#he is about to shove that entire mouse into his mouth and just devour it whole. look at him. he's perfect. i love him.

[monstersholygrail]

oh to be a mouse hybrid toyed with by a cat hybrid who just wants to see you squirm in every way

Ooh when the Cat Hybrid’s owners told him they were getting him a new little friend, you, a Mouse Hybrid were by far the last thing he was expecting.

He wanted another cat to mess with, to play with… to mate with. But he couldn’t stop himself from noticing your plump round form scurrying about the house or the constant skittish look in your eye as you surveyed your new home. Perhaps you would do.

From that day on he would terrorize you mercilessly. Chasing you around the around the house when your owners were gone, saying he was gonna devour you when he finally got his claws into you. Backing you into corners just to see the delicious terror in your eyes. Plopping his large form right on top of you so that you couldn’t escape him even as you scrambled desperately to get away.

It was never ending and as much as you wanted to say you hated it, it felt far too good. The Cat hybrid severely underestimated you, forgetting you too were a hybrid with all the same perks. You could smell his desire in the air every time he chased you. And you had grown addicted to the scent. To feel so wanted and yearned for, especially during the chase, nothing else could compare.

He would only ever mess with you when he felt like it so you figured you might need to give him a little push. Using yourself as bait you use your owners creaky stairs to your advantage. As soon as the first step creaks, the Cat hybrid’s head snaps up from where he’s perched. His eyes meet your wide ones for only a moment before you’re bolting down the stairs.

As soon as you hear the pounding of paws behind you, you smirk wickedly knowing your plan had worked. Cute little squeaks leave your mouth as you run throughout the house, narrowly trying to avoid being caught. He should’ve realized how much you like this. You’re much faster than him after all.

After rounding the next corner you wait a moment for him to catch up. Seeing a flash of fur and then you’re off. The Cat Hybrid pauses for a moment as he realizes what you had just done. What you’ve actually been doing this entire time.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he chases you at lightning speed. He’s catching up to you in no time and by the look of genuine alarm in your eye he knows this wasn’t a trick. Instead of his usual antics he pounces on you, sending you both tumbling to the floor.

“You messin’ with me, little mouse?” He growls in your ear, his body pinning you to the hard wood floor. You don’t even bother to squirm, your heart beating out of your chest as you stare up at him.

Before you can even blink he’s shoving his hand down your pants and swiping his fingers through your folds, your slick drenching them with how aroused you are. He chuckles lowly, rumbling purrs vibrating into your chest and straight to your core.

“So this has been a game to you, huh? A bit of foreplay before I inevitably snap and fuck you dumb.”

You find you can’t even answer, panting breaths escaping you as you rock with his hand that’s slowly rubbing against all the right places. He devilishly smiles and pushes two fingers deep inside you, causing your hips to jolt as you cry out.

“Well, sweetheart, you’ve done it. I’ve snapped,” he says with a menacing snarl as he pumps his fingers roughly against your walls, his claws just barely scraping them and setting your nerves on fire.

You try and be as good as you can, staying perfectly still for him as he fucks you with his fingers, but your small reaction only seems to infuriate him further. He picks up pace, licking and nipping at your throat until you too break and your moans echo throughout the empty house. A secret smirk plays on lips.

That is until the Cat Hybrid plays a trick of his own. Pumping his fingers inside you, drawing you closer and closer till you’re just about to fall off that edge when he suddenly stops and withdraws. You whine, squirming now as you begin to beg for more.

“I see through you now, sweet prey. You won’t be winning this one.”

You only start to realize your mistake as he starts fucking you with his cock, the large length stretching you so good. The natural curve hitting the soft spot inside you perfectly. Then he starts doing to you exactly what he did with his fingers. Bringing you up to the edge and then pulling you right back.

He’s as merciless as he is when terrorizing you and in a way he’s doing just that but in a whole new way that drives you more insane than the chasing ever did. Eventually you’re a sobbing mess, your tears and your arousal forming two separate puddles on the floor with how in need you are right now as he starts up again.

You jump as the sudden sensation of his wet nose nuzzling into your neck, his purrs even louder now. You immediately cling to him, meeting his thrusts and trying to chase your growing orgasm before it’s taken away again.

“Do you think you’ve earned the right to cum for me now?” The Cat Hybrid asks and you whine, nodding rapidly.

You feel his grin against your skin before he pulls out and starts slamming his cock deep inside your cunt. His intent clear before he even says a word. But when he does it’s like music to your ears.

“I agree. Cum for me, mate.”

This time as you get closer and closer to the finish, he doesn’t stop. Instead, his hands slips down and rubs tight circles into your clit. Your orgasm breaks through almost instantly and you scream as you milk his cock for all it’s worth, sending him right into ecstasy with you.

But the sound of the car door doesn’t leave either of you much time to bask in pleasure coursing through you. Luckily the Cat hybrid takes the lead, maneuvering you both as he curls around you, keeping you stuffed full of his cock but hiding any of the evidence. You’re too weak to do anything but shift into how he molds you. Making it appear as if you two are asleep and cuddling in the hall.

“Aw, look at them. Finally getting along,” you hear your owners say who are none the wiser to what’s really going on.

Cat Hybrid bf rocks his hips, snapping them back inside you quietly and forcing a squeak from your throat. He chuckles under his breath and nuzzles into you, not planning on moving away from you for hours. Wondering how many more orgasms he can rip from your tight pussy.

[stellerssong]

scannerwhatscanner.jpg a.k.a. Alex catches a mouse

--

i would just like you all to know the following:

a) i have been longing since the very first day of wereham au being a thing for someone to draw my ugly dog son at the worst phase of his transformation (“which is the worst phase, swan” all of the phase is worst they are all uniquely Bad and i love them all)

b) Shaina @philly-osopher loves me very much and wants me to be happy

[kbstories]

habits

(Or: Bakugou is a little shit and a dork. 1-A gets used to it.)

Read on: AO3 / Twitter

*

One lesser known truth about Bakugou Katsuki is that he's an unrepentant thief of snacks.

Class 1-A is blissfully unaware of this habit all the way up to their move to Heights Alliance. There, they not only share living space, but every meal of the day as well — a status quo that revealed many a peculiar fun fact about most classmates, really.

Bakugou's first victim by sheer proximity is Kirishima. They're hanging out outside after a weekend session at the gym, drinking their electrolytes and talking about the pros and cons of different brands of protein bars. Well, Kirishima is, at least.

Bakugou is huffing, saying, "It's all bullshit", as he gives the one Kirishima is currently eating the side-eye. "The food industry is one big scam, really. Learn to cook your own stuff and you won't need processed anything."

"Okay", goes Kirishima, long used to debating him on anything from hero rankings to the weather. "But consider this: I burn anything I cook. Anything, dude."

"That's factually impossible."

"...I burned water trying to make ramen once?"

"Shitty Hair. Water doesn’t— How the fuck?“

Kirishima laughs, waving the half-eaten protein bar around. "I don't know, but there was smoke, I swear! I set off the fire alarm and everything, my moms were so done. Life-long kitchen ban in my own home, that's me."

Bakugou groans a disgusted eugh sound. "Fucking understandable."

When it only makes Kirishima smile all the wider, Bakugou pushes at his shoulder, a shove too rough to count as affectionate by anyone's standards but Bakugou's.

"Fine. Normal people shouldn't eat protein bars. You shouldn't either, but you'd starve without 'em, apparently."

"Or, you could, y’know, cook for m—"

Another shove, enough to push a still-laughing Kirishima over. "Keep trying, dickhead. Pshh, cooking for you. In your dreams, maybe."

Kirishima hums and says nothing, his idle sip of sports drink interrupted by Bakugou pulling him to his feet.

"Who cares, c'mon. Don't think for a second I forgot about Thirteen's assignment."

A sputtering gasp from Kirishima. "Thirteen gave us an assignment?!“

"...Kirishima."

"Wait, no, listen. Why do physics have to, like, exist?", is Kirishima's brilliant argument. Nailed it.

Bakugou just stares. Then he snorts, "Fucking hell", shakes his head. "Whatever, I'm gonna make lunch and you're gonna do your damn homework. Maybe I'll let you have some. There's a faint chance. Very faint."

"Bro", Kirishima looks at him in wonder. "What about this, though?“

The glance Bakugou gives Kirishima's protein bar is downright offended if a little confused, too. "What about it?"

"Yeah, you're right. I'll just throw it awa—"

Bakugou moves so fast, all Kirishima sees is a blond blur.

Suddenly, the hand holding the snack is empty and Bakugou is chewing, having snatched the thing up with his teeth and devoured it like a beast from myths and legends.

"Problem solved, we're going. Huh, these don't even taste that shitty.“

Kirishima is too stunned to resist.

The Bakusquad is next in line when it comes to Bakugou's food-related crimes. Specifically, the croissant Kaminari is enthusiastically gesturing with to emphasize the point that yes, sneaking off campus for one (1) French pastry was definitely worth risking Aizawa's wrath over.

"It's perfectly baked. Look at its impeccable shape", Kaminari holds it up to his circle of friends like its his first-born child, "and the crust! It's so fluffy. I've been craving one all freaking week. This is gonna be so—"

Chomp.

Before Kirishima can even attempt to stop the tragedy waiting to happen, Bakugou has wandered back from his room, a stack of books under one arm and Kaminari's prized croissant in his mouth. The books are slammed on the table.

"Less talking, more studying", Bakugou snarks, somehow without getting crumbs of the stolen treat on anything. "Where'd ya get this from, anyway? S'good."

Kaminari’s jaw is on the floor, shell-shocked. "My… My croissant..."

"Sorry, bro", Kirishima sighs and pats his back. "He's just too damn quick."

The words are said with a look towards Bakugou, the that-wasn't-nice-man kind. Bakugou wrinkles his nose at him. (The very next day, an identical croissant shows up on Kaminari's plate during lunch break.)

Weeks fly by. By then, most of 1-A has been caught unawares by Bakugou's sneaky ways exactly once. They're training to be Heroes, after all — there's no way he'd get the drop on them again, at least not as easily.

Bakugou seems to be aware of this.

