading to the nearest sink, Hanzo sets his mouth in a line, determined to throw his whole self into his new work. His own destructive thoughts and fight with Genji can take a backseat.

Breakfast is a disaster.

And it has nothing to do with his recent spat.

While the thoughts do not make a comeback, head buzzing with a droning static, he soon realizes he is woefully outside of his element and the kitchen is unkind to those unfamiliar with it.

No sooner had he finished washing his hands, the cafeteria comes to life with early risers who may as well be zombies. Very demanding and snappish zombies, some who can barely form a coherent sentence.

Hanzo can’t say he’s ever had to make coffee for anyone other than himself before, let alone use a commercial coffee machine. Under less pressing circumstances, it would be a novel experience to grind his own coffee beans and smell the aroma that comes out into his waiting bucket. Instead, he’s silently begging the machine to grind faster, leaving before it is completely finished and allowing leftover grinds to spill everywhere. (He promises himself to clean it once the coffee is made—he doesn’t.)

No one told him it takes about eight minutes—and those may as well be the longest eight minutes of his life—to make such an amount of coffee either.

It’s lucky that Torbjörn fixed the hot water dispenser, otherwise he might have had to make coffee by hand. Again, a novel experience he might’ve enjoyed under any other circumstance if the dispenser didn’t also spit boiling water at him. It’s also lucky that Fareeha did not barge into the kitchen herself to strangle him to death for making her wait for her caffeine (she does, however, abuse the service bell and manages to get it confiscated.)

The tilted screens sitting atop the service counter window blink incessantly at him, reminding him he’s dawdling. It’s there he learns of everyone’s beverage preferences.

(Half-caf coffee for Reinhardt—Athena tells him to give him full decaf because his stomach can’t handle it otherwise, and then he has to waste another few minutes making decaffeinated coffee—black coffee with four shots of espresso and one sugar for Fareeha, black coffee for Soldier: 76, etc. Hanzo grimaces and mentally apologizes to you for having criticized your commitment to their nutrition and for having to deal with them.)

With the agents briefly sedated, he moves into his next order of business. Actual breakfast. Food-wise, he had planned to make a less risky version of tamago kake gohan or just a soft-boiled egg over rice.

His first, unexpected hurdle is the lack of a rice cooker (or clay pots or microwaves—not that he planned on microwaving raw rice; it was an appliance he is more familiar with, at least more familiar with than this ‘pressure cooker’ that Athena suggests he use).

There are far too many things in this kitchen he doesn't know the uses for—differently shaped knives, pans of different materials and sizes, even the plates are oddly intimidating. Everything serves to remind him he should not be here.

Left with little choice (and a lot of choice words for the lack of a rice cooker), Hanzo settles on making rice in the largest pot he could find.

It’s filled with cup after cup of rice—a rough estimation of one cup of rice per person gives him sixteen cups—the sounds of cascading rice a small comfort, soothing in its rhythm. The grains seem to glitter and he pours it over his hand, the physical feel of it is as soothing as the sound.

For a moment, Hanzo thinks of you, thinks of the sparkle in your eyes as you impart your knowledge, the warmth of you so close, the feeling of your finger tracing shapes through the rice in his hand. The motion was tender. It may have been the gentlest touch he’s ever received from anyone in recent and not-so recent memory.

And it frightens him to think he would like more.

Violently, he shakes his head and hand. He doesn’t have time for this.

Hanzo rubs his hands vigorously to rid himself of the phantom touch that still sends molten syrup through his veins. Even running his hands through water doesn’t make the sensation fade. Instead, it just makes him all the more conscious of how warm his ears are.

Water goes into the pot, and Hanzo vaguely recalls the ratio of water to rice should be 2:1. It should be embarrassing that a man of his age doesn’t know how to prepare something he’s been eating all his life, but in his defense, Japan has no shortage of readymade foods and he’s never stayed anywhere long enough and far away from civilization to warrant learning how to cook rice from scratch.

While he lets that come to a boil, he prepares another pot of water and dumps in a dozen of the eggs you spent so long arguing with the shopkeep about.

Carefully, he keeps watch over both pots, leaving only to grab an overly large serving spoon to mix both with. The last thing he needs is burnt rice.

Genji used to like scorched rice, clamoring for a piece of it whenever they had the opportunity to eat rice from clay pots, often cutting the roof of his mouth on a particularly sharp piece of rice. He’d complain about it until it healed and then do it all over again the next time.

Briefly disgusted with his memories, he buries them along with the rice, willing himself to focus on the outcome and not the unnecessary things associated with it. But no matter how much he mixes it, it doesn’t become the fluffy grains he expects.

He’s left with a white, mushy slop; a mixture of overcooked and undercooked rice whose integrity is so compromised, he cannot even in good faith call it rice porridge.

The rice serves as a fresh reminder that he is a failure. Even the eggs do not come out unscathed. Instead of the soft, jiggly whites and golden lava of yolk, the whites are tough and rubbery, and the yolks are ashen green and smell distinctly of death and sulfur.

All twelve eggs go into the furthest trash can and the rice follows painfully after.

You were right. Two dozen eggs would hardly be enough. At least a quarter of the rice you’ve bought is gone with nothing to show for it.

There’s no time to mourn or for self-flagellation. The other agents, no longer pacified with coffee or warm beverages, are irritatingly loud in their demand for food.

Hanzo hastily puts together charred, buttered toast with overdone slices of pork and watery miso soup sans tofu or seaweed topped with crudely chopped green onions. (He nearly slips while entering the walk-in freezer for his troubles.) It’s barely passable, but it seems other people feel otherwise.

“Would you like me to have a go at it?”

“Could you kindly get th’ hot sauce over there?”

“I regret to inform you that I do not eat meat.”

“Sooo…this your first time cooking or…?”

The comments he gets range from superficial thanks to outright criticism. The worst, though, are those who say nothing. He can feel their pity radiating toward him, and he’s never been more glad the service window isn’t high enough to show his face or theirs.

Hanzo did not expect words of overflowing praise or for people to drop at his feet. Criticism and scorn is familiar to Hanzo. It is the building blocks of his foundation, it props him up and drives him to be better, to be stronger. This quiet sort of feedback where people just resignedly accept what is given strikes a sour chord in him.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it as the agents come in a continuous wave, some begrudgingly returning for more only because they need whatever calories they can get regardless of taste. Breakfast would have spilled into lunchtime had Athena not said anything to him.

Lunch is no better.

After his failed attempt at making rice, he scraps his plan for riceballs. There are very few things in his repertoire that would be universally accepted. He didn’t want to chance the issue with Satya again.

“Athena. What are the other agents allergic to or are unable to eat?”

She pauses and Hanzo could hear the reluctance that accompanies her answer. “Please turn your attention to the screens.”

On them, a flood of information takes over where the orders would be.

Disgust and a dose of paranoia crawls up Hanzo’s skin as he realizes he’s now privy to information that some of their enemies would pay an obscene amount for. A person’s likes or dislikes has always given Hanzo an edge in either negotiations or threats. Allergens even more so. It wouldn’t be difficult to use this to his advantage should he have been in any position to do so.

Not for the first time, he realizes the disturbing and tremendous power chefs have at their disposal. An incredible amount of trust is placed in your hands, money-laundering aside. One mistake or one slight from you could easily take out an agent or a whole Watchpoint. You played your part in keeping everyone healthy and fed. Everyone trusted you to do so.

It’s only a minor consolation that he does not find his name up there. Or Genji’s. Genji was known for eating anything. But now he’s not sure if his name was not there because he does not eat or simply because he has not developed any allergies in his later years.

“Would you like a list of preferences as well, Agent Hanzo?”

“...no. This is enough.” He tacks on a “thank you”.

Eventually, he settles on sandwiches for their versatility. Katsu sandos, egg sandwiches, croquettes, and succulent, sweet fruit sandwiches come to mind, but having not anticipated making any, he doesn’t have the ingredients or the know-how to improvise.

There were the ingredients you bought, but he doesn’t want to impose lest you need them. But when he looks at the ingredients he’s picked—all with specific purposes and none too forgiving with his menu change, he inevitably pilfers from your stash, a silent promise that he’ll replenish it when he has the time.

Shredded cabbage, tomato, and cucumber go between two pieces of chunky buttered bread. The least controversial meal he could think of while respecting everyone’s dietary restrictions.

