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gothpanda · 4 years

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A Little Bit of Attitude Ch. 36: Rehab

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

A/N: I had this written a long time ago. Which is why y’all are getting 2 chapters in 2 days

TAGS: @madamsixx @emariehorror

@nosebleedblitz

WARNINGS: angst

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February 2nd, 1988

Tucson, Arizona

Sammi stared out of the taxi cab window, frowning at the rehabilitation sign insight. Her palms were sweating even more than they did when on the airplane over to Tucson. The taxi driver wasn’t in any rush, somewhat understanding Sammi’s hesitation to exit their cab once they saw where Sammi needed to be. Sammi rubbed her hands on her jeans, exhaling as she paid the cab fare. The driver gave a sad smile to Sammi from the rearview mirror.

“Good luck to whatever finds you here,” said the driver.

Sammi smiled back at the driver, stepping out of the car with shaky feet. The rehab was beautiful to Sammi, with vast desert fields with different sports or relaxation activities. It looked like a rich summer camp if you didn’t know what the place really was. Sammi walked through the sliding doors, feeling cold air conditioning that hit her face, a pleasant sensation once outside in the heat. She clenched onto the strap of her purse, looking at everything around like a little child. Sammi slowly walked to the receptionist’s desk, greeted by an older man who gave a courtesy smile.

“Hello Ms. how may I help you today?” asked the man, his name tag reading Julius.

“I’m here to see Dr. Hawkins. She asked me to come in for a therapy session today. I have… family here,” Sammi said, pressing her lips tightly together. The man looked down at his notebook and computer then to another receptionist near him.

“Well, Dr. Hawkins seems to be currently in a group therapy session, but let me phone in her head nursing assistant. Could I get some ID, please?” asked Julius. Sammi reached into her purse and slid over the card. As Julius read Sammi’s full name, she could see the twitch in his face of realization. Julius returned the ID and a visitor clip for Sammi. “Okay, please have this clip on for the entirety of your visit. You can have a seat over on your right,” said Julius.

“Thank you,” Sammi smiled, walking to the rows of chairs in a maze-like fashion. Sammi was the only one in the little waiting area, seeing a sign about visitation hours for ‘patients.’ Sammi shuddered at the word, fully succumbing to the fact that the guys were patients. Patients who are most likely under medication at the moment. Patients who Sammi’s been around when completing her necessary hours to graduate. It clicked at this moment alone that Sammi found herself in the place she was aiming to work for, but this time visiting people she cared about. Sammi soon saw a nurse come out of the hospital like double doors, seeking right for Sammi.

“Samantha?” Nurse Sandra asked, extending out a hand. Sammi stood on her feet, shoulders squared, accepting the handshake.

“Yes. Hi, I’m Samantha. It’s nice to meet you,” Sammi smiled politely at Nurse Sandra. “You work with Dr. Hawkins?”

“Yes, I do. I’m one of the nurse team members assigned to Motley Crue. It’s been an interesting journey so far,” Nurse Sandra said with a smile.

“Team members? How many people are assigned to the guys?” Sammi asked with worried eyebrows.

“They each have one assigned nurse when necessary, such as distributing medication at specific hours and each a therapist. Dr. Hawkins facilitates group therapy sessions and the main doctor in charge of their treatment. Come with me so we can join the men now. We don’t want to be late,” Nurse Sandra with a smile, sensing the nerves from Sammi’s face. Nurse Sandra and Sammi walked down the home-like hallways, passing doctors’ offices and patient rooms. “Did Dr. Hawkins have a chance to fully explain before your visit down here?” Nurse Sandra asked.

“I was just told Dr. Hawkins wanted me in for a group therapy session. I just don't have the full reasoning exactly,” Sammi replied as the two stood in front of the spacious group therapy room.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t worry,” Nurse Sandra said, checking the watch on her wrist and peeking inside the room. Sammi looked inside through the small window as well to see all four of the guys seated down. They all had their backs to the door, listening carefully to what Dr. Hawkins was saying. An older woman who looked like she could be Mrs. Bass's age. One chair in the middle between all four men was empty, leaving Nikki and Tommy on the left and Vince & Mick right. “Ready?” Nurse Sandra asked. Sammi nodded, swallowing hard. Nurse Sandra carefully opened the door, waving two fingers to signal Dr. Hawkins. Dr. Hawkins nodded, clapping her hands together. Sammi shuffled in the room with silence, clutching onto the strap of her purse harder.

“Gentlemen, remember how I said we were going to have a guest today? Well, here she is,” Dr. Hawkins said, standing up and raising a hand behind everyone. “Samantha, come here have a seat with us,” Nikki was the first to snap his head behind him, blinking rapidly as if he was dreaming. Tommy smiled at his sister, missing the face of someone familiar that wasn’t Motley anymore. Vince and Mick couldn’t look at Sammi, but each had different reasoning. Sammi kept her head hung low, not making eye contact at everyone's shocked faces, sitting down in her designated seat.

“Good afternoon, Samantha. How are you doing?” Dr. Hawkins asked, smiling warmly at the young woman.

“Okay… I guess. I’m not sure as to why I’m here exactly,” said Sammi.

“I wanted to invite you for a therapy session because I noticed from our team that you are a common theme in many sessions since the men have been here,” said Dr. Hawkins, grabbing a leather notecase, clicking her silver pen.

“I am?” asked Sammi, curling her lip at the surprise. Sammi looked to her right, seeing Tommy and Nikki looking down to the floor. Mick rested his chin in the palm of his hand to her left while Vince sat with folded arms and stared only at Dr. Hawkins.

“Yes, you are. Whenever the men opened up and told an event, you were mentioned many times from their owns accounts,”

“Wow, even Mick talks about me? I’m touched,” teased Sammi to break the tension, placing a hand over her heart, turning towards Mick. His mouth was covered, but Sammi could still see the corners turned upwards. “So, what exactly do you want from me? I’m just Tommy’s little sister?”

“No, you’re not just Tommy’s little sister. You’re a sister, a friend, and a romantic partner. I want you to fully open up about your experience with these men during their substance abuse,” Dr. Hawkins corrected Sammi. Sammi looked down at her lap. “I brought Samantha in here, so the four of you fully comprehend how your abuse affects the people around you,” Dr. Hawkins explained to Motley, scanning the room and seeing the discomfort in everyone's faces. “While you are a band, Samantha isn’t someone who knows all of you purely on that. She seems to be the one positive person you all have,”

“Yeah, thanks, Tommy,” Sammi mumbled, folding her arms tightly against her chest and crossing one leg over the other.

“Oh, come on, you know you love us,” Tommy replied, giving a quick one-sided smile to Sammi.

“Alright, let’s begin,” Dr. Hawkins said with a smile, pages of notes turning echoing in the room. “Is it alright if I address you as Sammi for the rest of the session?” Sammi nodded. “Great! I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re currently in school for pharmacy in San Francisco. How is that going?”

Sammi shrugged. “Good. Challenging, but it’s been going good these last two years. I’m almost finally done with school. Feels like I’ve been in college for an eternity,”

“That’s amazing. It’s good seeing young women come into the medical field for all things. I know your brother is proud of you,” Dr. Hawkins smiled, Sammi smiling at Tommy, who shied away. “You two seem close when he talks about you and your other sister Athena. It’s important to have a strong bond even during rough times,”

“I could agree. Of course, Tommy annoys the hell out me, but I’m lucky to have a brother like him,”

“And was it always like this? Did you two always have a strong bond growing up?”

“Nope,” Sammi and Tommy said in unison with a chuckle. Both repressed their laughs but still smiled at each other. “I was a bit ‘bitchy’ when I was 17,”

“And 18, and 19… It wasn’t just your fault, though. I can admit now why you’d act upset with me,” Tommy added.

“And why was that, Tommy?” Dr. Hawkins asked.

Tommy sighed. “At first, I blamed it on these two friends she had from high school, but after I got into Motley, I acted all big shot for being in a band. So we grew apart when we began having our own lives,” Tommy said, folding his arms against his chest and sinking into the white accent sofa chair.

“How did you two manage to reconnect?” Dr. Hawkins asked.

Sammi smiled to herself at the memory of the first time she met Tommy in Motley. “Ironically, the band. Tommy went to my job at the time, asking for a bedsheet that I wasn’t using anymore. That’s where I met Nikki and reconnected with Vince,”

“No, Mick?”

“I didn’t show up to the old apartment until it was the evening. I met Sammi when she came for a rehearsal,” Mick added.

“So what was your first impression of everyone, Sammi? After not seeing Vince since you were a young teen and Nikki for the first time,”

“I hated Nikki,” Sammi snickered, Nikki smiling to himself but away from everyone. “I called him a porcupine because his hair was so teased and made him call me Samantha. I hated how he was gawking at me but also liked it for some reason. I was nice to Vince but kept a distance because he had been around with people I knew, then soon my old crush came back. And with Mick, I didn’t get why the guys called him an alien. He just had a different head on his shoulders than the others. They’re all different in their own ways,”

“Those sound like fun introductions to a couple of bold characters,” Dr. Hawkins had joked. Sammi nodded, smiling a tad bit at how it all began. “But then you had moments of anger with the men? Is that correct?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sammi huffed out.

“Were there ever specific times or random moments of annoyance throughout the friendships?”

“It was first their attitudes of being macho men, mostly from Nikki. Mick never made me angry, honestly. Vince would get under my skin if he slept with girls before we got together… and even during. Then there were the drugs and times they all acted selfish, hurting someone else along the way,” Sammi said, thinking hard to formulate a proper thought of her life with Motley.