It doesn't stop him from snatching away Tokoyami's apple during movie night, smirking at both him and Dark Shadow with near-obnoxious levels of smugness. Tokoyami stares him dead in the eye while he grabs another one, one feathery brow raised in challenge.

Aoyama's handpicked brie is next, the guy's offended swearing almost as colorful as Bakugou's on his worst days. Bakugou outright cackles at that, obviously delighted by the prospect of someone else being subjected to Iida's no-cursing lecture for once, foreign language or no.

Speaking of Iida: It's his unopened cup of chocolate pudding Bakugou is eyeing like a cat does an especially oblivious mouse.

"Dooon't", Kirishima warns, hand hardened and ready to make a grab if needed. "I swear to Crimson Riot. Let the poor man have his pudding, or else."

"What has Iida even done to you, bro?", adds Kaminari, sliding his food tray into his usual spot across from them. "Like, I get it, I've pranked you enough times to owe you twenty croissants. And you're carrying Kirishima's entire academic career, so targeting him is valid, too."

"Hey! ...That's fair, actually. Carry on."

Kaminari winks at him. It's not like it's any different for him. "Iida, however, is wholesome, and—"

"Guys, you're making a great point and all that“, Ashido contributes over her bowl of natto. "But he's already gone."

Kirishima's head whips around. Indeed: No Bakugou. "No!"

"How is he this stealthy?!" Kaminari whines. "Bakugou, of all people!"

A few tables over, Iida is currently mid-story and too wrapped up in telling his audience of Momo, Todoroki, Uraraka and Midoriya about his adventures of googling what Aoyama had yelled out in sparkly rage the day before to notice a certain someone approaching.

Bakugou smiles, certain of his victory. Pretending to walk past them, he takes one hand out of his pockets and reaches out—

Only for his arm to be slammed to the table with a loud bang, mere inches from the desired snack.

"Kacchan", Midoriya pipes up casually, eyes still on Iida who — like everyone else at the table — jumped half a foot in the air from the sudden movement. "That's not yours."

Every member of 1-A is blatantly watching as Bakugou, food thief extraordinaire, is stopped in his tracks for the first time since his reign of terror began.

A collective breath is held. Surely, this will lead straight into a showdown of epic proportions in the middle of U.A.'s cafeteria. After all, any interaction between Midoriya and Bakugou tends to end in a shouting match, chaos or even bloodshed. And Bakugou does look intense, glowering at Midoriya as the muscles in his pinned arm bunch up and his palm starts to glow.

Then, he goes tch and rolls his eyes, grumbling: "Let go, Shitty Nerd. Figures you'd be the only one paying fucking attention."

Midoriya smiles and does as asked, pushing his own pudding cup closer to Bakugou right away. A blatant offer that's equally as blatantly ignored, as expected.

The actual food was never the point, after all.

Bakugou huffs off, lips upturned in somewhat of a smile of his own. Not that he'd ever admit to it as he rejoins his own friends, snapping at them to close their mouths and finish their lunch already.

Read on: AO3 / Twitter

[hybridfanfiction]

Owner Training - 3

Word Count: 2,236

Life with Yoongi was turning you into a master of compromise, admittedly in his favor. He would request all windows and doors were to remain open, you would insist on the bathroom door being closed when you were in there. He insisted on a diet that consisted of meat, cheese, and half & half ( “Milk is basically white water and cream is too thick. It has to be half and half.”). You convinced him to have a salad at least once a week. He demanded fifteen hours of uninterrupted silence during the day for his sleep, you talked him down to ten at night and a five hour nap while you were at work. Basically, you were a pro negotiator now.

This is why it wasn’t a surprise to you that you’d been on the phone with a sick Yoongi for the past five minutes explaining that no, you weren’t going to bring home sashimi for dinner because you highly doubted the story he told about hybrids healing faster if they eat raw meat. You were more than happy to bring home some chicken soup, however. And if he willingly took some vitamin C tablets, you’d even buy some vanilla ice cream to soothe his throat. The promise of the frozen treat seemed to do the trick as he stopped coming up with hybrid health facts that you were certain he was pulling out of his ass and hung up, finally letting you get back to work uninterrupted. 

You sigh wearily as you turn back to your computer, but you can’t help the little fond smile that grows as you think about him. Yoongi was a brat, it was true, but he was never really mean or a problem. You were sure he just got a little thrill every time he was able to trick you into doing what he wanted, thinking himself the most clever of cats. Honestly, you weren’t as dumb as he probably thought you were. Some of his victories came from your ignorance, as you were still learning. You wouldn’t deny that. However, you often let him get away with things just to see his little smirk of victory and obvious happiness. 

Humming, you get back to work. You wanted to try to get some of the basic office work out of the way so you wouldn’t end up behind if you needed to take some time off to take care of Yoongi. 

“Was that your hybrid again?” Your co-worker next to you grinned as she asked, very used to listening to your daily battles with Yoongi. 

“Yeah. He’s had a cold for a couple days and he’s even more demanding than usual. It’s cute, but it would make my life easier if he would stop refusing to go to the vet. I’m sure they have meds that would end it faster.” 

“Oh, he’s one of those. My girl was like that at first too, absolutely refused the vet. We got her on a rewards system now though. Every time she does a task successfully, like going to the vet without whining or learning a new trick, she gets a star on the board. Once she reaches a certain amount, she gets a treat. Like a trip to the park or a new toy. You should try something like that with yours.” 

Something about the way she said it struck you as not only childish but slightly demeaning. Tricks? They weren’t actual dogs. You were certain if you tried to teach Yoongi an actual trick he’d flip you off and lock you out of your own bedroom. 

“I don’t know. Yoongi was a stray, so he’s a little more sensitive than most,” you mutter, trying to keep your opinion to yourself. Last thing you needed was a co-worker that hated you because you called them a hybridist. 

“Well, at the very least, you should have him trained a little more. My Lola wouldn’t dream of bothering me at work unless it was an emergency. Something like that would mean she’d have to move her mat out of my bedroom for the night and into the living room.” 

“A mat? She doesn’t sleep with you?” 

“Goodness, no. Hybrids aren’t allowed on the furniture, dear. You have to establish dominance, and letting them onto the couch or your bed makes them think they own the house. This is your first one, isn’t it?” 

You nod silently and keep your thoughts to yourself. You felt really bad for this Lola. You know Yoongi would have ran away from this woman in a day. He may be a brat, but he didn’t deserve to be treated like that. 

“Well, just remember that you’re the owner and they’re the pet. I’ll email you a few links to some great sites that can help.” 

Thankfully, she goes back to work after that. To think, you used to like this woman. She was a great paralegal, but apparently a shit person. 

You sigh and glance around your area, wondering what the chances were of Yoongi letting you take a picture of him. You could frame it and liven your desk up a little more. You grin at the thought of the battle you’d have to go through just to get one decent photo. He would put up a fight for sure, but all you’d have to do is compliment and praise him enough for him to think he’d be doing you a favor. The best way to get him to do anything was to make him think it was his own idea. It would have to wait until after he wasn’t sick though. 

With the reminder of your sick kitty, you power through your work for the day, anxious to get home to him. 

♦

You juggle the multiple bags to the kitchen and quickly stick the ice cream in the freezer before you go searching for your hybrid. After checking the bedroom which turned out to be empty, you realize that the lump of blankets on the couch is actually him when you spot a single ear poking out, moving whichever direction you headed. 

A single sneeze came from the kitten burrito, sounding more like it came from a mouse than the usually gravelly voiced hybrid. 

“Yoongi, I brought you dinner. You gonna get up?” 

“Did you bring my sashimi?” 

His poor voice makes you cringe, rough with the coughs and sore throat that he’s been dealing with. You hated seeing him like this. 

“No. I brought you chicken soup, which will actually help you feel better.” 

He pulled the blanket down to pout at you, still looking adorable as he did so despite the watery eyes and red nose. He sniffed and battled a cough before frowning again. 

“I’m not getting up. You’re going to have to feed me.” 

You raise an eyebrow which he merely counters with one of his own. Finally, after a few second standoff, you sigh and go grab the bag with his food, along with some water since you doubted he’d had any today. You also grab the bottle of vitamin C tablets, since it didn’t look like he’d even gotten up today so you were sure he hadn’t taken one yet. 

You set everything up on the coffee table and he scoots up a little bit so that the blanket is around his shoulders, leaving his head out. You take the chance to reach out and feel his forehead, grimacing a bit when you realize it’s a little warmer than it was this morning. 

“If that gets worse, we’re going to the vet whether you like it or not. You can die from high fevers, Yoongi.” 

“I’m a hybrid. I have a naturally higher body temperature than a human, so you don’t know what to judge by. This is fine.” 

You didn’t like it, but you promised yourself you’d keep an eye on it anyway. Hopefully having a decent meal and plenty of water will help for now. You take the lid off the chicken soup, smiling as the aroma hits you. The lady that owned the restaurant was very fond of Yoongi, as the two of you were regulars there, and she had fussed when you told her he was sick. You could tell that she’d put extra ginseng and broth in the soup today to help him get better. 

You take a big spoonful of the rice and broth and tear off a piece of the chicken to place on top before blowing gently to cool it. You guide it to Yoongi’s already open and waiting mouth, the cat resembling a baby bird as he did so. You grin as he chews happily, humming to himself. The bowl is quickly devoured, leading you to believe he hadn’t even bothered to get up and feed himself at all today. 

You had him the vitamin C tablet next and let him chew it before forcing him to drink the entire bottle of water. You’re impressed that he went through the entire meal without a single complaint or criticism. 

Of course, it could just be because he wants his treat. 

You go to the kitchen and dish out a single scoop of ice cream and grab more water just in case. When you bring the treat back to the couch, Yoongi’s face lights up and his eyes are glued to the bowl. He moans when the first bite cools his abused throat. He goes through the entire scoop in mere moments, letting his head fall back against the couch in contentment when it was all gone. 

You set the bowl down on the coffee table before reaching over to check his temp again. It still felt pretty much the same, but it hadn’t gotten worse at least. You brush the hair away from his forehead absentmindedly, just hoping to give him some comfort so he’ll fall asleep. He startles you when he shoves his head into your hand, peeking up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Pet me.” 

