#never failing to make me doubt that day is actually vision impaired

[panncakes]

Phi. Hmm? Why can't I see you?

LAST TWILIGHT (2023)

[levirens]

[fanfic] of flavoured names and coloured sounds (chapter 2 of 2)

Summary: "He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him."

In which Draco just wants to know what colour Hermione's moans would be. He also wants to know if her skin would taste as sweet as her surname or maybe as intoxicating as her given name.

LINKS

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567740/chapters/56541799  FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13547597/1/of-flavoured-names-and-coloured-sounds

CHAPTER 2

Potter’s following him around. He had thought that maybe breaking the bloke’s nose and leaving him hidden under his own invisibility cloak would get rid of the nosy scarhead, but that had been a mistake on his part. Now he feels the other wizard’s eyes constantly on him, and if he had the same energy as last year, he would have teased Potter for having a crush on him. Unfortunately, the world looks substantially bleaker now, with his condition significantly impaired, and so he doubts that he would still find pleasure in his old shenanigans.

He concedes that nothing would look cheery when one has a skull branded onto their skin, directly connected to a megalomaniac hellbent on killing one of your classmates. Even the sweetness of the word cheery tastes like ash in his mouth these days, and he can no longer tell if what he’s tasting on his tongue from thinking of the word megalomaniac is the flavour of a kiwi or that of a pear.

Pansy seems to have recovered from their messy break up, shifting from pointedly ignoring him to constantly hovering around him and acting like a worried girlfriend. It especially annoys him as her voice produces some of the most monotonous hues he’s ever seen coming from one person, her only contender for the crown being his godfather and the former Durmstrang headmaster turned fugitive.

The great hall, previously a place where he would often get lost drowning in the seas of flashing colours, now looks like it is littered with gossamers of barely-there pigments. From where he’s sitting, he can see Granger and her two wanker friends whispering to each other. She’s arguing with them (real shocker that is) and he can see a look of irritation on her face being directed at Potter. He almost smiles at this, but then her eyes suddenly flit to meet his and, stupidly enough, he feels himself freeze at the contact.

She must realise that he’s been watching them, because she raises one eyebrow at him and doesn’t stop staring until the plates are magically being cleared from the table, even when he finally breaks from the intensity of her gaze and looks away first.

He knows this because every time he looks to check if she’s no longer staring at him, their eyes would meet before his would snap away to look back down at his mutilated food. It’s odd, not to mention stressful, because what he needs right now is for people like Potter and Pansy and Hermione Granger to leave him alone.

He has a mission that’s doomed to fail, after all, and he would rather stumble through that without those three constantly monitoring him.

   Legilimens tastes like strawberry profiteroles and Occlumens tastes like Arabic coffee—they’re flavour he finds odd to associate with his godfather as he can’t imagine the man enjoying pastries and drinking anything other than unsweetened tea.

“I see your Aunt has taught you Occlumency,” Snape finally says, having spent the last three minutes trying to break into Draco’s mind. “Whatever it is you’re trying to achieve, Draco, trust that I am capable of helping—,” he begins to offer, but Draco cuts him off.

“I don’t need your help,” he grits out. “I was chosen for this. He trusts me to do this.” It’s a lie that he keeps telling himself, but Occlumency doesn’t work on one’s own mind and he can only pretend to believe the sham for so long—he knows that this task had been placed upon his shoulders as punishment for each and every one of his father’s failures, hand delivered by the Dark Lord himself, complete with the Dark Mark and a lovely death threat.

Suddenly, the older wizard begins throwing silencing charms all over the classroom, his tunnel-like eyes never once leaving Draco. “Do you even have the slightest idea how to cast any of the Unforgivables?”

Draco inwardly cringes. He had witnessed the Dark Lord performing all those spells, watched as subdued shades of navy blue intermingled with the green and red lights of the curses. Avada Kedavra had tasted like burnt meringue, the flavour not unlike that of Harry Potter’s combined name. Hearing the Dark Lord torture someone with repeated incantations of Crucio had assaulted his tongue with the taste of melting ice, more of a sensation that an actual flavour. Imperio, as he had come to learn, tastes like the air after a period of rain.

His mind had reeled at how innocent these curses had tasted on his tongue, when he could not even attempt to cast the Patronus charm, the purest of the spells in his opinion, as the incantation brought about a disagreeable fishy flavour. Expelliarmus he could manage quite easily, disarming people all the while savouring the taste of lemon sherbet on his taste buds.

“Can you conjure the Dark Mark, Draco?” Snape continues, either oblivious or uncaring that Draco had gone and retreated into his own mind. “Do you even know the incantation?”  

“Morsmordre,” he easily answers, but his voice is barely above a whisper. He prays he never has to cast that spell as he does not particularly like the taste of rust on his tongue. When Snape does not respond to that, Draco turns away and begins to head out of the room, shoving the door open and fleeing from his godfather before the man can further prove to him how unfit he is to take on the role of a Death Eater.

   Petrichor. It’s the name of the taste on his tongue as he leaves the Three Broomsticks, fake galleons tightly clutched in one hand and the feeling of guilt clawing at his heart.

(Upon inspection, he admits to himself and to himself only that the guilt wasn’t so much over what he had done to Rosmerta, but more because of the fact that he had stolen Granger’s ideas and used them for his own twisted needs.)

   “Why are you slacking off on school-work?”

His physical desire to be with her is still surprisingly there, but he had demanded from the Head Boy that he change his patrol partner to no avail. Draco suspects that the Slytherin is aware that the Malfoy family is not in such a good place, as even the mention of his father could not change the mind of the older student.

“Leave it, Granger. It’s none of your business what I do.”

“It’s just curious, is all,” she continues, as if she hadn’t heard a word that he said. “Last year you spent four hours working on one Transfiguration homework, and now you’ve already missed two. Makes one wonder, what had happened over the summer that would warrant such a change—”

The minute his hands wrap around her shoulders, he regrets it, but not enough to stop himself from pushing her against a wall and invading her personal space. There’s an inch or two of space separating their faces, and he can barely stop himself from getting lost in the sea of her freckles. “I said leave it, you filthy Mud—”

“What’s so different about you now that you’d even pay someone to take your place in the Slytherin quidditch team?”

When she speaks, her breath hits him and overwhelms him with the scent of spearmint, presumably from her toothpaste. It washes out the dirty word that he had almost used on her, and before he can stop himself, he’s groaning in response to the stimulus. It startles the both of them, and he can imagine that the blush currently riding high on her cheeks is identical to the one staining his.

He pushes away from her, striding back the direction they came from and cutting the patrol short. He decides then and there that if he has to quit being a prefect to be away from her, he’ll do it.

   The following week he has to listen to her describe her love potion. Amortentia, the word, tastes like overly ripe mangoes, just a good day or two away from rotting. He can’t even muster enough energy to be angry at the fact that he catches a whiff of spearmint, vanilla, coconut, and green apples when he passes by the blasted cauldron.

   His tongue feels cold, but before he can cast the spell, the one that leaves Potter’s mouth replaces the ice with the slight heat of cumin. It’s a spell that he’s not familiar with, but when it hits him, he feels the gashes opening up on his skin as he falls to the bathroom floor.

It’s a queer feeling, being aware of one’s own approaching death. At first it fills him with a sense of dread, panic at the thought that everything ends there, but then as the blood drains out of his clothes to stain the tiles he’s lying helpless on, it takes with it all the regret, the hope, leaving him feeling numb as his life slips from his fingers.

His eyelids close, his ears barely pick up the sound of hurried footsteps, of someone crying beside him, and his tongue tells him that Vulnera tastes like red grapes and Sanentur tastes like sulphur.

   He doesn’t know how she does it, but she sneaks in to the infirmary in the middle of the night and proceeds to spend ten minutes just standing by his bed, arms crossed over her chest, lips set into an angry line, and eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Crying for me now?” he asks, voice rough from disuse. “Save it for someone who matters.”

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers back, sinking onto the chair beside his bed. “He wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“I don’t care what he was trying to do, I was trying to kill him.” The lie comes easily enough, what with the Occlumency walls and the fact that he honestly doesn’t have a clear idea what he had been trying to do.

Hermione doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring, but the tears don’t fall from her eyes and he’s grateful for that. He wants to remind her that he’s the bad guy in her story, the same bloke who had looked at her like she was beneath him simply because her parents weren’t magical. One successful paired homework and a couple of times spent sharing a library table shouldn’t change that, shouldn’t erase what he was and what he is.

He almost wants to show her his Dark Mark just so she’d stop trying to act like he’s still got a soul hiding somewhere inside his body.

“You should sleep,” she finally says, after a long moment of just staring at each other. “Merlin knows you need it.” With that she rises from her seat, walking away from him. He panics at the sight, his mouth opening before his brain can register what he’s about to do.

“Don’t come back here, Granger,” he tells her. When she pauses her stride but doesn’t turn to look back at him, he clarifies, “Don’t come back to Hogwarts.”

   The word tastes like burnt meringue on his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he finds himself talking, telling the old man everything that he’s done during the year, as if he would vomit if he stopped talking. He calls her a mudblood for appearance’s sake and actually laughs when Dumbledore asks him to not use that word in front of him.

Defenceless tastes like biting the rind of a citrus, bitter and unappealing. It’s a word that certainly does not suit the greatest wizard of modern times.

The promise of safety is a jumble of salty and bitter words, one in particular tasting like sardines and another like freshy harvested caviar. He rambles, lowers his wand, then the others rush in to bare witness to his incapability of becoming a murderer.

Albus Dumbledore’s wine-coloured pleas are answered by Snape’s sweet and smoky spell.

   He quickly becomes intimate with the sensation of melting ice on his tongue. It’s when he spends most of the day torturing people that he feels the slightest bit thankful for his impaired condition.

It’s when he watches his deranged aunt torture her that he yearns the most for the colours to come back, to obstruct his vision so it would be filled with explosions of orange and teal and he won’t have to look her in the eye and face her judgment. He would much rather take the cold numbing his tongue than to look at her lying near lifeless on the ground.

   Working as a double agent is beyond exhausting, but he’d sooner get killed than do nothing and allow the Dark Lord to win this war. It’s been three months since he had demanded from his godfather that he take him to the other side, for Severus to make him a spy not unlike the older man. For a moment, they had seized each other up, the both of them waiting for the other to turn out as a cleverly placed decoy to sniff out traitors amongst their ranks.

It’s been three months since he’s been allowed free passage into 12 Grimmauld Place, three months since his godfather had told him everything he needed to know in order to be allowed into the ranks of the Order, three months since he was stunned then questioned by Mad-Eye Moody while under a powerful dose of Veritaserum, unable to use Occlumency to counter the effects of the potion, and three months since Remus Lupin introduced him to the rest of the Order as their new spy.

Draco had tried to explain to Kingsley, Moody, and Lupin that Severus had been acting under Dumbledore’s commands, but the three of them had insisted that even if it were true, it would be too risky for Snape to keep working with them. Still, the clarification on what had truly happened that night at the Astronomy tower proves useful in that they relax just enough to start using the safehouse again.

He doesn’t see Potter even once during those three months, and he doesn’t try to ask them about his whereabouts. The less he knows about the Order’s plans, the better. He does, however, see the ginger weasel on occasion, and he does his best to not hex the bloke on sight.

It’s difficult, but he manages.

The concealment charm is just wearing off as he enters the house, closing the door behind him, when he hears and sees them; the sound of a piano playing invades his ears and colours his vision. The sound doesn’t come together to form music, just random notes here and there as if the person playing them is just testing out the keys. Still, it’s been too long since he’s last heard music and last seen the colours dancing in his vision, as neither he nor his mother have found much reason to touch the grand piano in the manor after he took the Dark Mark.

(It is, after all, quite difficult to indulge in music when Death Eaters are torturing and raping people just down the hall.)

He follows the sound further into the house and finds Hermione Granger sitting in front of the rusty piano. She looks up upon his entrance, her finger hovering over one of the keys, then their eyes meet. Draco mentally prepares a speech declaring himself their ally, but she surprises him by smiling.

“Hello, Draco. I was told I’d see you here,” she says, her voice causing the familiar pinks to flash before him. There’s a pang in his chest when he sees how translucent they are, barely there, and he regrets not enjoying the sights when he had the privilege to. “I must say, I was glad when they told me you defected, but I wasn’t exactly surprised.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, genuinely confused by her declaration. He moves towards her, placing a finger on the piano and swiping at the dust that had accumulated there. He reaches for his wand and performs a quick scourgify, moving to sit beside her. He sits on the very edge of the wooden bench, keeping as large as a distance between them as it would allow. He’s surprised she doesn’t jump up and slap him across the face for daring to sit next to her.

“You did save me that night, and you didn’t kill Dumbledore,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips and a knowing look in her eyes. She gestures to the piano and asks, “Do you know how to play?”

He’s slightly taken aback by the sudden change in topic, but he doesn’t show her his surprise, nodding his head in affirmation. “Do you?”

“No. You should play; I’d love to hear it.”

He should really be asking her where the others are, preferably Lupin as he has information to relay to them, but his hands rise and then his fingers are tentatively pressing down on a few keys. The colours instantly return, and with that he feels a surge of confidence that has him transitioning from hesitant strokes of the keys to the beginning notes of one of his favourite pieces. He plays for a while, closing his eyes and enjoying the dance of the colours behind his lids, and when he opens them again they seek her out as if on instinct.

The look in her eyes as they meet his has him cutting off the music, his fingers lifting from the keys mid stroke. The silence that fills the room as the last vibrations from the piano fizzle out is awkward, to say the least, and he finds himself wracking his mind for something to say.

She beats him to it by declaring, “I didn’t know you listened to muggle classical music. That was Chopin, wasn’t it?”

He nods, still unable to tear his gaze away from her. The words that stumble out of his mouth make it out of their confines purely on accident, only because he’s lost in the colour of her eyes—honey, harvested during the late summer. “His pieces have the prettiest colours.”

Confusion settles on her features and he wishes he could take it back, wishes he could fulfil his promise to his mother that he would never tell anyone about this but then again, he has broken more promises than he can remember, some that had been more detrimental to their well-being than admitting to someone that he sees coloured sounds and tastes flavoured names. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and he can barely stop himself from reaching out to smooth away her frown.

“What do you mean, they have the prettiest colours? Do you have synaesthesia?”

He’s already opening his mouth to explain but then her words register to him and he blurts out, “What? Do I have what?”

“Synaesthesia, from the Greek words sún meaning “with” and aísthēsis meaning “sensation”, is a condition wherein the synesthete, a term for a person who has the condition, is able to process data in the form of several senses all at once,” she explains, and he’s instantly taken back to their classes at Hogwarts, when her hand would shot up and she would then proceed to unload a verbal vomit of information unto all of them. “For example, some people can see colours when they hear music, or they can taste certain words. It’s a very rare condition, and most people who have it go on to become artists or writers.” 

She must mistake his astounded expression as a response to her vast knowledge on the topic because she blushes and looks away. Draco, on the other hand, is experiencing something akin to euphoria. He has never heard anyone describe his little “talent” so accurately, sod it, he has never heard anyone describe it, period. In hindsight, he thinks he shouldn’t be so surprised that Hermione Granger, swottiest of swots, would know that something like this exists. That someone like him exists.

“It’s a muggle thing, then? I’ve never heard of anyone else in the wizarding community talk about something like this, and I’ve tried to research about it but nothing ever came up in my readings,” he tells her, staring at the colours his voice makes.

“I honestly don’t know,” she admits, looking back towards him and appearing somewhat sheepish, as if her not knowing everything is something to be embarrassed about. “What do you see?”

“I taste words and names. Everything has a flavour associated with them. I see bursts of colours when I hear music, and I see fainter, more translucent colours when people speak.”

“Words have colour, too? Right now, you’re seeing colours as we speak?”

“It’s not really the words that are coloured, it’s the notes that people produce when they talk,” he elaborates. Running a hand through his hair, he decides to reveal some more information to her, information that he had thought he would carry to the grave with him. “When you speak, you make pastel colours, mostly pinks and blue. They used to be so harsh and bright when we were younger, used to give me headaches every time you opened your mouth in class.”

“Is that why you hated me so much?”

He feels guilty in an instant, remembering all the things he said to her back then. “That was one thing, it was another thing that I’ve been told my whole life that muggle-borns don’t have a place in our world, but obviously you made me question that by besting me in everything except flying a broom.”

She laughs, a quiet one, but it makes him realise that she’s one of those rare people who have musical laughter. “What does my name taste like?”   

Draco draws in a quick breath, quickly looking away from her searching eyes. He begins to question what he’s doing, sitting beside her, playing music for her, telling her the one thing he has never voluntarily told anyone else, lusting after her, wanting her.

(Falling for her.)

“Hermione tastes like Sauvignon Blanc and Granger tastes like green apples,” he lets out in one breath, overcome by a misplaced need to be honest with her in that moment. Before she can make a comment, before she can do something like reveal to him that she had somehow known his bias for green apples, he rushes to add, “I can’t taste it anymore as well as I used to, and the colours aren’t as vivid as they were before the Dark Mark. It dulled everything.”