“So you never liked it when any of them used hard substances?”

Sammi looked down at the floor for a moment. “No, I didn’t. I never saw a reason to do it. The only drug I was around was weed at the time. Our parents explained why using drugs was bad all the time growing up, hard drugs in mind. When I saw Tommy and Athena do it, I freaked out, running away from them. Then I only told our parents because I’m a bad liar to them, and they kept asking questions when I got home in the morning. They chewed Athena and Tommy’s ass to dinner that night,”

“How old were you when this happened?”

“18,”

“Do you remember if you blamed a person for this?”

Sammi nodded. “I blamed Nikki for giving them coke because Vince told me,”

“Did you all three talk it out right after dinner? To keep your sibling bond intact?”

Sammi glanced at Nikki, seeing him stare at the corner of the room. “No, we didn’t. That night Nikki called me when I was in my room to tell me I was dumb after telling him he was a creep. Everyone does drugs in this scene, and if I didn’t like it, I should stay out. So I did. I didn’t talk to Tommy, Athena, or Vince for a while,” Sammi recalled pressing her lips together, looking dead at Dr. Hawkins.

“God, I forgot about that,” Mick mumbled, slowly shifting for comfort in his seat. Tommy and Vince looked at each other, remembering those times that felt like centuries ago. Nikki rested his chin in the palm of his hands, turning his body away from Sammi. It was the first time Nikki felt terrible for hurting Sammi’s feelings, not understanding why at the time. Nikki never felt bad about hurting a girl's sentiments in his young life until that night, questioning his feelings.

“How was that for you, Tommy? Or Vince? Or Nikki? Or Mick?” Dr. Hawkins asked the three men.

“Tried to make sure no one killed Nikki. I thought he was an asshole for pissing Sammi off. We all kind of gave him the silent treatment for it. Sammi didn’t deserve our bullshit so early on of knowing us,” Mick said.

“I was so pissed at Nikki. I liked having Sammi around. That was around the time I started liking her,” Vince said, cracking his fingers.

“The funny thing is, I should’ve known something happened. When I told Sammi goodbye at dinner, she wouldn’t open her bedroom door. I came home to Vince yelling at Nikki,” Tommy said. “I felt like shit for making Sammi angry at us as soon as we started hanging out again,”

“Nikki?” Dr. Hawkins asked. Nikki didn’t give a response, keeping his head away from everyone. Dr. Hawkins didn’t try to press any further for the time being.

“But after that, you all still managed to have Sammi in your lives and go down the path you chose?” Dr. Hawkins asked. Motley and Sammi stayed silent, no one giving a glance to anyone in the room. “How was that, Sammi? If you were so strong-willed to not be around, then what happened?”

“Nikki apologized for the whole thing, and I missed the guys. It’s kinda hard to ignore all of them when your brother is in the band. I had moments of being distant with the guys either way,”

“But you could’ve still stayed away. What was the real reason?”

“I liked them, Okay? I had two fake friends and a cookie-cutter life before I hung out with them. I liked being around them even if shit happened,” Sammi raised her voice a tad bit.

“Was that all, though?” Dr. Hawkins asked again.

“Listen, do you want a gist of basically the last six years of my life to fully get it?” Sammi asks, scowling at Dr. Hawkins.

“Go ahead. I encourage you to open up. Go on for as long as you want,”

“My brother gets in a band to be the drummer with three other guys. The lead singer is his old high school friend I had liked since I was 13 when he slept in our van. After a year of fucked up friendship, we finally got together even though he couldn’t keep it in his pants. All of that for him to just end up cheating on me and getting another girl pregnant. The bass player is some macho asshole, and I hate him. We end up talking for more than a minute, and I can see the asshole turn sweet on me. I end up having feelings for him, and everything gets worse but still great. When things are going good, it feels amazing, but when it’s bad, it’s like hell on earth because I can’t fix it. The guitar player acts like my dad to me because he’s scared I’ll fuck up my life when I’m around them. He got angry that I snorted coke on my birthday. He keeps his medical condition a secret from everyone because the drummer, singer, and bass player are assholes. They use him as a punching bag because he’s nice. I don’t say shit because who is going to listen to me? Mick won’t admit to being in pain, and no one listens when I say ease upon him. I stayed because I liked being around them and brushed off the annoyance. My brother and I are finally talking regularly again. That’s what it’s like being with these four,” Sammi rambled, frowning deeper lines on her face, folding her arms tighter around her chest.

Motley stared at Sammi, feeling confined to what they’ve made her put up. Dr. Hawkins wrote down in her notepad, motioning for Sammi to continue. “I hated it when they had to go too far with drugs and alcohol. I went on tour with them as an assistant for one year and saw everything. They had to go crazy to ‘prove themselves to no one who’s actually important in their lives. Every single time one of them told me, ‘that’s the lifestyle,’ I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs. I didn’t get how these four who finally got their dream would throw it away by slowly killing themselves,”

“But, you have used drugs before?”

“Yes. I admit I have done drugs, but it was only coke.”

“The first time you used was on your birthday?”

“No. It was the night Nikki and I talked after he apologized for calling me dumb. Both of us went back to the apartment he shared with Tommy and Vince, there was a party, so I stayed. When I was there, the three of them were using coke in front of me. I wanted to see why they liked it so much. So I asked, and I snorted for the first time. It was rare when I did coke after that, self-aware of taking it easy. The last time I did, it was in Vegas three years ago with Nikki. Vince would get mad at me every time I got high when we were together,” Sammi admitted

“Why would that be, Vince?” Dr. Hawkins asked Vince, turning her attention to the man slouching in the sofa chair. Vince stayed silent, thinking of what was the right thing to say. “I wanted Sammi to stay innocent. I didn’t want her to be like the fucked up girls who’d slim around us. She didn’t get crazy while she was high, which was great, but the main thing was Nikki. I knew Nikki would be the one giving her coke, and I’d get jealous every time he was around her. I guess I’m a major hypocrite,”

“It’s good that you at least know this. I want you to hold on to your thoughts about Sammi because I will be asking about your relationship later,” Dr. Hawkins instructed, Sammi and Vince glancing at each other. “Now, Sammi, if you never liked the boys taking things to the extreme and even when you have dipped your toes into their word, why did you stick so long? Besides the fact, you liked the gentlemen,”

Sammi bit her lip. “Because I felt like I had to protect them a lot of the time. I’m the only real responsible one, so I felt I needed to make sure everyone was okay in the end. And I failed at that,” Mick frowned at the last part of Sammi’s statement, knowing the weight of it.

“Was this because of Tommy being your brother? You felt as if everyone needed your protection? That’s a lot to handle for a young girl. You were barely becoming an adult,”

“I’m protective of Tommy in general even if he wasn’t with Motley. But after being around them and seeing that they were good guys underneath all the leather, I wanted to make sure nothing bad happened,” Sammi mumbled, feeling tears set in her eyes. She wiped away anything from her eyes that felt like a tear. “Even if I said mean things to the guys because I was angry, I still felt bad and wanted to continue protecting them. I’d say sorry and move on. They did dumb shit but would still try to make it a bit better,”

“We’re sorry, Sammi, for putting that pressure on you. Even if we didn’t realize it,” Mick said, Sammi smiled at him for a second.

“Did you ever feel like you failed at protecting the guys?” Sammi shrugged her shoulder, biting the inside of her cheek to stop tears from falling down, keeping a solid shell around her. Dr. Hawkins could see Sammi about to explode, passing a tissue box to the young woman. “Only you know the answer to this, Sammi,”

“Yeah, I did,” whispered Sammi.

“And when did you feel like you failed?”

“I’d probably say the last tour for obvious reasons,”

“How so?”

“Their manager had to cancel a leg of their tour because he thought they were going to die. Which wasn’t far off,” mumbled Sammi.

“Were you ever upfront about your feelings to the men? Did they listen?”

“No. and when they didn’t, I just repeated myself and blamed Nikki for everything when I shouldn’t have. And I regret our last conversation before everything,” Sammi chokes out in a gasp, frowning down at her lap, not wanting to see anyone look at her.

Dr. Hawkins looked down at her notes from Nikki’s personal sessions, seeing the tally of times he’d mention a story about Sammi. “Nikki, I’ve noticed you're very quiet in comparison to other sessions. Would you like to speak up now?” Dr. Hawkins stated.

“I’m just letting the princess speak,” Nikki mumbled, resting his forehead against his knuckles, eyes closed as if he were trying to sleep. He hoped this was all a dream where he just missed Sammi so much, she invaded his mind again. Dr. Hawkin only gave a tight lip smile to Nikki, looking back at the almost sobbing Sammi. Sammi glanced at Nikki with watery eyes, the tiny bit of happiness coming from being called princess.

“What was it that you told Nikki, Sammi?”

Sammi swallowed away the lump in her throat. “The last thing I told Nikki was that everyone was better off with him. That all of us could be different if Nikki didn’t bring us down. And something else,” Sammi mumbled, finally wiping fallen tears away with a tissue.

“Was there a breaking point for you to say this?”

Sammi nodded. “He lied again about being off the junk and breaking up with his fiancee,” Nikki squeezed his eye shut tight from remembering that night. “We left L.A on good terms… great terms after another I left and became back to L.A,”

“Where you didn’t tell him about you leaving?” asked Dr. Hawkins.