Your jaw drops in surprise. “Really?” 

Instead of answering, he butts into your hand again. With a growing grin, you thread your hands into his hair, slowly combing through it and occasionally scratching around the bases of his ears. Soon, the unmistakable sounds of purring fill the room and you quickly decide the sick and sleepy Yoongi was one of your favorite things (although you still wished he wasn’t sick, of course). 

Just when you think he’s finally nodded off, his eyes shoot open and he clears his throat.

“Diablo.” 

“What?” 

“That cat you bought me. I need it.” 

You shake your head and you fetch the cat plushie from the nearby recliner. 

“You named it Diablo? Why not mittens or socks? Something cute. Look, it has different colored feet.” 

He glares at you and pulls one hand out of the blanket to reach for it. 

“Fine. Here’s Diablo,” you sigh, handing him the toy. He tucks it near his head, then opens the blankets so quickly that you were unprepared for him to pull you on top of him and wrap them around you. 

“Jesus, you’re burning up in here,” you mumble against the warm chest you’re pressed against. 

He hums and tangles his legs with yours and wraps his tail around your waist. 

“Shut up and sleep,” he orders with a loud yawn, adding his arms to the mix so you were basically trapped in the kitten burrito. 

The purring came back moments later, the rumbling as you laid against his chest oddly soothing. He soon started the little puffs of breathing that meant he was nearly asleep, so you closed your eyes and let yourself join him.

♦

There was a rattling sound that slowly woke you from your slumber, but you stubbornly kept your eyes shut until a beam of bright light hit your eyelids, practically blinding you. You opened your eyes and glared at the offender, which turned out to be a smug cat holding the window blinds open so the sun would hit you right in your face. 

“Get up. You’re going to take me to the park today. I’ve been cooped up for too long.” 

You sit up and observe him with a sleepy scowl that quickly changes to a relieved smile when you realize he’s essentially healthy again. His color looks normal and his eyes are clear, and you haven't heard a single sniffle. 

“All better then?” 

“Yup. Pretty sure it was the ice cream.” 

You roll your eyes and sit up, then take the hand he offers you to help you stand and lead you towards the bathroom. 

“Um...thank you for taking care of me. You didn’t need to go all out, but you did, so yeah. Thanks,” he says softly. 

Before you can answer he quickly leans over and pecks your cheek, blushing brightly, before he essentially shoves you into the bathroom. 

You hold the door, still in shock and feeling the touch of his lips on your skin like a brand. You’re sure the grin you’re sporting is dopey as hell. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” 

He nods and starts to walk away from the door, only to pause and throw a smirk over his shoulder. 

“Though, I could have been better in one day instead of three if you’d gotten my sashimi.” 

You adored the brat, you really did. 

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (11)

I am ridiculously and eternally grateful to @dickbutt-writes-again who has so patiently listened to me whine and helped me fix up this chapter, witnessing me wreck this chapter 4 times and still cheering me on. THANK YOU!!!! ♡♡

This chapter is a little rough, so Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism tag is applicable here.

<<Chapter 10

Hanzo is drunk—ridiculously so even by his own admittedly compromised standards.

Rain water soaks his clothes down to the very fibers and they cling to him like an ill-fitted second skin. The pounding in his head is only muted by the chill and the desperate writhing in his skin which bids him to get up, get up, get up, but that is hindered by the heaviness in his limbs. It's a good thing he cannot move—the sloshing in his stomach is relentless and revolt if he were to do so much as breathe too hard.

He closes his swollen eyes.

Where had he—where had it all gone wrong?

The past few weeks had been going relatively well. He had finally, finally grasped something resembling normalcy (if avoiding Genji and gorging himself was considered 'normal').

A shuddery breath leaves him slowly in a plume of mist that's pierced by the still-falling rain. It's not coming down as hard as before, luckily: relentless sheets that threatened to wash away the summer and his foolish self—too busy chasing after the blinding warmth of alcohol to care—off this rooftop and straight off the cliff and into the raging sea below. Now, it's nothing more than light pitter-patters against his face, gentle reminding him not to succumbed to the siren's call of a dark oblivion, and willed him to face reality.

Yes. Reality.

He had involved himself too much, ran away too much, dallied too much, so when reality caught up to him, he found himself cornered and woefully unequipped to handle it all. Even with all he's learnt in life, he found himself lacking in things such as reconciliation and courage—courage; when half his life could be summarized in daring acts that would make most cower just upon hearing of them.

He became too caught up in a pace that he thought he was in control of.

The beginning of summer's end was marked by Mei's timely return, and with her, souvenirs. Tiny, wrapped pieces of jerky was well-received by everyone and devoured in an instant. (It was worth noting that you had seemed particularly upset about it all despite being offered your own package, making short work of small talk, and their portions just a fraction smaller—Ana laughed it off quickly, claiming you to be 'cute' and pouting about everyone ruining their appetites.) There were sweets (white rabbit candies, gummies, and other unfamiliar items that were all delicious), imported teas, snacks, and lost daring of all, copious amounts of alcohol that, if Mei had been flying a commercial flight instead of 'Air Orca', would never had been allowed aboard. Just that alone removes the bits of disappointment at the lack of pineapple cakes that he didn't ask for.

Even better, Winston had begun to dole out missions. Though it was not yet Hanzo's turn, the anticipation keeps his spirits up. In the meantime, Hanzo was able to convince an eager Winston to give him access to detailed plans of the entire base and surrounding area under the guise of fortifying the base's defenses. (Apparently Fareeha was on charge of doing a risk assessment of the base and upgrading the security systems, but did not yet have the chance to complete it.)

The maps he received are incredibly dense, both in size and information, and he has to chunk it out in more manageable sections to study. He learns of the surrounding areas first—they were the first files and he is in no particular rush, the kitchen nor the treasure was going anywhere—such as the Moorish Castle and the Siege Tunnels of Gibraltar, both which have been partially restored and reconstructed for the Watchpoint's use once upon a time. The maps become his nighttime study and bedtime stories, but they don't keep him asleep for long; they are nothing against the insistent tittering in his veins that jolts him awake at night.

Originally, Hanzo avoided going to the kitchen in the middle of these spells as frequently as he used to, but there is only so much he can bear alone without sufficient distraction, and the kitchen was as good as any where he’s not left alone to this thoughts. So, one night, he caves.

It’s difficult to feel bad about it, too, when the kitchen lights are still on and you greet him with the same sort of welcome you would during any other time of the day, and tell him to draw up a stool to sit at the long, empty service window. He does so and sits, folding his hands at the counter, and then he’s reminded of Japan in that way: people who stayed alone at the bar-style tables of izakaya s and ramen shops and twenty-four hour fast food chains, refusing to go home to their families after a vicious night of drinking just to return to work in a few scant hours. He supposed he’s no different from them now.

You ask no questions other than the usual: “What would you like, Agent Hanzo?” for which he is grateful for.

“Anything.”

If he sounded weaker than usual, you didn’t say anything, and for once, you don’t tell him to enter his order into the terminal. Instead, you turn around and get straight to work, letting the steady sounds of your bustle speak for you. The stove clicks, porcelain clinks, water falls, and the consistent whisking and chopping give him something to focus on despite having nothing to do but wait. Each sound is a chant, a verse of a spell that sinks into his skin, skittering up his skull, filling in the crevices and forcing out something else darker bit by bit.

It’s not until you slide him his tea and snack that he realizes that the feelings that chased him away from his bed did not follow him here, or if it did, they did not remain for long. Your quiet presence on the other side of the counter remains casually vigilant, as if daring the sludge to return.

It’s strange. He never really liked having anyone observe his eating habits—it made him far too human, too vulnerable—but he found he didn’t particularly mind. Maybe he’s even a little grateful—not that he would ever voice it—that you’re willing to sacrifice your sleep for him and tend to his childish nightmares without so much as a complaint. He should probably feel guilty, but it’s hard to when you’re so accommodating. And if you ever feel angry, he’ll at least know, that the most mean-spirited thing you’ll do is merely la a slice of pepper in his food. He has nothing to fear.

Though, he has to constantly remind himself that even a mouse will bite a cat when cornered, and not to make light of you or take complete advantage of your hospitality.

But even so, he conveniently forgets, ignoring the possibility of that danger and stretching out this sense of comfort for as long as you would give it. More often than not, after that, he’s up before dawn breaks, sneaking in a quiet, secret moment before the base comes to life.

Luckily, you don’t seem to mind at all and it’s hard to feel guilty when you greet him just as brightly as you would any other time of the day, adjusting to his company with a prepared pot of tea and a small snack of your choice. Eventually, you even share jovial stories of the ‘good, old days’ among the sounds of your knife or stirring. The sounds were steady in their rhythm to the point of hypnotic, sending shivers up his spine and sinking into parts of him that he didn’t know existed, chasing away any lingering doubts. It’s not unpleasant; he enjoyed it—it was relaxing in ways that he didn’t think possible.

In return, he shares the less gruesome stories of his time on the run. There were undoubtedly parts that he could not share in polite company, and the amount of censoring he has to do puts into sharp perspective that he hasn’t been a particularly ‘good’ person—not that he’s ever claimed such a thing. But the number of ‘safe’ stories he could share with you is embarrassingly small.

Despite all that, he still returns, slowly learning more and more about all that you do.

It should frighten him to say that it’s become a habit, and the excuse that it’s for the treasure feels like a feeble afterthought.

Though, it’s hard to worry of those things when you ask him, “Would you like another serving of bread pudding?”

Immediately, he replies, “Please.”

His empty plate is immediately cleared off the counter and replaced with another bubbling piece of indulgence that he does not hesitate digging into even as you’re saying, “Be careful, it’s hot.”

As always, it’s mouth-wateringly soft, not quite as hot as you proclaim it to be, but still enough to make everything else feel cool by comparison, filling his belly with a comforting weight. There’s no raisins in it this time, no added textures to the bread pieces that have now melded into one. Cinnamon permeates his senses and the rich, silken taste of eggs wrap everything up into a neat package. The sweetness almost makes his toes curl and the corner of his mouth lift.