He looks away from her, resolutely staring at the piano in front of him and wishing that someone would walk into the safehouse and put an end to this bizarre interaction. Talking to her has been the only good thing that has happened to him in months, maybe in years, but he’s overwhelmed by her and by his need for proximity. It’s ridiculous, wanting someone you had actively tormented for two years, wanting someone you had watched get tortured by your crazed aunt while you stood by and did nothing.

“Does it interfere with your vision, the colours?”

He frowns, turning his head to look back at her. “When there’s too many people talking, it used to throw me off a bit, but not ever since I got the mark.”

She looks pensive, her eyes unfocused before they look up to meet his confused gaze. “After this, what are you going to do about your aim?”

“Pardon?”

“The Dark Mark, it would fade once Voldemort’s dead,” she says, gesturing to his arm. “I can only assume that when that happens, the effects of the mark on your synaesthesia would also disappear or won’t be as potent as it is right now.”

He feels his chest tighten at what she’s building up to, feels something like hope blossoming there. It’s an emotion that he has almost entirely forgotten, and he’s not certain that he should be allowing her to fill him with such a thing when he had only planned to swing by and give information then be back out again in less than thirty minutes—

“What are you going to do when we defeat him, Draco?”

   Severus knows what he’s doing or, at least, knows what potion he’s about to attempt to make. The man takes one good look at the ingredients laid out on the table, one good look at Draco, then wandlessly summons a quill and a piece of parchment. As his godfather writes, Draco begins the preparations for the brewing process, double and triple checking that he has everything he needs.

When he’s finished writing, Severus hands over the piece of parchment and leaves the hidden cottage without uttering a single word. When he peers down at it, he realises the man had just given him something that he would treasure for the rest of his inevitably short life.

There, in his trembling hands, are the potion master’s notes on how to successfully brew the concoction without ending up with a few missing limbs. The word Ashwinder tastes like coriander, squill bulb tastes like a combination of mayonnaise and strawberries, Occamy tastes like dried up carrots, and Murtlap tastes like the back of one’s hand.

   He comes by again, nearly a month after his last visit, and this time Remus is there to receive the information.

Granger sits in the meeting, inviting herself into the table with a tray of tea for the three of them. He’s the only one with a cup that has a coaster and Remus eyes it with a smirk on his tired face. Hermione sits beside him, self-inking quill in one hand, parchment in front of her, and gives him an expectant look that he takes as his cue to start.

It takes him twenty-three minutes to finish relaying every detail he’d been able to cram into his head from the meetings he had attended, every drunken whisper, every careless slip of the tongue, he had shoved into a corner of his brain only to purge it all out right onto her messy notes.

His old DADA professor nods at him, tells him he should stay and finish his tea, then the older man is pushing away from the table and leaving the two of them alone in the old house. He performs a quick warming charm on his tea, taking in the decaying wood of the table while she worked on tidying up her notes. Once she’s done, she looks up at him and he takes the liberty of warming up her tea for her.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching for her cup and bringing it to her lips. “It’s already horrid enough when it’s hot, it’s just plain unacceptable when it’s lukewarm.”

He only nods. He doesn’t tell her it’s the best tea he’s had in nearly a month solely because she’s the person he’s enjoying it with. Not even the most expensive tea in the world would taste good when you have to drink it in the presence of other Death Eaters.

“The last time I saw you, you looked like you hadn’t slept in two weeks. That was two years ago and you still look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at this, gulping down a mouthful of the herbal tea concoction before answering, “The last time I saw you, you were being tortured by my crazed aunt with a spell that makes me feel like I’ve put a cube of ice on my tongue to melt. That was roughly a year ago and you didn’t look quite so good yourself then, Granger.”

“I was actually referring to that night in the infirmary.”

He rolls his eyes at her, plucking the parchment from her fingers and reading over her notes. “I know what you were referring to. It wasn’t the last time you saw me.”

“You’re right, I saw you last month, so I guess we’re both recalling our last meeting all wrong.”

He looks at her, watches her raise her drink to her lips to hide her smile. There’s mirth in her eyes and he’s almost foolish enough to think that she’s flirting with him, but he quickly kills the thought, crushes it underneath his dragonhide shoes and fires a hex at it for good measure.

“It was very nice of you to try and save me again, that night at the infirmary.”   

“When will you stop assuming that everything I do is an attempt to save you—”

He’s used to seeing and hearing her cut off people mid-speech, usually talking over them to correct the way they’re saying an incantation or just to tell them that they’re wrong and she’s right. A couple of times, he had seen her walk away from the weasel during an argument, causing the ginger to splutter at her sudden departure.

He can’t recall a time when he’s seen her kiss someone to shut them up, but that’s what she’s doing to him.

Hermione’s lips are warm, probably from the tea, and they’re soft against his own. His eyes had closed from her sudden movement, bracing himself to get a much-deserved punch, and he doesn’t dare open them now. Her lips start to move against his and he answers in earnest, deciding he’ll enjoy it while it lasts and dissect every moment of this later, in the false safety of his own room at the manor. When he feels the tip of her tongue touch his bottom lip, he immediately grants her access, reckless in his need to finally taste whichever part of her that she’s offering.

She’s a clumsy kisser, using far too much force when she bites his bottom lip, and it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. Her tongue tastes like the tea they’ve just shared, with just the slightest hint of spearmint. When she moans, he answers it with a groan of his own, his hands finally moving to cradle her face. He feels her fingers toying with the topmost button of his shirt, popping the first three open and sliding her hands inside to touch the skin of his collar and the base of his neck.

She breaks away from his lips and trails kisses down his neck, starting at the corner of his mouth and ending at the hollow of his throat.

“Your toothpaste, it’s fennel, isn’t it?”

He tries to clear the fog from his brain but her hot breath repeatedly touching the skin of his neck isn’t helping. Somehow, his own fingers have tangled themselves into the mess she calls her hair, and he spends a quiet moment just admiring how surprisingly soft it is to the touch. When he finally gets his mouth to move, the only word he can manage is, “What?”

She lifts her head, moving to place her lips on his once more, speaking against his mouth and letting her breath fan his face. “Fennel toothpaste, it’s what your breath smelled like back in sixth year.”

   His mother eyes him from across the table, one hand soundlessly stirring her tea, the other idly playing with her wand. They’re all alone in the dining room, his father having ambled away after finishing off three bites of his breakfast and three glasses of brandy.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, placing the teaspoon aside and taking a sip from her tea. He knows that tone, and that tone paired with the look she’s giving him means nothing but trouble for him.

“Death Eater duties,” he offers, his own tone bordering between sarcastic and bored. Truth be told, he has been busy—busy smuggling information to the Order and busy snogging Granger the moment they’re left alone in that house. It never goes further than hurried, messy kisses, and he tells himself he’s fine with that.

   They almost get caught one day, with her sitting on the dinner table and him standing in between her thighs. He doesn’t know how he had somehow missed the sound of the door opening, but then colours float into his vision and he jumps away from her.

She’s hopping off the table, wiping at the residual saliva on her lips, when Weasley walks in along with Tonks. His presence immediately brings back the taste of his name, aggravated by the fact that Granger acknowledges them by saying both their names. Tonks tastes like butter cookies, and it would have paired nicely with the weasel’s milk-tasting name had the milk not been curdled.

It’s a good thing, really, because the taste helps kill the boner he’d been trying to hide.

   It’s the first time he sees Potter after the incident at the Manor, and he barely pays attention to the boy wonder and the fact that he looks almost as pale as Draco himself because he’s reaching for Granger’s quill and a scrap of parchment. The people in the room grow quiet as he writes, and he’s thankful that they’re unknowingly helping him focus by not creating unnecessary colours to cloud his vision.

Merlin knows he needs it, the assault on his tongue already distracting enough without the visual part of his condition contributing to the skirmish. He keeps writing, struggling to maintain a straight face as flavours like soap, tripe, and horseradish clash on his taste buds, fitting together as well as mismatched puzzle pieces would.

When he’s done, he hands the paper over to Potter. His eyes search the room, finally landing and getting lost in late summer honey as the man meant to save them all reads over all the information Draco’s been able to gather about the attack to be launched at Hogwarts tomorrow. Tomorrow, Voldemort will know that there’s an informant in their midst, and Draco will confirm it by fighting for the Order. Tomorrow, he’ll dose his mother with felix felicis, the only protection he can grant her when it’s revealed to everyone on the dark side that he’s a traitor.

Tomorrow, both him and Hermione may die, but right now he ignores the sound of Harry Potter’s voice as he relays orders to the people gathered around the table, ignores the green and red colours swimming in his vision, ignores the flavours on his tongue in favour of staring into her eyes for reassurance that he knows he won’t ever find there.

   He’s surprised he hasn’t had a seizure yet. He had physically felt it when Voldemort died, the burning on his arm disappearing like a bubble popping out of existence. Also like a bubble, the synaesthesia comes back in full force. It’s like having your hearing muffled by water stuck in your ear, and when the water finally gets dislodged the sound comes back in a rush, only for him it’s the colours and the flavours that crash down on him like a tidal wave.

It knocks him off his feet and he lands on his knees, staring at all the colours bursting in and out of his sight. He can barely see the people all around him, can barely focus on anything as he keeps whispering her name and relishing the full effects of Sauvignon Blanc and green apples on his taste buds.

Someone’s kissing him, and even with the colours blocking his vision with his eyes open and the hues persisting behind his lids with his eyes closed, he knows it’s her. He knows it’s her even though she doesn’t taste like the crappy tea they have at the safehouse, even though she fills his mouth with the taste of blood instead of the natural taste of her tongue.

The colours start to fade as he takes notice of the hush that slowly envelops the grounds. He imagines that they must make quite the sight, Draco Malfoy and Hermione granger all bloodied up and kissing each other, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“You were right,” he whispers against her lips, opening his eyes and staring into pools of late summer honey. “I have to figure out what to do about my aim.”

   Granger does not taste like green apples, nor does her skin remind him of an expensive bottle of wine. She tastes like the soap she had used to aggressively scrub out the grime and blood from every inch of her skin, leaving her pink and tender. He understands the almost obsessive way with which she cleans herself—it’s been a week since the war ended but he still wakes up feeling dirty, feeling like he would never get rid of the warm, sticky blood on his hands. He knows she hadn’t killed anyone, unlike him, but she feels dirty all the same.

Her bones are prominent, especially the ones encasing her lungs and her heart, and he takes his time kissing down her ribs to her jutting hipbones. She giggles and it makes him see soft bursts of salmon pink. “I’m ticklish there,” she says, and it makes him see pale yellows, the colour of daffodils. He’s never seen her produce that colour before and he chases after it for a few seconds, enthralled by its appearance.

He tries to keep as quiet as he can, tries his best not to adulterate her colours and her flavours with his own voice. When she had emerged from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around her body, dripping water everywhere, he had told her in a quiet voice to come closer. He had watched the deep burgundy dance in and out his vision and had decided that he’d much rather see pale pinks and Varathane bleached blues.

Now he’s inching closer to her centre and she’s making breathy little sighs of pleasure, her fingers finding purchase in his still damp hair. He’s doing his utmost best to keep his head as blank as possible, to taste only her on his tongue. She smells like soap down there too, and when he uses his fingers to spread her, he marvels at how pink and wet she is for him.

“Draco.”

Salmon pink flashes behind his closed lids and his favourite chocolate melts on his tongue immediately. He has to kiss her thighs, biting into the soft flesh in an effort to contain himself from tasting that part of her. He doesn’t want to taste chocolates in his mouth, he wants to know what she tastes like without the synaesthesia, so he kisses her thighs and looks up at her. He watches her bite her lower lip, nod at him once, and he knows she understands.

It takes him a moment, but his senses finally calm down enough that his tongue can only detect the faint salt and soap of her thighs. Her hands are still buried in his hair and she begins to tug his face towards her centre. He looks up at her once more, maintaining eye contact when he runs the flat of his tongue over her exposed slit.

They moan almost in unison, both their voices filling his eyes with colours that he hadn’t thought would fit well but surprising compliment each other. She doesn’t taste like Sauvignon Blanc but he thinks he could get drunk all the same. He fucks her with his tongue, watches her bite around her closed fist to keep her moans under control.

She loses the battle when his lips close around her clit and his name comes pouring out of her mouth. He groans against her slick lips, using the flat of his tongue to swipe at her clit and two fingers to fuck her entrance. Her moans grow louder as she nears her release and he’s glad he had put up silencing charms on the room—the rest of the Order still staying in the house would probably appreciate not hearing them having sex.

When she comes, she nearly shouts his name. He pulls back and sheaths himself inside of her with one push, gripping her hips and feeling her walls fluttering all around his cock. He doesn’t move an inch, feelings the muscles in his stomach tightening from the effort it’s taking him to hold back from fucking her into the mattress.

She reaches out to him, pulling him down to kiss her and taste herself on his mouth. With their lips still pressed together, their chests flushed against each other, she whispers, “You can move now.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs. Her name springs out from him unbidden, and it’s one of those moments when he can almost convince himself that he can get drunk just from saying her name.

He makes her come three more times, twice on his cock, and he would have gone for more but she starts crying after the third time and he knows what those tears are for.  War had taken away his father to Azkaban and, along with the older man, much of Draco’s prejudice and the things he used to believe in. It had cost him the life of one of his friends and had crushed any chance of him ever producing a Patronus, but he knows she had lost so much more than that. He was part of the Order, a valuable spy that had ultimately help tip the scale in their favour, but he hadn’t been friends with any of those people.

As for her, they had become her family after she had been forced to give up her parents. They won the war, but he suspects that it would take a long time before her hands stop shaking, before she can go out without holding on to her wand as if her life still depends on it, before she can go to sleep without worrying that she’ll wake up screaming her head off because of a nightmare.

“I didn’t know orgasms could be that overwhelming,” she whispers sheepishly, the tip of her fingers tracing the Sectumsempra scars among the other blemishes he now sports.

The word orgasm tastes like a slice of Victoria sponge. He wraps a moth-bitten quilt around their naked bodies, and when he tells her to go to sleep, her Sauvignon Blanc-flavoured name on his tongue and her rose-coloured laugh behind his eyes are the things that lull him to the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had in years.

[sinsofsummers]

Stay With Me

Request: “hey beautiful idk if you can do this but can you write a plus size reader with a plus sized thor please when thor is having a panic attack and she’s insecure and they comfort each other?” from @lilacprincessofrecovery

Pairing: Plus size!Thor x Plus size!Fem!reader

Word Count: 2.95k (wow, I didn’t mean to make it this long??)

Summary: After the Avengers go their separate ways after killing Thanos, you find yourself getting closer to Thor, learning how to take care of a man with more ghosts in his head than he lets on. Of course, everyone has their own demons. You know this especially well.

Warnings: Major spoilers for endgame(obviously), some serious angst, PTSD, panic attacks, body insecurity, self-deprecation, and some semblance of fluff at the end. Please, beware if you get triggered by any of these things. This is gonna be a rough one, but totally worth it in the end.

Note: Thank you so much for requesting this! This may now be my favorite piece of work that I’ve written on this blog! I really enjoy writing requests, so hopefully I did it justice! Feel free to send in more requests, people!

Send in your own request!

(this is literally the only gif of thor in endgame that actually worked for some reason)

It wasn’t every day you got the chance to befriend the god of thunder and king of Asgard. After everything happened that resulted in half the universe disappearing into dust, you had lost your family and friends. The only affiliation you had left was the Asgardian blood that tied you to the meager population of people you’d grown up with. 

Through the healing process, a new safe haven on Earth for all Asgardians, properly named New Asgard, had been established. At first, it just felt like it was a crowded space full of rolling plains that were dotted with empty-minded people, just trying to grieve their lost loved one. But as time went on and everyone began to come to terms with the loss of half of all life, things seemed to turn as close to normal as they could considering the change of scenery and...other things.

You rarely saw the King of Asgard anymore. He’d put on a brave face, of course, making sure everyone was safe and accounted for. But once things were able to be run on their own without his constant supervision, he’d let others take over and retracted back into his hut, where he lived with Korg and Miek, his closest friends after the events of Ragnarok and Thanos’ reign of terror on the universe.

It was a long while before anyone saw him; his regular appearances were only to restock his beer collection in his house, drowning himself in countless beer bottles that no doubt littered the floors of his hut. You had a hard time adjusting to this new king of sorts; he’d always been so noble. He’d always known what to say, and when he didn’t, he’d ask for help. But now, he was lost. You knew this more than anyone. You didn’t have to see him all the time to know this. It was something you grappled with yourself.

Living in a place where everyone was beautiful, where men were bulging with muscles and women were as slender as new trees beginning to sprout from the earth, it had done a lot of damage to your self-image. You’d never fit into that category of classic Asgardian stature. You had a waist that, you thought, looked more like a beer barrel than an hourglass, and hips that were wide enough to hold a ship between them.