Sammi nodded. “He promised he was clean from junk, and he’d been thinking about going to rehab. We even went out to dinner, and it felt great after breaking up. I thought it meant we could have a chance at something, start over. But then I talked to someone that was on tour with them, and I had enough. I was so hurt and angry that I couldn’t shut up. So I told him to forget about me and all of our history. But then I told him…” Tears came down Sammi’s face uncontrollably, biting her lip to stop trembling. Sammi felt Mick put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it tight in comfort. Sammi inhaled a shaky breath before continuing.

“I told him if he wanted to kill himself on heroin to do it because it was bound to happen. And I wouldn’t care when I get the call,” Sammi shut her eyes tight, a stream of hot tears cascading down her face.

Nikki held his head by his temples, hiding behind his hair as he heard the cries of the woman he loved. He could feel his own tears build-up, knowing how much Nikki has affected Sammi. Tommy held Sammi’s hand, trying to be the strong brother she needed. He felt as if he was reliving December all over again, seeing Sammi crying from heartbreak. Vince felt his own heartbreak, knowing how much Sammi loved Nikki. Of course, she would have the same reaction if one of them were in Nikki’s shoes, but it wouldn’t have the same weight. Vince could see Sammi’s pain, and it was a thousand times more than she could ever have for Vince.

“After what happened in December, I wanted to go back and never say it, then maybe he wouldn’t have…” Sammi biting her lip, looking up at Dr. Hawkins shakenly.

“Sammi, do you blame yourself for Nikki’s overdose?” Dr. Hawkins asked, taking a break from writing on her notes. Even for a therapist who's seen it all, Dr. Hawkins would be lying if she said Sammi’s face didn’t hurt her. Dr. Hawkins always had a soft spot for the younger people affected by addiction in their families. Sammi nodded slowly, tears continuing to fall. “You cannot blame yourself for something that wasn’t in your control,”

“But I still said it, and it happened two months later. How can I not? If I just listened to him for a minute and not get mad at Nikki, then maybe-,” Sammi said.

“It was going to happen again either way,” Nikki uttered out, looking up with red eyes at the room. His hair falling right on his face, not wanting to move it away. Sammi looked over at Nikki, confused with a frown as Nikki finally spoke. Mick, Tommy, and Vince gave each other knowing glances, thinking Nikki wouldn’t admit to his soon confession so early on.

“What?” Sammi whispered out. Nikki rubbed an eye with his palm, remaining his gaze away from Sammi.

“Do you remember Valentine's Day when we were in London, and I didn’t call you for two days? I said I was sick with something,” Nikki asked Sammi, scrunching deep wrinkles between his brows, staring down at his feet. Tommy and Mick remained to have a comforting hold on Sammi, Tommy’s grip a bit tighter.

“Yes…”

“I had overdosed and died that night,” Nikki said, sighing out as if he was holding his breath. “I went with a friend to a drug house, and the dealer shot me up because he offered. After that, I fainted and turned purple. The dealer then dumped me in a dumpster after beating the shit out of me to wake up,” Nikki scuffed at the memory.

When Nikki finally met Sammi’s big eyes, the ones that were his weakness, he felt his heart eventually shatter into pieces. Nikki could fully see the pain caused to the one woman who ever loved him for him and nothing else with a sober mind. The one woman who Nikki wished he had kept on a pedestal if he wasn’t selfish. Sammi stared at Nikki in a ray of emotion, not understanding how Nikki could support such a secret for two years. Then again, Sammi never understood how Nikki can hide so much of himself for others’ benefit. Sammi yanked her hand and shoulder away from Tommy and Mick, looking at them and Vince with confused anger.

“Sammi,” Tommy whispered, frowned eyebrows.

“Did you know about this? Did any of you know about this?” Sammi asked, frowning at all the men.

“No. Not exactly. We knew Nikki was in a dumpster when we were looking for him, but I promise Sam, we didn’t know it was because of that,” said Mick, trying to bring Sammi back down. “He finally admitted it two weeks ago,”

“When you told me that night that I was going to kill myself over heroin someday, I didn’t take it as a green light to do it. Because if I did, I would’ve dropped dead right there in Oakland. You were the last person I had that cared about me, and I threw it away. I needed something so terrible to happen to me so I could listen. I tried to just have you as a reason to quit junk, and it didn’t work. I was in too deep,” Nikki said, staring deep into Sammi’s glossy eyes, sighing out.

“I’m sorry for it all, Sammi. I am so sorry for everything I put you through. But you shouldn’t blame yourself because of my mistakes,” Nikki rubbed his hands together, sitting deeper into his chair, not knowing what else to say. Sammi stared at Nikki for a good minute, the tears drying on her cheeks with traces of mascara mixed in. She rubbed her head as everyone was silent. Dr. Hawkins examined how everyone appeared. They all looked tired from all the chaos that was their lives. Hawkins wrote down a few bullet points for her colleagues to keep track of when it was time for the band's personal sessions, now hoping for a time to move forward.

“This is good. It’s necessary to open up about the things we keep hidden inside. When else would you have these kinds of conversations?” Dr. Hawkins said, smiling at everyone.

“I would say over drinks but fuck that,” Sammi mumbled, wiping away all her tears, the guys snickering along with her.

“Now, Vince, would you like to talk about your relationship with Sammi?”

“No,” Vince blurted out straightforwardly.

“And why not?” Dr. Hawkins asked kindly.

“Because there isn’t much to talk about. We dated. I cheated. Sammi got with Nikki. I hated it, and that’s it,”

“Well, I did tell you to hold onto that thought. Why did you hate it when Sammi decided to spend her time with Nikki?”

Vince sighed out, shifting over a leg to feel comfortable. “To me, it felt like she lied. She told me she and Nikki never had sex before we got together; it turns out they did. It just made me think if anything happened when we were together. Sammi said they didn’t, but I don’t know,”

“But you were the only one to have an affair while the relationship was going on. You’ve called yourself a hypocrite for it. So why continue this attitude if you seem to know the error?”

“Because he’s an egotistical prick,” Sammi said, looking down at her nails. Tommy hid his mouth in his hands, trying to not show too much of the smile he had on. Dr. Hawkins' attention turned to Sammi with a smile.

“I am not!” Vince objected out loud. Mick and Nikki relaxed, ready for the show to begin where they knew there’d be no crying.

“Yeah, you are! You fucking got mad at me for even suggesting rehab two months ago!”

“Why do you think Vince is egotistical, Sammi?”

“Because he can’t admit to his own mistakes. Before everything, he would sleep with girls around me all the time before we got together, one of them being my old best friend, and I don’t say anything. I only slept with Nikki once before Vince and I were together, and Vince gets mad when he finds out even when we aren’t together anymore. He cheats and gets into a relationship with the woman. I don’t do anything. I get with Nikki and keep it to ourselves; he acts as I cheated on him. He has no leg to stand on for being mad at me,” complained Sammi with a huff.

“Nikki, did you try to get with Sammi when she was in a relationship with Vince?”

Nikki thought about it for a moment, trying to remember the short romance of Sammi and Vince. “Not really. I’d flirt with her constantly, but I never tried anything. I would tell her Vince was going to cheat on her every chance I got through,”

“You knew about him cheating? Did you two know about Vince’s cheating, Tommy and Mick?”

“No,” the three said in unison. “If you know Vince, you know he can’t keep it in his pants. I’d tell her in a way to get back with me, and in the end, I was right,” said Nikki.

“I’ve gotten better at keeping it in my pants, okay? But I still can’t be hurt that my ex gets with one of my bandmates?” Vince asks in general to everyone.

“You can for a while, but dude, you have to admit that what you did to Sammi was way worse. I even told Nikki he was a better boyfriend to Sammi. Sammi living her life wasn’t your business anymore after they got together,” said Tommy.

“I know!”

“Then stop being a little bitch if Nikki and Sammi want to be together,” Mick ordered, crossing his arms. Nikki and Sammi glanced at each other, holding a gaze as if they were able to read what the other was thinking. Sammi looked away, pulling her earlobe as Mick judged Vince. Vince slouched in his chair, looking down at the floor like a little boy.

“Vince, do you believe the reason you’re mad at Sammi is that she somewhat treated you the way you’ve treated women?” Dr. Hawkins asked, Vince and Sammi both scrunching their eyebrows together.

“What?” Sammi asked.

“Huh?” Vince asked.

“You’ve been explicit about your habit with women in private sessions, stating the pattern of finding someone soon after leaving someone else. In a way, after the breakup with you, Sammi moved on with someone else. Sammi also said you slept with women right before you two got into a relationship. She had relations with Nikki before you two got into a relationship. You’re angry because Sammi chose herself just like you’ve always done,”

“Wow, we’ve struck gold,” Tommy said all of a sudden, making Mick withhold a chuckle. Sammi smacked Tommy’s arm to shut him up, looking at Vince sympathetically.

“Vince, our relationship was nice, but you weren’t ready to be in a fully committed relationship. Can we just move on, please?” pleaded Sammi.

Vince only kept his eyes on the floor. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” Sammi didn’t believe it.

“Well, I think we’ve all made some progress here. Things out in the open moving forward with your fours sobriety,” said Dr. Hawkins with a proud smile on her face. “Any questions before ending today’s session?”

“Yeah, do people feel exhausted after a therapy session?” asked Sammi. This earned her a chuckle from Dr. Hawkins.

“Yes, Sammi. Yes, they do,”

After the great therapy session, the men decided it was best to show Sammi around the roof over their heads. Activities are done across the rehab to help keep addicts at ease and find other hobbies. Sammi had noticed how the guys were beginning to gain some muscle. It was proving wonders already.