“Is it better with raisins? Or without them?”

“Without.”

“How’s the sweetness?”

“A little too much.”

“Understood, thank you.”

Amidst his eating, Hanzo almost misses you scribbling these notes down in a notepad before it’s shoved away into the pocket of your apron.

“You keep notes?”

“Yes, there are times I must adjust recipes or remember things for later, so I keep a notepad around.”

“How old-fashioned.” Though, he cannot say that he does not do the same.

You shrug, unperturbed. “Pen and paper is preferable in the kitchen. Too much technology tends to complicate things.”

“Is that so?”

You hum, a little inquisitive and you turn just slightly to give him a better view of the kitchen, gesturing vaguely inside. “Head Chef used to think that having complicated machinery in the kitchen makes your skill dull and takes away that...human element. Though, ‘human’ is kind of…subjective. But even now, we don’t have very fancy equipment.”

The archer understands the concept well. Despite Japan’s technological advancements, the residents of Shimada castle insisted on doing things the ‘old fashioned way’. Even his father was of the same mind: reliance on technology undermines one’s foundations. Yes, one could use guns or poisons to kill or have GPS track a person’s coordinates, but when you don’t have access to such conveniences, you have no choice but to rely on your own skill and knowledge—the basics.

He just didn’t think it also bled into the realm of cooking.

Bitterly amused, he thinks that if your Head Chef ever met his father, they’d probably get along. Though, he can’t remember his father partaking in many Western foods.

“So your Head Chef valued skill then.”

Haltingly, you say, “Well, yes, but…” He looks up when he hears you huff, his curiosity is immediately piqued. “Head Chef always went on and on about what makes good food.” You tick off each on a finger. “Good ingredients, good skill, and...lots of love.”

He almost balks.

Love?

As if sensing his skepticism, you wave a hand around. “I know, I didn’t believe him at first. But over time, I think I get it.” Your voice turns soft, twisting his stomach in an agonizingly sweet and painful way. “And I think I have to agree.”

He raises his cup to his lips to hide his sneer, and douses that bitterness with a large gulp of tea. 「What nonsense.」

But he was no chef. What could he ever know of what ‘love’ was in cooking? What does he even know of the concept itself?

Was it a tool? A feeling? Something lost and buried by the sands of time?

Unwittingly, he searches for an answer inside himself, but comes up empty. The word just does not lend itself to any experiences he can remember, none which he can attribute to it.

Slowly, he lowers his cup and stares down aimlessly at the sill.

What is ‘love’?

What meaning, what experiences can be attached to such a vague and general word?

The experiences he could potentially attach to such a word fall quite short. For Hanzo, the word is inadequate and far too simple. How could a single word ever express the varying weights of the different types out there? Loving a food is different from loving a person, and similarly, loving a parent is different from loving a lover; the severity of their meaning is so far apart, and yet, they’re still expressed with the same word.

English is a far too strange and distant language.

So what sort of love do you put in your cooking?

What sort of ‘love’ has he consumed?

And the twisting in his stomach becomes larger, threatening to consume him instead, in a feeling that he cannot name. It is not dark, but it has the potential to be more terrifying than those that haunt his dreams. It makes his skin feel too tight and releases a jitter in his veins not unlike the moments before he steadies himself to fire an arrow. That tension almost makes him want to leave.

“Is that the secret of the Cellar?” he asks sarcastically.

“Oh, that again?”

You lean against your side of the sill, arms crossed, but not angry. Contemplative, maybe.

The relief is instantaneous, flushing the tightness right out of him, when you take to the change of subject easily. That relief nearly overshadows the fact that he may have just gotten you to speak about something forbidden.

“Love...is not something that you can just put in a jar and leave it down in the Cellar. So, no, that’s not it. But, I guess you can say that it has something to do with it. Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“...what do you think the the treasure is, Agent Hanzo?”

He tries to call the exact words that McCree gave him. “It is something that sustains the Watchpoint.”

He watches your reactions carefully—a thoughtful raise of your hand to your chin, a slight tension in your posture that borders between leaping at some truth and holding back to feign ignorance.

“What do you think can sustain this place, then?”

A question for an answer, is it? Fine, he’ll play this game—if only to get away from the uncomfortable and unfamiliar discussion of ‘love’.

There is a million different answers to your question. Alcohol, for one—it’s the answer that McCree gave. Money, is the next obvious one. Considering that you have hinted at the fact that you are more involved in Overwatch’s finances than strictly necessary—really, how do you know if the Watchpoint is capable of hiring another chef or not—it is likely that there is a vault beneath the kitchen, the last place anyone would look (other than the unused bathrooms scattered around the base that, despite the cleaning bots best efforts, look like they were imported straight from a horror game). Then there’s equipment, power generators, bots, and a number of other things.

However, the question sparks a memory. This very question has been posed to him long ago in his youth, confronted with the reality of being the clan’s scion and eventually, master. Replace ‘Watchpoint’ with ‘clan’ and his answer is simple.

“Its people.”

You falter, hand from your chin dropping as you consider his answer. A jolt of excitement makes him straighten in his chair. Is he correct?

“That’s a...very good answer,” you say slowly. The excitement in his gut quickly wanes at the tone of your voice. It sounds as though you’re not quite sure yourself.

“But is it correct?”

You seem to meander between thoughts. Quietly, you confess, “I don’t really know anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Your arms come down and fold neatly on the counter between you both. If he lean forward just a bit, he could grab hold of them and not let go until you give up the answer. But he watches and waits for your answer.

“You see, Agent Hanzo, I am very used to the Cellar. I’m sure some of it is very valuable, but to be very honest, I’m not...very sure which is the true ‘treasure’. I know what I consider to be a treasure, but I don’t exactly know what the Head Chef meant.”

Slack-jawed, he stares.

If you are lying, then you’re doing a very good job.

Very slowly, he asks, “So you chefs risk your lives to protect something that you don’t even know of?”

“No!” Your hands immediately balls into fists against the counter. “No, that’s not the case. There is— ” You choke on the words and then Hanzo glimpsed it with an out-of-place glee: victory. So you do know.

He leans in deeper into the window, and you step back. He can barely glimpse your face, but tactics like this is most effective when you’re level with the other person, but he’ll have to make do. He needs a bigger push, big enough to make you spill. You’re almost there, riled up, and likely to spill.

“Chef.” It’s in his grasp. “I understand this item is of utmost importance to you.” It’s so close. “And it would be wiser to have all the agents protect it.” If he can just break you—“But without knowing what it is, it could be destroyed in passing. It would be in your best interest to…”

What is he doing ?

“...to continue doing as you have.”

The relief from you is palpable as he draws back, slow and controlled. His heart is hammering in his chest, turning his nerves numb. The tantalizing answer was so close and all he had to do was just…

He forces himself to take a sip of his tea, wincing at the cool temperature.

“Chef, more tea.”

“Yes, of course.”

The teapot and teacup is cleared, and he watches you waltzing around the kitchen to fulfill his order. Folding his hands in front of his face, he wonders if he had just let something precious slip out of his grasp, if he had failed to make the mark, if he’ll ever get a second chance.

Though, when he finds himself with another serving of tea and another snack, he finds it hard to regret the decision too much. He’ll get to the answer soon, there’s no rush.

And he didn’t rush.

While he’s tempted to rub this into McCree’s face, he has to keep this quiet for now—if the gunslinger knew that you had begun to loosen up, he might dive in and attempt something himself, ruining his plans. No, Hanzo keeps these conversations close to him and your time even closer, lingering just up until the time the sky begins to lighten and the hints of dawn splashes into the cafeteria.

The conversations following do not encroach upon the treasure, but they do touch upon something more personal, giving him a better view of the person behind the dividing wall.

“And because of Patissier Woo, I don’t like handling chocolates. She’ll make you eat the chocolate if you mess it up, which sounds great, but when you have tons of it, it’s disgusting.”

“If it was such a waste, why did she not eat it herself?”

“She was an omnic.”

He nearly chokes on his tea. So there were omnics in the kitchen. Just as he had thought in the beginning.

Insensitive as it may be, he asks, “How did she make anything if she could not eat?”

“She took precise measurements and always took notes. She was one of the people who taught me about looking at people’s dishes to find out their likes and dislikes. Actually, a lot of the other chefs had that habit, too. We even compiled a database with everyone’s preferences.”

“Oh? Is it still being used now?”

“Of course!” You sound awfully proud. “It contains years of data from the Strike Commander down to the gardeners with allergies and everything. It’s really useful.”

“Is this data accessible by everyone?”

You take a moment to think. “It shouldn’t. It’s kept here, and I don’t think even Athena has access to it.”

“Ah, is that so? How reassuring.”

Occasionally, among the stories, you dole out gems like this and it makes piecing the puzzle together all the more satisfying.

But not all of these meetings are so carefree.

It’s slowly becoming more apparent that you’re getting distracted, troubled. It’s small things at first that he chalks up to fatigue: letting the kettle whistle for too long, missing a spot when you’re wiping down the counter. However, it becomes apparent that a lack of sleep is not the only thing on your mind.

Hanzo enters the kitchen at your unspoken meeting time as usual, but to his surprise, Winston is already there. The sight of the gorilla at the service window shocks all the sleep from his system and he unconsciously suppresses his breath—hiding himself and listening.

“I promise, we will do everything in our powe—”

“You don’t have to do anything, Winston.” Even from this distance, Hanzo could hear the uncharacteristic iciness in your voice. “Everyone risks their lives. I don’t. This is the least I can do.”

Winston leans forward, hands on the edge of the sill, seemingly exasperated and frustrated. “We are worried for you, and I’m sure your colleagues are as well.”

“They’re fine ! I c— we chose to do this, and I don’t want to take it back.”

“At least take some time off, you’ve been—”

“I’m fine !”

Winston, and even Hanzo, is taken aback by the volume of your voice. It echoes fiercely into the mess hall, the high, domed ceilings trapping the sound and twists it into something more haunting and lasting.

You huff angrily. “If you do not want have anything to order, Winston, please...just go.”