Your parents had always told you they loved you, that you were beautiful no matter what, but it didn’t matter. You had mirrors surrounding you every day on Asgard, as it was part of the natural and traditional decor. Images of your less-than-satisfactory self followed you for your entire life, so they were naturally the first thing to be left out of your new house in New Asgard. You were more focused on the other aspects of your health, and, in turn, that of your king’s.

You weren’t sure exactly what he saw in your, but you two had become rather close friends. He smiled when you were around, and though it still didn’t reach his eyes, you were happy that he at least tried. Tried to remember what it was like to be truly happy before all of this.

You knew he was far from completely healing from the ordeal(it was evident from all the weight he’d gained), but it gave you a sense of relief when he smiled at you, or when he reflected happily on a memory from his past life, whether it was about his mother, Frigga, or his brother, Loki, or his earthen friends, the Avengers.

But there was one night, one night in particular, that shocked you to your core and squeezed your heart, causing it to splinter.

After reading late into the night, you let the rain on the roof of your hut lull you to sleep, sending off a bittersweet prayer to your parents and friends that you’d lost. Nothing was heard in response other than the quiet rhythm of raindrops on the earth, but you hoped they still heard you, wherever they were. Now that you weren’t on Asgard, you weren’t quite sure where the dead went. You hoped that they were all in Valhalla, enjoying the afterlife as much as they could.

Just as you were about to drift off into a dreamless sleep, you heard a booming knock on your door that threatened to shake the entire world with the sheer force of it.

Groaning, you threw the covers off of you and stood up, shivering at the sudden change in temperature as the chilly, rainy air kissed your body, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. Even in your tired state, you grabbed a robe to throw over your body; you hated when people saw you in your pajamas. It was like they could see every curve, every part about yourself that you hated. So you hid it from the world under your robes.

When you opened the door, you stared up at Korg, the blue creature made of rocks that towered over anyone who stood before him.

“Gods, don’t you have an internal clock or something?” You rubbed the palm of your hand against your eye in an effort to rub the fatigue out of them and look clearly up at him. “Wait, what’s wrong?” You asked when you looked again, seeing the blatant concern in his dark eyes.

“Y/N, man, you have to come over, now! Thor’s having a breakdown, man, it’s really bad this time! He won’t listen to me, and Miek’s too scared to talk, and I don’t know what to do, man! I mean, you’re pretty much the only other person he’ll talk to, so I came here, and—”

Immediately, the sleep left your eyes and you tightened your grasp on your robe. Suddenly you didn’t think the rain was any kind of coincidence. “Take me to him.”

You barely felt the rain against your skin, soaking your clothes, as you ran through the muddy, makeshift roads to the king’s hut. You’d heard of Thor’s panic attacks before. Sometimes thunder would crack so loud that you had to cover your ears, and other times the lightning would flash so bright that you were afraid it would impair your vision. But you’d never been witness to one of them. That was the one part of himself that Thor had never shown you.

When you arrived at the king’s hut, you rushed in but your feet froze in place as you took in the wreckage around you.

The floors were littered with beer bottles, some broken in anger, others tossed around on the couch and forgotten. The bookshelves that had once been filled to the brim with Asgardian and Earthen texts alike were now empty, books haphazardly thrown about in the room. The curtains had been torn off of the walls in a wave of fury. There was hardly any space to walk. Miek, upon seeing Korg return, launched himself into his friend’s arms and clung to him in the wake of all this destruction.

And in the center of it all, arms wrapped around his legs in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, was Thor, the mighty king of Asgard.

It nearly tore your heart in two to see him like this. You carefully stepped forward, calling out to the man as he sat there, his head tucked into his chest and hidden from view. As you got closer, you could hear his labored breathing, quick and panicked. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t calm down.

“Thor?” You gently called out, though your voice was nothing compared to the raging storm going on outside. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

He didn’t move, just kept rocking back and forth. You could hear him start to whisper things, whispers that eventually turned into an anguished whimper that fell from his beautiful lips.

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he startled, kicked out at you and looking at you with such fury and fear in his eyes that you nearly felt a punch to your gut. “Thor,” you said, concern lining your voice, “breathe.”

Thor, the warrior king that had led his people to this new place, the man that was worthy above all others, just looked at you with his empty eyes and shook his head. “I—I can’t,” he forced out between gasps of breath. “He...he ruined me, he killed my brother, made him into something he wasn’t. Loki was good, he was never those things they called him. I…” He trailed off as a gulping wave of tears took over, and he shook underneath your palm as he squeezed his legs tighter to his large chest. “I made a vow...to avenge him. I promised him. And I...I failed. I failed everyone.”

You wanted to tell him that he hadn’t failed anyone, that he was still worthy, that he was still the greatest man you’d ever known. But you knew that to tell him those things would only feel like a betrayal. He wouldn’t believe it if you told him. He had to learn those things on his own.

So you adjusted your position beside him and wrapped your arms around your friend, enveloping him in your arms. He still shook underneath your touch, so you squeezed him tighter, hoping your words would sink into his bones. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not leaving.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like this, your chin tucked into the crook of his neck, cheeks tickled by his long and unkempt hair, but you ignored the way your legs went numb, the way your muscles fatigued from holding him so close for so long. It was only when he stopped shaking and started to breathe deeper that you loosened your grip.

“I...I don’t know what to do, Y/N,” he whispered to you. “I’m lost.”

Picking up your head and brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes, you made sure to look him dead in the eye as you said, “I’ve got you.”

The tears shone in his eyes, but he nodded, swallowing roughly. The worst of it was over, but you knew he was still fragile. So you stood up, stretching your legs, and pulled him up with you. The god of thunder was even heavier with all the beer weight, so it was a blessing when he realized what you were trying to do and helped you pull him up.

One glance at Korg and Miek let them know that you would take care of him, and you were met with a thankful and enthusiastic thumbs up as the two creatures gingerly found their way back to their own rooms. As for you and Thor, you let him drape his arm around your shoulder, leaning into you as you led him to his room.

Thankfully the damage had only been done to the living room. You had a clear and open path to the bed, which you carefully sat him down on, smiling softly as his eyelids fluttered closed.

“I’ll be here first thing tomorrow,” you promised him, pressing your lips to the top of his head in a sweet kiss. “Sleep well, my king.”

You turned to leave, but he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Please, Y/N,” he pleaded, eyes clouded with hope, “Stay with me?”

He’d never looked so worn out. You decided right then and there that if you ever got the chance to see the purple titan, that you’d blast him to Hel and never think twice about it. You’d give him what he deserved, for messing with your friend and king’s mind so carelessly.

It was a habit to turn him down, a habit that was manifested in your body, but the sadness in his eyes made you melt, and you nodded. He scooted to the other side of the bed, opening the covers for you to join him.

Taking a deep breath, you shed your robe and climbed into bed as quickly as you could, trying to hide your thinly-clothed body in your pajamas. “Is this okay?” You breathed, looking into the shiny depths of his eyes.

For a moment, Thor said nothing. He just stared at you. Then he lifted a hand and reached across the space between you and grasped your waist in his strong hand. He maneuvered himself closer, as close as he could until his plump chest was touching yours.

Bile rose in your throat as the king of Asgard touched the parts of you that you hated most. Rolling away from him, you turned your head to keep the tears from falling down your face in his view. How horribly poetic, you told yourself bitterly. I’m the one breaking down after helping Thor come back from his.

“Y/N, love, what is it?” Thor asked, his deep voice rumbling through your body. “Why do you turn away?”

You shook your head into the pillow, refusing to answer. You choked back a sob as you remembered what life was like back on Asgard, your childhood friends turning against you as you grew bigger, your classmates calling you names that cut deeper than you ever let them know. It was all coming back, all because Thor was looking for comfort. You were disgusted with yourself.

“I don’t deserve it,” you whispered. “Your gentle touch. I don’t deserve it.”

Thor shifted, moving closer to you so his chest pressed against your back. When you tried to move away again, getting treacherously close to the edge of the bed, he simply clamped an arm over your fluffy middle, holding you in place. “Nonsense,” he murmured in your ear, the word scraping down every piece of your body, every curve and crevice. “You are the most beautiful woman I have laid my eyes on.”

You let out a pitiful chuckle. “Don’t lie, Thor. It’s unbecoming.”

“Why would I lie?” He asked, his fingers beginning to rub soft circles into your pajama shirt that covered your stomach. “You are beautiful.”

“I’m hideous,” you breathed, years of pain and self-deprecation coming to light as you squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t belong here. I don’t look like anyone else. Asgardians are supposed to be beautiful creatures that people can only picture in their most magical dreams. But me? I’m nothing like them.”

Thor chuckled lightly in your ear. “I would like to add that you look exactly like your king does.”

Turning around so you could face him, you sighed, the tears shining in your eyes. “You have good reason to, Thor. I have no reason to look as ugly as I do.”

“You are not ugly.” He spoke firmly and stared directly into your eyes, telling you that he would not budge.

Still, you didn’t believe him. “You,” you started, “you are a god. Nothing you can do will ever be considered ugly or revolting. You are a handsome man inside and out.”

“Then why can’t you feel the same?” He pondered aloud, lifting a hand to trace your cheek with his thumb. “Why can’t you see yourself the way I see you?”

It was a damn good question, you had to admit. You looked at Thor, at his beer belly and his scraggly appearance, and nothing ever changed in your mind. You still saw him as the most beautiful, rugged man you’d ever seen. But when it came to yourself, you found about a thousand things you could point out, bitterly telling yourself that you hated your stomach, you hated the way your neck only looked good at a certain angle, the way your arms lacked the spindly shape of all Asgardian women.

“Because,” you answered matter-of-factly, “I’m just me, and you’re you.”

“Y/N,” Thor responded, his voice a deep husky thing now, “you are extraordinary.”

You allowed yourself to savor the way his hand drifted from your cheek to your shoulder, down to your hand, coming to rest over your waist and pull you into his chest. “What are you doing to me?” You let the words slip out, failing to hold them back.

Thor looked at you with something that you couldn’t recognize. His eyes were wide, taking you in, holding you close to him. “You saved me,” he said simply, “so I’m saving you.”

A blush crept its way onto your face and you ducked your head. Slowly and carefully, you tucked yourself into Thor’s chest, lifting a leg and laying it over his waist similar to a koala bear. Though you probably looked ridiculous, you relished the way he responded to your movements. You were both tugging each other closer, so close that you supposed you probably wouldn’t be able to breathe, but you didn’t care.

You were broken, you both were. But this night, this moment, with him wrapped so close to you, his scent filling your nose, it felt right. Your chest felt a little lighter, and you could close your eyes easier. You were saving each other.

It wasn’t long before you felt sleep enveloping you, pulling you under to a place that you met with ease this time. But before you felt consciousness leave your body, you felt Thor’s lips press against your forehead in a sweet kiss. It was small, quick, and barely there, but it was enough to send fire through your body. Tilting your head up, you looked up into Thor’s eyes and smiled.

“You saved me,” he repeated. You knew the look in his eyes now, but your heart hiccuped as you recognized it. He leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. “So I’m saving you.”

[insanely-creative-things]

Big Hero 7: The Series

Food Fight

(Long Post)

Big Hero 7 : the series

www.fanfiction.net

*The sounds of a knife cutting fish is rhythmic as a young Itamae(sushi chef) named Momakase prepares sashimi for her client, Alistair Krei. She finishes it off with a special topping resembling orange fish eggs. After she was done she brings it to Krei, who is on his phone passing the time.*

Krei: My people tell me you're one of the better sushi chefs in town.

Momakase: Your people underestimate me, I am the best.

Krei: I'll be the judge of that.

*Krei pours some soy sauce in a bowl, then proceeded to put soy sauce on the sashimi, and continues to dip the sashimi in the soy sauce bowl and eats it. Momakase's eye twitch says it all.*

Momakase: You do not drown the finest Otoro in soy sauce!

Krei: How about you don't tell me how to eat OK? You work for me right?

*Krei eats the sashimi*

Momakase: Of course Krei-san, it's only that I hate to see you robbed...

*This sets off a red flag in Krei's head immediately.*

Momakase:... Of an exquisite experience.

*Momakese sets aside the table board as Krei recognizes the fish Momakase prepared.*

Krei: Wait is that the fish that's poisonous if it's not prepared properly?

Momakase: Do not doubt my skill.

*The tension is growing stronger as Krei's head is running.*

Momakase: And do not worry about the fish.

*Krei eats the second sashimi.*

Krei: Delicious.

*But soon his vision starts swimming as his body begins to feel numb. His voice slurred as he looks at Momakase*

Krei: No, wha...what's happening?

*He immediately sees Momakase's true intentions.*

Krei: You said!

*But his body fails to support him as his body is paralyzed from the sashimi.*

Momakase: Not to worry about the fish.

*Krei reaches for his phone*

Momakase: You should, however, worry about the special toxin I added to it.

*Momakase tosses her knife at the phone which pins it to the wall out of Krei's reach, but she fails to realize that he had already dialed the call for help.*

Momakase: Relax you'll survive...

*Momakase removes her knife from the wall.*

Momakase: If I give you the antidote...want it?

*Krei's tries to answer at this but is unable to.*

Momakase: And I want the prototype that lies in your secret safe...You work for me now.

*Meanwhile elsewhere, the Lucky Cat Cafe is filled with customers as Cass is hard at work serving up for them.*

Cass: Here you go, boys, enjoy!

*She serves up cappuccinos to three men with the Latte drawings of a flower, heart, and peach respectively, and the boys love the art. Cass brings another latte with the drawing of a panda to a punk girl.*

Punk Girl: Ugh, this cappuccino is too cute.

Cass: Oh thank you!

Punk girl: No, I don't do cute.

Cass: OK...here!

*Cass morphs the drawing from the cute panda to an intimidating skull for the punk girl. The punk girl's mood brightens up.*

Ignorant customer: Hello?! I ordered a berry boba smoothie but it's filled with these gross blobs!

Cass: That's the boba...

*The silence between them spoke enough*

Cass: Nevermind, I'll whip you up a blobless one.

*Just then Cass spots a blonde-haired man reading a newspaper. And immediately she recognizes who he is. Just then Hiro comes inside the cafe where Cass pulls Hiro in closer to point out the man.*

Hiro: Hey Aunt Cass.

Cass: *whispers* Hiro! Do you know who that is?!

Hiro: Turtleneck guy?..Should I-

Cass: Bolton Gramarcy! He's a top celebrity chef!

Hiro: Oh that's cool.

*Just then his phone buzzes which he picks up. The screen shows a text from Gogo spelling 'Trouble at Krei Tech!'. Hiro immediately thinks up an excuse to meet up with the team.*

Hiro: I- I gotta go!

Cass: Everything okay?

Hiro: Yeah! I just need to study...upstairs! Right now!

Cass: Oh! Go! Study hard!

Hiro: I love ya Aunt Cass.

Cass: Love you too!

*While Hiro runs upstairs to suit up himself and Baymax Cass summons the courage to meet Bolton Gramarcy. She places a plate of complimentary bread and refills his coffee.*

Cass: *Clears throat* Excuse me uh Mr. Gramarcy, I just wanted to say I am a huge fan!

Bolton: Oh please...seriously? I don't do autographs.

Cass: Umm no not- I just... I just wanted to make sure you're enjoying your meal.

Bolton: Ugh... you're one of those. Look dear, sometimes I must choke down pedestrian swell as simple body fuel. preferably accompanied by peace and quiet.

*Cass stood there shocked in silence until another customer spoke up.*

Clumsy customer: Lady! You're out of Soy Milk! Cause I spilled it all.

*Cass just deadpans over the situation*

*Currently, at the Mizichio household the kitchen is filled with the sound of food being prepared and soft singing.*

Cora: I gotten used to supernatural insanity! Enough to presuppose that life is peaceful and benign, but I'm caught on the rails of this masochistic thrill ride! And I know there something I cannot lose sight of.~

*Cora taps her feet as she flips the omelet as she hums the song. Afterward she slips the omelet onto the fried rice with beef and spinach and delivers it beside the other twin with Ochai(Green tea) where her grandmother is. Just then her father comes in and sits down.*

Cora: Papa you're here! How was work?

*Cora stands on her tiptoes to kiss her father on the cheek before she sits down on her seat.*

Mizuchi: Tiring, but uneventful.

Cora: I made your favorite! Omurice.

*Mizuchi smile brightens at the omurice his daughter prepared for him. He gets out a spoon and takes a bite out of the meal, he sighs peacefully before he turns his attention to Cora, whose hands enfolded the end of her skirt underneath the table.*

Mizuchi: No need to be bashful, your cooking is always the best. And I love the Omurice you prepared.

Kaguya: It just shows how far you've grown dear. Besides, being a good cook is one of the many fine qualities for a girl to become a bride.

*Cora blushes at her Grandmother's teasing as she looks down, continuing twisting the hem of her skirt as Mizuchi's eye twitches.*

Mizuchi: Mother-in-law now is not the time to discuss marriage, especially since Cora's only 14.

Kaguya: *Teasing* Well better now then never, she's growing up to be a young woman. It's already obvious who will be her husband when she comes of age.