The reception toward his new creation is only marginally better, and that’s not saying much. (Reinhardt in particular expresses his disappointment in a manner unbecoming of his stature.)

It only serves to remind him that he is out of his element. He is not Lúcio who makes home-style meals for crowds like it's second nature. He's not you who does this for a living (though how much you're actually living is debatable). He's Shimada Hanzo. An assassin, a brother-killer, and most definitely not someone who caters to others or seeks their approval. He has a job to do and he must do it well even if it is outside his expertise.

Luckily, there are markedly fewer people in the afternoon. Either because people are engrossed in their work and are forgetting to eat or they have decided to follow Soldier: 76’s original lead of eating only MREs. Even with fewer people to cater to, he still finds himself without any time.

It’s only when it gets too late for lunch but too early for dinner does he have a moment to himself.

In his mind, Hanzo heaves a heavy sigh that deflates everything holding him up, and he gradually drops himself to the ground. His skin buzzes with a strange mix of emotions he can’t put a name to, accompanied by a fog in his mind.

Gravity holds him down with little effort and he can’t remember the last time he was this tired. The lull makes him more aware of how much his ankles, knees, and lower back hurts. It’s a deep exhaustion, not only physically, but one that wears down his mind and soul.

He casts a weary eye around the kitchen.

At all angles, all he can see is a mess.

Coffee grounds on the floor near the drinks station; shreds of cabbage around him that he’s nearly slipped on; stacks of trays, plates, and utensils that have sneakily turned the dishwashing station into a garbage heap with the guts of half-eaten food spattered. He doesn't even have the energy to get angry at having his hard work wasted.

Where there isn’t clutter, there are the mismatched metals and surfaces that Torbjörn and Brigitte replaced and repaired, turning the once monochrome equipment into a strange jigsaw of colors and mismatched equipment that he’s glad you didn’t have enough time to scrutinize this morning. Wires spill out of the Cellar, the once immovable door now nowhere to be seen. At the corner rests one of Satya’s turrets, respectfully gazing away from him. A gaping maw sits in the door’s place, somehow less inviting than when the door existed. Still, they are no closer to figuring out what the treasure is.

But Hanzo thinks he knows, whatever in the vault guarded by the Junkers be damned. If his answer is right, then he hates to think of the implication that has for you and your views on this kitchen. If he’s right, then everyone is a fool and a mess.

Not that he is admitting he is not a ‘mess’; there are just some things that are undeniable and useless to argue. Outwardly, he's covered in sweat and dirty water. Inwardly, there’s everything that makes him detestable and unworthy—but not worthless—compounded by the excavation of fossilized feelings and thoughts he thought were ten years buried.

Even the kitchen itself seems to be unkind toward him, trapping him as they echo his shortcomings.

He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back barely missing the edge of the counter.

What would you say if you saw your normally pristine kitchen in such a sorry state?

What would you say if you saw him now?

“Agent Hanzo?”

His head shoots up toward the door, and time stops as you both look at each other. A strange cocktail of hope, relief, shame, and fear spills inside his chest, floods his body.

"Chef." It’s almost embarrassing how breathless he sounds. "What are you doing here?" he demands as though he isn't the one trespassing.

“What are you doing on the floor? It’s unsanitary. Here—”

You reach out a hand.

Genji’s tentative olive branch from this morning overlaps with yours.

Hanzo instinctively slaps it away. The sound echoes loud and slow in his ears like a sonic boom, and time itself slows as he processes the shock on your face and then the flinch of pain before you take a step back. Time sucks itself forward. Guilt floods in, sour bile rushing up into his throat.

He scrambles to get up, already cursing himself.

“My apologies, I—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it is not!”

The brief flash of anger is just that, brief. Against all sense, you still approach him with a gentle, but cautious look.

“Did you eat yet?”

He squints at you, trying to untangle the innocuous but unexpected question. When was the last time he ate? “No. No, not yet.”

You smile and then make a complicated face as you look around the kitchen, eyes bouncing from area to area. Eventually, everything about your body language changes. You hold yourself a little taller, a little more authoritative.

“Why don’t you grab a chair from the front and bring it in here?”

“A chair?”

“It’s a special exception.”

He doesn’t understand what is exceptional about bringing in a chair of all things, but he’s in no mood to argue. He’s had his fill this morning.

By the time he returns with one of the bar stools in the cafeteria, the kitchen has transformed.

In appearance, nothing much has changed except for your presence near a stove. However, the previously oppressive and stale air is banished and replaced with life and sound.

You’ve donned an apron and neatened yourself, making swift work of a fruit on a cutting board. <>Thack-a-thackathackathack. The sounds skitters up his neck, buzzing around his head. Around you are the tools of your trade and several ingredients, some he recognizes as things you bought this morning.

“Put it over there and sit down for a bit. I’ll be done in about ten minutes.”

Hanzo sets down the chair and slowly drops himself onto the seat, hands fisted on his knees as he waits. It’s easy to lose himself in his observations when he does not have to entertain or do anything.

Finally being able to see you at work up close is different than sitting outside the service window. He can listen to the most minute sounds, smell new flavors before and after they get blended, but most importantly, he can feel and see performance.

Your hands don’t stop, one step connected to the next. From knife to pan to ingredient. There’s something cathartic about watching you slip back into your own world. It’s not until this moment he realizes how right it feels to see you like this: assured and confident in your next steps, how much he misses watching you cook. It’s a far cry from your bedridden self who could only lament the lack of power and control you had over your situation. It’s much more than he had when he was cooking, that’s for certain.

It’s over all too soon when the ring of a familiar bell rips through him; a strange feeling of calm drags the exhaustion out from the marrows of his bones.

You bring over a tray and set it down in front of him.

Slices of pear are fanned out on top of a bed of milky white something with a thin drizzle of honey on top of a long slice of bread cut up into little triangles. On the side, a steaming mug of what smells like milk tea.

“This is…?”

“Your lunch,” you announce with a smile. “Ricotta and pear tartine with teh tarik. I thought something light would be good for your stomach right now.”

“I didn’t know pears were in season.” It’s not what he wants to say, but steering you into a conversation about why you’re doing this seems inappropriate for the time being.

“They’re not. The person I got these from runs a greenhouse for fruit trees.”

“You can grow trees in a greenhouse?”

“Sure. You can grow almost anything as long as the conditions are right. We actually hav—” You clear your throat. “We actually used to have a contract with some of these greenhouses. Back when, you know, we had more people.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow at your suspiciously awkward smile but says nothing, the food in front of him too enticing to ignore.

He picks up one of the warm triangles, watching as a drop of honey drips tantalizingly slow onto the heated plate. An audible crunch resounds when he sinks his teeth into the open-faced sandwich, and a noise unconscious escapes his throat. The pear is refreshingly cool, and the cheese smoothes over the combined sweetness of pear and honey. There’s an underlying tangy flavor he does not have a name for that occasionally cuts through the veil of cheese.

The drink is also warm, rich in direct contrast to the sandwich. It settles comfortably in his stomach, loosening every tense nerve in his body and softens every muscle, and he allows himself to sit heavier in his seat.

It takes him no time at all to finish, and he licks a droplet of honey from a thumb, wondering if there might be seconds.

“Why did you do this?”

His question seems to have caught you by surprise and you scramble for words, a reddish tint to your cheeks and neck. You hastily gesture at him with a wave of your hand. “Your hands were shaking.”

As if to confirm your observations, he looks down at them. They were indeed trembling ever so slightly, but it shouldn’t have been noticeable.

“When people are hungry, or low on blood sugar, their hands shake,” you explain as you take away his tray. “So when people are hungry, it’s my job to feed you.”

A job. Somehow those words sting a little more than they should given it's the truth. But there is some part of him that had begun hoping that it was more than just a job to you.

“Thank you for the meal, Chef. I should get back to...work.” It’s embarrassing to call what he’s been doing so far ‘work’ when he sees what you can do with only a few ingredients.

“Would you like some help?”

“You’ve already done too much.” He adds, “You’re supposed to be resting.”

It would be terrible if Dr. Ziegler came by and found you working when you shouldn’t be. She’s already a menace in the mornings—he swears she slipped a small bottle of whiskey into her coffee when he gave it to her, but he couldn’t be sure with McCree bumbling into her for his drink. He doesn’t think he can handle her when she’s angry.