“Chef…”

“Please.” Hanzo watches as you grab Winston’s massive hand on the counter and give it a squeeze—a motion he could feel inside himself despite not being anywhere near. “I’m fine. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Every bit of Winston’s stance projected reluctance and doubt even as he pulled away, seeming to hold onto your hand as long as he could. He looks like he wants to say more, but then shakes his massive head and makes his way out of the lonely cafeteria on his fists, completely bypassing Hanzo who took to the shadows. Up close, he could see the frustration on the scientist’s face. Whatever you both were talking about, Winston seems ridiculously worked up about it, and Hanzo wonders if he shouldn’t try to find out.

The door slides shut, casting everything back into silence, but Hanzo could still hear the echoes of your voice—angry and so reminiscent of the time you tried to force him to leave the kitchens.

Even a mouse will bite a cat if cornered.

Is it safe to approach? Should he draw back for today and leave you alone to process your thoughts and cool off? It would be the smartest idea, the safest for him.

But what about you?

You said so yourself, you’re fine .

And Hanzo knows it’s a damn lie.

Against his better judgment, he approaches the service window. It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t bother him at all—months ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Now, it’s a little different. These past few weeks meant something . You mean something a little more than an estranged cook now.

Silently, he watches for a few moments when he gets to the window where Winston stood.

You’re roaming around the kitchen some distance away, a stormy expression set on your face and a tightness to your jaw. Ingredients for something gathered in your arms as you begin chopping away, a little harder and a lot messier. The sound is jarring rather than comforting, violent rather than relaxed. He’s almost wary of calling out to you in case you’re startled into taking out your own hand. The archer waits until you’ve set down your knife to reach over and take some leaves and shove them into your mouth.

“Chef.”

And he almost feels guilty when you whirl around, hand just inches away from knocking your knife over. It was good then that he did not call to you while you were still working. You wipe your hands quickly on your apron—a little dirtier than usual—and make your way to him. Before your face disappears entirely behind the upper part of the window, he sees the weariness in your eyes, in your face, the tension in your jaw and shoulders.

“Good morning, Agent Hanzo. What can I get you?”

No matter how well you try to hide it, the exhaustion is apparent in your voice. His answer never leaves his mouth despite it being open. Lately, he has let you decide for him, but in your current state, it may not be a wise idea. He must have reached some quota of bad decisions already, anymore may prove disastrous.

Eventually, he waves his hand. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Certainly. One moment.”

You don’t even get very far before he watches you slam your hip into a counter, too shaky on your feet to get very far before hunching over a counter.

“Chef!?”

“Hrughk—I’m fin, I’m fine, Agent Hanzo. Just...give me a minute.”

He waits a moment, but observes no change, no intervention from Athena, and against all good judgment, he goes around the bend to open the doors to the kitchen because you are decidedly not fine and likely haven’t been for a very, very long time.

At the sound of them opening, you struggle to raise your head. At distance, he can tell that you’re ridiculously unwell even through the thinly-veiled anger you’re directing at him.

“No, you can’t be in here. Get out.” Another timely lurch renders your warning ineffective.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not so much of a monster as to leave you and watch you struggle. That’s tasteless and highly unnecessary. Even his kills were swift, leaving the least amount of suffering and regret. Though, he cannot say the same for Genji, not with the way his brother had humiliated him and made him suff—Hanzo shoves that thought of his mind. He cautiously makes his way toward you, carefully eyeing the items in your vicinity for anything you could throw at him (though he doubts you’d hit him even if you were completely well).

“I will call Dr. Zielg—”

“No!” Then quietly, “No, she’s sleeping. This is…normal.”

You would have to forgive him if he didn’t believe you. You look nothing short of unhealthy and it’s likely no one else notices with the way you conveniently hide your face behind the overhand of the service window. Whoever designed it clearly did not want the chefs to be seen or wanted to discourage interactions between the two worlds that it separates.

Here, there is no such barrier and your suffering is laid bare for him to see.

A prickle of panic rises in the back of his neck. The fact that you have abandoned your duty of protecting this place only shows how severe the situation is. A hand closes in on your shoulder and pushes you more upright and he does it with more ease than he would have expected.

“Chef. Focus. What do you need?” he asks gravely.

Listlessly, you wave at some vague direction. Hanzo’s not even sure if you know what you’re gesturing at, not with your eyes closed and brows knitted together in a tight and pained expression.

“I need to…get my medicine.”

“Where?”

For a moment, you don’t answer and Hanzo thinks you may have passed out,but you raise your head, eyes narrowed and face scrunched up, and trying to wave him away. If he didn’t know you were in pain, he would think you were incredibly annoyed. Perhaps you were. Perhaps this is not a state many have seen you in.

Two deep breaths later, you push yourself up and start batting away at his helping hand. You don’t seem keen on relying on his help and he’s not one to impose it on someone who does not want it (not that the opportunity has come up often).

As you pass, however, the sounds of a rumbling catches his attention. It takes him a moment to realize it was your stomach.

You don’t even seem to have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

“Don’t follow me,” you warn darkly, boding no compromise.

He’s tempted to do so just to spite you—it’s not as though you could even attempt to resist in your condition—but stays where he is to watch you press a hand against the Cellar door (of all things), which beeps after a moment and slides open far swifter than should be possible for a door of such thickness and size.

The door reveals a hallway or a tunnel, dotted by flickering lights that slowly turn on in your presence as if welcoming you. There could be doors on the side, but it’s difficult to tell. Some posters, aging and peeling, are plastered inside. The floor is covered in a different tile than that of the kitchen, and every so often, the scruffy tile is replaced by a strip of something grainy. It’s notably dirtier than the floor in the kitchen, well-used and a little ill-maintained.

And you stand there, gathering your breath, haloed by the doorway as its only defender and current refugee.

It would not be hard to attack you from behind, knock you out, and find out the truth of what lies beyond. But the thought of doing it this way—too easy, too cowardly—makes his lip curl and something vile curl up inside. Assassin as he may have been, this is not a mission of that sort, and you are not a target.

The door closes the instant you pass the threshold, bringing an end to his brief moment of contemplation, firmly keeping him out and leaving him alone in the desolate kitchen.

He never guessed he’d be allowed to stand here without the threat of you chasing him out. This would normally be a very ideal situation, but he’s already passed up the easy chance to go into the Cellar, it hardly seems worth the effort.

Now that he’s not being attacked or waiting for an ambush, he can study the place more leisurely. It’s not much different than the last time he was here. He runs a hand over one silvery counter and comes up with nothing. Everything is still meticulously clean, but evidences of having been used—scratches, stains, the general feeling of worn-ness, if that makes any sense—is visible on every centimeter of this place.

The walk-in freezers are lined with more items than before and previously empty containers are now fulfilling their purposes. Darkly, he wonders what happens if these were to go empty. Maybe it’s happened before and he just never noticed, or you never gave them the chance to notice.

He grabs a glass from a neatly lined shelf and fills it with water from one of several sinks and waits, fiddling with his communicator in his pocket just in case he needs to call Dr. Zielger. If you require medicine, chances are your problem is not something his meager medical knowledge could help with.

There’s also the other possibility of you collapsing on the other side with no way of calling for help. In which case, you’d likely die without anyone having known. Unless…?

“Athena.”

He almost jumps when he feels rather than hears the AI’s voice coming from the communicator he has in his hand. “Yes, Agent Hanzo?”

“Are you in contact with the chef at the moment?”

She pauses for a bit before answering. “Affirmative. The chef currently has a communicator and as such, I am able to establish contact if required.”

Hanzo stares at the Cellar door; now you’ve become a part of its secrets. If you truly perish behind that door, the secret of its bowels will likely go down with you provided that no other chef returns here. Even worse, no one except for himself would know what happened. Would you even have the strength to call out for help? Would you have the presence of mind to call Athena? Would he be able to open that door himself without preparations?

With those thoughts plaguing his mind, he grips the glass tightly in his hand and the communicator in the other, eyes intently on the door, waiting for it to open.

A minute becomes two, then five, then ten.

The panic at his neck, previously muted, becomes an insistent pressure that churns his nerves. He’s waited long enough. “Athena. Establish contact wi—”

The door slides open in that instant and you walk out, a little steadier, but no better beyond that. You tilt your head as though confused.

“Ah, you’re still here?”

He does not grace you with an answer, a little indignant, and instead hands you the glass he’s been holding. It’s lukewarm now, but it’s better than nothing. You blink at his gesture, a little unsure, and staring at his offering like you’ve never seen it before, but he has no time for this and thrusts the glass in your direction again. “Drink.”

Your hands tremble as you take the glass from him, and Hanzo is all too aware of your touch—a little too warm, your grip a little too weak—and the feeling of it lingers even as you move away. His own fingers tingle and he flexes them to get rid of it.

“Thank you.”

You drain the cup, refill it—nearly tipping onto him as you try to do so, and he has hold you by your upper arm to keep you from falling over—and finish it off again.

“You took your medicine then?”

You nod.

“Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head and tug your arm away with a lot less force than he knows you can exert. He lets you go, but keeps a watchful eye as you make your way back to the Cellar door and press your back against it, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, the glass gripped loosely in your trembling hands.

The quiet is disconcerting, made even more so by this situation.

Here he is, a grown assassin, babysitting a cook. This situation feels far too close to memories he wants gone and buried lest they imposed themselves here, dredging up the same emotions that led up to his willing participation in a tragedy.

Without prompting, you begin to speak. “I should be the one asking you if you need anything. I'm sorry you have to see me like this, but please, don't tell anyone.”

Though your remorse different sharply from those distant memories. He crosses his arms, looking down at you sternly, but not unconcerned. “If you are unwell, why are you working?”

“I'm not sick or anything. It's not contagious.”

“Then what is it?”

You fidget with the glass in your hands, and more than once, Hanzo thought it would slip from your hands. You keep your eyes down, shoulders hunched in, guilty and ashamed. It seems that the sympathy that he had long thought evaporated in his youth still exists somewhere and he bends down until he’s squatting on the floor.

“I have…stomach ulcers and…acid reflux,” you murmur. Regardless of how quiet you try to be, your words echo clearly in this space. Hanzo’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He wasn’t aware—not that he had any reason to be. “I can’t—I mean, I can, but…eating is difficult and sometimes I just…forget.”