*Cora's head shoots up, her ears now red as she knows who her grandmother is referring too.*

Cora: Grandmama! Hiro and I are just dating! And we're not even in any hurry to rush towards that! We want to take things slowly with our relationship.

Mizuchi: *Rubs his eyes and the bridge between his nose trying to relieve some of the stress he was starting to feel* To which I am VERY grateful for... And Mother-in-law I would prefer it if you don't mention such things at this time. Cora does not need to learn about certain things on this matter until she is 18.

Kaguya: And what's wrong with her learning before then? I know you don't like the idea Mizuchi, but it is best if she learns about all of this sooner rather than later. Especially for when she and Hiro get older and begin to explore more mature experiences-

Mizuchi: *Hissing* Mother-in-law...

Kaguya: *Sternly* You can't talk back to me Son-in-law and you know it.

*Mizuchi continues to glare before he sighs and gives up, knowing that as much as he hated to admit it, he just couldn't win against his mother-in-law. As of while Cora got a text from Hiro spelling out 'Trouble at Krei Tech! Will pick you up soon!'.*

Kaguya: Cora what is so important enough to be looking at your phone at the dinner table?

Cora: Oh um...I nearly forgot to tell you but I have a study group tonight! And a friend is picking me up!

*Cora stands up and heads upstairs to her room as she calls out to her father and grandmother*

Cora: Gonna bring up some stuff to the study group! Love you bye!

Mizuchi: Be safe, love you too.

*As Mizuchi continues to eat the omurice, Kaguya mutters to herself as she drinks the tea.*

Kaguya: That girl better tell the truth soon...

*Once Cora is in her room she dresses up in her super suit and looks out her window to see Baymax and Hiro in their super suits as well. Cora climbs out the window and sits behind Hiro, once she holds on tightly to him they both fly off. They are crossing the city when Gogo calls Hiro.*

Gogo: Hiro, Cora where are you two?

Hiro: On our way, what's going on?

Gogo: Krei ate some bad sushi.

Cora: Wow, can't there just be one day when he isn't attacked? Or being held hostage?

Fred: Just a theory but I have the feeling he'll become the next Lois Lane from Super Man.

Cora: *Disapprovingly* Fred... That is an insult to Lois Lane herself and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking of such a thing.

Fred: *Actually ashamed after hearing what Cora said to him* ...You're right Cora... I am so sorry. It won't happen again...

Cora: Nodding with approval and forgiveness* You're forgiven Fred.

*The three land on top of Krei tech where they head down to meet up with the rest of the team. Baymax immediately scans Krei and applies the antidote, as of while Fred plays with Krei's limp arm.*

Baymax: You will be okay. But while the antidote takes affect your major motor systems will be significantly impaired.

Krei: *clear voice* No kidding.

Baymax: Try to stay relaxed. I will rub your back.

*Baymax's fingers vibrates on top of Krei's back*

Krei: No-A gah..oh that's actually nice.

*Hiro and Cora look into the empty safe.*

Hiro: What did she steal?

*Baymax stops massaging*

Krei: That's- classified! It's top secret!

*Hiro and Cora stare at Krei with a disapproving look. As did everyone else.*

Cora: *sing-song* We can't help if you don't tell us.~

Krei:...Gravitational Disruptor.

Wasabi: An Anti-Grav device?

Gogo: And you lost it?!

Honey Lemon: This is bad.

Krei: Don't worry she only made off with half of my prototype, the other half is still secured in my other secret safe.

Hiro: Where's your other secret safe?

Krei: I'm not telling you and you'll never find it.

Fred: Found it!

*Wasabi and Fred were at Krei's bookshelf where Fred's hand was on a globe.*

Fred: These days, the only reason people have globes is to open secret safes. I mean it's pretty obvious.

*Fred opens the globe where he presses the button, soon the book shelf opened to reveal the secret safe containing the other half of the prototype.

Krei: You better not tell anyone that's there!...Pinkie promise.

*Krei manages to grab a glass of water but before he can take a sip the glass falls apart...because it was cut in half.*

Krei: Ugh!

*Cass flips the sign from open to close as she prepares for bed.*

Cass: *Yawn* Wow, what a day. Good night Hiro.

*But when she didn't hear a response, shw goes up to his room.*

Cass: Hiro?

*She sees Hiro's bed where presumably Hiro is sleeping. But upon closer inspection she lifts up the blanket to reveal that its only Mochi and a pillow. Cass is not amused about this.*

Cass: Hiro!

*Back at Krei Tech, Hiro's phone rings with the caller being Aunt Cass.*

Hiro: Everybody shh! It's my aunt!

*Hiro quickly answers.*

Hiro: Er uh..Hi Aunt Cass!

Cass: Where are you? You said you were going upstairs to study. I'm in your room and you're not!

Hiro: Uh..actually I meant going upstairs... at the library!

*Fred touches a lamp which falls to pieces because it was cut in half.*

Hiro: *Glares at Fred for a moment before going back to his call* With friends! You know like a-like a study group.

Cass: Yeah a study group.

*She was not buying it.*

Hiro: Oh uh yeah we're making flash cards...quizzing each other...eating healthy snacks!

*Once Krei is able to stand up, the entire desk falls apart because it was cut into multiple halves.*

Wasabi: Seriously, is there anything in this room she didn't cut in half?

Cass: Who-cut-what-in-half?!

Hiro: Gogo! So we can share those healthy snacks!

*Krei's chair falls down with him, because it was cut in half.*

Krei: Ow!...hmm...Now the numbness wears off.

Cass: Hiro what's going on?-

Hiro: WowalmostdoneseeyouinabitCora'swithmedon'twaituploveyoubye!

*Hiro ends the call.*

Krei: What are you going to do?

*That's when Krei realizes that he can move*

Krei: Hey! Haha I can stand!

*Just then his clothes fall off leaving him in his boxers because they were cut in half. Baymax immediately shields Cora's eyes.*

Krei: Oh...

*Cass looks at the desk where Hiro's old robot Megabot is residing next to a picture of Hiro and Tadashi.*

Cass: Bot Fighting!

*Cass immediately calls up Kaguya. The phone beeps as she answers.*

Kaguya: Why hello Cassandra. What is on your mind this evening that you would like to discuss with me?

Cass: Kaguya, I think Hiro is going bot fighting again, and he got Cora to go with him too.

Kaguya: *Sighs* I'll be on my way.

Cass: What about her dad?

Kaguya: Mizuchi's passed out. I'm more competent than him anyway.

Cass: Okay...? Meet me up at Good Luck Alley.

Kaguya: Agreed.

*Cass hangs up her phone as she marches down to grab her coat and purse before heading out.*

Cass: What is he thinking going to Good Luck Alley at night? And with Cora too!

*She then remembers something about Good Luck Alley.*

Cass: Wait! What am I thinking?

*Cass goes to the kitchen where she grabs her knife set.*

Cass: I'm not going unarmed!

*After they grab some samples from the crime scene, the team heads to SFIT lab where Wasabi is observing the pieces the criminal left behind under a microscope.*

Wasabi: I've never seen a cut like this... Not even my plasma blades are this precise!

Gogo: What?

Wasabi: Graphine blades! Thinner than paper but stronger than steel! This tech is cutting edge! No pun intended...OK OK, pun intended.

*Honey Lemon is watching the security footage they had received from Krei.*

Honey Lemon: Woah! her knife is so thin you can't even see it from this angle.

Wasabi: I told you it was amazing!

Hiro: Baymax can you put a name to that face?

Baymax: I do not have any information about that face.

Cora: Hmm...this is gonna be tricky.

Fred: No it won't! Because I just so happen to know the very thing we need to help us with this little villian-identity problem! My Dad has a state of the art bad guy data base, everyone to Fred's house!

*While that was happening, Cass is waiting outside Good Luck Alley for Kaguya to meet up with her to find the two teens. Just then she spots the old woman.*

Cass: Oh thank goodness you're here! I just can't believe that Hiro and Cora would go back to bot fighting!

*Kaguya eyes the stressed woman as she gives a secret knowing look that bot fighting is far from what they are actually doing, but keeps it to herself.*

Kaguya: *Gestures to the Alley* Shall we go then?

Cass: Yeah...wait? Do you need pepper spray for self-defense? or any of my knifes if you want?

*Kaguya shakes her head as she spins her cane around in her hand before she suddenly knocks out a nearby trash can straight into a wall on the far side of the alley.*

Kaguya: *Smirks* How else do you think Mizuchi is so afraid of me?

Cass: *Blinks* Okay then...Lets go!

*The two women walk down the dirty alley, Cass being cautious while Kaguya is fairly normal as if it were any other day. They spotted a large man throw out a smaller man out the door into the street.*

Cass: *Nervously* Nice...place...

*Kaguya rolls her eyes as if it were nothing special. They continue walking down the street until they saw two men standing guard in front of a door. Cass goes forward as Kaguya stand close by.*

Cass: Excuse me is this where the fight is?

*The first man stops her*

Felony Carl: Yeah?

Dave: What's in the bag?

*Dave grabs the bag while Cass tries to reach it, finally Kaguya clears her throat to attract their attention.*

Kaguya: Hello boys, I would appreciate if you let go of my acquaintance and return her property to her.

Felony Carl: Oh! Sorry ma'mm.

Dave: I see now, I just looked into your bag. You're a fighter, why didn't you say so?

Cass: Fighter? I'm not a fighter!

*Dave pushes Cass inside as Kaguya follows closely behind.*

Felony Carl: Come on, fight is this way.

*As Felony Carl gives her an apron with a bandanna, Kaguya is lead away by Dave.*

Cass: Wait where are they going? W-woah!

*The place she was pushed to revealed itself to be a pole which lifted her up to an arena with a crowd and flames surrounding her. She immediately sees Kaguya in the crowd in what appears to be a VIP section of the rows. Just then a man with neon red hair wearing glasses in a large kimono steps in.*

Yum Labouche : Welcome fighter! I'm Yum Labouche, ringmaster of this underground extreme cooking competition!

*Just then kitchen stands appear from the ground.*

Yum Labouche: The time has come to cook for your life! The time has come for...Food Fight!

*The crowd cheers as Cass is currently questioning every decision she's made in her life.*

Cass:...I've made a bad decision...

*As of while Kaguya is given green tea by Felony Carl as she nudges her elbow to an older gentleman.*

Kaguya: I'm not sure about you, but I believe she will succeed.

Ever Devear: Is that so? I know who she will be up against, she will be demolished before the battle starts.

Kaguya: *Scoffs* Oh please, want a bet?

Ever Devear: You're on old hag.

Kaguya: I've heard worse you wrinkly ballsac.

*While the older gentleman is glaring at the old lady, Mr. Labouch directs the audiences' attention to Cass.*

Yum Labouche: Who are you? And do you have what it takes to vanquish your enemy?

*With the spotlight on her, Cass introduces herself as a flame with her face appears.*

Cass: Well Yumm...uh... I'm Cass... hi everyone. And we're just cooking right?

*The crowd laughs as Kaguya shakes her head over Cass' naivety.*

Yum Labouche: This is no wholes barn cooking. Cheating is not only allowed, its encouraged! Are you prepared to cook dirty?

Cass: That does not sound sanitary.

Yum Labouche: Spoken like someone who's about to lose. And now, your opponent... A man who needs no introduction...

*Just then on the opposite's end of the arena, the enemy chef appears.*

Yum Labouche: Bolton Gamarcy!

Cass: *Shocked* Bolton Gramarcy?!

*Just then Bolton Gramarcy turns his attention to the woman, as of while the old gentleman chuckles.*

Ever Devear: I told you, she has no chance!

*Kaguya remains focused on Cass.*

Bolton: Wait, you're that little bird from the cafe today. Is this a joke?

Cass: Umm... I didn't actually mean to enter, I'm just here to look for my nephew and his girlfriend so I'm gonna...ya know?

Bolton: Give up? Good move, leave the cooking to the real chefs!

*The crowd chuckles and calls out on Bolton's burn to Cass.*

Cass: Oh! We'll see whose the real chef! You're about to get stir-fried!

*The crowd oohs at Cass' retort to the famous chef.*

Yum Labouche: Feisty! Time to cook!

*Both chefs run to their kitchen stations and set out their kitchen knifes as Yum Labouche announces their challenge.*

Yum Labouche: Tonight's challenge... the perfect Creme Brulee.

Cass: Oh! I can do that!

Yum Labouche: But! You must use gummy iguanas! Cilantro! And an ostrich egg!

Cass: *Confused* Whaat?

Yum Labouche: *Laughs* Let the food fight begin!

*The timer set for 30 minutes starts to countdown*

*At the same time the entire team reaches the state-of-the-art criminal database Fred's father has... But what they found instead is an antique machine complete with heavy 70's style computers and light switches.*

Wasabi: You said it was state of the art...

Fred: Well it was in 1972! But don't worry, my dad keeps the data totally up to date!

*As of while Hiro, Cora, and Gogo look over the punching cards in a pile of boxes.*

Gogo: Punching cards...really?

Fred: Yes, hello! But look at them, they'e up-to-date punch cards.

Cora: *mutters* It's actually a little fascinating that these paper cards with holes can store information...

Hiro: OK lets get started-

Fred: Woah!(X6) First, we have to let the tubes warm up!

*Fred pulls down a lever which causes the entire mansion to dim its lights except for the room they are in.*

Fred: Guess what guys? It's punch card time! Boom!

*Fred puts in the first punch card inside as the machine slowly takes in the punch card... but it wasn't the right card with the culprit's information, so Fred keeps searching through the files while the rest of the gang fall asleep. Hiro and Cora are sitting on the floor sleeping next to each other as they cuddled, Wasabi and Honey Lemon are with Baymax using his body as a mattress as Gogo sleeps on a chair. Finally Fred inserts the right one which the machine lets out a ding, signaling him they found the right one.*

Fred: And just like that, we have a match!

*The dinging wakes up the gang as it alerts them. Hiro and Cora stand up while Gogo rubs her eyes awake, Wasabi sees a spot of drool on his shoulder coming from surprisingly Honey Lemon. *

Gogo: Finally.

Wasabi: *To Honey Lemon* Uh..I believe that's yours...

*Honey Lemons sips back her drool and wipes herself.*

Honey Lemon: Sorry Wasabi...

*Fred pulls out the paper the machine printed out as he reads out loud the criminal's information.*

Fred: Her name is Momakase. She's the best thief and sushi chef in San Fransokyo! Considered extremely dangerous!

*Fred then shows the picture of Momakase in her thief attire.*

Cora: Talk about a rouge Itamae...*Yawn*

Hiro: So she's definitely coming back for the rest of that...*Yawn* Graph Disruptor.

Baymax: Hiro, Cora. You two are scheduled to wake up in five hours. You two will not get the recommended level of-

*This sets off an alarm in the young teens.*

Hiro: Oh no! I didn't realize it was so late!

Cora: Crap! Grandmama and Papa are gonna kill me when they realizes I'm not home!

Hiro: Yeah we gotta go!

*Hiro and Cora leave as they drag Baymax along to run home.*

Hiro: Aunt Cass is gonna kill me...

*As of while, Cass and Bolton Gramarcy grab their ingredients to prepare the Creme Brulee. When they go for the ostrich egg, Bolton knocks Cass' egg out of her hand as it lands to the floor causing it to break. Bolton smirks as Cass grabs the remaining egg, the older gentlemen chuckles as Kaguya glares on as they crack open the ostrich eggs and stir them white, then they chop up the cilantro with their knifes. Both are finishing the final touches as they begin to heat up the tops of the Creme Brulees. Bolton is about to throw an ostrich egg at Cass to mess her up but he accidentally knock down the flame thrower which causes the top of his meal to be...over done...complete with a melted gummy iguana. This causes a slight panic with the gentleman as Kaguya smirks. Both Cass and Bolton run to the judges where they presented their Creme Brulee. They stood in silence as the judges taste the meals and discuss. Finally they whisper their answer to Yum Labouche. His eyes widen before he regains his signature smile and goes up to announce the winner.*

Yum Labouche: Tonight's Chef Supreme is... Cass!

*The flame with Cass' face appears as the crowd cheers, the gentleman stares in shock as Kaguya lets out her hand as she waits for him to cough up the money.*

Felony Carl: She won without cheating! I didn't think that was withing realm of possibility.

Yum Labouche: Present your knifes to the victor, you hack!

Bolton: But these knifes are a gift from my Nana.

Yum Labouche: To the victor...!

Crowd: Bolton's knifes!

*Bolton bows down to present his knives to Cass.*

Cass: Oh! No that's not really necessary-

Yum Labouche: I don't make the rules. I just enforce them, take the knives.

*Cass hesitantly takes the knifes from Bolton Gramarcy, unsure how to feel about this.*

Cass: Sorry..

*As of while Kaguya is more than happy to receive the money as she places it in her purse.*

Crowd: Cass! Cass! Cass!

*Meanwhile, upstairs in a sushi bar, Momakase sharpens her knifes as Yama enters the room to talk.*

Yama: You have the Gravitational Disruptor?

Momakase: I have acquired it.

*She opens the case, but when Yama sees it he looks at the blue print and realizes that she only has half of the machine.*

Yama: This is only half of the device! You expect me to only pay you for only stealing half?!