“How much longer do you guys have in here?” asked Sammi sitting down by a shaded area.

“February just started so until the end of the month. We want to get that 60-day chip,” said Tommy with a smile.

“Wow. Well, everyone is proud of you guys back home. I told mama to give her an update when I get back,” said Sammi, pinching Tommy’s cheek.

“And when will that be?” asked Mick.

Sammi checked the watch on her wrist. “Shit… in about four hours. This was only a one day kind of deal,”

“Damn. At least we’re going to stay home for a bit before hitting up Canada,” said Vince. Sammi scrunched her brows together, looking at Nikki for some answers. He didn’t want to look at Sammi after therapy. Nikki didn’t want to see anyone after this session. “We’re gonna start the next album sometime after rehab. No one wants to lose their momentum,” explained Vince.

“Great, I’ll be more bored without you!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Little Girl. You can come to visit us whenever. We’d love it,” said Mick with a smile.

“I’d love that,” said Sammi. The five stayed in content silence for a while before Sammi stood up again. “Well, I love seeing you, but I have to get going. I don’t want to miss my flight,” Sammi said, going first to hug Tommy. It felt nice for Tommy to have somewhat of normalcy with just one hug. Moving on to Mick was surprisingly sweet, knowing hugs weren’t his thing. Vince didn’t stay too close, only giving Sammi a side hug. When Sammi stood in front of Nikki, it was as if there was an invisible force between them. They stared at each other for a moment until Sammi took the plunge. Sammi swiftly wrapped her arms around Nikki’s torso, relieved to feel the same reciprocated. Vince looked away at the two as Nikki hid his face in Sammi’s hair. The two stayed silent even as they pulled away, eyes meeting only.

Nikki only wished this wasn’t his present. Wishing to join Sammi to walk out of here and get back to California.

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olympivnshq · 5 years

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congratulations clara! we’re thrilled for you to take on the god of war, ARES. your take on him is insightful and nuanced, from the complicated relationships he has with his family to the reckless abandon he experiences in battle. please join us once more with your first faceclaim choice: JASON MOMOA.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ OOC INFO.

Clara, 25+, GMT +11, she/her

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ DEITY — GENDER. AGE RANGE.

Ares - Male, 38-42

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ MORTAL NAME. JOB/OCCUPATION. BOROUGH/NEIGHBORHOOD.

Aaron Griffiths, former MMA champion, now a fight promoter and owner of a gym. Also suspected to organise illicit fight nights on the side. Lives in the Bronx

☆ﾟ*・ HOW WOULD YOU PLAY THEM?

Ares loves war for its own sake. He has always revelled in battle and lusts for conflict and bloodshed. He feels most alive in the thick of it, in the red mist with a weapon in his hand. He has no need for tactics, and no patience for it. He is unpredictable and volatile with his loyalty, remaining true to himself and his own desires, switching sides as the mood takes him. He thinks nothing of promises, frequently breaking them as they become inconvenient. He is jealous and quick to anger, unable to ignore even the most benign of slights. A proud God, he demands respect for his prowess and is likely to lash out in anger when it is not granted. His pride and his recklessness have frequently been his downfall.

Aaron took to fighting at a young age. It was far more likely to find him with a black eye than without and broken bones were par for the course. He came from a good family, his concerned mother even putting him into therapy from a young age to try and stop his violent impulses. They even attempted to temper his anger by enrolling him in martial arts classes. While he excelled in the classes he did not limit his fighting to sanctioned fights and frequently brawled whenever he had the chance. As an adult he naturally took to professional fighting though he quickly earned a reputation for being too aggressive, his anger and temper as much a liability as an impetus to do well. Still he was popular with the crowds who knew whenever he entered the cage there would be a spectacle. Eventually his mortal body caught up with him, an injury putting an end to his professional career though it came much later than many would have expected. However he could not step away entirely and so became a fight promoter and opened his own gym where his best students get to train with him personally. He remains proud, impulsive, and impossibly dedicated to pursuing his own desires. He is, frankly, a bit of a dick and enjoys playing the part of antagonist.

answer these questions: 1. would you like your character to be entering the roleplay at this stage in the plot, with or without their memories?

I would like him to have had his memories for at least a little while. His two personalities are not so separate which would have helped him not fight the return of his memories, and I don’t think he would naturally seek out the other gods. He is generally humiliated in front of them and does not even seem particularly faithful to aphrodite. He would spend at least a little time enjoying the ‘worship’ he gets from his fans, especially given he was not particularly worshiped back in the day.

2. are they more likely to stand with the pantheon or against it? ( if you are choosing a god they may endeavour to dismantle it for whatever reason )

Ares will stand wherever he feels it will create the most conflict. He has no great love for the pantheon and especially not Zeus.

3. what is their stand on mortals?

Ares has little love for mortals. He might have his favourites, those who seek war or excel in killing, but he largely views them as disposable playthings, there to satiate his own desires. However he has something of an admiration for those who seek war and is as fond as he is capable of being towards those who worship him and seek glory on the battlefield.

☆ﾟ*・ ANYTHING ELSE?

could you elaborate more on ares' relationship with zeus & hera? both together and separately.

Ares’ relationship with his parents, like with much of his family, is complicated.

Ares has a somewhat combative relationship with his father. Zeus dislikes Ares because of his violent and destructive nature, but it’s not like Ares has not invited his father’s ire. He doesn’t follow orders very well and when his temper is up will even try to go against Zeus (as seen in the Trojan war where, after the death of his son, Zeus called back the gods but it was Athena who had to restrain Ares). I don’t think he would lead a revolt against Zeus (let’s face it, he’s not usually the brains of any technical operation), but I do think he would join one. I think Zeus referring to him as the most hateful of all Gods would not be something that he would let go of easily being as proud as he is.

He is definitely more of a mummy’s boy. Through the myths he has done various tasks for Hera (including fighting Hephaestus in an effort to release her and chasing after Leto to prevent the birth of Artemis and Apollo). I’ve seen it hypothesised that Hera likes Ares’ God of War status and supported him against Athena because Athena was born of just Zeus whereas Ares was Hera’s son, but I’ve equally seen it said that Hera disliked Ares. It’s possible that both are true. I tend to think that Ares would stand beside his mother over his father (including to spite his father), and is happy to please her provided that what she wants aligns with his own goals.

#mature rp #city rp #semi appless rp #lsrpg #fantasy rp #ohq:accepted #ares

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callboxkat · 6 years

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Quiet (part 20)

Author’s note: This is the end of Quiet! Technically. I still have future stories planned within my college AU, as well as a one-shot planned in the spirit of Halloween, which will take place about a month after the end of this story. Thank you to everyone who read this story of mine and everyone who enjoys my college AU! You’re all awesome and I appreciate every one of you.

Warnings: selective mutism, college, references to past fights, food mention, reference to poor family relationships, talk of therapy and mental illness

Word count: 1621

Masterpost!

Virgil went back to class the next week feeling uncharacteristically optimistic. Everything seemed to be coming together now that Roman and Virgil had made up (Logan and Patton really deserved some good karma for their part in that). He was in a pretty good mood for once.

His Monday classes went well. Virgil was actually able to answer a question out loud (gasp) in his Spanish class, and as always, he found the material in his chemistry course easy enough. He liked chemistry. He was pretty good at it.

Tuesday afternoon, Virgil returned to American History, looking forward to seeing his friends. Logan gave him a warm smile when he walked in, and Patton cheerily hugged him. Joan and Talyn walked in a little after he did, talking about something or other, but they both paused to greet him.

Virgil wasn’t too worried about the fact that Roman wasn’t there yet. He tended to wait until the last possible moment to show up for class.

And, as expected, Roman did in fact show up just in time. But what happened next wasn’t as expected.

Roman walked in the room at 12:59, as the professor was getting ready to pull up the slideshow he’d made for that day. The older student sauntered up to Virgil’s desk and slapped something loudly onto it before going to sit in the back.

Virgil jerked his head up, a little startled, and looked back to see the goofy grin on Roman’s face. He shook his head in an exasperated fashion before looking down at his desk to see the crisp $5 bill that Roman had left behind.

Virgil’s face turned slightly pink, embarrassed about what had just happened and the result of having the entire class’s attention briefly focused on him. He could see what Roman was trying to do. He was still trying to make things right, doing so in a way that kind of made light of what had happened, turning it into a joke. Virgil might have been mad about that, but he knew that Roman was trying.

What a dork, he thought.

…

Virgil packed up his things after class. He was a bit slow, and as usual, was one of the last few students in the room.

“Would you mind if I talked to you on the way out?”

Virgil looked up to see Logan standing in front of his desk, his backpack on and textbooks pinned against his chest with one arm. The freshman frowned, a little uncertain about the request.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise. I merely had some thoughts I wished to share with you.”

Well… okay, then. Virgil shrugged and nodded, shouldering his own backpack.

The two of them started out of the building, Logan seeming to take a moment to choose his wording. It made Virgil nervous.

They got to the top of the stairs just as Logan opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by a small popping noise. Logan rolled his eyes.

“One moment, please.” He took off his backpack and knelt on the floor. The clasp that held the bag shut had come undone on its own, his backpack hanging open in result. The young man put his text books on the floor at his feet and redid the clasp.

“You—you might want to get that replaced,” Virgil said, watching.