You fall silent and don’t offer any explanation as to how this came to be. There’s no reason to pry, especially if you’re not feeling particularly forthcoming with it. And somehow, he gets the sense that this was meant to be kept under wraps. Another secret of yours that you have seemed him worthy enough to share with.

Somehow, it feels like a very precious responsibility. Far too precious for him to be holding.

He wonders just how many other people know. Dr. Zielger and maybe Winston.

“You do not seem to be in the habit of forgetting things.”

You laugh, but it rings hollow.

“Madame Zielger said it would be handled if I were diligent about it, but…I’ve just been...busy.”

He supposes he understands and has no premise to lecture you on—he himself has been subjected to something similar about his liver and other issues that he had pointedly ignored throughout the years. While there are a good number of underground doctors in Japan and even more outside of it, he hadn’t taken the time to undergo a general physical, only visiting them for immediate emergencies and nothing more. Though, most of the time, his avoidance is on purpose and may or may not be stemming from his desire to feel something other than the zombie-like fog he's been encased in during the past ten years. But what distracts you so? Surely it can't be your duty that keeps you from your health. Is cooking for a base of under twenty people really so strenuous that you can neglect your health?

...or are you also running from something? Punishing yourself for something?

The thought makes his mouth go dry.

No. Not everyone is like him. You, least of all.

Derailing himself from the intrusive line of thought, he grasps upon something else. “Why do you call her Madame…?”

You look up, a little surprised and then you raise the glass to your lips, a poor attempt to smother the smile that takes over your face. It’s a softer look, a better one, one that knocks something loose inside his chest and makes breathing simultaneously easier and harder. “It was something the Head Chef used to do. I guess I just picked it up. That and maybe a few other habits.”

“Such as?”

Slyly, you grin. “That's a secret.”

“Hmph. Aren’t you full of them,” he says dryly, but with none of the barb.

It just sounds like another challenge to him.

That night felt like the beginning of something less distant, like some wall between the both of you have thinned. (Even more so now that he had your contact information to remind you to take your medicine—Hanzo really does not want to find out what happens when a chef is unavailable.) It's difficult to not want to throw this encounter into McCree’s face as well—he had seen the inside of the Cellar whereas the rest of Overwatch could not so much as get near it. It's an accomplishment that keeps his mood up.

That is, until you decided to be a meddling nuisance.

Hanzo can’t help the grimace that takes over his face at the memory that landed him up here in the first place.

He had been called down from his room for dinner—a little unusual as it was well before the time where the word ‘dinner’ no longer applied to whatever meal he was eating, however, he dismissed it even though something in the back of his mind tingled with suspicion. But it’s you, he had reasoned. What harm could you do? Give him more bell peppers?

He huffs a laugh to himself. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to waste food unnecessarily and feed any of them something you know would be ill-received.

However, the reason he was called down would have been far worse, far crueler than he would have imagined.

The sight that greets him is not unlike a party; everyone on base is there, drink bottles decorate the table and there’s a carefree chatter that fills up the incredibly large space with more ease than expected.

But what surprises him most is the fact that you’re standing there out in the open, waiting, and he has to take a moment to process it. You wear an expectant smile on your face, a bowl and ladle (too short to hit him if he kept his distance properly) in your hands.

“Bout time you got here,” grouses Torbjörn.

“Have a seat, Agent Hanzo. Everyone’s been waiting for you.” You gesture at the table, but he instead keeps his eyes on you, stricken a little by the contrasting imposition of a memory and the reality before him.

You look a lot less angry than he remembers. It's difficult to see you when you're working in the kitchen even if he is leaning into the window. It's different. You stand a little straighter, perhaps to be more presentable, and your posture is awkwardly formal like a newly hired maitre d’.

A snarky comment comes to the surface, but he holds his tongue. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you out here and it would probably not end at just one single pepper this time if he were to say anything about it, so he just nods his thanks.

He takes a step forward to do so, but he stops short, the reality of the situation slamming into him with knee-buckling speed as soon as he sees the table in its entirety.

There’s only one seat available at the table and it’s right at the edge of one of the long, long tables, right beside Genji.

Hanzo’s jaw tenses to the point of pain, his breathing slows and gains a weight that steadily crushes his insides.

He can feel everyone’s expectant gazes on him.

“Come on, come on, we’ve been waiting!” shouts Junkrat. He’s shushed by those surrounding him, but Torbjörn is already drinking something and mumbles, “Come on, prince. Ya going to let your problems keep us from eating? Peh.”

“We’re having jjigae! Come on!”

“Join us!”

“Reinhardt, don’t move so much, you’ll hurt your back again.”

His stomach twists violently, and for the second time ever, the acute sense of betrayal stabs at him—of everyone here whom he had expected to stay out of his personal business, of everyone here whom he trusted.

His thoughts trail off and he doesn't even know why he ever assumed any of that at all.

Anger, still slow, but soon to be broiling in his gut, makes him discard the possibility that it may not have been a scheme of your own volition or because some other meddling fool asked for it. It does not matter; this is for him to solve and his private life is not a circus to be put on display for everyone else to gawk at and attempt to fix. He is an adult. He is a Shimada. And while he will regret a chance to eat, he bites out, “I am not hungry.”

The mixed chorus of his name only fuels his desire to make himself scarce that much quicker.

“Wait, Agent Hanz—!”

“Leave me!”

He swings behind him half-heartedly, not really thinking, but he feels something against the back of his hand and then his stomach falls into the ground when he hears it: a sharp crash and the splash of liquids.

The tension in the room is as oppressive as the silence, but he does not bother turning around, doesn’t look anyone in the face, doesn’t look you in the face.

“Hanzo. Brother, yo—”

“You have no right to call me that!” And then, 「What ‘brother’?! What ‘Hanzo’?! Neither of those things do not belong in your mouth.」

「You—!」

He powers straight out of the kitchen, doesn't even listen to the clamoring behind him, and into his room where he fishes out the alcohol Mei had so graciously bought him from her trip. He hid himself away on the rooftops of the Watchpoint where he was sure no one would look or dare reach before he drinks himself into a stupor. The result of it is himself, here, waking up to the splash of rain trying to choke him, with nothing but the darkened heavens blanketing the skies, and the pull of a hangover, reminiscing on the past few days.

He clenches his teeth and exhales.

Foolish.

All because of your needless meddling, because of this stupid group’s interference, all his plans have gone up in flames.

He had lowered his guard, had tricked himself into believing something that was not reality.

There was no one to blame but himself. It was his fault he did not handle business faster, that he was such a coward, that he had let a false sense of sentimentality get the better of him.

In the end, he really didn't come to terms with anything.

He didn’t gain anything from coming here—to Overwatch.

He just ran away from it all.

‘Coward.’

Being called “brother” by someone he didn’t truly acknowledge as his brother was unsettling and painful. Being called plain “Hanzo” by someone who could have been (may actually be) his brother is even worse.

But who could he blame?

It was himself who decided to use his first name as an alias—he hadn't thought he cared, didn’t think it would matter here, so far away from Japan and away from traditions and—

—he thought he could have a new start here.

That he could begin moving toward a future again.

But he didn’t account for just how horrifying it would be, how terrifying it is to face your past or own up to it. Why is it so hard?

—“ Hanzo! Brother!”

“You have no right to call me that! ”—

Genji always knew how to ruin things with too many careless words—the clan, his position, his own relationships. But maybe in that same vein, Hanzo may have also ruined things with too few words.

Despite the cold, his body and eyes burned.

Is the coward’s way the way of Shimada, Hanzo?

A shaky sigh escapes him.

He’s so very tired.

He should return inside.

Carelessly, he raises an arm and flops it over across his torso to use as leverage to turn himself over. He gets about partway, leaning heavily on his other elbow with his vision swimming, before he notices a movement.

Hanzo watches with a moment’s of drunken indifference as the bottle that Mei had brought him, partially empty, begins to roll away.

He stares and stares until it gets about halfway away before he's stricken by a panic and lunges for the bottle. His entire body slips against the rain-slicked roof. His arm and shoulder sweeps off the sloped edge. the bottle rolling right off away from him and falling into the dark depths below. He could only hang precariously on the edge in muted horror—both at his actions (for a mere bottle , for heaven’s sake) and the loss of the remainder of his drink. The fear colder than the rain seeps into his bones and the ground simultaneously rushes and runs from his vision.

He thinks he hears the crash, but then he’s absolutely certain he hears shouting after. Hanzo lets his arm and head fall, teeth clenched tight as his stomach contents writhe for freedom.

If this world had any mercy, it would not be you who witnesses him breaking yet another thing. But at this point, he’s not even sure he deserves it.

“Agent Hanzo?!”

He withdraws his arm from the edge of the roof and struggles to slide himself deeper toward the center.

He’s not a coward.

He’s just has a sense of self-preservation.

A metal bowl rolls some short distance from the table it fell from until it knocks into the foot of a fallen omnic, still sparking at the neck and chest. The bowl clatters, almost an impromptu drumroll that heralds the shadow which drops over the fallen man, who curses just as rapidly as he blinks, trying to get his vision free of shimmering spots.

"Overwatch Operational Department, field logistics division ex-agent, Tanuja Singh Deshmukh?"

The chef’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, teeth bared.

“My name is Asim .”

Chapter 12>>

[smashbuddies]

Part Four: Achievement Unlocked

It had been a standard day off when Daniel got the message. Really, it was the last thing he expected to see. He read it over at least three times, trying to decipher any ulterior motives behind it.

Snail: Wanna come over to my place today?

He pursed his lips.

Why’re you asking?

It took only three seconds after he set his phone down for it to buzz again.

Snail: Because I think it’ll be hot for us to bang at my place. ;)

Honestly, he couldn’t tell if they were being serious or not. But he still sent back a message saying he’d be there in a few minutes. Really, what else did he have to do?

After a quick drive he arrived there, surprised to see Snail already waiting for him in the parking lot. They had their hands stuffed into their pockets and their shoulders were hunched. But as soon as they saw him get out of the car they perked up, and sauntered over with typical Snail confidence.