Momakase: You hired me to get the device in Krei's safe. This is what was in his safe, so...yes. I expect to be paid.

Yama: This is useless to me without the other half!

Momakase: Then I guess you need to hire me to steal the other half!

*Yama growls in frustration.*

Yama: Fine! When you have the whole device, let me know!

*Yama leaves the room as Momakase talks to herself*

Momakase: I will... Maybe I'll let some other buyers know as well.

*Hiro, Cora, and Baymax walk towards the cafe together trying to come up with a believable story as to why they were out so late, and failing miserably.*

Hiro: OK I'm gonna need a good story. Aunt Cass is not gonna be happy.

Cora: Neither will Grandmama and Papa...so we're both screwed.

Baymax: Honesty has been shown to have significant health benefits.

Hiro: Not in this case.

Cora: What are we even supposed to say? ' Hey Aunt Cass! Hey Grandmama! Hey Papa! Did you know that we are secretly super heroes fighting crime?!' I don't even want to know how they'll react to that! The one thing I do know for sure is that if Papa ever found out about the whole super hero thing... I would be extreme under house arrest until the year 3000...

*The teens shudder in worry as they and Baymax enter the cafe.*

Hiro: Aunt Cass I'm home!

Cora: Yeah! We just returned from the library studying together!

Baymax: I do not see Aunt Cass. Perhaps she has gone to bed.

*Hiro looks into Aunt Cass' room and finds it empty.*

Baymax: Scanning.

*Baymax's scanner searches before he turns to Hiro.*

Baymax: Aunt Cass is not here.

Hiro: Oh no...She must have gone out to look for us!

Cora: And there's a possibility that she went with Grandmama and Papa too!

Hiro: They could be anywhere! Baymax suit up we gotta find them-

*Just then Cass and Kaguya enter the Cafe, catching each other off guard.*

Cass: Hiro! Hi...

Kaguya: Hello Hiro, hello Cora. How was the library?

Cora: Ummm*Looking at Hiro before answering for them both*...tiring but uneventful... Uh, W-where's Papa? Isn't he with you?

Kaguya: *Scoffs* I should certainly say not. He was completely out like a light when I left him earlier.

Cora: *Sighing in relief* Oh. Well, that's-that's good. He needs all the rest he can get after working so hard, hehe...

Hiro: Uh, yeah... wait you two were out?

Cass: Umm.. yes? It doesn't seem like a big deal...

Hiro: Do you have any idea what time it is? You scared me half to death!

Baymax: You are in good physical condition. Your approximation of 50% proximity to death is inaccurate.

Cora: Baymax, remind me to teach you expressions and the term 'figure of speech' in the later future.

Baymax: Processing. Saving 'Expressions and term of 'Figure of speech' lessons' for a later date.

Cass: Yeah, so don't be so dramatic! Sides Kaguya was with me the whole time. We just took a night out OK?

Hiro: You didn't even leave a note! Where were you? And why do you smell like gummy fish?

*As of while Mochi the cat, Cora, and Kaguya look on at the banter between Hiro and Cass, and all three are getting the familiar feeling of déjà vu as this scene plays out.*

Cass: I don't, I smell like gummy iguanas. Now it's late, so I am going to bed.

Hiro: No! we're going to talk now!

Cass: *Sighs* Fine, tell me all about you and your girlfriend's robot building study group-

Hiro: *Fake yawns* You know? It's pretty late! Lets pick this up tomorrow!

Cass: Works for me, Night guys.

Baymax: Shall I set an alarm for 'picking this up' tomorrow?

Hiro and Cass: No.

*Kaguya and Cora bid them goodnight as well and walk out of the Cafe heading for home. Cora considers asking her about what happened and why she's in such a good mood tonight...but scratches out the idea about talking about it as she realizes she was given a Deus Ex Machina by this turn of events and so wouldn't be needing to explain herself.*

*The next day Hiro and Cora are talking over the phone as they plan a strategy for stopping Momakase.*

Cora: Wasabi can distract her as Baymax restrains her hands, after that one of us has to grab the knifes from her. Without her knifes she's powerless.

Hiro: Alright, see ya tonight Cora.

Cora: See you Hiro, love you.

Hiro: Love ya too.

*Hiro hangs up the phone as he prepares for tonight's plan. Downstairs Cass is testing out her brand new Bolton Gramarcy knife set.*

Cass: Wow...Gramarcy's Nana had good taste in knifes.

Hiro: Hey Aunt Cass, I uh have another study group tonight so don't worry about me for dinner bye!

Cass: Bye Hiro!

*Hiro quickly leaves the door as Cass pulls out her phone and calls Kaguya.*

Kaguya: Moshi moshi?

Cass: Guess what? I just got the night to myself. Wanna join me?

Kaguya: Most definitely Cassandra, just go out there and make those chefs cry.

Cass: And maybe get some dough on the side?

Kaguya: Now you're reading my mind.

*The day quickly becomes nighttime as Momakase stands in her thief attire ready to break into Krei's office once more to steal the other half of the gravitational disruptor. She jumps from rooftop to rooftop and ziplines over to Krei Tech where she positions herself upside-down to the window of the office. She pulls out her two knifes and cuts out a circle to enter. She then enters the room.*

Hiro: Hey there.

*The lights are switched on to reveal Hiro and Baymax standing by.*

Hiro: Looking for something?

Momakase: Well, this is cute. You really think you can stop me?

*Wasabi charges in to attack but she dodges out of the way and knocks him to a wall where she throws her knifes to him, barely grazing his body as he quickly dodges them all before falling over.*

Baymax: Knifes can be dangerous. Especially when thrown.

Momakase: Aww see? He gets me.

*Momakae charges towards Baymax where he kneels down to avoid her slashes. When she lands Baymax's armored arm comes off.*

Baymax: Oh no.

*He falls down as Momakase also cuts off his armored foot. She then felt her sword be pulled away to Hiro's electro-magnetic gloves.*

Momakase: What?

*With her sword in his hand, Momakase pulls out her knife.*

Hiro: Uh oh!

*Momakase swings her sword at Hiro as he inadvertently drops the sword and ducks behind the desk, ducking in time to avoid Momakase's blade.*

Hiro: Ha! Missed!

Momakase: Did I?

*A piece of Hiro's helmet falls off in response. Just then Momakase turns and blocks the attack coming from her right, she spots a young girl holding her sword with a determined glare.*

Momakase: Well aren't you the spunky one?

*Cora yells out as she swings the sword to knock out the knife in her hands.*

Momakase: You're good.

*Momakase then lands a kick to Cora's stomach, causing the young teen to drop the sword as she falls to her hands and knees in slight pain from the blow.*

Momakase: But not good enough.

Wasabi: Lady! You're going down!

*Wasabi brings up his laser blades to fight blade to blade with Momakase. Momakase strikes and slashes at Wasabi relentlessly causing him to only block her attacks until she has him pinned to the door.*

Wasabi: So the knifes... graphine right? You can tell me, it's kind of my thing.

Momakase: Yes...want a closer look?

*Wasabi laughs nervously as she cuts through Wasabi's laser blades with ease... along with his armored arms.*

Momakase: You children lasted three seconds longer than I would have thought... Impressive

*She pulls out and drops a small smoke bomb. When the smoke clears the team sees an open empty safe and no Momakase. Cora stand ups still holding her stomach in slight pain as she looks out the window where she sees the silhouette of the sushi chef/thief getting smaller and smaller in the distance. *

Hiro: Now she can mess with gravity! We have to get it back before someone gets hurt!

Wasabi: OK...but that was so cool!

*Just then the entire bookshelf falls to pieces as Momakase had sliced it up in half. Cora facepalms.*

Cora: Of all the nights for Gogo, Honey Lemon, and Fred to stay home it had to be this one?

*The team set out a search for Momakase to retrieve the tech, but while they soar through the sky, Cass and Kaguya are battling out in the underground cooking competition below. Cass set out to win the challenges while Kaguya makes bets with the overconfident men and win their money. Cass' style, endurance, and refusal to cheat and sabotage others won her the set of knifes that the loser must provide in defeat. Afterwards Kaguya would split the money with Cass in return, becoming something like a manager...However this has it's downfalls too. Cora wakes up as she peers into her Grandmother's room where the old lady is still asleep in her futon mattress. She shrugs as she prepares a cup of tea for Kaguya for when she wakes up. Cora walks down the street to meet up with Hiro when she sees a small crowd of people waiting around the cafe. She goes around the other way where she uses a spare key and enters inside. Hiro is just walking downstairs as he sees his girlfriend in the dark cafe.*

Hiro: Cora?

*Cora doesn't say anything as she points her finger to the direction of the customers waiting outside.*

Hiro: Not again.

*Hiro walks into his aunt's room where he sees Cass still sleeping in her bed.*

Baymax: Good Morning Aunt Cass.

*Cass opens her eyes as she sits up in a slight daze while Baymax lifts up the window blinds to let in sunlight.*

Cass: Wha? What time is it?

Hiro: 8:45. The cafe should be open, who are you and what have you done with my Aunt Cass?

Cass: Oh relax, they can wait a few extra minutes for their coffee.

Hiro: What's going on? You're supposed to be the responsible one!

Cass: There's nothing wrong with going out with a friend once in a while to cut loose.

Hiro: Cut loose? What are you doing all night? Where do you and my girlfriend's grandmother go?

Cass: Uh..The movies! Gotta go to work!

*Cass immediately springs out to start her job, leaving a frustrated Hiro, a clueless Baymax holding Mochi, and a deadpanning Cora.*

Hiro: She has no idea what it's like to deal someone whose obviously lying to you.

*Baymax's vinyl body causes Mochi's fur to fluff up.*

Hiro: Ugh...I'll meet you outside Cora.

*As he stomps out of the room, Cora looks at Baymax.*

Cora: *Still deadpanned* Baymax? Do you know what Irony is?

Baymax: Irony. The expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.

*Cora sighs as she walks outside to catch up with Hiro. Once they start heading to school Hiro turns to Cora.*

Hiro: I can't believe this, but Aunt Cass has left me with no choice, we have to follow her and your grandmother and find out what they're really doing!

Cora: Okay...?

Hiro: What do you mean 'okay'?

Cora: Hiro, if you lived with my grandmother, you would know it's best not to ask what she's doing...believe me...Papa learned that lesson the hard way...

Hiro: Still, I'm just so worried about her. I can't imagine what I would do if something happened to her...

*While Hiro looks down at his feet Cora gives a small faint smile as she realizes who he is reminding her of.*

*Later that night Kaguya is waiting outside the Cafe. Cass steps out and greets Kaguya, then they start walking down the street... with Hiro, Baymax, and Cora close behind. They spot Cass and Kaguya make a turn into the seedy alley.*

Hiro: What are they doing in Good luck Alley? This place is dangerous.

*Hiro and Cora hide behind crates as they watch Cass and Kaguya enter through the building.*

Hiro: What?

*Hiro rushes to slip inside with Cora and Baymax just behind him. They sneak down to see Cass putting on an apron as she is lifted up by the pole while Kaguya is directed to the VIP section.*

Hiro: What is going on?

*Meanwhile, Yama enters Momakase's sushi bar.*

Yama: I assume you got the device? The whole thing this time.

Momakase: Was it ever in doubt? One Anti-grav device with a 70 meter range radius.

Yama: Fine! I will pay you double!

*Momakase grabs the device.*

Momakase: Actually... things have changed. I'm selling it on the black market to the highest bidder.

*She then stores the device in a metallic case.*

Yama: Why you-!

*Momakase flips the poisonous fish to Yama's mouth.*

Yama: What?!-

*Yama soon becomes dizzy.*

Momakase: Ah delicious isn't it? The toxin gives it a real kick.

*Yama lands in the arms of two other sushi chefs.*

Momakase: Take him home than give him the antidote... eventually.

*She looks out through the see-through walls to spot Cass in the arena.*

Momakase: Whose that down there?

Chef minion #1: New fighter, undefeated.

Momakase: Not...for...long...

*Just then Hiro, Cora, and Baymax arrive at the top of the arena seats.*

Baymax: I detect Aunt Cass in the spotlight and Grandmama in the VIP section.

*Cora runs to her grandmother sitting beside a young man talking as Hiro heads down.*

Hiro: Hey! Aunt Cass! Aunt Cass!

Cass: Hiro! What are you doing here?

Hiro: What are you doing here?

Cass: *Confidently* Umm, winning?

Cora: Hi Grandmama.

Kaguya: Hello Cora, I'm excited to see you here. Cassandra and I are doing great...especially with all the prizes we won.

*Cora's eyes widen as her grandmother waves the hundred dollar bills in her hands, suddenly both teens' families turned their attention on stage.*

Yum Labouche: And now, back in the ring to defend her title, you know her as reigning champion...Momakase!

*Both teens gasp as they finally see the thief after many nights.*

Hiro: Momakase!

Cass: Ooh! I heard she's good!

Hiro: No! S-she's bad! Really bad! You and Grandmama gotta get out of here!

Cass: We will Hiro, just as soon as I crush her and take her knifes!

*Cass walks away.*

Hiro: No wait! You don't want to get near her knifes!

*Cora looks on with worry as she looks at her grandmother, and she sees something that made her really worried...Kaguya's eyes glared with suspicion. This meant that something is amiss and she's filled with cold determination.*

Cora: Grandmama we gotta go!

*Just then she sees a large shadow loom behind her. She turns around and sees Felony Carl holding Hiro by the scruff of his hoodie.*

Felony Carl: Sorry Cora, but it's inappropriate for you and your boyfriend to mess with the fighters.

Kaguya: *Speaks up before Cora does* Perfectly understandable Felony Carl. All I ask though is that you escort my granddaughter and her boyfriend out gently please. They are just children after all.

Felony Carl: *As he takes Cora along with him to escort her and Hiro out* I'll do my best ma'mm.

*Soon all three were 'somewhat gently' kicked out the door into the streets.*

Baymax: *Lands on top of Hiro and Cora* Oh no.

*Hiro pulls himself out as he quickly calls Gogo.*

Hiro: Gogo? We found Momakase, and you are not going to believe this.

*Cora finally frees herself as she sees Hiro just hanging up the phone.*

Hiro: They're coming right away and will be here soon. Ugh! I can't believe this is what Aunt Cass has been doing all this time! Doesn't she know how dangerous it is to be out here? Especially facing off against someone like Momakase?!

*Cora shakes her head as she looks at Hiro.*

Cora: Hiro, we need to talk.

Hiro: Talk about what?

Cora: The elephant in the room?

Baymax: There is no elephant in proximity of this area.

Cora: *To Baymax* Expressions and figure of speech lessons next Friday Baymax.*Back to Hiro* Does any of this look familiar to you? Anything at all?

*Hiro tilts his head in confusion, which results in Cora face palming and slightly shaking her head before she places her hands firmly on Hiro's shoulders and looks him right in the eye with a very serious look before continuing*

Cora: Hiro. I really did not want to do this, but you're really not giving me much choice here. But before I do this I just want you to know one thing... What I'm about to do, I'm not doing this to hurt you or to be cruel. That's the very last thing I would ever want to do to you, I'm doing this so you'll understand better. All I can ask of you before I do this is...don't hate me for it.

Hiro: *Confused, concerned and worried*...Uh, C-cora...what are you talking about?... 'Cause your kinda starting to scare me.

*Cora just looked at him for a moment before finally releasing his shoulders and took a few steps back and started to take a few moments to prepare herself for what she was about to do. She took a few deep breathes and than finally she cleared her throat and deepens her voice.*

Cora: *Imitating Tadashi* 'You graduated High School when you were 13! 13 Hiro! Bot fighting is illegal!'

*Hiro's eyes widen in shock as he finally pieces it all together. He absently sits down on the floor as his eyes seem to be lost in a unfocused stare to the wall across from them.*

Hiro: Oh my god... I sound just like my brother...

*Cora kneels down to hug Hiro.*

Cora: Yeah, you do... Wow, that...actually felt really strange to do... I really am sorry Hiro...

Hiro: N-no, no I understand and I get it...I get it now...

*There was more to Hiro's newly-found understanding than he was letting on as his mind begins to wander to all the times Tadashi had rushed in to save him from the angry bot fighters and how he would scold him for being so careless afterwards. Cora sighs as she continues hugging Hiro.*

Cora: Don't worry Hiro, once our friends get here and we suit up, we'll make sure Momakase regrets having ever facing off against our family.

*Hiro's face changes to determination as they stand up together.*

*Meanwhile, Kaguya is talking to Cass through a small earpiece.*

Kaguya: Cassandra, usually I don't say this...but be careful around this woman. This is not going to be easy.

*But Cass dismisses Kaguya's warning.*

Cass: Ah don't worry so much Kaguya. I'll be fine!

*She turns off the earpiece as Kaguya looks out to the arena with concern.*

Momakase: Hmm..let me guess... a cook at some nothing Cafe? You probably put cute animal faces in your cappuccino foam.

Cass: You wish you could make a panda-ccino like mine.