“Agreed,” sighed Logan, putting he backpack around his shoulders once again. “However, that is a problem for another day.” He looked up at Virgil as he scooped up his textbooks. “I wished to speak to you about your… speech issue.”

Logan got up, and the two of them started down the stairs. Virgil didn’t say anything in reply, but Logan seemed to take the fact that he didn’t sprint away from him as an invitation to continue.

“I did some research over the weekend, and I wanted to talk to you about some options.”

Would you just spit it out already?

“I wondered if you might be open to the possibility of seeing a therapist.”

Virgil stopped in the middle of the staircase. Logan looked back, taking in his clearly offended expression.

“Virgil, seeing a therapist is not a bad thing. The way you described your issue leads me to believe that it is not a physical problem, but rather a psychological issue. There is no reason that you shouldn’t be able to improve your condition with time.”

Virgil chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not crazy,” he snapped, finally.

“Of course not,” Logan said. “Plenty of perfectly sane people see therapists to help them work through problems in their lives. I believe that you could also benefit from this.”

Virgil started walking again, faster now, shaking his head and hunching his shoulders.

“I understand why you may not want to see a therapist, and I can not and would not force you into doing something you did not want to do. It was merely a suggestion. It’s clear to me, to all of us, that your speech problem causes you a great deal of trouble. I only wanted to help.”

Virgil stopped at the base of the stairs, waiting for Logan to catch up to him. Virgil had taken the stairs rather quickly in his agitation. Logan preferred a slower pace.

“It’s just something you may want to consider.”

Virgil knew that Logan was just trying to help. He knew that Logan had probably already spent several hours researching on the computer. He guessed that the nerd probably had a folder full of notes and therapist recommendations in his bag, but Logan was so far refraining from pulling them out in an attempt to not overwhelm his friend. But Logan still seemed to be ignoring a glaring problem.

They made it to the front of the building in silence, Virgil using the time to work himself up to speak. Logan seemed to guess that this was the case, and he stayed quiet until Virgil was ready.

“Logan, even if I wanted to see a shrink…. They’re not cheap. And—and besides, how the hell am I even supposed to talk to them if I can’t talk? I can—I can still barely talk to you half the time, and we’ve known each other for two months.”

Logan opened the door to the building pensively. “I believe the college has resources available. Perhaps you could try one of them. That would take care of the monetary issue.”

Virgil shrugged.

“You could bring a note to give to them at the first meeting, or perhaps a friend to help facilitate communication, if you would be comfortable with that. I would be willing to attend, and I know Patton would as well, if you would be more comfortable attending with him.”

Virgil let out a long sigh.

“I’ll think about it.”

Logan seemed satisfied with that answer for now. He put a hand on his shoulder warmly, before the two of them parted ways. When he was gone, Virgil’s shoulders slumped.

There was still another problem with Logan’s idea, but Virgil hadn’t particularly wanted to bring it up. Nevertheless, it was a major obstacle to the possibility of him seeking professional help.

Virgil was still seventeen.

Logan probably assumed that he was already eighteen, as would normally be the case for a freshman, but Virgil was an exception. He had skipped kindergarten.

And because he was still technically a minor, his parents would most likely have to be told if he started seeing a therapist, even if it was one of the counselors that the college provided. His father would know, which would be embarrassing and probably result in him hurrying all the way over here in concern, a situation Virgil very much wanted to avoid.

But even worse, his mother would know. Virgil would rather not give her any more artillery to add to her collection. She already had enough opportunities to come after him when the mood struck.

…

“Have you considered my suggestion any further?” Logan asked.

It was noontime on Thursday. Virgil and Logan were eating lunch together before their next class, alone at the moment, but not for long. Patton, Roman, and the others were still getting their food.

Virgil poked at his salad.

“Is something wrong? Have I upset you? It wasn’t my intention.”

Virgil shook his head. No, it’s not you, Logan!

Logan watched him calmly. Virgil rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

Virgil mumbled under his breath, but of course, Logan didn’t understand him.

“What was that?”

“I’m seventeen, Logan,” Virgil admitted, just barely audible this time.

Logan was quick to put together the problem. “I see.”

Virgil shrugged.

Logan had the grace not to ask why Virgil wouldn’t want his parents to know about him seeking help from a therapist.

“When do you turn eighteen?”

“December.”

“That’s not so far away. Perhaps in the meantime I and the rest of your friends could try to help you. A strong support system can go a long way in helping anyone, not only those who struggle with some degree of mental illness.”

Virgil wanted to argue that he wasn’t mentally ill, but he supposed the evidence was against him on that front. Mentally healthy people didn’t usually pass out from panic attacks, or find themselves unable to speak half the time.

Virgil poked at his salad again, looking down. Patton and Roman came into view, each carrying a food-laden cafeteria tray. They were still out of earshot, but Virgil lowered his voice anyway. He was starting to realize that his friends wouldn’t judge him for this--perhaps they even knew of Logan’s research into the topic. But Virgil was still shy.

“Thanks, Logan.”

Tag list: @patton-loves-coloring @starryfirefliesbloggo @purplesoul-at-hogwarts @lotusthatexists @lizaelsparrow @awesomelissawho @amuthefunperson @faithfreedom @heck-im-lost @bunny222 @syndianites @astraastro @momolinia @captainswan618 @hamilin-manuel-miranda @goldenkiddos @afilhadehades-blog @virgeofselfdestruction @theresneverenoughfandoms @iris-sanders-athena @super-magical-wizard @rainbow-sides @thefallendog @fanficptsd @zodiac-awesome @lookitsthatquietgirl @soft-boy-patton @nerd-in-space @pearls-of-patton @ab-artist @angered-turtle @im-so-infinitesimal @enby-kiddo-with-a-blog @raygelkitty @dr-gloom @whats-going-on-kiddos @spider-parker14 @oh-star-how-the-mighty-fall @fillyourteacup @kittiebrick

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #quiet fic #college au #sanders sides fan fiction #fanfiction #ts fanfic #I can't believe this story is done #see you guys in the next one

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overdrivels · 6 years

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The Way to a Heart (8)

/falls to knees

THIS CHAPTER IS DONE, GODDAMN IT. THANK YOU, @dickbutt-writes-again FOR YOUR ENDLESS PATIENCE WITH ME AND MY SCREAMING AND UNSURENESS HOLY FUCK

Thank you everyone for waiting, please enjoy Hanzo making a fucking ass of himself.

<<Chapter 7

The warehouse is busy with different people bustling around, chatting, carting items around into trucks, the thick smell of hot food (made even thicker by the steadily rising summer heat) hardly willing to remain contained in their boxes. A cap is pulled tight over your eyes and you remain by your truck tucked deep in the corner of the room, keeping your back to the rest of the crowd, pretending to inspect the ridiculously long handwritten list in your hands.

The loading takes a little longer than usual, but it can’t be helped. You had vowed not to make the same mistakes as the last few times and ordered more food just in case. (There’s a voice in your head that taunts you for your inadequate portion management that you quash with a childish ire.) This was for the protection of Overwatch. The shipments must be carefully timed and portioned out to avoid suspicion from customs and various markets here on Gibraltar. These long intervals you’ve picked masks your presence better and makes you more available to the agents.

You tell yourself it’s the most optimal solution.

(There are days that you truly regret having taken Overwatch’s reputation and wealth for granted in the past—abundance of ingredients to play with and test, an unlimited budget for the best of equipment and staff; it is the stuff of recent dreams.)

Asim comes out from the shadow of your fully loaded vehicle and closes the shutters behind him, leaning heavily against his empty hand truck, his tank top thoroughly soaked.

“All done, boss.” He wipes his brow with a gloved hand and brushes his curly hair out of his face. “Man, Argus is lucky. She doesn’t sweat.” Behind you in the middle of the room, Argus Twenty stands out like a sore thumb in her semi-formal wear, giving orders and instructions to various people like a conductor. “Me? I feel like I just took a bath.”

“She’s an omnic,” you reply flatly, frowning over the list, “and you’re still on therapy.”

He shrugs, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “It’s still not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair? The price of fish,” you sigh, leaning heavily against your scorching truck. It shakes against the added pressure. “Even with negotiations and switching to a new vendor, we still had to eat an eight-percent increase.”

“Climate change,” Asim supplies bitterly. “You know it’s been bad lately, but it’s only going to get worse, they say, since the fish are migrating elsewhere and ruining a ton of businesses here. Do not get me started on cryogenically frozen fish or grains—that’s even worse. It’s hard just getting our share even with your negotiations.” He jerks his stubbly chin at the general direction of the rest of the warehouse. You turn just head slightly to see some people notice and wave, carts passing around them. A pang of welling pride and equally growing sorrow jolts your insides.

You smile at Asim instead, tugging the hat over your eyes further. “They like you.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“I can’t make people like you.” If you had that power, the world might actually be a much better place. “It’s all you. They like you for who you are.”

The man hides a shy smile into his fist, sealing it in there before looking at back at you solemnly. “If you hadn’t left, they would know you and like you, too.”

“I...I prefer it this way,” you say, resting your list against the lower half of your face. “I don’t regret my decision.”

Asim makes a noise of discontent. “Glad someone doesn't.”

“What was that?”

“What Asim means is that we'd wish you showed more consideration toward us.”

You wince at the sharp words and Asim give Argus a wave as she comes up behind you both, seemingly finished with her duties. She crosses her arms, staring steadily at you through the slits of her eyes.

“Sorry. I was really trying to keep this order lean, but…” You wave your hands helplessly before resting them over your mouth.