“Ready to see my sexy bachelor’s pad?” they asked waggling their eyebrows at him.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered dryly. Considering who he was dealing with, he wasn’t expecting much. “Lead the way.”

They gladly did so, taking him up several flights of stairs. Once they reached the door, they paused. Daniel could’ve sworn he heard them take a deep breath.

“It’s not as fancy as your place,” Snail said out of the blue.

He looked around. There was dirt and grime all around the little porch area, and the assorted noises of several other apartments filled the air. In the back of his mind he wondered about the structural stability of the entire building.

“Obviously,” he replied, deciding to keep his thoughts to himself.

Snail watched him for a long moment, then finally opened the door and went inside.

Daniel waited for a long moment, keeping his gaze straight downward. Was it bad to say the he was scared of what awaited inside? If it was, he didn’t care.

“Hurry up!”

Well, now or never. He stepped inside and carefully looked around.

It was infinitely worse than he expected. The entire place was absolutely filthy. Garbage randomly littered the floor- the small trashcan in the corner was practically overflowing too. And a mountain of dishes sat in the sink, half moldy with flies hovering about. Just looking at all the mess and clutter made him almost have a heart attack.

Snail sat down on the most worn down, uncomfortable looking couch he’d ever seen and looked at him expectantly. “Make yourself at home.”

No thanks.

Carefully, he padded over and took a seat next to them, making sure to not touch anything more than absolutely necessary.

“So, what do you think?” Snail asked, putting their arm on the back of the couch behind him.

“It’s something,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did you invite me over again?”

Their face softened just a bit. “Well, you have me over all the time. I just thought, I’d, you know… Return the favor.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said, looking around once more. His skin began to crawl. “Really.”

Snail waved him off, then turned on the TV. It was some basic cable show- Daniel had no interest in it. Instead he focused his attention on literally everything else.

The paint from the walls was peeling in some places. Every so often a bug would skitter across- too fast for him to really catch. Well, maybe this was a bad idea.

He shifted in his seat. “Where’s the bathroom?”

They pointed without looking to an open door just across the room. “Through there, on the left.” Then with a grin, they added, “Just don’t go jerking off when I’m right here.”

“You’re never going to let me live it down, are you?” he grumbled, getting to his feet and brushing off his pants.

“Nope.”

“Great.”

Through the door Snail pointed at was a room with a worn, stained mattress on the floor, and clothes strewn about all over the place. Was this really how they lived? Or was he having some sort of nightmare?

A pinch test proved he was wide awake. Sighing, he continued on, finding the bathroom with ease. And, would you look at that, it was just as filthy as the rest of the place. Thankfully the mirror was clean enough for him to stare at his reflection and contemplate all his life decisions that brought him to where he was.

Sure, he had his own days living in a shitty apartment. But was it ever this bad? Not that he could remember. So right then he made the choice to confront Snail about it. Clearly, they needed someone to intervene.

As soon as he got back to the living room and opened his mouth to tell them off, their phone rang.

“Oh, it’s feeding time,” Snail said, getting up and hurrying over to the fridge. They pulled out a pack of rather expensive looking cheese. The kind Daniel himself would buy.

“You have a pet?” he asked, looking around for any signs of animal life.

“He’s more like a roommate.”

Snail went over to the corner and crouched down. They placed a single slice of cheese in front of a hole in the wall. To his abject horror, a small rodent peeked out it’s whiskered snout, sniffing for just a moment before pouncing on the cheese and devouring it.

“You keep a rat in here!?”

Snail glared at him. “Excuse me, he’s a mouse, and his name is Captain Thunderblade.”

“This is the most ridiculous bullshit I’ve ever heard,” Daniel snapped, putting his hands on his hips. “It’s vermin, and it doesn’t belong here! This is where you live, for fuck’s sake! Take more pride in it!”

“What’s your deal?” Snail asked, voice low. Were they worried about upsetting the rat? “I don’t see anything wrong here.”

He wasn’t going to get through to them. As much as it pissed him off, he’d have to let it go. For now.

Things were tense as they both sat back down on the couch. Snail had a scowl on their face as they flipped through channels, and Daniel was sure the he looked rather pissed himself. But while Snail found joy in some idiotic show they found, lightening up enough to laugh, he did not.

“What’re we doing for dinner?” he asked, side-eyeing them. “Eating cheese with your roommate?”

“No,” they answered defensively. “Let me go see what I have.”

After just a minute that he spent tapping his foot, they came back, looking defeated.

“...Take-out?” they asked, shooting him a hopeful smile.

Daniel heard a golden opportunity in that question. He got up and began to make his way out the door. “Text me what you want. I’ll be right back with it.”

A hesitant “okay” followed him, before being cut off by the door slamming shut.

Okay, so maybe he took a little too long if Snail’s onslaught of messages were any indication. But it was all necessary. He ignored every last message in favor of shooting them a quick demand.

Come down here and help me out.

They were there in an instant, one eyebrow raised at the many shopping bags splayed out in his back seat. “Um?”

“You’re taking those inside,” Daniel explained, then delicately held up a greasy paper bag between two fingers. “This is your dinner.”

With a shrug they grabbed the bags, easily able to carry all of them. But instead of admitting that he was impressed, Daniel took the lead and went on inside. After Snail dropped all his bags on the floor- great- he shoved their junk food into their hands.

“Here, go eat.”

They frowned at him. “What’s with all the bags?”

“You’ll see,” Daniel said, grabbing one bag in particular and taking off for the bathroom.

Safe and away from Snail’s prying eyes, he pulled a plain white t-shirt out of the back, sneering at it. This was for his own sanity. So he changed into it- along with the pair of sweatpants he got- and neatly folded up his beloved suit. And once his hair was tied back and out of his face, he was ready to take on the world.

Well, just Snail’s apartment. He’d be damned if the world was going to see him like this.

A knock on the door startled him.

“Why the hell are all of those bags filled with soap and shit?”

Daniel opened the door and gave them a hard look. “Because I’m fixing up this dumpster that you call an apartment.”

They only looked him up and down with wide eyes. “What’s with-”

“Don’t look at me!” Daniel snapped, brushing past them so they wouldn’t catch his red face. “I’m not scrubbing this place down in my suit, you moron. Just watch TV or something while I get to work.”

“...You can’t be serious.” They sounded uncomfortable. “I don’t need you to do all that. I invited you over to hang out, not to be my maid.”

He snorted and snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then grabbed several trash bags and began to pick up all the garbage littering the floor. “I’m doing this for my own sanity. I’m not a charity worker.”

“Okay, well,” they said hastily, reaching down to grab a stray can, “at least let me help.”

Swatting away their hand with a hiss, he said, “Go eat. Because I swear to god, if you let that food that I spent my money on go cold, I will shove it down your fucking throat.”

“Holy shit, fine…”

To his delight, they began to eat the greasy burger he’d gotten them, leaving him to finally work in peace. At least, that’s what he thought, until just a couple minutes later when he heard them, voice muffled by the food still in their mouth.

“Can I help now?”

“No.” He glared hard at them, just to really drive the message home. “You won’t do it right.”

“Won’t do it right?” they repeated, disbelieving. “This is my apartment!”

“And just look at it!” Daniel argued and waved an arm to the entire place. “It’s a goddamn disaster!”

Snail opened their mouth. Then after a quick scan around, they closed it right back up.

Daniel crossed his arms and reveled in his victory. “Exactly. Now go sit down and enjoy your stupid TV shows. I’ll join you when I’m done.”

They begrudgingly did so. And maybe he caught some grumbled curses, but he didn’t pay them any mind. Nothing else as going to distract him from the task at hand.

Once all the trash was picked up and he gave himself a well-deserved pat on the back, he went to the dishes. Dear god, it was worse up close. But he wasn’t deterred. Every last dish was going to be scrubbed down until they shone and glimmered like he did.

“So,” Snail started out of the blue, sauntering over and breaking his train of thought, “how’s that camboy thing been going?”

Ugh.

“Great,” he answered as he ran hot water over the mountain before him, voice dripping with sarcasm. “All my viewers like seeing me get worked up. I’m bringing in more and more everyday.”

“Cool, cool.” They sounded too casual, especially with the way they checked their nails. “So when am I gonna get to see one of your shows? I mean, I’ve already fucked you, I should be able to get in on that for free. Or at least super cheap, you know?”

“If I ever have anything to say about it,” he muttered, taking his aggression out on the mold stuck to the first plate he saw, “then you’ll never see any show with me in it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Snail huffed out. It was funny how much they looked like a bratty kid with their arms crossed and that pout on their face. “I better get a private show sometime, then.”

“Not happening. Now go away, I’m trying to concentrate.”

The rest of the evening was quiet. Daniel slaved away over the dishes, getting every last one of them sparkling like they were brand new. But by the time he was all done, his arms were sore, and he could feel a very prominent hole growing in his stomach.

Fuck.

“Hey, uh,” Snail called out, shooting him a worried look from the couch. “Don’t push yourself. I mean, you can always come back and finish this up.”

“As if I’m going to leave now,” he said, tossing his grime-covered gloves in the trash and grabbing a fresh pair. “Your counters need wiped down, the carpet needs to be scrubbed, and don’t even get me started on your bathroom situation. There’s so much more to do!”

“Look, buddy, you made my place a little more livable,” they said, waving him off. “It’s fine for now. Just go home before you pass out on my floor.”

“...Fine,” he conceded. “But I will get this done eventually.”

The text he got right after work the next day made him think that no, he really wasn’t ever going to get that done. Because he was going to cut off all ties with Snail. Maybe move away. Start a new life somewhere. Or just crawl into a ditch and die, that could work.

Snail: YOU’RE ON TV

There were two ways he could go about this. Ignore them completely, or outright lie.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

In no time at all he got a picture. Sure enough, that was his face on his TV, with Snail pointing accusingly at it. Son of a bitch.

Snail: THAT’S YOU, MR. NADIVA

Alright, time for a diversion tactic.

Why are you in my house?

Snail: DON’T YOU FUCKING AVOID IT

He couldn’t deal with this bullshit. After getting into his car- with a very cathartic slamming of the door- he sent a simple message back.

We’ll talk when I get home.