Yum Labouche: Tonight's championship challenge is gonna be...Sushi! Sharpen your knife skills chefs, this could get dangerous.

*Cass runs forward to grab the sushi but Momakase throws her knife to trip Cass down.*

Cass: Ok. Fine! You are going down.

*As that happens, the rest of the gang are suited up and ready to face Momakase. Fred is currently watching the food battle from afar.*

Fred: Woah! I never knew cooking could be so tense! I am never going to look at the sandwich in the same light.

Hiro: Baymax, scan the building for the gravity thing.

*Baymax steps forward to scan and spots where it's hiding.*

Baymax: Gravity Disruptor located.

Hiro: Let's go!

*The team runs towards the sushi bar as Cass and Momakase battle it out. Kaguya frowns as Momakase uses her knifes to sabotage Cass' work, and even then it worked in Cass' favor. Usually Kaguya never gave a second thought on the other chefs' attempt to cheat, but this woman and her ego are something else entirely... Momakase is growing frustrated that her attempts only benefited her rival. As of while Baymax opens the doors of the sushi bar.*

Baymax: It is in this room.

Hiro: Nice! This is gonna to be easier than I thought!

*But the two large sushi chefs inside beg to differ.*

Honey Lemon: Oh...hi.

*Gogo launches a punch to the face.*

Momakase: You are not as good as you think you are!

Cass: Just have to be better than you!

Momakase: Huh, we'll see about that.

*A loud thud rings on top of the sushi bar.*

Momakase: What?

*Momakase places her dish on the judges' table as she brings out her knife to cut the rope and trap Cass under a net. Kaguya's breath stilled and her eyebrows glared at the devil woman's action.*

Yum Labouche: Oof! This looks bad for Cass. She needs to get her dish to the Judges before time runs out to qualify.

Momakase: I'll be back to collect your knives.

Cass: *Struggling* Why is there even a net in here?!

*Upstairs they finally brought down the sushi chef brutes, and so they begin to search for the device. Cora runs to the sushi booth where she finds a secret panel locked from the inside. Wasabi runs forward to cut off the panel and free the box that contains the weapon. Cora is about to stand up to join the team as she notices something else...it was a blue choker beautifully decorated with gold threads, a golden medallion hangs clearly with an engraving of...*

Cora: *Softly* What?

*Cora takes off one of her suction cup shoes as she compares the symbol on the medallion to the birthmark on her ankle. They are an exact match.*

Hiro: Cora? Is something wrong?

Cora: I...don't know... I found this with the box.

*Hiro, Honey Lemon, and Gogo look at the choker in Cora's hand.*

Honey Lemon: Oh wow! It's beautiful!

Gogo: Hmm. Certainly never thought she was the type for jewelry though.

*Wasabi slices open the box.*

Wasabi: They're no graphine blades, but they do the trick just fine.

*Fred then turns his attention to the group looking at the choker.*

Fred: *Gasp* Guys! I know what that choker means!

Honey Lemon: You do?

Fred: Yeah! It's a-

*Just then the doors are slammed wide open.*

Momakase: Those! Are mine!

Gogo: Really?! Cause you stole the device!

Fred: So you really shouldn't be that offended 'cause...you know it's not yours and all...

*Momakase throws her knifes at them as Fred and Gogo dodge. Gogo lands on the floor safely while Fred is pinned to the wall.*

Fred: *Pops his head out of his suit* I'm OK!

*Momakase turns her head to the remaining five, and then she gasps as she spots the scorpion-crustacean hybrid symbol on Cora's bare ankle. Soon her eyes, once fueled by cold determination, are filling up with pure rage. She runs out with her blades in hand towards Cora with a face of fury. Cora quickly puts her shoe back on as she dodges Momakase's strikes, each time becoming faster than the last.*

Momakase: Where is he?!

Cora: What?!

Momakase: Where is that traitor?!

Cora: Seriously?! I don't know what you're talking about lady!

Momakase: Don't play cute with me! Tell me where he is! He will pay for ruining my perfect future!

*Cora slides across the floor to escape, which then leads Momakase's direction to Wasabi, who is holding the device in his hands. She quickly throws her knifes to the remaining team where Hiro redirects the knifes to Fred's already pinned body. Honey Lemon throws the ball to encapsulate her but Momakase simply cuts it and sends it flying to Honey Lemon, trapping her instead.*

Honey Lemon: Wasabi look out!

*Momakase jumps toward Wasabi as he quickly drops the device to the floor. This activates the machine where they all started to float up.*

Wasabi: It really works! It really works!

*Fred is now free from his knife imprisonment by Cora before hand.*

Fred: Woah! Cool!

*Cora tries to reach to the floor to stand still but realizes that this could be used to their advantage. As of while the crowd do the countdown.*

Crowd: Ten! Nine! Eight!

Cass: I guess you can't win them all...

Kaguya: It's alright Cassandra, it was fun while it lasted. You are a true chef.

*Cass smiles warmly at Kaguya's words but then the whole room started to float, thus lifting the net off of Cass.

Cass: I take it back! You can win them all!

*Cass flies to the judges' booth with the sushi intact as she beats the countdown.*

Yum Labouch: She did it! Haha! It's all over now with the judging! And the vote is!

*They hear a loud crash as they see Baymax and Momakase float down. Labouche lifts up Cass' arm.*

Cass: I won? Ooh I won!

Momakase: No!

*She floats down to attack Cass but then Cora swims past her and delivers an electric shock punch to the wicked sushi chef's face. Momakase holds her nose as she glares heatedly at Cora.*

Hiro: Oh no! Cora!

*Hiro then swims towards the device as Momakase launches herself to Cora. Cass and Kaguya stare in horror as Momakase brings out her knife to stab the girl.*

Hiro: Everyone hold on! Things are about to get heavy!

*Cora swims quickly to Baymax as Cass throws the net from before to stop Momakase. Just then Hiro deactivates the device where soon the gravity is set back to normal. Hiro falls down but is quickly caught by the hand by Cora who is on Baymax before she hauls him up to her. Meanwhile the crowd chants Cass' name as Kaguya stands up and smiles, her nod of approval telling all that Cass is truly worthy. Cass takes a modest bow as Momakase struggles to free herself from the net. The team are about to leave the scene when Cora points out her Grandmother walking down to face Momakase.*

Kaguya: You know, I've heard a lot about you being the greatest chef in San Fransokyo, the best Itamae the world has yet to see. A great Itamae is judged by her skills, preparation for food, how they treat their clients, and how they work with honor. But it's obvious to me that you are no Itamae...So I'll be taking this.

*Kaguya takes the knife set from Momakase's person.*

Kaguya: And this.

*Momakase's hair falls down as Kaguya than takes the blue bandanna from her head as well. If looks could kill, Kaguya would be a pile of bones at Momakase's death glare. Kaguya hands over the knife set and bandanna to Cass as she walks towards the exit.*

Kaguya: I believe it's time to go home.

*Cass smiles as she follows the wise woman to the exit. Meanwhile the team are outside the building as Gogo contacts the police.*

Gogo: They'll be here soon so we better scram.

Cora: Wait!

*Cora runs to Fred, which confuses Hiro and the others, wondering what Cora wants to talk to Fred about.*

Cora: Before, you were gonna say something about this,*Holding up the choker she had taken from Momakase's hiding place* what is it? And why did Momakase have this?

Fred: Well, again from comic books-

*The rest of to team slightly groans at this.*

Fred: I recognize this from the many plots that featured it! There are some when the villainesses are brooding over the men that ruined their lives when it's obvious they caused their own break up.

Cora: *Confused* Break up?

Fred: It's basically like an engagement ring from some rich and powerful dude, but he called off the wedding when he found out her true colors... or fell in love with someone else.

*The teams' eyes widen in surprise over learning this. Just then the police sirens are piercing through the night.*

Hiro: We gotta go!

*Everyone gets on Baymax as they fly off into the night air, but Cora's head is turning over this new information. If Momakase was engaged at some point to a very wealthy and powerful man...why did the medallion feature her birthmark?*

*The next day, the news covered the story of Momakase's thievery as Alistair Krei is on TV giving an interview. Cora and Kaguya are at the cafe enjoying their tea as Hiro walks over and greets them both as Cass cleans up the tables.*

Krei: Nobody steals from Alistair Krei and gets away with it. And nobody tells Alistair Krei how much soy sauce to use.

Cass: Wow! Can you believe that woman was a dangerous criminal?

Hiro: And you stood up to her!

Cora: Yeah! And Grandmama, you stripped her of her knifes and bandanna like it was nothing!

Hiro: Sometimes I forget how amazing you are.

*Cass smiles warmly as Cora hugs her grandmother. Kaguya pats Cora on her back as she sighs, then Cass hugs Hiro.*

Cass: Thanks Hiro.

*Just then they hear a doorbell chime as a familiar face enters the cafe.*

Cass: Chef Gramarcy? What are you doing here?

Bolton: Ummm... Hello Cass. I should say Chef Cass. First of all, I want to apologize for my atrocious behavior.

Cass: Thank you, I really appreciate it.

Bolton: Secondly I was wondering if...if you could find it in your heart to-

Cass: You want your Nana's knifes back.

*Bolton nods his head. And so Cass takes Bolton to the back room where Hiro, Cora, and Kaguya follow. Inside the storage room to everyone's surprise, sans for Cass and Kaguya's, is filled shelf by shelf with knife sets from all of Cass's victories. The ones that belonged to Momakase mounted on the wall.*

Bolton: Uh..

Cass: So...which ones are your Nana's?

*Hiro and Cora look at each other with wide eyes and gaping mouths before Kaguya shuts them close, smiling in approval of this.*

And Here is Food fight! Leave a comment and share the love! See ya!~

[kathy3112-blog]

Fear/Panic

Warren could not breathe.

Of course, he knew that, logically, he was able to breathe. There was enough oxygen in his room and he had a pair of functioning lungs, but his throat and chest were tight with irrational fear and he could not hold his breath for a split second before it rushed out of him again. Black spots were impairing his vision and Warren felt like he was about to pass out. He knew he was hyperventilating, that he was having a panic attack. He also knew what one was supposed to do in a case like this, but his logical reasoning had flown right out of the window, he could not breathe and he was going to die if he did not calm down.

It took some time, determination and a lot of frustration, but eventually, Warren was almost breathing normally again. His mind was still overtaken by screaming panic, and he was still shaking badly, but he felt like the worst part was almost over. Taking a deep, shuddering breath and exhaling audibly afterwards, he wiped over his face with his sleeve, wetting the cotton material with a mix of sweat and tears. He needed to take a shower and change into clean clothes, but the thought of possibly running into one of his fellow students and being picked on for looking like a fucking mess almost made him become hysterical again. Warren was an extrovert at heart, but right now, the idea of human contact made him tremble in horror.

As if on cue, Warren’s cellphone vibrated, probably having received a text message. It was lying on his desk, next to the sheet of paper that was the main reason for Warren’s panic attack in the first place. He knew that the test had not gone well (‘well’ meaning ‘perfect’ because Warren had high expectations for himself) and he had been dreading the day he would come to know the true extent of his failure. The moment he had seen the big, red ‘C’ on the bottom of the page, he had broken out in a cold sweat and made his way back to his dorm as soon and fast as he could. Thankfully, none of his friends had seen him (being invisible did have his advantages) but now, someone seemed to be asking for his attention.

Warren groaned and stood up from his bed. His legs were still shaking and weak, he had to hold onto his desk to regain his balance. He hoped that the message was not from someone asking whether they could copy his homework or something like that – people constantly imposed on his kindness and even though he was tired of it, he was scared of telling anyone so. On particularly bad days, Warren could not help asking himself if it was the only reason people hung out with him in the first place – because he was intelligent and easy to use. Intelligent, he repeated in his thoughts and laughed bitterly. After today, he highly doubted that.

Warren picked up his phone, carefully avoiding looking at the test sheet. When he saw the text message, he could not help but smile. It seemed that he did not have to worry after all. He sat down in his crappy office chair since he was still swaying on his feet, contemplating his response.

 Nathan: U up for a movie?

 Warren really liked Nathan, way more than he had expected he would. At first, he had just wanted to help the guy when nobody would – now, however, they were good friends. Of course, they had their ups and downs, something Warren had expected, but Nathan was making a lot of progress. He liked to think that he was helping him get better, as well. Something they did regularly were their movie nights where they made use of Nathan’s huge collection of movies. Despite the fact that watching movies with Nathan had become one of Warren’s favorite things to do, he was not sure whether he should agree to it today. The after effects were still quite noticeable and he did not want anybody to see him in this state. Eventually, Warren decided to make up some kind of excuse, keeping it vague. He soon realized that his hands were shaking too hard to type coherent words and sentences, and with every typo, he became more frustrated. In the end, he gave up on the idea of using correct spelling or grammar and just sent the message as soon as he thought it was understandable – hopefully. He just kept his fingers crossed that Nathan would not notice that something was off.

 Warren: you knw id love t but sory i’m kind fbusy tpnight

 Of course, he noticed.

 Nathan: U okay??

Nathan: Are U drunk?

 Warren gave a short laugh – of course Nathan’s first idea would be that he had gotten wasted on a Tuesday evening. He was about to write something about how he was ‘just tired’ when he got another text message.

 Nathan: wait Vic told me something earlier

Nathan: U got that shitty test back right?

 Warren winced. He had totally forgotten that Victoria was in his history class, too – the horror on his face had probably been obvious. It was just unexpected that she actually paid attention to him. She probably kept an eye on him because he had befriended Nathan, to make sure he treated him okay.

It’s a C, Warren typed back. He could feel his face burning with shame, even though he knew Nathan did not give a shit about grades. How was he supposed to tell his parents about this? Warren could feel anxiety rising in his chest again and soon, his stomach felt like it was tied in knots. He knew he had to breathe, but he felt so insignificant and pathetic, like he could not get anything right, and it was knocking the air right out of him. There was a faint sound coming from his door, but Warren could barely hear it over his heart thundering in his ears.

He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled on it, hard. The pain gave him something different to concentrate on. Warren also felt that his fringe was damp with sweat, reminding him that he desperately needed to clean himself up. It just added one more reason to feel disgusted with himself, which absolutely did not help to make the panic go away. Warren jumped when he felt his phone vibrate in his lap, completely having forgotten he had been having a conversation. With sweaty hands, he picked up the phone, reading the new text message.

 Nathan: Open your door

 A part of Warren was terrified to meet Nathan like this, but the part of him that was happy he actually cared about him was dominating. He was so fucking exhausted, and he did not want to send Nathan away when he had made the effort to come to his room, which was probably more than anyone else at Blackwell had ever done for him.

Warren did not trust his legs to carry him to the door, though, so he just yelled “it’s open”. He rarely bothered to lock his door, something he was thankful for at that moment.

His door was opened just enough for Nathan to slip into the room, immediately closing it behind him afterwards. Warren was still sitting in his office chair, trying to look as calm as possible, but it was to no avail.

“You look like shit.”

Warren gave a little laugh, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks for pointing that out. I’m pretty fucking tired”, he explained. It was just a small part of the truth, but it was not a lie.

Nathan went to sit on the bed and Warren turned his chair a little, so that they were facing each other. “I may not be a scientist like you, but I do know a panic attack when I see it.”

Warren breathed out audibly, his mind was racing. “Sorry”, was the first thing he could think of.

“You don’t have to apologize”, Nathan replied. “Especially after all the shitfits I’ve had that you witnessed.”

Warren gave a small smile at that. “I’m a mess, though. I really need to take a shower. I’m like a sweat-factory.”

Nathan nodded understandingly. “I can help you with that if you need me to.”

A warm feeling was spreading through Warren’s chest and he smiled. “Will you scrub my back for me, as well?”, he asked, mostly jokingly.

Nathan smirked back at him. “If you want.” His expression grew more concerned again after that. “Seriously, though. I know what this shit’s like, so… If you need company, I’m here.” After thinking for a moment, he added: “And take your time, you don’t smell super bad or anything.”

Nathan would always say the most ridiculously precious things with a dead serious expression and it never failed to make Warren’s day. “That’s actually the nicest thing I’ve heard today”, Warren laughed.

Nathan snorted. “You’re such a fucking nerd. Stop being so goddamn hard on yourself.”

There was something soothing and natural about Nathan’s presence and Warren did not know what it was, but he could already feel his panic subsiding.   

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] of flavoured names and coloured sounds (chapter 2 of 2)

Summary: "He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him."

In which Draco just wants to know what colour Hermione's moans would be. He also wants to know if her skin would taste as sweet as her surname or maybe as intoxicating as her given name.

LINKS

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567740/chapters/56541799  FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13547597/1/of-flavoured-names-and-coloured-sounds

CHAPTER 2

Potter’s following him around. He had thought that maybe breaking the bloke’s nose and leaving him hidden under his own invisibility cloak would get rid of the nosy scarhead, but that had been a mistake on his part. Now he feels the other wizard’s eyes constantly on him, and if he had the same energy as last year, he would have teased Potter for having a crush on him. Unfortunately, the world looks substantially bleaker now, with his condition significantly impaired, and so he doubts that he would still find pleasure in his old shenanigans.