“No, not that,” the omnic starts. “It's just...it’s been several months since you have decided to lend your aid to them, dear." "And?" "Is it not time to return to us?”

Oh. This talk again. You frown, squaring up your shoulders. "They still need my help." "Until when? Until they've become established again or until they are dismantled?" You clench your teeth, sucking in a sharp inhale. "Please, my dear, the sooner you wipe your hands clean of them, the better."

“Argus,” you say exasperatedly, “you’re the one who said that you’ll go along with this. Please.”

“But not for this long. Two months, three, perhaps? This is too much. We have received rumors of more formers being taken by Talon. It’s only a matter of time...”

Is that why the agents are suddenly getting assigned missions? You will need to ask Athena about the details—it’s not your business and unrelated to your job, but...

“Argus is right, boss.”

You stare at Asim, the weight of something unpleasant in his eyes pressing down on you. “Come on, not you, too.”

“If Talon comes and gets you, everything’s finished.”

“I’m not an agent,” you remind him. “Chefs were never considered agents, so…”

Argus sounds far less patient now. “And under what basis do you believe Talon acknowledges such a distinction? What if they see you there and you become collateral? Will you wait until they’re all killed before you come back?”

Because there's always been that distinction. Because they're heroes. They're brave people who deserve better than a dogged death by an organization that thrives on the destruction of others. "I have confidence in their operations, and I'll stay there until they don't need me anymore." "And when will that be?” Beneath Asim’s accusatory glare, you open your mouth and draw a blank. You thought about this before. You pondered this before, but did you ever come up with an answer? Did you even want to come up with an answer? What did you tell Argus when you announced you'd be helping Overwatch?

"I don't know." The quiet confession leaves a terrible taste in your mouth. "You don’t—? Are you joking me?” Asim snaps, suddenly in your face. "I’m all about fighting for what I believe in, but not when so many people’s lives are on the line, when your life's on the line." "We were prepared for the consequences when I decided—" "When you decided! You didn't consult anyone else!”

“I consulted Argus!”

“After the fact.”

Your mouth hangs open at your omnic colleague.

“Listen,” Asim says, “I don't want you to give up everything so fast. You worked hard to get to where you are, to get”—he waves a hand at the warehouse—“all this established. There’s too much that can go wrong, the longer you keep this up. You know what the world will do to you if they find out?"

The unyielding pressure from both sides forces cruel words to shoot up to the surface, cocked on your tongue, words that would cut so deep you knew it'd kill them, but you barely manage to keep them trapped behind your teeth. Your heart races, your face flushes with the effort, and you force yourself to divert your eyes into the ground and collect your breath.

“I will take full responsibility when that happens,” you finally say solemnly, looking both of them in the face.

“Taking full responsibility by yourself isn’t even going to begin to cov—”

“—do you believe your life will cover the damage—”

The two of them stop abruptly, either having realized they’re causing a scene or there’s little point in continuing the argument. The omnic steps forward, a gentle hand on your tense shoulder, tugging gently at your sleeve where the embroidered image of a scaly heart sat.

“I apologize for being short, but we are concerned for you. Promise us. While you still have the chance, I ask you to please return to us. We cannot continue without you.”

"But…”

Asim holds you by the elbow, a stern look in his eye. “If it’s about the food and money, they can get it themselves. They’re not helpless. They don’t need you. You’re not being kind, you’re being selfish.”

For some reason, those words had more force than the ones before it, striking something so very tender inside you that you choke on the harsh insults and threats you kept stifled inside. They rise with such a vengeance and ferocious speed, you have to yank away your arm and turn away and seek refuge in the cabin of your vehicle. You vehemently ignore them calling your name in urgent, helpless whispers.

You slam the door of your truck closed, fumbling with your seatbelt, and drive off hurriedly through the door with your cap tipped low. Your eyes burn and your skin feels like it wants to burst. You ignore the fading figures disappearing from your mirrors, the feeling of longing and deep-seated sadness solidifying and demanding your attentions.

Overwatch is not a mistake.

What you’re doing is not a mistake.

This was the worst plan (or therefore lack of) that he has ever gone through with, Hanzo decided while wedged up in a precarious corner of the ceiling.

Weeks of saying "thank you" to a tray and the fading echoes of a bell is just a token gesture of his gratitude, but he cannot escape the solemn timbre of his brother's voice, urging him to show his appreciation properly.

And how does he show it? By breaking into the one place he is not allowed in. If he’s honest with himself, he knows he could still leave and pretend he was never here. But pride is so very selfish that it will take away everything from someone else and still never be satisfied. It is so destructive, it will even kill its host and leave behind nothing. Not even itself.

Hanzo knows that it is bad, that it is all-consuming in no productive way, but the thrill that it gives, the little bit of power it offers for just a moment is so very tempting—he’ll have control of his life for a fleeting moment. (After the moment’s passed, well, that’s a different story.)

You’ll have to forgive him for this (if you catch him, that is).

Surprisingly, there are very few places to hide in the kitchen and even fewer with a good view of the Cellar door. The ceilings are much lower than that of the cafeteria’s, compact and spartan. Everything was set up neatly in rows that lead straight from one end of the kitchen to the other, a wide breadth of space between each station for people to come and go without bumping into each other, and a dim light that light up the bottom of these stations and counters. Racks that stood against the walls were all wiry and without anything more solid than the mostly transparent containers that filled them.

There’s no doubt this space was meant to hold more than a single cook, but despite that, there are no obvious hiding spaces at all.

Even more surprising, Athena did not try to stop him, didn’t even utter a word or sound an alarm as he slipped his way in here with little more than the clothes on his back. Perhaps he had an ally in the AI yet. Or maybe she’s waiting for the opportunity to gather incriminating evidence before presenting it to all to see.

He resists the urge to sigh; sound echoes surprisingly well in this space. (It's not particularly surprising—most of everything in here is made of metal.) Neither the subtle rub of fabric or the wink of an eyelash is able to escape notice here, and he doesn’t dare move from his chosen spot.

There’s no telling when you’d be back, but historically, you’ve never missed serving breakfast even for risers earlier than himself, which means that he has another hour and a half at most. It’s more than enough time to understand this space and plan out his next course of action.

Slowly, he runs his eyes around the room, eyes having adjusted well enough to see the details.

His eyes lingers around the door he knows is his target. It’s a little larger than the four transparent doors lined up beside it. Those lead to small rooms, lined with the same sort of racks that were out in the kitchen, but they were bereft of anything except for a stray box or two and a sack of something. One of them had something a few familiar boxes lined up at the front—the picture of an orange plastered on one and a cow on another. Drinks, then, but far too few to be able to sustain the base for even a day.

He narrows his eyes.

Is that all the food in the base?

No, it cannot be.

A base with people whose appetites are like Zarya’s and Roadhog’s should always be stocked with food. There must be more somewhere he’s not seeing. In the Cellar, perhaps? If you store alcohol in there, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it could store other food items.

No, he shouldn't think so far into it—if all of them have been well fed up until this point, there's no reason for him to think beyond that. It's none of his business.

He redirects his gaze back to the Cellar door.

There’s a biometric panel is integrated directly into the steel, barely standing out among the smooth metal. The door itself looks deceptively standard, but judging by the implements on the door frame, it's a little more sophisticated than it's made out to be. No hinges. No gaps. No seams.

He drags his tongue slowly across his lip.

It smells of a challenge, and reminds him of an old teaching from so long ago: if it exists, it can be killed or destroyed. It has not failed him yet. (Though, there’s a nagging in his heart wants to remind him of a time when that was not true.)

The question is how discreet he wishes to be. While he is no thief, his skillset is closely aligned with one as much as he loathes to admit it. He’ll have to get close to the door, conduct his reconnaissance to determine just how much effort will be required to break through it.

If it managed to stand up against even the covert operation division of Overwatch, it won't be any small amount of effort to get inside. And for that gunslinger to speak well of you, your skills must not be so terrible either. It would be pertinent to take caution, maybe learn a bit more about you from this environment.

Everything else is rather spartan in its own way with little to indicate what could be beyond that door—everything here has a purpose, no more and no less. The floors are lined carefully with black rubber mats dotted with holes. Pots and pans were stacked neatly beneath some counters, all surfaces are clear of anything extra, the sinks at the very far end of the room near the service window seem to be clear of dishes—those are all stacked and lined up in their rightful places.

Though, he can't help but notice on one of the shelves, among the meticulously lined drinkware, there seems to be a small gap where several cups should be. Something nags at Hanzo’s mind about that space, but he's unable to place a finger on it. Maybe because it’s such a careless contrast compared to the rest of the shelves where everything is ordered and neatly aligned, no space wasted.

If this was anything to go by, he may have just developed a profile of you: detail-oriented; tireless; meticulous, and if he were to interpret this with his few interactions, he could even say that you are a very dedicated omnic, following your program with utmost devotion. It’s admirable.

Though, there cannot be that much to do in a kitchen besides cook and clean, now is there? But if that were so, where are you now?

Looking at this place, immaculate despite the hectic image that the action of ‘cooking’ conjures up in his mind and the number of customers you cater to, spacious despite the single omnic it holds, his impression of this space itself is simply lonely.

He dismisses the thought with a grim viciousness.

Omnics do not get lonely.

You likely connect yourself to Athena, anyway, spying on everyone and their appetites. There is no reason to align his sympathies with someone who hides in the shadows, watching everyone with such attentiveness, compiling data to use for (or against) them.