“I feel fine.” As if to prove your point, you drop everything in the washing area and turn around, opening your arms for him to see.

Appearances is often deceiving, and the memory of you approaching him with your face screwed up in pain and the floor-pulling feeling of knowing that he is the reason you’re like this and if he didn’t agree to bring you outside, you wouldn’t be collapsed against him without your wits about you or suffering.

He scowls, stamping down the rise of concern that threatens to make him sick again. “Get out.”

The irony of those words could not have been lost on you when you take a defiant stance, crossing your arms.

“Make me.”

The sheer audacity should not be so amusing. Perhaps it’s because you’re so brave even though you both know he could carry you back to the medbay where the careful eye and quiet wrath of the good doctor will confine you. Or perhaps it’s simply because it’s you.

Pride and concern weigh themselves against the other, the common denominator of ‘responsibility’ sits firmly between them, screwing the scale tight and disallowing it from tipping toward either side. If he wanted dinner to be a success, having you here would be beneficial to him, but if you were to fall ill again, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to look you in the eye no matter how much you wanted this.

Hanzo makes the mistake of meeting your eyes—earnest and determined—and sighs internally, cursing himself for being soft.

“Our conditions from this morning still stand, and you must return to the medical ward as soon as the cooking is completed.”

The conditions have you beaming, and a little bit of Hanzo’s resistance crumbles in the face of it. “Thank you.” Almost immediately, you turn back around to spray down the dishes.

A noise of acknowledgement comes out of his throat but nothing more as he tries to silence the rise of elation that tries to make itself known on his face, tempering it with realistic expectations. If something happens to you, one of the greatest doctors in the world is just several halls away. He should get your help where he can so that if anything does happen, he would not be at a loss.

Gathering his courage, and bracing himself for the sting of ridicule, he calls out, “Chef. I require your assistance with making rice.”

“With the pressure cooker?”

“Yes.”

Rather than the mockery he half-expected for not knowing how to make rice despite having eaten for over thirty years, your face turns professionally authoritative.

“Use the electric one over there. Go for eleven cups of dry rice. Rinse it with cold water until it runs clear, and put it into the pressure cooker with eleven and a quarter cups of cold water. Add a few pinches of salt, if you want. Set it to ‘rice’ and it will take care of itself.”

He’s about to argue the amount of rice and water, but he stops himself. He has no right to be arguing with an expert who has been cooking for them long before he’s even set foot in the Watchpoint.

Obediently, he follows the steps you’ve laid out, measuring out the exact amounts of rice and water. With a container of salt in his hands, he has to stop and ask.

“How many pinches of salt?”

“A few.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Four or five.”

“Four or five?” he asks impatiently.

“...four.”

He doesn’t understand why you can’t say that in the first place, tossing in the required amount. Closing the lid, he presses the button and sets the lid with minor trouble, and waits, staring at the machine. As expected, it doesn’t do anything spectacular. It’s just a pot with extra knobs on its lid. Will it really make proper rice?

Barely a minute passes before you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for the rice.”

Your eyebrow goes up. It’s funny to see your inquisitive look directed at the behemoth of a dishwashing machine instead of him.

“You’re not here to look pretty. What are the ingredients for your curry?”

The unexpected compliment sets his ears on fire and takes the floor out from beneath his feet. Something sensitively warm blossoms in his chest and he has to fight to keep a straight face. Hanzo had been called many things (and he had his preferences), but ‘pretty’ was not one he associates with himself. It’s equal parts embarrassing, flattering, and awkward.

He's sure you don't mean it in any deep way, not with the ease in which those words leave your mouth, but it lingers in the back of his mind, and makes his fingers shake when he produces some folded papers from a hidden pocket in the depths of his clothes where he kept his recipes. They are few, but they’re the closest things he has to the tastes of his childhood. Hanamura does not change often, but he can’t say that he’s had much opportunity to stick around and eat his childhood dishes.

He clears his throat in a vain attempt to brush off your comment and pretends he doesn't feel a little lighter because of it.

“Pork curry; white pepper, garam masala…”

The list is long and full of spices that he has some minor issues translating. You seem to understand it well enough, making noises of acknowledgment above the sounds of splashing water where appropriate.

“The recipe calls for pork bone broth and actual pork, and some of the agents can’t have that,” you point out at the end.

“I am aware,” he says regretfully. “However, pork is essential to the recipe.”

Each spoonful of curry is supposed to have chunks of succulent cubes of pork that barely holds itself together when one presses a spoon against it. It makes the curry so much more hearty, and he’s sure the added meat only enhances the robust flavor of his childhood curry.

“You can create a version without pork.”

“And not compromise the integrity of the recipe?”

“No,” you admit as you shutter the walls of the machine closed. The dishwasher is jarringly loud when it gets to work, and you have to raise your voice over it. “We can make do, but we’re running out of time.”

“...if we must,” he grumbles. He didn’t truly expect to be able to taste his childhood here today, but something close would have been nice.

“How many does that recipe serve?”

“Serve?” This is the first time he’d be making it. There was never any time to leisurely experiment. He had always assumed it was a recipe for one person, but now he’s not so sure. “I do not know.”

“If you read out the whole recipe, I can make a rough guess.”

Slowly, he translates and reads out the instructions to you. Objectively, he understands the words, but none of the measurements or steps actually mean anything to him. Luckily for him, you’re not the same.

“That sounds like eight to ten servings,” you mutter to yourself, abandoning your work to check the pile of goods Hanzo had picked out. Bag after bag of spices pass through your hands before you return to your original task. “I think we have just enough to double the recipe.”

“You can tell from holding them?”

“Sort of? I weighed them with my hand. We should have a scale over there.” You point at a stack of plastic drawers off to the side. “Use that to measure everything out first, doubling everything. Sort out your mise first and then we can start cooking.”

“Meez?”

“Mise en place. Cooking is about preparation. Measure out your ingredients and have them ready. You can use the prep bowls over there. Measuring cups should be over there if you need them. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

It makes sense. Those cooking shows he used to catch glimpses of would always have all the ingredients lined up in neat little bowls for the host to use. For some reason, Hanzo could never picture that happening in a real kitchen. Maybe it’s because he’s never actually seen anyone prepare the ingredients in such a way, hidden behind curtains and doors.

As Hanzo gets to work, you occasionally give out pointers even if you’re on the other side of the kitchen, reorganizing and cleaning.

“Turn down the heat and jiggle the spices, we just want them lightly toasted to bring out the aromas.”

“Speed up your stirring a little; the roux is starting to burn.”

“If you don't want to use a knife, use the mandolin. Make sure the guard is on properly.”

“Make sure the grated apples are cleaned up, Jesse is allergic to uncooked apples.”

It’s an unnerving skill that makes him think that if you had chosen a different path in life, he may have met you sooner (and perhaps under better or worse circumstances).

Strangely enough, he finds he doesn’t mind your interjections. There was a time he did not take orders from anyone. No one dared give orders to the head of the Shimada clan, but he also remembered the brief feeling of being in freefall without anything to guide him other than a singular mission of ensuring the clan’s prosperity.

With this, he only has to focus on doing the job you’ve given. He doesn’t have the luxury of thinking of anything else, not when you give him direction after direction. Eventually, he eases into a vague rhythm of listening and letting his hands move clumsily. Occasionally, he poses questions to you that you answer in detail befitting of an expert.

Before he knows it, the kitchen feels less like hostile territory. Perhaps it's because the master of the space is back, or perhaps because he has an instructor, or maybe it’s because he’s working in the capacity of a chef.

Eventually, the curry takes on its signature aromas and color. A quick taste test confirms that it is not the same thing—not enough body, not enough texture, just a little too watery, and not salty enough—but nonetheless tasty. It’s the best thing he’s made all day.

“Do you plan on having anything else with the curry?” you ask as you wipe down another counter nearby.

“Tonkatsu.” He’s quick to add, “It’s a fried pork. However, I was considering vegetable tempura instead.”

“Oh, that sounds good. Sous Chef Mori used to make really good tempura back in the day. He used to lecture people whenever they made tempura wrong.”

At that, an idea strikes him so hard, it makes him giddy. “Shall we compete?”

“Agent Hanzo—”

“—Hanzo.”