Now the question was, would he ever get home? Or would he take the chance to just drive off into the sunset? Or off a cliff?

As much as he wanted to just fade from existence, this was something he couldn’t avoid. So like a prisoner walking death row, he slowly made his way back home. As soon as he saw Snail’s car he took a deep breath and braced himself.

They pounced right as he stepped foot inside. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on TV?”

“Because it’s none of your goddamn business,” he hissed, brushing past them. “And it’s not a big deal anyway.”

“Not a big deal?” they asked, voice raised with disbelief. “Personally, I’d like to know when I’m fucking a goddamn celebrity. Kinda something you should say on the first night, actually.”

“Oh, right.” Daniel turned back and used his height to his advantage by glaring down at them. “I tell you that I have my own show,” he maintained, gesturing wildly to make his point, “and you use it to your advantage by telling everyone that you banged a TV star. And then my reputation gets ruined and everything I worked so hard to get goes down the drain. I know how this bullshit works.”

They gave him the most “what the fuck are you even talking about” look. “Seriously? You think I’m that much of a dick?”

“You’re not special!” he snapped, one hand on his hip and the other flying upwards. “It’s everyone! So don’t suddenly make this all about you!”

The look on their face was one of equal parts hurt and outrage. “Wow.”

“Look,” he hastily said, trying to rub away the tension building up behind his eyes, “it’s a normal thing for someone like me to worry about. And this kind of bullshit is the last thing I need. So you can either get the fuck out, or stay and swear on your life that you won’t take advantage of me.”

Snail stayed quiet for a long moment, then huffed. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best lay I’ve had in a long while. I’m not giving that up. So I guess I won’t tell anyone that I totally nailed a TV star. Even though it’s really fucking cool.”

Oh.

“Well, fine,” he said as he crossed his arms, feeling himself deflate. No more heat to run off of. “I guess this is settled, then.”

“I guess so,” Snail agreed, copying him.

Daniel had no idea what to say or do next. Things just felt so awkward, how the hell could he recover from this? Should he just walk away? Find something else to get angry about?

“So, Smash Brothers?” Snail asked, stuffing their hands into their pockets.

“Sure,” he muttered after taking a deep breath.

“Cool, ‘cause I’m thinking if I win this time,” they purred with a light run up his sides with their hands, “then I get that private show I wanted yesterday. Because honestly, I’m hella disappointed you’re not really a camboy.”

Really, how could he expect anything else? He stuck his nose up at them. “Like I said, not gonna happen. So prepare to get your ass beat.”

[solohux]

Hey would ever write a slave au? Maybe Hux has been give as s gift to prince Kylo. 10 points for naked bejewelled Hux

The realm of Arkanis has beendefeated.

Prince Kylo of neighbouringAlderaan had led the attack himself, ensuring that King Brendol’s kingdomsurrendered underneath the might of his army. The battle had been bloody butKylo and his soldiers have emerged victorious, and as he sits proudly upon theirthrones in his palace, King Brendol of Arkanis is being escorted to negotiatethe terms of his surrender.

Kylo’s mother may not be proudof the blood that he’s spilt in his family’s name but he knows his grandfatherwould be. The house of Skywalker, renamed after Queen Leia Organa’s passing,has never been stronger, and Kylo knows his grandfather is to thank forblessing him with his power.

Kylo sits back in his blackornate throne, knees spread, running one of his gloved fingers over his bottomlip, frustrated by being kept waiting. When he’s about to call for his guards,the sleek double doors at the opposite end of the throne room are thrust open,and Brendol Hux is pushed forward by Kylo’s most trusted guard, Captain Phasma.But Kylo ignores them, his gaze focussing on the scantily-clad man who walks afew steps behind Brendol.

“Your Majesty,” Brendolannounces, bowing once they reach the bottom of the three steps that lead up toKylo’s throne. The Prince smirks, excited by the sight of another king stripped of his power for his owngain. “Arkanis accepts the terms of your victory. We shall join your alliance,the First Order, and answer to you, sire.”

“A wise decision,” Kylo says,knowing that the realm of Arkanis has the potential for an excellent militarybase for Alderaan’s armies. “You will sign the accord that leaves you in chargeof your kingdom but you will become my underlings.”

“Yes, my Prince,” Brendol bowsagain. “And may I present His Highness with a gift as a symbol of the immensegratitude of my people for your mercy upon our land.”

With a rough hand, Brendolgrabs the boy by his arm and drags him forwards, making him cry out and fall tohis knees in front of Kylo’s throne.

“This is my son,” Brendolsays. “My only son. Armitage issought after by many in our kingdom for his titian hair and pliant body, yet heremains pure. He is yours, Your Grace, to satisfy whatever needs you may have.A gift for you and your great strength.”

Kylo hums, considering the boyfor a moment. He stares up at Kylo with pale green eyes, his lips partedslightly as he breathes heavily. The only item of clothing he wears is a pairof light blue, transparent harem pants though tiny silver diamonds decorate hispale skin like scales, cascading down his left shoulder like the softest spaulderand dispersing along the lines of his prominent ribs. Silver cuffs are fastenedtightly around his wrists, no doubt chafing his fine skin and Kylo wants themremoved as soon as possible; no one shall damage his new prize. But it’s hisflaming red hair that the Prince finds the most alluring, bright and messy, andKylo can’t help but wonder whether the hair around Armitage’s cock is the sameshade.

The Prince stands, allowinghis black feathered cape to fall freely behind him, swooshing as he descendsthe steps to inspect the boy closer. Armitage’s gaze remains defiant, even whenKylo takes his chin in his grip.

“I accept your gift,” Kylodeclares in a quiet tone, devouring the boy with his eyes, amazed that such abeautiful creature could be born from someone as foul as Brendol Hux. “Now.Away with him, Captain. Ensure that CommandantHux signs the accord under his own freewill, then show him to a guest room for the night.”

Kylo can almost hear Brendol’s distress at losing hisregal title, but the Prince couldn’t care less. Soon, he’ll be the only Princein the entire realm.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Phasmaanswers, bowing slightly and strands of her bright blonde hair falling over hersteely gaze. With a shove, she escorts Brendol back down the room to the door.

Armitage looks back over hisshoulder at his father and Kylo follows his gaze, noting how Brendol fails toturn back to get one final look at his child.

“Fear not,” Kylo sighs,running his fingers through Armitage’s hair to coax his attention back to him. “I’mgoing to take care of you, Armitage. I treat my prizes well. I keep thempolished and on-show for all to marvel at my victories. Stand.”

Kylo rises to his feet andArmitage follows, standing almost at the same height at the Prince, though Kylois silently glad of the difference, regardless of how miniscule.

“Tell me, Armitage” Kylo saysand begins to circle Armitage like an eagle would a mouse, only this time, thelittle mouse seems hellbent on staring down its predator. “Are you afraid ofme?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Armitageanswers, eyes looking straight ahead.

“And why is that? I’veconquered your kingdom, send your father away, leaving you here alone. You’re to do whatever I wish.Fight my battles, kiss my boots,” Kylo stands in front of Armitage, sliding hisgloved hand around his slim hips to his ass cheek, grabbing the lusciouslyplump skin between his fingers. His lips brush softly against Armitage’s,breath warm on his skin, and Kylo can’t resist slipping his hand underneath theloose waistband of the boy’s pants, finger parting his cheeks and pressingagainst his tight hole. “Or perhaps, even my bedwarmer. Surely, any mortalwould fear me.”

Armitage moans, mouth fallingopen, gasping as the Prince teases him, but his hungry sounds are soon consumedby Kylo’s mouth in a wistful and sloppy kiss. The Prince’s tongue is soonpressing past Armitage’s lips and roaming around as though wanting toexperience every taste that the boy has to offer.

“Answer me, my pretty thing,”Kylo whispers after breaking the kiss, lapping at his own lips, savouring thetaste of Armitage’s saliva. “Why don’tyou fear me?”

“I-I…I don’t know, my Prince, please,” Hux whines, hands twitching asthough fearing to touch the royal being in front of him.

Kylo chuckles. “I think I cananswer for you, Armitage.” He leans in again, brushing his lips past Armitage’sthis time until his breath is hot on his ear. “You covet me, don’t you? That expression in your eyes. It isn’t hatred,it isn’t fear. It’s lust.”

Armitage doesn’t reply,remaining tall against the Prince’s intimidations.

“Tell me, I’m wrong, myglorious prize,” Kylo says, slipping his hand around the front of Armitage’spants to his half-hard cock. “Go on. Tell me to stop touching you and I will.”

The confidence oozes out ofKylo’s tone as his fingers latch on to the shaft of Armitage’s cock, and theboy melts underneath his touch,throwing his arms around the Prince’s shoulders, clinging on as though lettinggo would mean something terrible.

“No,” Armitage whines. “Don’t stop. My Prince. I’ll do as you wish, just don’t stop.”

“Sssh, now, Armitage. Don’t behasty,” Kylo says, pulling his hand out of his gift’s pants. He takes a stepback, seeing a beautiful blush on Armitage’s cheeks, a shade of red that wouldmake his hair jealous. Again, Kylo can’t help but take in the sight of his newslave, eager to truly make him his. The Prince stretches his hand out, willingthe boy to take it. “Come along. I wish to show you to our room. Make you comfortable.”

Armitage looks to Kylo’s handand then up to the Prince’s dark gaze before taking his hand, and Kylo holds itgently, elevating it in the air as though his slave is made of somethingdelicate.

But as Kylo gives one lastlook to Armitage’s body, he’s ready to challenge his soft appearance, believing that there’s more to his new slave thanmeets the eye. He’s had dealings with the Hux bloodline before, and Brendol has always shriveled underneath the Prince’s stare. But Armitage? Even when presented as a gift to the mighty Prince Kylo, the boy stood strong and defiant, against his own needs and lusts, burying them deep until Kylo was touching him in a way that only lovers do.

No one has dared deny their fear of the Prince before. His gruesome and unforgiving regin is known across the plains and over the seas, striking fear into the hearts of people he hasn’t even met.

But by the stars of Vader himself, Kylo knows that he is already completely entraptured by Armitage, captivated by his beauty, enthralled by his mind.