Without warning, light suddenly floods the kitchen and Hanzo has to tighten his grip against the walls, rapidly blinking the stars out of his eyes while biting back a groan.

You must have returned.

A childish excitement buzzes just beneath his skin at the realization, his heart pressing so hard against his skin, he feels like it will burst with the pressure. He forces himself to calm—there will be plenty to do in the next few precious seconds.

To his surprise, it’s the Cellar door that slides open with a hiss rather than the swinging doors that led to the cafeteria. The speed is surprising considering how thick the door seems, if the door frame was anything to go by, it must be at least ten or fifteen centimeters—thinner than some bank vaults he’s seen in his day, but thicker than any standard door by far in this base. The frame shows that the door is much wider than it initially seems. It seemed to sink into the wall and will not be as simple as just slipping a piece of paper or jamming something in between the door and frame. Maybe he can get through from the other doors beside it? The ones that look like freezers?

From within the darkness emerges the beginnings of a shaky hover-trolley, stacked high with boxes that fill up the empty maw of the doorway with nary a gap. There’s a pause and a shuffle and one of the larger boxes shift. Hanzo dares crane his head out a little more. Are you stuck?

The trolley then comes through slowly and without the frame of the door holding everything in place, Hanzo can see how precariously everything is stacked. The room itself seems to take a sigh of relief when everything makes it into the room, wind rushing into the Cellar door. From his angle, he cannot very well see the person behind it. But the rapid speed at which the door closes tells him that you’ve stepped into the kitchen and the door will not remain open long enough for anyone to barge in after another person.

“Oh geez, I’m late, I’m late.”

That voice.

The faintest hint of an unconscious smile makes its way onto his face. He knows this voice. It is, without a doubt, you.

He’ll finally be able to lay his eyes on the elusive chef—you’ll no longer be a torso and a voice and a bell, but something he could finally put a face to blame if his food is inadequate. He’ll finally know the face of his opponent, the guardian of that rumored door.

“Come on, get it together, me. Allons, allons-y.”

Time seems to slow as the cart backs itself up just slightly and begins to turn. He hears the squeak of a boot against the rubbery floor, and a shuddering sigh. From behind the massive tower of boxes and containers, someone comes into view.

And Hanzo’s breathing stops short in his throat.

His thoughts dissolve into static.

You’re a person.

The archer watches numbly as you begin to unpack the cart, taking box after box and spreading them out onto the closest countertop with single-minded determination and practiced efficiency. While you’re not wearing a chef’s uniform, he’s sure it’s you. There’s a level of confidence in the way you navigate this space, placing things with a familiarity that no one should have unless they’re here often.

Vaguely, it feels as though he’s no longer in his own skin or even in the same reality he was just in mere moments ago.

You are a human.

Not a service bot.

Not an omnic.

He should not be surprised, but he is. Suddenly, he snaps back into his own body and Hanzo finds himself furiously reanalyzing all the information he knows, or thought he knew; the facts are quickly becoming lies.

The tinny echo in your voice could easily be attributed to the metallic (and lonely) nature of the kitchen. The disappearances are not for maintenance, but because you’re human and require rest. He is then reminded of those late nights when sleep escapes and taunts him like some mythical being and how you're always ready to prepare tea, and that you're already preparing breakfast for the early risers not even two hours later.

Even worse, he overlooked a ridiculously simple concept: omnics have no concept of taste, it is foolish. Their scant decades of existence on this Earth has not yet granted them the technological advancements necessary to distinguish taste, let along masterfully combine them into pleasing dishes that his stomach would not reject. For an Omnic to be a chef is not only ridiculous, it is laughable.

He wants to slap himself.

A disgrace.

The information clicks so cleanly that the implications behind it makes his head spin.

This was a terrible idea.

He should not have taken up the bet. For once in his life, he should have listened to his younger brother, of all people, and left this alone. His heart is not made of steel or stone, and he knows he has better manners than to take advantage of someone who works so hard for something so foolish as a crutch for his own inadequacies.

He glances at the service window, so far away, and back at you who is struggling to keep one of the glass doors open to carry in a large cardboard box.

For a moment, maybe to soothe his own conscience, Hanzo thinks of going down to assist you. It will invite trouble, accusations, and your ire. If these kitchens were as sacred as McCree makes it sound, then he should pretend he was never here.

‘Like a coward,’ his mind whispers.

Hanzo grimaces and makes the amateurish mistake of leaning his head back against the wall a touch too hard.

“Who’s there?”

It’s only due to years of practice and familiarity with those words from the mouths of numerous victims that does not react badly to the sudden spike in his heart rate, that he does not shrink into himself or otherwise even blink, only instinctively isolating his breathing to his throat and clearing his mind of unrelated thoughts.

“Hello?”

As if he’ll answer with a bit of goading, but the thought is endearing naïve.

Beneath your breath, but still ridiculously loud and tinny, you warn, “Jesse, I swear if that's you…”

Something in his stomach tightens and a chill settles into his chest, and he furrows his brow.

This is becoming risky. He has already gotten basic information regarding the door—there are more questions still (is the door protected by single-factor authentication or multi-layer? Multi-factor? Is it connected to Athena? Are there other security measures beyond the door?), but it doesn’t matter at the moment.

Hanzo waits, endures your slow searching gaze and various attempts to get him to speak until you’re turned around, away from the service window he plans to escape through. (The double doors leading into the kitchen from the outside are out of the question—they swing and there’s no guarantee his exit would not be heard or seen.) He moves carefully but swiftly along the wall toward his destination.

Maybe it was unfortunate timing. Maybe he’s lost his touch having been cooped up in this base without the urgency of needing stealth. Maybe you’re just that aware of your territory.

There are many ‘maybe’s, but it does not erase what happens next:

“Agent Hanzo!?”

Something heavy falls onto the ground, probably a package.

Hanzo curses to himself. Normal circumstances would have seen you dead, but these circumstances are far from normal—however, he does not intend to stick around long enough to find out what you will do. (Inside, he gives a brief goodbye to the pepperless-foods that he had the pleasure of eating during these past few months.)

The sound of metal clips the air from somewhere behind him as he drops to the ground and makes a straight shot for the window only two island counters and one static one away.

A sound behind him that sets off several alarms in his head makes him peek just underneath his arm and he’s surprised to see it: two wide steps and a lunge snaps up the distance between you both and you’re then in his space.

He finds himself moving without thinking, twisting onto the shiny metal surface that are now decorated with the imprints of his shoes to change direction, escaping a flash of silver that nearly clips him.

“My counter!”

To normal people, he would be an indecipherable blur at best. Only people accustomed to his speed, like Genji or Tracer, would be able to chase after him. It should be impossible for a chef who has never seen battle, who has not had to deal with anything faster than the flailing of a fish, who has been nurtured and protected in this self-made fortress.

He didn’t expect your head to whip around and follow.

He can see it now, a long silver ladle in your hand that strikes out at his foot. One flip puts him just outside your range, but it traps him against another counter and the spilled contents of a smashed box—oranges. He glances quickly to his side—the service window, his exit, is just a little distance away.

One strong leap and a jump is all it will take.

“The kitchen is off-limits, Agent Hanzo.”

Your voice is biting, a jarring contrast to the gentle and genuine concern you had shown up until this point. So, even a mouse will bare its fangs if cornered?

At this distance, he can finally get a very clear look at you and see the dark moons beneath your reddened eyes. There’s something slightly familiar about the gnarled look on your face, about the way you hold yourself despite your stance—squared into a straight line—that vaguely reminds him of the reflection that stands distorted in the head of the ladle you have pointed at his chest.

“Is that so?”

Livid may be the most appropriate word to describe you.

“Get out.”

Without waiting for him to comply or even an explanation, you shoot forward. He steps out of the way and then another when you twist and swing to follow.

One part of him that tells him to stay and test your strength. A more reasonable part tells him to take his leave peacefully now that he’s been seen. But there’s something, a pressure that bears down on his chest and up against his stomach that moves his feet, forcing him to watch and step out of your sloppy attacks.

Like an amateur, you broadcast your movements, your tight spirals are too wide and slow, the distance just slightly miscalculated and short of actually hitting him. Your steps are repetitive and predictable, hardly engaging, and too straightforward (likely the unfortunate nature of your art). But the intensity behind those strikes and the sharpness in which they're delivered keeps him on his guard, forces him to retain focus. There’s a snarl to your lips and a burning in your eyes that, in his encounters with a mirror, seems far too familiar.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he remembers a story from his youth of a master of tea ceremonies against a samurai and wonders if this is how the story really should've played out.

The ladle enters his space. His reaction, wholly instinctual and for a moment screams ‘DANGER’, makes him smash it out of the way with the back of his hand. The momentum leads it out. You go with it, swoop the ladle down under and up at his chin. He ducks forward, right into your zone and grabs at your attacking arm.

Your retreat is far quicker than he would've given credit for.

But it was too hasty, unpracticed.

He could hear the popping of joints; the result of a rushed and undisciplined movement. You’re wincing, heaving, but still angry—there’s something about that look that makes him wonder faintly of its origins and its target.

Was that all?

As brief as it was, the display of power and skill of your level could not keep out even the weakest of the Overwatch members (and of those, there are very, very few he would dare consider such).

It’s a betrayal of his expectations most foul.

He had expected a challenge, not an insult. Insults thrown at him should always be returned in kind.

A smirk makes its way onto his face.

Very well. Bring it. He will show you the difference between you both in skill—politeness and gratitude be damned. You attacked first and refused reason, after all.