“Hanzo. We have limited time until dinner. Maybe another time.”

He crosses his arms. Now that the idea has entered his head, he does not have much intention of backing down, especially when the potential payout is great. “Are you afraid?”

A funny noise escapes from your lips, and a cascade of water hits the bucket as you wring your rag over it. “Afraid? In my own kitchen?” The words ‘my own’ are not lost on him. “I don’t approve of wasting ingredients.”

It’s not a no.

“They’ll be used for dinner. It will not be a waste,” he reasons.

“Hm…” You pretend to think about it even as you wash your hands. “All right,” you answer reluctantly, but there’s a gleam in your eyes that tells him you don’t intend on losing. “You can be the judge.”

Hanzo huffs out a laugh. Victory of a different sort is already in sight. “Your confidence will be your undoing.”

“We’ll see about that.” Then you ask: “What sort of tempura do you like, Ag—Hanzo?”

A number of types come to mind. Poached egg tempura, pumpkin, a medley of vegetable slices—kakiage. He could appreciate a good fish tempura or perilla leaves, but nothing beats a proper shrimp tempura, succulent and juicy on the inside, crunchy on the outside with a sprinkle of salt.

Cheekily, he replies with a sly smile, “I thought you already knew all our preferences.”

You roll your eyes; a delightful new expression he hasn’t seen before. “We’re not mind readers. Should I make some pepper tempura then?”

“Your bluffs would be more effective if you actually had the means.” He gestures to the island counter where he left all your ingredients, not a single accursed pepper in sight.

You laugh lightly, making your way to the counter. “You got me. I didn't have any plans to make anything with peppers." Picking up a few ingredients, you are again serious. “We have sweet potatoes, green beans, asparagus, carrots...onions.”

"We will do whatever you deem fit.” He’s sure you wouldn’t serve anything he wouldn’t like anyway.

“Could you start the batter then? I’ll get these ready.”

You have all the ingredients prepared in half the time it takes him to make the batter, half of which he gives to you. An arrangement of vegetables, perfectly sliced and prepared, is ready for each of you. A pot of hot oil with a thermometer clipped to the side awaits you both.

"You can go first," you offer as you put your ingredients and batter into the refrigerator below the counter.

"Hmph."

You may have the experience, but he knows the recipe. He has no intention of losing without having put in some effort.

With the oil heated at a perfect 175 degrees celsius, he throws half of his ingredients into the batter and drops them into the pot. The effect is near immediate, bubbles angrily swarming the surface like a school of sharks. With his tongs, he shuffles them around the oil when they look like they’re beginning to stick together. At a respectable distance beside him, you work quietly with a gentle smile.

The feeling of cooking like this is different than before. Strangely enough, it could even be thought of as enjoyable.

When the battered casing turns a tannish-color, he picks several pieces out. Immediately, you have a plate with a circular rack and a pair of chopsticks for him. It should surprise him, but at the same time, he didn’t expect anything less. Gratefully, he accepts it and lays out his finished products.

Disappointment does not even describe the feeling in his stomach when he looks at them. The ingredients are wrapped in the tempura like a person bundled in winter; the skins too puffy and obscuring the entirety of ingredients like it has something to hide.

The deciding factor for food, however, is always taste. He picks up a sweet potato slice, bites into it, and his mouth is filled with oil and instant regret. The tempura batter is simultaneously crunchy and soggy, coating his mouth in an oily sheen that feels like it’s trying to suffocate him. The next bite extracts the chewy potato entirely from its tempura shell, and he resists gagging.

As he mulls it over, you pass him a cup of tea. He doesn’t know when you could’ve found time to make this. “Have some pu-erh tea; it’ll help.”

“Thank you.”

The smile he gets in response is too disproportionate to his thanks. He gulps it down faster than appropriate and almost burns his throat in the process, but it’s worth it for the way it refreshes his taste buds. His empty cup is instantly refilled, and this time, he takes his time sipping the astringent tea. You probably knew it was going to turn out this way.

“I believe it is your turn.”

This is a good chance to see how differently a professional would handle it.

He is not disappointed when your shoulders drop and a shroud of calm envelops your expression.

There’s a pause and you take a breath before you begin. Hanzo follows the rhythmic bounce of your arm as you scoop out the stray tempura curds and discard them, then another bounce as you lean down to turn down the fire to the refrigerator below. The plates and bowls come out all at once, a quick whisk of the batter with your hands as your foot firmly shuts the door below. You jump from strainer to tongs to ingredient to powder to batter, and then the shining oil sings softly as you gently lay your ingredient—a slice of sweet potato—to rest.

There’s a split-second look of satisfaction in your eyes that Hanzo nearly misses before it’s hardened back into focus.

Even a chef has pride in their work, he realizes. As they should, but that pride is no different than him when he bests an opponent or accomplishes a difficult feat. Truly, he is watching a master at work. Even as you wipe down your counter, you're no less attentive to the pot, fishing out your piece at just the right time

And what comes out is very different from his. You lay your offering next to his own tempura as if to rub in the absolute differences in skill.

Crystalline batter encases the sweet potato slice sparingly, allowing the vibrant orange to show through. The quiet crackling sounds of oil on the surface hint at just how hot it still is. As cliche and stupid as it may sound, the tempura seems to sparkle.

You gesture toward the plate, face carefully neutral.

“Go ahead.”

Quietly muttering his thanks, he picks it up with his chopsticks.

When he takes a bite, it is soundly crisp. The delicate, lacy batter is clear and light on his tongue, bereft of excess oil and weight. Stream rises and swirls around him, saliva filling his mouth. It gives way easily like shattering glass to the dense, but soft interior. The sweet potato truly lives up to its name—it may not be the same white versions of the same name in Japan, but it is delicious, nonetheless, accented by a faint touch of salt.

Tempura is almost always synonymous with spring when he’d be able to get his fill of fresh vegetables, when everything starts anew, when the most serious argument he’d have with Genji is what condiments should go with tempura.

(Genji, for some reason, favored it with tonkatsu sauce—they’re not even for the same meals, damn it—which masks the taste of the ingredient and cheapens the experience. Hanzo was of the more sensible ‘salt’ camp.)

If only he had sake or a dry beer to pair with this, it would be bliss.

It’s not his intention to be shown up by you, but the way you take his ingredients and transform them into something else entirely is deeply impressive and makes him laugh a little at himself. He never stood a chance.

Losing like this doesn’t feel so bad.

Finishing off the rest and raising his hands in surrender, he declares, “I concede.”

Nothing could have prepared him for the triumphant grin that spreads across your face. It’s so bright and warm, his breath stalls.

“Do I win a prize?”

He quickly gathers his wits about him, hoping his voice is casual. “Do you have something in mind?”

Your grin turns mischievous. “I’ll think about it.”

A normally dangerous answer that’s rendered harmless by your flippant attitude. He’s sure you have no intention of cashing in on it. Even if you did, Hanzo highly doubts he’ll mind doing what you ask.

Despite the actual outcome, he was the true victor.

“What did you do differently?”

“I made some adjustments,” you admit excitedly like a child. “I added cornstarch to the batter and thinned it out with more water. For the vegetables, I salted them to draw out excess moisture, patted them down, and threw them into the fridge to get them ice cold. After that, I turned down the heat a little bit so nothing would burn, coated it in cornstarch, and then put it in the oil.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Could you demonstrate again?”

The smile you give him is brilliant. “Of course.”

One demonstration turns into two, into three, and so on, Hanzo having snatched several more pieces of tempura which disappear almost as soon as they hit the plate, the burning of his mouth be damned. If his behavior displeases you, you say nothing. As a matter of fact, that you haven’t stopped him or scolded him shows you do not mind much.

All good things must come to an end when you decide there won’t be enough for the other agents (but not before he sneaks in another carrot stick for himself behind your back).

“You should check in on your curry sauce,” you say as a way to get him to stop pilfering the delectable treats. You even have the audacity to whack his hand, albeit lightly, with a ladle when he attempts to grab another. He grabs your ladle instead—something he should have done the first time you brandished it at his as a weapon, and tends to his curry.

The dark amber sauce is still bubbling at the sides, a skin having formed from being left alone for so long. He gives it a few stirs and a taste.