He concedes that nothing would look cheery when one has a skull branded onto their skin, directly connected to a megalomaniac hellbent on killing one of your classmates. Even the sweetness of the word cheery tastes like ash in his mouth these days, and he can no longer tell if what he’s tasting on his tongue from thinking of the word megalomaniac is the flavour of a kiwi or that of a pear.

Pansy seems to have recovered from their messy break up, shifting from pointedly ignoring him to constantly hovering around him and acting like a worried girlfriend. It especially annoys him as her voice produces some of the most monotonous hues he’s ever seen coming from one person, her only contender for the crown being his godfather and the former Durmstrang headmaster turned fugitive.

The great hall, previously a place where he would often get lost drowning in the seas of flashing colours, now looks like it is littered with gossamers of barely-there pigments. From where he’s sitting, he can see Granger and her two wanker friends whispering to each other. She’s arguing with them (real shocker that is) and he can see a look of irritation on her face being directed at Potter. He almost smiles at this, but then her eyes suddenly flit to meet his and, stupidly enough, he feels himself freeze at the contact.

She must realise that he’s been watching them, because she raises one eyebrow at him and doesn’t stop staring until the plates are magically being cleared from the table, even when he finally breaks from the intensity of her gaze and looks away first.

He knows this because every time he looks to check if she’s no longer staring at him, their eyes would meet before his would snap away to look back down at his mutilated food. It’s odd, not to mention stressful, because what he needs right now is for people like Potter and Pansy and Hermione Granger to leave him alone.

He has a mission that’s doomed to fail, after all, and he would rather stumble through that without those three constantly monitoring him.

   Legilimens tastes like strawberry profiteroles and Occlumens tastes like Arabic coffee—they’re flavour he finds odd to associate with his godfather as he can’t imagine the man enjoying pastries and drinking anything other than unsweetened tea.

“I see your Aunt has taught you Occlumency,” Snape finally says, having spent the last three minutes trying to break into Draco’s mind. “Whatever it is you’re trying to achieve, Draco, trust that I am capable of helping—,” he begins to offer, but Draco cuts him off.

“I don’t need your help,” he grits out. “I was chosen for this. He trusts me to do this.” It’s a lie that he keeps telling himself, but Occlumency doesn’t work on one’s own mind and he can only pretend to believe the sham for so long—he knows that this task had been placed upon his shoulders as punishment for each and every one of his father’s failures, hand delivered by the Dark Lord himself, complete with the Dark Mark and a lovely death threat.

Suddenly, the older wizard begins throwing silencing charms all over the classroom, his tunnel-like eyes never once leaving Draco. “Do you even have the slightest idea how to cast any of the Unforgivables?”

Draco inwardly cringes. He had witnessed the Dark Lord performing all those spells, watched as subdued shades of navy blue intermingled with the green and red lights of the curses. Avada Kedavra had tasted like burnt meringue, the flavour not unlike that of Harry Potter’s combined name. Hearing the Dark Lord torture someone with repeated incantations of Crucio had assaulted his tongue with the taste of melting ice, more of a sensation that an actual flavour. Imperio, as he had come to learn, tastes like the air after a period of rain.

His mind had reeled at how innocent these curses had tasted on his tongue, when he could not even attempt to cast the Patronus charm, the purest of the spells in his opinion, as the incantation brought about a disagreeable fishy flavour. Expelliarmus he could manage quite easily, disarming people all the while savouring the taste of lemon sherbet on his taste buds.

“Can you conjure the Dark Mark, Draco?” Snape continues, either oblivious or uncaring that Draco had gone and retreated into his own mind. “Do you even know the incantation?”  

“Morsmordre,” he easily answers, but his voice is barely above a whisper. He prays he never has to cast that spell as he does not particularly like the taste of rust on his tongue. When Snape does not respond to that, Draco turns away and begins to head out of the room, shoving the door open and fleeing from his godfather before the man can further prove to him how unfit he is to take on the role of a Death Eater.

   Petrichor. It’s the name of the taste on his tongue as he leaves the Three Broomsticks, fake galleons tightly clutched in one hand and the feeling of guilt clawing at his heart.

(Upon inspection, he admits to himself and to himself only that the guilt wasn’t so much over what he had done to Rosmerta, but more because of the fact that he had stolen Granger’s ideas and used them for his own twisted needs.)

   “Why are you slacking off on school-work?”

His physical desire to be with her is still surprisingly there, but he had demanded from the Head Boy that he change his patrol partner to no avail. Draco suspects that the Slytherin is aware that the Malfoy family is not in such a good place, as even the mention of his father could not change the mind of the older student.

“Leave it, Granger. It’s none of your business what I do.”

“It’s just curious, is all,” she continues, as if she hadn’t heard a word that he said. “Last year you spent four hours working on one Transfiguration homework, and now you’ve already missed two. Makes one wonder, what had happened over the summer that would warrant such a change—”

The minute his hands wrap around her shoulders, he regrets it, but not enough to stop himself from pushing her against a wall and invading her personal space. There’s an inch or two of space separating their faces, and he can barely stop himself from getting lost in the sea of her freckles. “I said leave it, you filthy Mud—”

“What’s so different about you now that you’d even pay someone to take your place in the Slytherin quidditch team?”

When she speaks, her breath hits him and overwhelms him with the scent of spearmint, presumably from her toothpaste. It washes out the dirty word that he had almost used on her, and before he can stop himself, he’s groaning in response to the stimulus. It startles the both of them, and he can imagine that the blush currently riding high on her cheeks is identical to the one staining his.

He pushes away from her, striding back the direction they came from and cutting the patrol short. He decides then and there that if he has to quit being a prefect to be away from her, he’ll do it.

   The following week he has to listen to her describe her love potion. Amortentia, the word, tastes like overly ripe mangoes, just a good day or two away from rotting. He can’t even muster enough energy to be angry at the fact that he catches a whiff of spearmint, vanilla, coconut, and green apples when he passes by the blasted cauldron.

   His tongue feels cold, but before he can cast the spell, the one that leaves Potter’s mouth replaces the ice with the slight heat of cumin. It’s a spell that he’s not familiar with, but when it hits him, he feels the gashes opening up on his skin as he falls to the bathroom floor.

It’s a queer feeling, being aware of one’s own approaching death. At first it fills him with a sense of dread, panic at the thought that everything ends there, but then as the blood drains out of his clothes to stain the tiles he’s lying helpless on, it takes with it all the regret, the hope, leaving him feeling numb as his life slips from his fingers.

His eyelids close, his ears barely pick up the sound of hurried footsteps, of someone crying beside him, and his tongue tells him that Vulnera tastes like red grapes and Sanentur tastes like sulphur.

   He doesn’t know how she does it, but she sneaks in to the infirmary in the middle of the night and proceeds to spend ten minutes just standing by his bed, arms crossed over her chest, lips set into an angry line, and eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Crying for me now?” he asks, voice rough from disuse. “Save it for someone who matters.”

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers back, sinking onto the chair beside his bed. “He wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“I don’t care what he was trying to do, I was trying to kill him.” The lie comes easily enough, what with the Occlumency walls and the fact that he honestly doesn’t have a clear idea what he had been trying to do.

Hermione doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring, but the tears don’t fall from her eyes and he’s grateful for that. He wants to remind her that he’s the bad guy in her story, the same bloke who had looked at her like she was beneath him simply because her parents weren’t magical. One successful paired homework and a couple of times spent sharing a library table shouldn’t change that, shouldn’t erase what he was and what he is.

He almost wants to show her his Dark Mark just so she’d stop trying to act like he’s still got a soul hiding somewhere inside his body.

“You should sleep,” she finally says, after a long moment of just staring at each other. “Merlin knows you need it.” With that she rises from her seat, walking away from him. He panics at the sight, his mouth opening before his brain can register what he’s about to do.

“Don’t come back here, Granger,” he tells her. When she pauses her stride but doesn’t turn to look back at him, he clarifies, “Don’t come back to Hogwarts.”

   The word tastes like burnt meringue on his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he finds himself talking, telling the old man everything that he’s done during the year, as if he would vomit if he stopped talking. He calls her a mudblood for appearance’s sake and actually laughs when Dumbledore asks him to not use that word in front of him.

Defenceless tastes like biting the rind of a citrus, bitter and unappealing. It’s a word that certainly does not suit the greatest wizard of modern times.

The promise of safety is a jumble of salty and bitter words, one in particular tasting like sardines and another like freshy harvested caviar. He rambles, lowers his wand, then the others rush in to bare witness to his incapability of becoming a murderer.

Albus Dumbledore’s wine-coloured pleas are answered by Snape’s sweet and smoky spell.

   He quickly becomes intimate with the sensation of melting ice on his tongue. It’s when he spends most of the day torturing people that he feels the slightest bit thankful for his impaired condition.

It’s when he watches his deranged aunt torture her that he yearns the most for the colours to come back, to obstruct his vision so it would be filled with explosions of orange and teal and he won’t have to look her in the eye and face her judgment. He would much rather take the cold numbing his tongue than to look at her lying near lifeless on the ground.

   Working as a double agent is beyond exhausting, but he’d sooner get killed than do nothing and allow the Dark Lord to win this war. It’s been three months since he had demanded from his godfather that he take him to the other side, for Severus to make him a spy not unlike the older man. For a moment, they had seized each other up, the both of them waiting for the other to turn out as a cleverly placed decoy to sniff out traitors amongst their ranks.

It’s been three months since he’s been allowed free passage into 12 Grimmauld Place, three months since his godfather had told him everything he needed to know in order to be allowed into the ranks of the Order, three months since he was stunned then questioned by Mad-Eye Moody while under a powerful dose of Veritaserum, unable to use Occlumency to counter the effects of the potion, and three months since Remus Lupin introduced him to the rest of the Order as their new spy.

Draco had tried to explain to Kingsley, Moody, and Lupin that Severus had been acting under Dumbledore’s commands, but the three of them had insisted that even if it were true, it would be too risky for Snape to keep working with them. Still, the clarification on what had truly happened that night at the Astronomy tower proves useful in that they relax just enough to start using the safehouse again.

He doesn’t see Potter even once during those three months, and he doesn’t try to ask them about his whereabouts. The less he knows about the Order’s plans, the better. He does, however, see the ginger weasel on occasion, and he does his best to not hex the bloke on sight.

It’s difficult, but he manages.

The concealment charm is just wearing off as he enters the house, closing the door behind him, when he hears and sees them; the sound of a piano playing invades his ears and colours his vision. The sound doesn’t come together to form music, just random notes here and there as if the person playing them is just testing out the keys. Still, it’s been too long since he’s last heard music and last seen the colours dancing in his vision, as neither he nor his mother have found much reason to touch the grand piano in the manor after he took the Dark Mark.

(It is, after all, quite difficult to indulge in music when Death Eaters are torturing and raping people just down the hall.)

He follows the sound further into the house and finds Hermione Granger sitting in front of the rusty piano. She looks up upon his entrance, her finger hovering over one of the keys, then their eyes meet. Draco mentally prepares a speech declaring himself their ally, but she surprises him by smiling.

“Hello, Draco. I was told I’d see you here,” she says, her voice causing the familiar pinks to flash before him. There’s a pang in his chest when he sees how translucent they are, barely there, and he regrets not enjoying the sights when he had the privilege to. “I must say, I was glad when they told me you defected, but I wasn’t exactly surprised.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, genuinely confused by her declaration. He moves towards her, placing a finger on the piano and swiping at the dust that had accumulated there. He reaches for his wand and performs a quick scourgify, moving to sit beside her. He sits on the very edge of the wooden bench, keeping as large as a distance between them as it would allow. He’s surprised she doesn’t jump up and slap him across the face for daring to sit next to her.

“You did save me that night, and you didn’t kill Dumbledore,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips and a knowing look in her eyes. She gestures to the piano and asks, “Do you know how to play?”

He’s slightly taken aback by the sudden change in topic, but he doesn’t show her his surprise, nodding his head in affirmation. “Do you?”

“No. You should play; I’d love to hear it.”

He should really be asking her where the others are, preferably Lupin as he has information to relay to them, but his hands rise and then his fingers are tentatively pressing down on a few keys. The colours instantly return, and with that he feels a surge of confidence that has him transitioning from hesitant strokes of the keys to the beginning notes of one of his favourite pieces. He plays for a while, closing his eyes and enjoying the dance of the colours behind his lids, and when he opens them again they seek her out as if on instinct.

The look in her eyes as they meet his has him cutting off the music, his fingers lifting from the keys mid stroke. The silence that fills the room as the last vibrations from the piano fizzle out is awkward, to say the least, and he finds himself wracking his mind for something to say.

She beats him to it by declaring, “I didn’t know you listened to muggle classical music. That was Chopin, wasn’t it?”

He nods, still unable to tear his gaze away from her. The words that stumble out of his mouth make it out of their confines purely on accident, only because he’s lost in the colour of her eyes—honey, harvested during the late summer. “His pieces have the prettiest colours.”

Confusion settles on her features and he wishes he could take it back, wishes he could fulfil his promise to his mother that he would never tell anyone about this but then again, he has broken more promises than he can remember, some that had been more detrimental to their well-being than admitting to someone that he sees coloured sounds and tastes flavoured names. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and he can barely stop himself from reaching out to smooth away her frown.

“What do you mean, they have the prettiest colours? Do you have synaesthesia?”

He’s already opening his mouth to explain but then her words register to him and he blurts out, “What? Do I have what?”

“Synaesthesia, from the Greek words sún meaning “with” and aísthēsis meaning “sensation”, is a condition wherein the synesthete, a term for a person who has the condition, is able to process data in the form of several senses all at once,” she explains, and he’s instantly taken back to their classes at Hogwarts, when her hand would shot up and she would then proceed to unload a verbal vomit of information unto all of them. “For example, some people can see colours when they hear music, or they can taste certain words. It’s a very rare condition, and most people who have it go on to become artists or writers.” 

She must mistake his astounded expression as a response to her vast knowledge on the topic because she blushes and looks away. Draco, on the other hand, is experiencing something akin to euphoria. He has never heard anyone describe his little “talent” so accurately, sod it, he has never heard anyone describe it, period. In hindsight, he thinks he shouldn’t be so surprised that Hermione Granger, swottiest of swots, would know that something like this exists. That someone like him exists.

“It’s a muggle thing, then? I’ve never heard of anyone else in the wizarding community talk about something like this, and I’ve tried to research about it but nothing ever came up in my readings,” he tells her, staring at the colours his voice makes.

“I honestly don’t know,” she admits, looking back towards him and appearing somewhat sheepish, as if her not knowing everything is something to be embarrassed about. “What do you see?”

“I taste words and names. Everything has a flavour associated with them. I see bursts of colours when I hear music, and I see fainter, more translucent colours when people speak.”

“Words have colour, too? Right now, you’re seeing colours as we speak?”

“It’s not really the words that are coloured, it’s the notes that people produce when they talk,” he elaborates. Running a hand through his hair, he decides to reveal some more information to her, information that he had thought he would carry to the grave with him. “When you speak, you make pastel colours, mostly pinks and blue. They used to be so harsh and bright when we were younger, used to give me headaches every time you opened your mouth in class.”

“Is that why you hated me so much?”

He feels guilty in an instant, remembering all the things he said to her back then. “That was one thing, it was another thing that I’ve been told my whole life that muggle-borns don’t have a place in our world, but obviously you made me question that by besting me in everything except flying a broom.”

She laughs, a quiet one, but it makes him realise that she’s one of those rare people who have musical laughter. “What does my name taste like?”   

Draco draws in a quick breath, quickly looking away from her searching eyes. He begins to question what he’s doing, sitting beside her, playing music for her, telling her the one thing he has never voluntarily told anyone else, lusting after her, wanting her.

(Falling for her.)

“Hermione tastes like Sauvignon Blanc and Granger tastes like green apples,” he lets out in one breath, overcome by a misplaced need to be honest with her in that moment. Before she can make a comment, before she can do something like reveal to him that she had somehow known his bias for green apples, he rushes to add, “I can’t taste it anymore as well as I used to, and the colours aren’t as vivid as they were before the Dark Mark. It dulled everything.”

He looks away from her, resolutely staring at the piano in front of him and wishing that someone would walk into the safehouse and put an end to this bizarre interaction. Talking to her has been the only good thing that has happened to him in months, maybe in years, but he’s overwhelmed by her and by his need for proximity. It’s ridiculous, wanting someone you had actively tormented for two years, wanting someone you had watched get tortured by your crazed aunt while you stood by and did nothing.

“Does it interfere with your vision, the colours?”

He frowns, turning his head to look back at her. “When there’s too many people talking, it used to throw me off a bit, but not ever since I got the mark.”

She looks pensive, her eyes unfocused before they look up to meet his confused gaze. “After this, what are you going to do about your aim?”

“Pardon?”

“The Dark Mark, it would fade once Voldemort’s dead,” she says, gesturing to his arm. “I can only assume that when that happens, the effects of the mark on your synaesthesia would also disappear or won’t be as potent as it is right now.”