Hanzo waits for you to regain your footing and stance, waits for the ladle to come back up and steady itself. It's not as though you're a true threat; you’re just a che—

A flash of silver and the scratchy sting on his face shuts his thoughts up. What a sight he must make. He can’t help but touch his face where his skin meets beard, and pulls away with nothing but heat that drops into him like a fireball, igniting him.

That was a good lunge and a good retreat and a good strike. It was a good reminder.

“Get out.”

His smirk turns a touch carnivorous.

Yes, that was more like it.

Your expression morphs into one of more focused irritation. It’s far from a proper look for someone facing him. Those who know the expectations of the battlefield should at least compose themselves, not let themselves get saddled with worthless thoughts and rush through their movements like a fool.

Hanzo wants to crush that attitude. If he is truly your opponent, then you need to see him as one, not as a target or punching bag.

What carelessness.

What arrogance.

No. He takes a breath to calm himself. There’s no reason to get riled over a mere cook. But he can’t deny the strumming in his veins that call for the absolute annihilation of a mere amateur who dares thinks that they could ever match a master. He will show you where that arrogance will lead. This will be quick, this will be a challenge between his patience and his pride—you do not fit this equation. You are, after all, just a cook.

An unspoken signal—maybe you could see the insult on his face—brings you darting forth again, weapon raised and jabbing. There’s not much he has to do beside mind his space, mind your range, and keep a close eye on you.

All your following attacks are careless, easy to dodge. What happened to that one that managed to scratch his face? Was it because he was standing still or because you had a moment of clarity? As the strikes come, he finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into his thoughts and further and further away from the reality at hand.

Where are you looking, he wonders. What are you attacking? What do you see? What are you trying to strike? Because it sure as hell is not him and it annoys him just a bit.

The ladle's head enters his reach and thoughtlessly, he folds his fingers beneath the rim and he yanks it. You pitch forward with a yelp. He nearly raises his foot to slam in into your jaw, but a moment of clarity forces him to slam it back down. No, getting lost in one’s thoughts is deadly, even if his opponent is hardly a challenge.

Almost losing your weapon didn’t deter you and you continue going after him, desperation coloring your attacks. What are you doing? If this drags on, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t crush you just to satisfy his pride, just to show he is superior and that your hands are ill suited to wield utensils made for cooking as weapons.

This has gone on long enough.

Once more, Hanzo lets the ladle punctures his space. He folds at the wrist, just under the ladle's head, redirecting it. You attempt a counter-parry, but with a firm chop, the ladle clatters to the ground, muffled by the rubber beneath your feet. To your credit, you do not attempt to pick up your ‘weapon’, instead choosing to retreat in one large step back. Are you giving up?

One inhale. You’re dashing forward again, swoop low to retrieve the ladle, and swing upward—too obvious. He steps inside your reach, pivots behind you. Adrenaline moving his limbs, nabbing your dominant hand and slipping an arm around your neck in a loose, but firm hold. His feet lock against yours. One false move and you’ll be thrown. The fact that you do not even bother detangling yourself shows that you know this much.

Not as foolish as he thought.

But he has won.

“Chef, cease this.”

His own voice, stern and sharp, bounces straight off the walls and equipment. Interestingly enough, he can see your spine straighten and body jerk as though fighting to follow and resist his request.

In a show of benevolence, he releases his hold slowly and steps back neatly. You turn, still alert, ladle held up steadily. Calm. He has won. There is nothing for him to prove anymore. “I do not mean any harm. I only came for tea.”

Your mouth twists and your expression slackens, but there’s no give to your posture.

“Truly.”

You narrow your eyes, and he thinks he’ll have to defend himself further when nearly a minute passes before the head of the ladle and your shoulders dip. He remains perfectly still while you slowly slip into a more neutral stance, the tenseness in your shoulders dissipating just a bit. Now that you’re calmer, it’s easy to see that you do not look entirely well. There’s a tremble in your hands that he hadn’t noticed before. A result of too much adrenaline? Weariness? Or something else entirely?

“If that is all,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes, “please wait outside.” You gesture at the door with a small swing of the ladle.

He blinks and tries not to let his surprise show.

Is it that simple? Really?

“Will it be sencha today?”

“Ah, no. Moroccan mint.”

Naked surprise colors your face. For a moment, he thinks he sees the actual person behind the anger and the person behind the professional facade before it returns.

“I understand. With or without sweetener?”

“With.”

You nod and walk a short distance away, back never left exposed to him, and stop to face him once more. For a moment, he wonders what you’re doing before he realizes you’ve placed yourself between himself and the rest of the kitchen. It’s almost laughable—you do not have the skill to stop him even if you wanted to and you’ve just demonstrated that clearly. If he takes you out, there is nothing stopping him from accessing the Cellar door you’re protecting.

It’s almost disappointing. Almost enough to dampen his desire to uphold his part of the bargain with McCree. A treasure guarded by a weak guard cannot be so valuable.

He resists the urge to sigh. He’ll need to think about this later. The stack of boxes left forgotten and stray oranges on the ground catches his eye.

“Would you like some assistance with those packages?” he asks, gesturing with his chin.

Your face shifts from professional stoicism to shock to embarrassment to a poor attempt at maintaining your composure.

“Thank you for your offer, but I will manage. Please wait outside, I’ll have your tea shortly.”

“It would be no trouble. There are many boxes here.”

The makeshift weapon remains tight in your hands and determination begins to exude from your stance.

“I appreciate the offer, but this place is for chefs only. Please wait outside.”

A flicker of anger and irritation that he’s becoming far too acquainted with reignites inside his chest. Are all the members of Overwatch so unreasonable that they’d even jeopardize their own health? Reinhardt, you; who else on this base is so foolish?

“Do as you wish.”

At least he has gained information on the kitchen and the characteristics of the door; he’ll be better prepared for next time. (If the skill he saw tonight was the extent of your skill, he has nothing to fear. The cowboy’s warning were far too exaggerated.)

He’s keenly aware of your watchful gaze on his back as the door slowly swing to a close behind him. hen the swinging doors finally rest and he can hear you working, he lets out the long-suffering sigh he's been holding in up until now, deflating.

Well, that could have gone worse.

He loiters around the cafeteria, watching the sun crawl against the ground with static in his mind until the bell rings and a tray with a familiar teapot and teacup slides into view—deep down, as illogical as it may seem, he’s just a little disappointed that nothing accompanies his drink. It feels strange walking up to the window now that he knows what lies behind it. Like some type of magic or illusion has been ruined.

“Thank you for your patience.”

He nods, nearly forgetting that you cannot see it. “No, thank you.”

He doesn't know how he could have ever mistaken you for an omnic. Your voice is definitely nothing like Genji’s. It’s the illusion of the echo and the fact that you talk to a wall that must have confused him. And your hands—human hands—peer restly over the sill, tapping just as he’s about to pick up his tray. Do you often place your hands out in the open? Has he missed it all this time?

“Agent...Hanzo?”

“Yes, Chef?”

You take a shuddering breath before saying, “I...I apologize for the misunderstanding. I did not realize how important tea is to you. But the kitchens are off-limits to non-kitchen staff, so please understand.”

If he's playing the part of the fool, he may as well make it convincing. “It is inconvenient to wait on you for something like tea, Chef.”

The words draw a sharp inhale from you and tension to the air.

“These are rules, Agent Hanzo,” you say slowly, “I cannot allow that.”

“Rules set by whom?”

“The previous Head Chef.”

“If I am correct, this Head Chef is not here, and as such, you should make the rules.”

“I don't—I’m not—I…”

“Oh!”

Winston seems surprise to find anyone here at all, shifting awkwardly in the threshold between the hall and the room before he sheepishly pads his way in on his fists.

“Good morning, Hanzo. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hanzo couldn’t say that he expected the same and nods curtly.

“Tea, huh? I guess everyone takes their breakfast different.” Hanzo has no time to correct him when the gorilla turns toward the service window. “Chef, what’s for breakfast today?”

Hanzo winces as you splutter, remembering that his antics likely led to a delay in your schedule. (Well, you refused his help and decided to challenge him despite your lack of prowess; it’s not entirely his fault alone.) He can’t imagine in the few scant minutes you’ve spent preparing his tea that you had managed to put away those boxes or even started on preparing breakfast.

“That’s, um, I didn’t—I’m very sorry, but…”

Hanzo couldn’t stand to remain, the awkwardness of the situation tugging at him and bids a hasty leave, yanking the tray out of the window. Perhaps too hasty or perhaps it’s karma, either way, he could not say it was not well deserved.

The teacup wobble precariously and falls off his tray, rolling against the window sill and smashes to the floor, the sound rippling and tearing through any other noise in the cafeteria. Winston’s mouth drops open, spectacles slipping down his face.

“Oh my.”

Heat creeps up Hanzo’s neck as he chances a glance at the service window. Your hands are frozen in mid-air. He watches as they come down slowly and your torso inches forward, a dull ‘thunk’ accompanying an abrupt stop; he definitely does not feel something squeezing the air out of his lungs when a weepy voice whispers, “...are you kidding me?”

Chapter 9>>

#my writing #hanzo shimada #reader #oh fucking hell this took forever #it just never quite turned out the way i wanted in my head #because the original wasn't supposed to be like this #man a lot has changed since the draft #come on me keep going you asshole #i forgot to say: i managed to fit the one line i've always wanted in this fic #'YOU'RE A PERSON'#THIS IS IMPORTANT TO ME #twtah #the way to a heart

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