Tempered by time and slow flames, the flavors have taken on a new form. The saltiness he thought the curry lacked returned, pulling in other more subtle flavors to the forefront that is accented by a hint of spiciness that lingered pleasantly on his tongue. It’s not as heavy as the curry from his memories, lacking the meat component, but he can’t say this is bad either. It is likely leagues better than what he might have been able to accomplish alone.

Determined to repay you for your patience and instruction, Hanzo grabs a small scoop of rice, almost blasting himself in the face with steam when he depressurized the vessel. The aroma of rice mingles with the spices in the air. Already, he can tell the rice is leagues better than his earlier attempt. Sneaking a burning pinch to confirm his suspicions, he finds he’s correct—each grain bounces as though to assert their presence against his teeth, rolling against his tongue with a subtle sweetness only found in rice.

He quickly prepares a plate of rice, pouring a careful river of dark amber sauce onto it. It’s unfortunate he’s eaten all of your tempura, but he takes your batter and instructions and makes a new batch to add to your plate. They’re leagues better than his first attempt, but still nothing compared to yours.

And that comparison holds him captive. You’re a chef who cooks better and has likely tasted far superior foods than his meager attempt. Any compliments you give would only be superficial, borne from politeness and a misplaced respect for the heroes you work for—work with.

Before he could allow his doubts to overcome him and chide him for such an audacious idea, Hanzo calls out, “Chef, I have something for you.” There’s no time for him to regret or take back his words.

“Two seconds.” You set aside the broom you’re using, wiping your hands on a rag hanging from your apron, and approach him curiously. “Yes?”

“This is for you.”

Pushing down his unease, he forces himself to slide the plate in front of you.

“Oh.” You look between him and the plate. “That’s...a lot for a tasting. You didn’t have to give me this much.”

“Tasting? No. This is for you to eat.”

“For me? To...eat?” The words come out haltingly like they’re foreign in your mouth. “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t understand your hesitation. The presentation isn’t pristine or worthy of being in a Michelin Star restaurant, but you didn’t have to insult it in such a manner. He begins to draw the plate back. He should have never offered.

“If you prefer I throw it out…”

“No! Wait, I’ll eat it!”

The dish is snatched instantly and held close, partially shielded with your body as though it were something precious.

“It’s for me to eat, right?”

“...yes. It is yours.”

An expression of wonder falls on your face and you look at the curry rice like it’s the first meal you’ve ever seen in your life, a slow smile forming on your face, one fundamentally different than all the ones he’s seen thus far. If Hanzo was confused before, he's even more so now.

You take your first spoonful, carefully scooping up an even amount of rice and curry sauce.

Nervously, he awaits your verdict, his stomach dancing and rolling around. Perhaps this is how you feel whenever you serve someone, watching their face cycle through different emotions upon first bite. Unbidden, a much older memory of a younger Genji gagging and telling him his curry is ‘shitty’ presses incessantly against the back of his mind.

Slowly you raise a hand to your mouth, eyes wide. A jolt of fear runs through his body. You’re going to be sick. His cooking has poisoned you and he’ll need to call Dr. Ziegler and explain. He’ll be known as a failure who could not put together an edible dish even with the help of a professional. He’s going to—

“This is delicious.”

Your voice is watery, almost reverent. Hanzo can’t fathom why, breath caught in his throat, all of his damning thoughts grinding to an abrupt halt.

“You exaggerate.”

You wave your hands in denial. “I’m not exaggerating! It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time.”

It still pleases him to hear you say it, empty flattery as it may be. His teachers never praised him for anything—every success was met with indifference (“The heir to the Shimada clan should be able to do at least this much.”) and every failure was reviled (“How do you expect to lead the clan with this level of skill?”) .

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but if it’s not palatable—”

“No, it’s great. It’s—”

As if you prove him wrong, you proceed to clear the entire plate with a vicious gusto that could not be faked. He could only watch, frozen, as bite after bite disappears.

It can’t be as good as you’re saying it is. The recipe isn’t complete, lacking in the meat component and the proper stock, not to mention it doesn’t have the all-important pork katsu or any fukujinzuke on the side. If it is any good, it would be because of your instruction. But he has to believe.

Not a speck of rice remains when you’re done.

You lick your lips slowly as if to savor what remains and Hanzo finds his eyes following the motion. He snaps his gaze away, mortified such a reaction was automatic.

“That was so good.”

The swell of pride expands so quickly in his chest, he has trouble breathing.

“That’s because of you.”

“Nothing I’ve ever made for myself tastes half as good as that.”

The revelation is so absurd, Hanzo blurts out, “Lies.”

“It’s true. Food never tastes as good when I make it for myself.”

There is no trace of dishonesty in your eyes. Earnest and pure, a trait he has seen so few times he would have forgotten it had he not come to Overwatch where people like Winston and Mei exude it in spades.

“I suppose if you find it so agreeable, I could cook for you again," he mumbles casually. “If you do not mind, of course.”

“I’d love to have your cooking again.” Struck by a thought, you look up. “Oh! Agent Genji would like this, too. He used to complain about not having enough Japanese food.”

At the mention of Genji’s name, he stiffens, his good mood plummeting back to depths unknown to you.

“Sometimes Agent Genji is difficult to pin down especially if he’s somewhere Athena can’t see him.” Your voice drops to a whisper, edged with mock spite. “He used to turn off his communicator so no one could find him and then complain that no one told him dinner’s ready. Why don’t you go find him and let him know?”

His knee jerk reaction is to be defensive and suspicious of your intentions. Seeing your face, however, he knows it’s not the case. Sighing mentally, he tries to think of a way out. It’d be beyond embarrassing to let you know that he doesn’t want to because of a fight.

“He can eat this?”

Innocently, you reply, “Of course. He can’t eat a lot, but he eats sometimes. I’m sure he’ll love what you’ve made.”

“It’s not professional.”

“Professional or not, it’s the taste of home and no one can resist that. Besides, it’s great.”

“I still need to make the dishes for the others.”

“If it’s serving, I can do it since you’ve made most of it already.”

“I believe our deal is over the moment you finish cooking.”

“Cleaning is a part of the cooking process,” you answer, pointing to your dish and the dishwasher.

“I will handle it.”

“And serve at the same time?”

“I’ll manage.”

“It’ll be easier if you have someone who is used to doing both at the same time here.” It’s a very roundabout way of telling him that he was not able to manage such a thing, but he cannot argue such logic. His arguments are running thin, and he has to confront the possibility that he may have to meet with Genji, if briefly.

Doubt and the branching paths of an uncertain future weave a suffocating web around him. There’s little telling what would happen if Hanzo were to face Genji now. What if he’s with that master of his? What if he is with Dr. Ziegler? What if he wants to be alone and is waiting for an apology that Hanzo is not yet poised to give?

He’s saved when Lúcio appears at the service window.

“Hey, Chef, you in here?” he calls.

“Agent Lúcio?”

“There you are. The doc told me to get you.”

You pause, a pout slowly forming on your face. Hanzo has to clench his jaw tight to stop himself from smiling or laughing. “I’m still working, though.”

Lúcio’s voice goes stern. “And I don’t remember giving you the all clear to work.”

“Are you kiddi—” A garble of noises pour out of your mouth as you look for some rebuttal. Finding none, your whole body slumps down in defeat as you grab your empty dish and place it on a spiky grey rack before you shuffle your feet to the doors. You take one forlorn look at the kitchen and meet Hanzo’s eyes. A slight jolt goes through his stomach when your eyes connect.

“Take care of the kitchen, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You wait for him to nod and then you're gone.

A few moments pass and Hanzo breathes a silent sigh of relief, believing himself the winner of what would be an uncomfortable task. He returns to his curry, but something is off. The kitchen feels colder and a little more foreboding as though it just remembered Hanzo is a stranger to this place and should not be here. In part, it may be because Lúcio remains at the service window, leaning a cheek against his palm as he stares right at him.

He can’t imagine Dr. Ziegler asking Lúcio of all people to find you when Athena has eyes on everyone. Hanzo can only deduce that he is here for a different reason.

“Can I help you?” Hanzo doesn’t really mean it, keeping busy and making sure he strikes the sides of the pot extra loud as he stirs, hoping the man would get the hint.

“I was just thinking the chef’s a real workaholic.” Lúcio’s grin and tone is fond.

Hanzo’s inclined to agree especially since Lúcio hasn’t known you for any notable length of time, but he says nothing, stirring just as loud as before. It doesn’t seem to bother Lúcio or deter him in the least.

“You guys ever tell Chef it’s okay to take a break? Maybe let everyone else cook every once in a while?”

“The kitchen is normally off-limits to agents.” Even though it shouldn't be. “This happens to be an exception due to the...current situation.”

“But every day at any hour? And while injured? Man, that’s gotta violate labor laws in every other country.”

It’s an issue that Hanzo himself is all too familiar with. “It is not uncommon in Japan. That is why there is an issue with karoshi.”

“‘Boyfriends?’”

Hanzo looks incredulously at Lúcio who only blinks at him, unaware of his blunder. “That’s kareshi. How did you even—no, karoshi. Death from overwork.”

“Oh, yikes. Well, that’s what I’m here for. At least until tomorrow’s mission. Gotta make sure Chef is taking it easy and not feel so responsible and learn how to enjoy freedom.”

“Freedom?”

There it is again. The idea of freedom. Since coming to Overwatch, he’s finding himself contemplating simple words and concepts. At first, love, and now freedom.

Hanzo half-expects some flippant answer from the DJ, something about free love or going on adventures or something grandiose yet unobtainable except in the imaginations of children. However, his lower lip purses, and he looks genuinely pensive.

“I guess freedom isn’t the right word. It’s…” He waves his other hand in the air as though an answer will materialize. “Liber—lib...liberdade e responsabilidade. Liberty and responsibility. That’s it.”

“Liberty.”

“The freedom to do what you want. Chase your dreams, having the ability to just choose instead of having someone tell you what you should do.”

The answer is unexpected, but he often forgets that Lúcio was a freedom fighter before becoming an international entertainer.

Hanzo could not truly relate to this idea of ‘liberty’. Genji would have. If Hanzo were still the leader of the Shimada clan he may have found Lúcio’s actions and ideology repulsive and disruptive to the status quo. His dreams and wants were determined the moment he was born. Sit above all others and lead the Shimada clan to prosperity. Expand and build upon the current empire. Be better than everyone so no one is able to look down upon you. Chasing after all that was all he ever wanted, and now he might never be able to have it.

And Genji, who chased after this vague idea of ‘freedom’—not knowing the word to express ‘liberty’—at reckless speeds, achieved nothing but a near-death experience.

He laughs bitterly under his breath. “Freedom is never so simple. Or desirable.”

Lúcio rolls his eyes. “Pfft. That’s why it’s liberdade e responsabilidade. You can’t have one without the other. Liberty without respecting your responsibilities and boundaries is chaos. It’s also disrespectful and asking for an ass-whooping. But having responsibilities without enjoying yourself isn’t liberty at all; that’s self-oppression.”

Yes. Genji yearned for this freedom, this sort of ‘liberty’, but never respected any of the responsibilities that came with it, doing things without regard for consequences or the people it would inconvenience. Maybe if Genji understood what Lúcio did at that age, Hanzo wouldn’t have had to cut him down.

But maybe he didn’t listen hard enough or understand well enough, this foreign concept of ‘liberty’. He had always framed it as Genji’s fault—Genji was the reason for his own demise, everything he had done was wrong—but never once had he ever thought that he himself might have faults that led to the incident.

He stops stirring the pot, no longer willing to keep up any pretenses.

Now, there is no collective named the Shimada clan that he or Genji is beholden to. Instead, they are both working for Overwatch. Whatever issues and differences they had—have—they must resolve them if they are able to work together here. Genji has already tried. Now it’s Hanzo’s turn. No matter how painful or embarrassing or awkward it may be, Hanzo must now make the next move.

“Did you come up with these ideas yourself?” Hanzo asks.

Lúcio raises his arms above his head, stretching. “Psh. Nah. I blame my mestra. She beat a lot of it into me. Literally.” He drops his voice to a whisper conspiratorially, making a show of looking around. “Might’ve been a little bad in the roda, so she taught the lesson early.”

Hanzo chuckles. “She must be a wise person.”

Lúcio grins proudly. “That’s ‘cause she carries the lineage of Palmares.” He says it like it means anything to Hanzo. He humors Lúcio anyway, nodding as though he understands.

“I’m back,” you announce breathlessly as you appear beside Lúcio.

“Did the doc let you out that quick?”

You put a finger to your lips, smiling sheepishly. “She was busy with Capt—Agent Ana, so I came back.”

Lúcio tsks. “You should’ve just waited. Or interrupted her.”

“I have to put away the dishes.” You point at the dishwashing machine which at some point had stopped running. Turning to him, you say with a purposeful edge to your voice, “I can handle it from here for a little while. You should go, Hanzo.”

Hanzo sighs deep through his nose, nerves rattling in his chest. He is not ready. He cannot do this. He shouldn’t have to do this. Sweat forms in his palms as his mind begins to again map out scenarios of a future that has not yet happened and how he may save face at every point.

No.

That’s what landed him in this problem in the first place. If he continues to think in the same way as his past self, he will only be repeating the same mistakes. He is not his past self. This should have been taken care of ten years ago, and should not be delayed a moment longer. This would be the ‘right’ thing to do.

Against all his misgivings and the wall of reluctance that has been protecting the status of ‘coward’ in his heart, Hanzo flicks off the fire and waits for you to enter the kitchen before he makes his way out.

As you suspected, it does not take Hanzo long to find Genji sitting atop the highest point of the Watchpoint. While they both developed the love for high places at a young age, Hanzo thinks his reasons for enjoying the height may now be very different from the reasons Genji did.

His jaw is tight and throat dry. There’s a chilly strumming alongside his heartbeat, and his nerves feel too raw. But this is necessary.

“Genji.” He swallows down whatever hesitations and pride he has, throat clicking. The buzzing in his chest consumes his hands. His breaths come quicker, more shallow. “Dinner’s ready.”

It’s not anything. It’s not the right thing to say, but it’s something.

For a while, Genji does not move. Silence holds them both captive, daring one of them to break it first. Hanzo flexes a hand. Then, the lights to his visor flicker on, the glare softer than before. Genji turns his head, watching Hanzo from the corner of his vision.

“Thanks. What is it?”

“...curry rice. With tempura.”

“I’ll be there in a bit.”

Hanzo nods numbly and Genji turns back to look out across the city. Taking that as his cue, Hanzo takes a step back, turns and jumps off the point, hoping the feeling of free-falling will let him outrun the terrifying feeling of moving forward toward an unseen destination.

Chapter 19>>

[chris-evanslover]

All is Fair in Love and War

Summary: Best Friends Tom and OFC Lia get into an argument about Lia flirting with a guy when they go out. Tom’s jealousy snaps and he tells her how he really feels.

Warning: Angst, Fluff Ending (bc im a sap)

Word Count: 2.1K

I slammed the door closed of the Uber Tom and I took back to our shared apartment, stomping up the stairs till I reached our door, Tom following close behind me. He knew better than to talk right now, I was livid. Tom and I are roommates when he's in New York. We’ve known each other for a few years and became really close friends. Best friends if you will. Tom spends a lot of time in New York for press, filming and sometimes just to spend time here. I had extra room in my apartment and I offered for him to keep some stuff here instead of just getting a hotel every-time he comes to the city, which is often.

It was Tom’s idea to go out tonight, I for one was content with binging movies on the couch in our pajamas but Tom knows his puppy eyes can’t be denied by me. That’s how I ended up in a stuffy, crowded and posh nightclub downtown. Tom told me to wait at the bar and order him a drink, he knew some people that would be here tonight and he had to go say hi to them. I took a seat at the bar and ordered Tom a pint and myself a Rum and Coke. Paying close attention to my drink, I saw out of the corner of my eye that someone had slid into the seat next to me. Assuming it was tom I pushed the beer in his direction but when I looked up it wasn’t Tom, it was a very attractive man. He looked about 6 foot tall, had the build of a baseball player with bright green eyes and brown hair, completing his look with some scruff that really fit him.

“Sorry for shoving the beer in your face I thought you were my friend” “I don’t mind when it’s a pretty girl like yourself, I hope the friend isn’t a boyfriend?” So we’re flirting? Okay say less. I laughed and said “No he’s not, he asked me to order him a beer while he said hi to some people” “And he just left you alone at the bar?” “Well-I mean-No, I came here voluntarily instead of following him around while he said his hellos” he laughed and said he was just joking around “I’m Nate, it’s nice to meet you-” he held out his hand for a shake “Lia” I shook his hand, “Lia, very fitting” “Yeah what’s that supposed to mean?” I looked at him while swirling my drink in my hand before taking a sip. “Well you know, elegant name for a beautiful girl” I felt my cheeks heat up and laughed, not used to being flirted with this openly. “Thank you, So Nate tell me about yourself”. Nate began to tell me that he is a trainer for the New York Yankees. Aha I knew he had something to do with baseball. He asked me about my job which I told him I worked for a publishing house and all about my love for reading.

I didn’t realize how long had passed, about 45 minutes I was talking to Nate. He was genuinely nice, not pushy, sweet but a little mischievous, in a good way. I started looking around the club for Tom, a little annoyed he left me this long. Yeah I have Nate to keep me company but Tom doesn’t know that. Nate noticed me looking around and asked if everything was okay. “Yeah yeah I just don’t know where my friend is, he said he wouldn’t be long but I've been sitting here for close to an hour” “Would you like me to help you find him?” “You know what yeah I would thanks, let’s start over here”. Nate and I circled the club looking for Tom, I showed him a picture where you couldn’t really make out his face but you could make out his features, not wanting Nate to freak out if he recognized him. Some people are weird like that when it comes to celebrities.

I spotted Tom’s curls towards the back of the club, he was sitting on a couch with a Blonde model sitting on his lap with her arms around his neck. I scoffed and rolled my eyes but before I could walk back to Nate, we locked eyes and his face dropped. He’s free to do whatever and whoever he wants, we’re just friends but the fact that he left me alone is what i’m particularly mad about. I led Nate back to the bar, telling him I found him and all is good. We continued talking for about a couple minutes when I felt someone come up behind me and slid their arm around my waist and press a kiss to the back of my head. I spun around quickly ready to lay into whatever creep just did this but I was faced with Tom who was obviously drunk. “We should go home Love”. Nate spoke up when he said this “Lia do you know him? if you don’t we can move somewhere you’re not uncomfortable” “Shes not going anywhere with you mate” Tom basically growled out. My jaw dropped. What the actual fuck was his problem.

Not wanting Tom to make a scene no matter the expense (my expense) I told Nate, “I’m sorry, I should really take him home, thanks for a lovely night though” “Wow really, I genuienly wanted to get to know you too, but have fun babysitting” Nate grumbled and went somewhere away from the bar before I turned to Tom who looked unfazed. I was so mad at him but I couldn’t make a scene. Ordering an uber, Tom kept trying to talk to me as if everything was fine and dandy. The uber was 2 minutes away and I just wanted to go to sleep but Thomas wouldn’t keep his trap shut. “You know that guy probably only wanted to fuck you right” “What the actual fuck is wrong with you” “I’m just saying, don’t get so butthurt, I did you a favor” You scoffed at him, he was being an asshole.

Tom was rarely like this, you guys got on so organically and barely argued. Drunk Tom is a different story, all bets are off because he can be quite the little shit when he’s under the influence. I got a notification that the uber had arrived, I told Tom we were leaving and we got in the car which then took off in the direction of our apartment. I could feel Tom looking at me the entire ride but I was too angry with him at the moment to look back. The car parked and I got out with a huff, stomping up the stairs and unlocking our door. I kicked my heels off and made a B-Line for my room. Tom came in the apartment right behind me and called my name “Lia, wait, please”

“Leave me alone Tom” “No-I Fucked up” I turned to him, we’re standing approximately 6 feet apart in the kitchen. “Yeah you did, you really did and I would like to go to bed forgetting about tonight all together so can you give me that. Can you give me the decency of letting me just go to bed” “Can we please talk about this” completely ignored what I just said, thanks Tom. “What’s there to talk about Tom? The fact that you disappeared on me for almost an hour, Or that when I found you, you had some model in your lap. Or the fact that you felt the need to scare off a guy I was actually having a good time with. Or that you think he just wanted to fuck me is that it?” You were bright red in the face starting to raise your voice at Tom, letting all your pent up frustration from the night out, but you weren’t done. “IS THAT ALL I AM IN YOUR EYES TOM, HUH? SOMEONE TO FUCK? WELL IM NOT, IM A HUMAN BEING, WITH FEELINGS. YOU WERE THE LAST PERSON I EVER EXPECTED TO SAY THAT TO ME” He looked at you, slightly nervous.

“I left you alone because I saw you were having a good time and I didn’t want to interrupt” You laughed “You didn’t want to interrupt? What did someone hold a gun to your back and make you interrupt us then? Was it the girl on your lap?” “Stop with that seriously” He raised his voice, I don’t think he’s ever raised his voice at me. “You’re unbelievable” “Why? Why am I the one that’s unbelievable” “Are you being SERIOUS RIGHT NOW! WHY’D YOU INTERRUPT US THEN?” “BECAUSE I CAN’T STAND YOU BEING WITH ANOTHER GUY”

What? Where is this coming from, Tommy give me strength. “Where is this coming from Tom?” you lowered your voice volume by a million, barely whispering. “I didn’t plan on telling you like this Hell, I didn’t plan on telling you this at all. I don’t want to ruin our relationship” “Spit it out Holland” “I’m in Love with you”

I didn’t think my headache could get any more complicated but here we were yelling at each other in our kitchen at 1 in the morning. When I didn’t say anything he kept talking.

“I’ve been in Love with you for as long as I can remember but I pushed it down because I didn’t think you felt the same way. I don’t want our relationship to fall through because of this but looking at you here, now I, I had to tell you, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and seeing you tonight with him? It hurt so much more than I thought it would. So yeah I got wasted and this chick Amber sat on my lap before I pushed her off 2 minutes later, of course though the one time you see me is at that moment when she’s on my lap. I know you’re mad at me and I hate that I’m the one that made you angry but I just ask that you try to see this from my side. I understand if you don’t feel the same way It’s okay, I just, I’m terrified of losing you Lia. You’re the best thing I have.”

I’m speechless, not many times in my life have I been speechless but here I am with one thought only in my head. I really want to kiss him. So I do, I walked the couple steps till I reached Tom and cupped his cheeks in my hands, pulling him down so that our lips could meet. He reciprocated the kiss immediately, Starting off slow but quickly building in speed and passion. When we tore apart he looked at me in the eyes, “I meant every word I said” “I know you did” “What does this mean? Do you feel the same?” “This means I could see myself feeling the same, Make me fall in love with you Tommy” “It’s a big task but I think I can manage” he smiled and kissed you again, you never wanted him to stop.

“Does being Spider-Man get me any brownie points” You teasingly smacked him upside the head to which you both laughed. “C’mon Spidey, let’s watch something” “Yes ma’am, You choose” Oh, you were going to enjoy Tom trying to impress you.

A/N: Ahhh I had so much fun writing this holy shit.

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[moiraineswife]

Caleb’s Episode 49 Confession Meta

Time for some things that are probably obvious af but they’re Sad and Angsty so I’m going to through them in a meta piece. Because I like to meta about Sad Things and that’s just Caleb through-and-through. So we’re going to talk about Caleb’s episode 49 confession and a few things we can derive from what was said.

I think his comments about Trent were quite telling, both about his behaviour presently, and also about how he thinks about/feels about Trent.

“He believed that the unwashed masses relied on their base instincts and the highest calling was to rise above the muck and control the cattle for the good of all.”

This quote says a lot about why, when he’s trying to hide desperately from Trent, he covers himself in dirt, and mud. Perhaps taking that too literally, but he never thinks that Trent will look for him, or notice him if he’s just one of the ‘cattle’.

When he sees the two elves from the Assembly in Felderwind, the first thing he does is, not just rub dirt on himself, he full on faceplants into the ground and rubs dirt all over himself as an instinctual response. It’s like Nott’s porcelain mask, it gives him comfort, it helps him hide, it makes him feel safe and invisible. Which is exactly what Caleb wants to be.

He’s been special. He’s been singled out. He’s been the top of the class, the one everyone’s watching, and pushing, and believing in him and it nearly destroyed him. Now he wants to be no-one. He wants to be nothing, not least because that’s about how he views himself self-esteem wise. But that’s safe. Being noticed isn’t. He put his hood up in the victory pit. He covered himself with mud so that he blends in with everyone else.

I also think that that little incident with Jester, when they talked about money, it was a rejection of ideals, not Jester’s ideals, Jester I think just accidentally triggered this. But I think it was Trent’s ideals in terms of believing that peasants are lesser in some way, and that was a small rejection of those ideals.

While he’s telling the group his story, he abbreviates part of his story, just saying, “I went a little crazy.” Later, when he’s discussing Trent, he says, “He was a little mad himself.”

This connects him and Trent. That implication in that word ‘himself’ ties them together, he’s effectively saying ‘I went a little crazy, and Trent, he was a little mad, too’ it’s this uncomfortable link that he makes between himself and the man who groomed him, and brainwashed him, and abused him.

After he tells the group about the crystal experiments, he then says, ‘But everything was for empire...We were at war. We are at war. There were many that felt that way, that feel this way.”

That kind of ideology was fed to Caleb, Astrid, and Edowulf so exclusively that all three of them, upon having a false memory implanted into their minds showing their parents had been disloyal to the empire, were willing to murder them at Trent’s command. They killed other people that Trent brought them, dissenters, who were executed by these teenagers under this justification of everything being for your empire, your country, your society.

And that justification becomes an incredible powerful thing within the cycle of Trent’s abuse. Because it’s the justification that Caleb and the others use for the terrible things that they’ve done? So when Trent does terrible things to them, under the same justification, they’re almost forced, psychologically, to condone it. Because if they don’t condone Trent’s actions towards them, how can they condone their own actions against other people?

What Caleb does immediately after he tells the group about Trent’s twisted crystal experiments is to start making excuses for him. ‘It was for the empire’ ‘we were at war’ ‘it was for the greater good’ which also minimises the trauma and abuse that he endured.

A lot of traumatised people do that with their abusers, and I’m not a psychologist or anything, so don’t quote me on this, but I think, definitely in Caleb’s case, it’s again about taking some of the spotlight off of himself. But I also think it’s a fear response. It’s the same reason he smears himself with dirt and mud. He smears these harsh truths with gentling justifications and excuses (bullshit as they are) because if Trent ever found out he had told anyone about this, if he ever found out Caleb had complained about this, and disclosed details of his little experiments, that probably doesn’t even bear thinking about for Caleb.

Trent is a master manipulator that groomed Caleb in a likely very practised, very specific, very targeted way. He found a young boy from a small town with very little means who wanted to prove himself, and make something better of himself, and twisted him utterly. He made Caleb feel special, and important with his little private interviews, and chats, and then putting him into “advanced classes” as Caleb called them.

He twisted and controlled him to the point that Caleb consented (I use that word loosely, because coercion and ‘consent’ under this kind of abuse is not consent at all. Nevermind the fact Caleb was a minor at the time, but in his mind, that’s what I believe he thinks it was) to have agonising experiments conducted on him for this man.

Trent still influences everything that Caleb does, everything he thinks, everything he feels, everything he fears, everything he says. From what we’ve seen, he’s incredibly charming, just as a person, and also via some kind of strange magical influence which he used on Yasha. Imagine that presence, that influence, that power exerted on an impressionable, eager, hungry fifteen year old kid in a very concentrated, very personal manner for over two years.

And that all happened a long time ago, but psychologically, for Caleb, it didn’t. He was in an asylum for eleven years, but during that time, he still had the false memory that Trent implanted in him, and I highly doubt anyone would have been talking shit about the empire there. Abuse like Caleb’s needs to be validated from an external source before it can be believed.

So, really, Caleb spent eleven years trapped inside his own head feeling like he’d failed Trent, he’d failed his empire, his country, his home, the girl that he loved, the other students, literally everything he’d been taught to believe in.

Then one day someone magically zapped his brain and lifted that and he remembered everything. And from there he just went into a state of complete and utter panic. He admits himself that he’s been running for a long time, and that he’s been afraid all that time. He hasn’t exactly had time to process what he went through, to work out literally anything. All he’s been focused on is surviving.

Which makes a lot of sense. Because those memories are painful, and difficult, and it is so much easier to just blame himself, and hate himself, and punish himself than to examine what might have been done to him, how badly it might have damaged him, and how this man that he likely greatly respected and looked up to was always ever only using him.

-The last thing from that conversation/confession I want to talk about is: “I have been using you all” followed up with “If they see you with me they will use you to get to me” and “I don’t want one more thing on my head – you guys....It’s probably too late.”

I am SURE I’ve written meta about Caleb’s feelings towards the group before now, but this is kind of a more canon confirmation of what I thought.

Caleb was literally conditioned to be a weapon. He was made to execute dissenters of the empire from the ages of 15-17. Trent forced him to brutally kill his own fucking parents, I feel like he wasn’t exactly encouraged to care about people.

Caleb was used. He was taught that people were either useful, or they were not, they were ‘unwashed masses that relied on their base instincts’. And by ‘base instincts’ I’m assuming that Trent included ‘basic human decency/respect/caring about others’ in there. Love is a no-no.

So Caleb is battling with two years solid abuse and actual literal magical brainwashing plus torture, plus god knows what else plus eleven years of solitude in which he’s had time to brood on what an awful, pathetic failure he is to everyone and everything, and then like...5 months where he’s been half-starving to death, terrified out of his wits, and on the run. I feel like it’s a bit much to expect the dude to be able to admit that he cares about these people, even when he does.

But that denial, that excuse, that lame lie ‘I have been using you all’ is another dirt mask for Caleb. It’s something that keeps him safe. If Trent were to appear, right now, and demand to know if he cared about these people, Caleb is well practised in being able to say ‘no, I don’t, I’ve just been using them to fulfil my own ends and protect me’. It’s a protection thing, except this time it’s not himself he’s protecting, it’s them.

There’s also, I think, a deeper, far more twisted layer in that by saying this, it’s one way he can not fail Trent. He’s still sticking to this part of his teaching. He’s not being stupid and weak and falling in with the unwashed masses, he’s just using them, the way Trent used people.

I don’t think that Caleb consciously wants to be like Trent, but I do still think there’s over a decade of self-hatred and feeling like a failure, as well as a nice, generous heaping of Stockholm syndrome. I think this is a very strange, twisted combination of his desire, subconsciously, to still be linked with Trent, along the lines of linking their madness which...could not be more different, but hey! Abuse don’t give a shit about ur logic.

I think it’s also the fact that on some level he hates Trent. But he also hates himself. So telling himself that he’s like Trent, and believing he’s doing the things to others that Trent did to him gives him a false sense of power over him, but it’s also a bit like his fire magic? It’s a way of retraumatising himself, and punishing himself, but also I think, a bit like Trent’s crystal experiments, it’s punishment, and it’s pain, and it’s torture being used as a means of strengthening himself.

It’s him giving in to Trent’s teachings which are literally everywhere. He has these slips where he wonders why he’s with this group because they can’t help him achieve his goals, and he tells himself they’re slowing him down, and that’s Trent talking, not Caleb.

But then he utterly undermines it by saying that if anyone sees them with him, they’ll hurt him, and that he doesn’t want their lives set to his account, too. If he was using them, he literally wouldn’t say any of that, because it risks exposing himself in order to protect them.

I think that, in a massively oversimplified version of the real complicated psychological mess that is Caleb Widogast: the things he says and to an extent the things that he thinks, and feels are Trent.

The things that he DOES are Caleb.

He says that he shouldn’t be travelling with these people. That they’re not going to help him. That he’s wasting his time with them.

But he stays.

He says that he’s using them, and he won’t admit that he cares about them (because that’s dangerous, and not allowed).

But he literally rips open the most painful experiences of his life, risks himself to warn them about his past and what he’s been through and what he’s done in order to protect them.

Caleb says that he doesn’t care because he can’t. He can’t let himself care. Because it’s terrifying, and dangerous and has been used against him over and over and he’s spent years of his life believing that it’s wrong. And it tears him apart because he does. He does care. And it’s killing him, because it terrifies him.

Listen the tl;dr of this thing is that i love caleb widogast a whole lot, i think liam is doing an incredible job portraying a trauma and abuse survivor and, uh, i will fight you with thousands and thousands of ranting words of meta if ur rude about him. Have a nice day.