He feels his chest tighten at what she’s building up to, feels something like hope blossoming there. It’s an emotion that he has almost entirely forgotten, and he’s not certain that he should be allowing her to fill him with such a thing when he had only planned to swing by and give information then be back out again in less than thirty minutes—

“What are you going to do when we defeat him, Draco?”

   Severus knows what he’s doing or, at least, knows what potion he’s about to attempt to make. The man takes one good look at the ingredients laid out on the table, one good look at Draco, then wandlessly summons a quill and a piece of parchment. As his godfather writes, Draco begins the preparations for the brewing process, double and triple checking that he has everything he needs.

When he’s finished writing, Severus hands over the piece of parchment and leaves the hidden cottage without uttering a single word. When he peers down at it, he realises the man had just given him something that he would treasure for the rest of his inevitably short life.

There, in his trembling hands, are the potion master’s notes on how to successfully brew the concoction without ending up with a few missing limbs. The word Ashwinder tastes like coriander, squill bulb tastes like a combination of mayonnaise and strawberries, Occamy tastes like dried up carrots, and Murtlap tastes like the back of one’s hand.

   He comes by again, nearly a month after his last visit, and this time Remus is there to receive the information.

Granger sits in the meeting, inviting herself into the table with a tray of tea for the three of them. He’s the only one with a cup that has a coaster and Remus eyes it with a smirk on his tired face. Hermione sits beside him, self-inking quill in one hand, parchment in front of her, and gives him an expectant look that he takes as his cue to start.

It takes him twenty-three minutes to finish relaying every detail he’d been able to cram into his head from the meetings he had attended, every drunken whisper, every careless slip of the tongue, he had shoved into a corner of his brain only to purge it all out right onto her messy notes.

His old DADA professor nods at him, tells him he should stay and finish his tea, then the older man is pushing away from the table and leaving the two of them alone in the old house. He performs a quick warming charm on his tea, taking in the decaying wood of the table while she worked on tidying up her notes. Once she’s done, she looks up at him and he takes the liberty of warming up her tea for her.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching for her cup and bringing it to her lips. “It’s already horrid enough when it’s hot, it’s just plain unacceptable when it’s lukewarm.”

He only nods. He doesn’t tell her it’s the best tea he’s had in nearly a month solely because she’s the person he’s enjoying it with. Not even the most expensive tea in the world would taste good when you have to drink it in the presence of other Death Eaters.

“The last time I saw you, you looked like you hadn’t slept in two weeks. That was two years ago and you still look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at this, gulping down a mouthful of the herbal tea concoction before answering, “The last time I saw you, you were being tortured by my crazed aunt with a spell that makes me feel like I’ve put a cube of ice on my tongue to melt. That was roughly a year ago and you didn’t look quite so good yourself then, Granger.”

“I was actually referring to that night in the infirmary.”

He rolls his eyes at her, plucking the parchment from her fingers and reading over her notes. “I know what you were referring to. It wasn’t the last time you saw me.”

“You’re right, I saw you last month, so I guess we’re both recalling our last meeting all wrong.”

He looks at her, watches her raise her drink to her lips to hide her smile. There’s mirth in her eyes and he’s almost foolish enough to think that she’s flirting with him, but he quickly kills the thought, crushes it underneath his dragonhide shoes and fires a hex at it for good measure.

“It was very nice of you to try and save me again, that night at the infirmary.”   

“When will you stop assuming that everything I do is an attempt to save you—”

He’s used to seeing and hearing her cut off people mid-speech, usually talking over them to correct the way they’re saying an incantation or just to tell them that they’re wrong and she’s right. A couple of times, he had seen her walk away from the weasel during an argument, causing the ginger to splutter at her sudden departure.

He can’t recall a time when he’s seen her kiss someone to shut them up, but that’s what she’s doing to him.

Hermione’s lips are warm, probably from the tea, and they’re soft against his own. His eyes had closed from her sudden movement, bracing himself to get a much-deserved punch, and he doesn’t dare open them now. Her lips start to move against his and he answers in earnest, deciding he’ll enjoy it while it lasts and dissect every moment of this later, in the false safety of his own room at the manor. When he feels the tip of her tongue touch his bottom lip, he immediately grants her access, reckless in his need to finally taste whichever part of her that she’s offering.

She’s a clumsy kisser, using far too much force when she bites his bottom lip, and it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. Her tongue tastes like the tea they’ve just shared, with just the slightest hint of spearmint. When she moans, he answers it with a groan of his own, his hands finally moving to cradle her face. He feels her fingers toying with the topmost button of his shirt, popping the first three open and sliding her hands inside to touch the skin of his collar and the base of his neck.

She breaks away from his lips and trails kisses down his neck, starting at the corner of his mouth and ending at the hollow of his throat.

“Your toothpaste, it’s fennel, isn’t it?”

He tries to clear the fog from his brain but her hot breath repeatedly touching the skin of his neck isn’t helping. Somehow, his own fingers have tangled themselves into the mess she calls her hair, and he spends a quiet moment just admiring how surprisingly soft it is to the touch. When he finally gets his mouth to move, the only word he can manage is, “What?”

She lifts her head, moving to place her lips on his once more, speaking against his mouth and letting her breath fan his face. “Fennel toothpaste, it’s what your breath smelled like back in sixth year.”

   His mother eyes him from across the table, one hand soundlessly stirring her tea, the other idly playing with her wand. They’re all alone in the dining room, his father having ambled away after finishing off three bites of his breakfast and three glasses of brandy.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, placing the teaspoon aside and taking a sip from her tea. He knows that tone, and that tone paired with the look she’s giving him means nothing but trouble for him.

“Death Eater duties,” he offers, his own tone bordering between sarcastic and bored. Truth be told, he has been busy—busy smuggling information to the Order and busy snogging Granger the moment they’re left alone in that house. It never goes further than hurried, messy kisses, and he tells himself he’s fine with that.

   They almost get caught one day, with her sitting on the dinner table and him standing in between her thighs. He doesn’t know how he had somehow missed the sound of the door opening, but then colours float into his vision and he jumps away from her.

She’s hopping off the table, wiping at the residual saliva on her lips, when Weasley walks in along with Tonks. His presence immediately brings back the taste of his name, aggravated by the fact that Granger acknowledges them by saying both their names. Tonks tastes like butter cookies, and it would have paired nicely with the weasel’s milk-tasting name had the milk not been curdled.

It’s a good thing, really, because the taste helps kill the boner he’d been trying to hide.

   It’s the first time he sees Potter after the incident at the Manor, and he barely pays attention to the boy wonder and the fact that he looks almost as pale as Draco himself because he’s reaching for Granger’s quill and a scrap of parchment. The people in the room grow quiet as he writes, and he’s thankful that they’re unknowingly helping him focus by not creating unnecessary colours to cloud his vision.

Merlin knows he needs it, the assault on his tongue already distracting enough without the visual part of his condition contributing to the skirmish. He keeps writing, struggling to maintain a straight face as flavours like soap, tripe, and horseradish clash on his taste buds, fitting together as well as mismatched puzzle pieces would.

When he’s done, he hands the paper over to Potter. His eyes search the room, finally landing and getting lost in late summer honey as the man meant to save them all reads over all the information Draco’s been able to gather about the attack to be launched at Hogwarts tomorrow. Tomorrow, Voldemort will know that there’s an informant in their midst, and Draco will confirm it by fighting for the Order. Tomorrow, he’ll dose his mother with felix felicis, the only protection he can grant her when it’s revealed to everyone on the dark side that he’s a traitor.

Tomorrow, both him and Hermione may die, but right now he ignores the sound of Harry Potter’s voice as he relays orders to the people gathered around the table, ignores the green and red colours swimming in his vision, ignores the flavours on his tongue in favour of staring into her eyes for reassurance that he knows he won’t ever find there.

   He’s surprised he hasn’t had a seizure yet. He had physically felt it when Voldemort died, the burning on his arm disappearing like a bubble popping out of existence. Also like a bubble, the synaesthesia comes back in full force. It’s like having your hearing muffled by water stuck in your ear, and when the water finally gets dislodged the sound comes back in a rush, only for him it’s the colours and the flavours that crash down on him like a tidal wave.

It knocks him off his feet and he lands on his knees, staring at all the colours bursting in and out of his sight. He can barely see the people all around him, can barely focus on anything as he keeps whispering her name and relishing the full effects of Sauvignon Blanc and green apples on his taste buds.

Someone’s kissing him, and even with the colours blocking his vision with his eyes open and the hues persisting behind his lids with his eyes closed, he knows it’s her. He knows it’s her even though she doesn’t taste like the crappy tea they have at the safehouse, even though she fills his mouth with the taste of blood instead of the natural taste of her tongue.

The colours start to fade as he takes notice of the hush that slowly envelops the grounds. He imagines that they must make quite the sight, Draco Malfoy and Hermione granger all bloodied up and kissing each other, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“You were right,” he whispers against her lips, opening his eyes and staring into pools of late summer honey. “I have to figure out what to do about my aim.”

   Granger does not taste like green apples, nor does her skin remind him of an expensive bottle of wine. She tastes like the soap she had used to aggressively scrub out the grime and blood from every inch of her skin, leaving her pink and tender. He understands the almost obsessive way with which she cleans herself—it’s been a week since the war ended but he still wakes up feeling dirty, feeling like he would never get rid of the warm, sticky blood on his hands. He knows she hadn’t killed anyone, unlike him, but she feels dirty all the same.

Her bones are prominent, especially the ones encasing her lungs and her heart, and he takes his time kissing down her ribs to her jutting hipbones. She giggles and it makes him see soft bursts of salmon pink. “I’m ticklish there,” she says, and it makes him see pale yellows, the colour of daffodils. He’s never seen her produce that colour before and he chases after it for a few seconds, enthralled by its appearance.

He tries to keep as quiet as he can, tries his best not to adulterate her colours and her flavours with his own voice. When she had emerged from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around her body, dripping water everywhere, he had told her in a quiet voice to come closer. He had watched the deep burgundy dance in and out his vision and had decided that he’d much rather see pale pinks and Varathane bleached blues.

Now he’s inching closer to her centre and she’s making breathy little sighs of pleasure, her fingers finding purchase in his still damp hair. He’s doing his utmost best to keep his head as blank as possible, to taste only her on his tongue. She smells like soap down there too, and when he uses his fingers to spread her, he marvels at how pink and wet she is for him.

“Draco.”

Salmon pink flashes behind his closed lids and his favourite chocolate melts on his tongue immediately. He has to kiss her thighs, biting into the soft flesh in an effort to contain himself from tasting that part of her. He doesn’t want to taste chocolates in his mouth, he wants to know what she tastes like without the synaesthesia, so he kisses her thighs and looks up at her. He watches her bite her lower lip, nod at him once, and he knows she understands.

It takes him a moment, but his senses finally calm down enough that his tongue can only detect the faint salt and soap of her thighs. Her hands are still buried in his hair and she begins to tug his face towards her centre. He looks up at her once more, maintaining eye contact when he runs the flat of his tongue over her exposed slit.

They moan almost in unison, both their voices filling his eyes with colours that he hadn’t thought would fit well but surprising compliment each other. She doesn’t taste like Sauvignon Blanc but he thinks he could get drunk all the same. He fucks her with his tongue, watches her bite around her closed fist to keep her moans under control.

She loses the battle when his lips close around her clit and his name comes pouring out of her mouth. He groans against her slick lips, using the flat of his tongue to swipe at her clit and two fingers to fuck her entrance. Her moans grow louder as she nears her release and he’s glad he had put up silencing charms on the room—the rest of the Order still staying in the house would probably appreciate not hearing them having sex.

When she comes, she nearly shouts his name. He pulls back and sheaths himself inside of her with one push, gripping her hips and feeling her walls fluttering all around his cock. He doesn’t move an inch, feelings the muscles in his stomach tightening from the effort it’s taking him to hold back from fucking her into the mattress.

She reaches out to him, pulling him down to kiss her and taste herself on his mouth. With their lips still pressed together, their chests flushed against each other, she whispers, “You can move now.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs. Her name springs out from him unbidden, and it’s one of those moments when he can almost convince himself that he can get drunk just from saying her name.

He makes her come three more times, twice on his cock, and he would have gone for more but she starts crying after the third time and he knows what those tears are for.  War had taken away his father to Azkaban and, along with the older man, much of Draco’s prejudice and the things he used to believe in. It had cost him the life of one of his friends and had crushed any chance of him ever producing a Patronus, but he knows she had lost so much more than that. He was part of the Order, a valuable spy that had ultimately help tip the scale in their favour, but he hadn’t been friends with any of those people.

As for her, they had become her family after she had been forced to give up her parents. They won the war, but he suspects that it would take a long time before her hands stop shaking, before she can go out without holding on to her wand as if her life still depends on it, before she can go to sleep without worrying that she’ll wake up screaming her head off because of a nightmare.

“I didn’t know orgasms could be that overwhelming,” she whispers sheepishly, the tip of her fingers tracing the Sectumsempra scars among the other blemishes he now sports.

The word orgasm tastes like a slice of Victoria sponge. He wraps a moth-bitten quilt around their naked bodies, and when he tells her to go to sleep, her Sauvignon Blanc-flavoured name on his tongue and her rose-coloured laugh behind his eyes are the things that lull him to the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had in years.

[ihatemyartsomuch]

16th February 2020

3:43am

I don’t know why, but I feel so alone.

I think it’s stemming from the fact that I know that moms days are numbered. Then everything changes - I’m literally gonna be alone. Orphaned. Truly & absolutely alone.

I can’t shake this anxious episode. I haven’t been able to the whole day. I know I’m a fucking mess - & I hate that I have to constantly hide it because I’m supposedly effecting everybody & the entire mood & situation through it’s existence & it’s expression. This war that I’ve waged against myself. My internal struggles. My oppression.

Nobody understands. How could they even understand? I’m failing to do so myself.

Behind all the fake smiles & laughter hides a scared little boy, searching for guidance & direction. Searching for something. Something of actual purpose. That’s all I’ve been yearning for.. I don’t think I understand what that is, & how it feels to be accepted & supported fully.. what it feels like to be genuinely mentored & cared for. Spilling from the void that dad left behind. A vacancy I’ve looked to fill countless times. & failed.

My whole life I’ve struggled with my identity. My beliefs. My personal growth. My place in this world, with who I think I am in conjunction with who I project & are actually destined to be - the balance between these conflicting forces. Loving & accepting myself for its entirety.

I can’t.

I become version after version of myself.

Each with their own set of faults & insecurities.

All of them forged from pain & suffering.

All of them spawned through self-hatred.

I damage myself constantly. Avoiding what I deeply know I need to feel because I’m afraid of confronting the reality of my fears. The reality of my future. The life that I’ve created - a terrible coping mechanism. A fucking crutch intended to hurt me as I try to walk.

A series of painful distractions.

Projections & reflections.

I’m so ashamed of myself. Sometimes I just wanna hide. Run as far away as I can - I don’t understand why people constantly feel the need to keep me around. I have nothing to offer, yet they all expect this specific energy & character & effort from me. The detached, surfaced presence of my being - a facade I can only maintain for so long..

“Why’re you so sad?”

“What’s wrong?”

I’ve never really been able to answer that. There are so many elements & circumstances in my life that are forcing me to feel this way. & it’s so strenuous. I’m genuinely struggling to keep afloat right now. Gasping for moments of clarity & peace. A sea of my of my own creation, designed solely for my self destruction.

I’ve never really been afraid to drown.

I’ve never really been afraid to die.

Cape Town.

Mom.

Girlfriend.

Future.

These decisions shouldn’t be this hard, yet I’ve been struggling to realise what it is that I truly need to do. I’m turning 23 & I still feel like a lost child with no hope of finding my direction - I’ve never really been able to secure something inside of myself that’s genuinely meaningful. I lack will & desire. Devoid of want & need.

Numb.

They repeatedly tell you that you’re gonna be acting selfishly if you kill yourself - think about how it’s gonna affect everyone around you. Think about how they would feel?

You have so much to live for.

- A series of automated responses generated from our brain for the average suicide case.

We’re designed to conveniently care - then automatically resume with our self-consumed life experiences after that period of relevance is slightly out of focus. People don’t actually care. & we’re all well aware of this - it’s the human condition. A behavioural trait more than an active decision. Out of sight, out of mind.

& the true nature of this world has me contemplating whether I should succumb to these meaningless pressures that have been passively handed down to me because of who I am. This fucking casted shadow that I’ve been existing in since I was born. Expectations that I have to meet for the sake of my family & the legacy my surname holds. I have big shoes to fill. & even bigger steps to take.

They call my dad a legend. An icon. A role model. A mentor. A professor. A soul that will sorely be missed by countless people. A hero.

, but he died slaving away for the idea of a chance of a better life for us - & I don’t blame him. He loved us. He tried to do what he thought was best for us as a family.

I can’t even remember his voice. Anything he’s ever said to me. Why tf can’t I remember? I don’t understand this mental block - & it has me thinking if I’m going to grow this disconnected to the idea & memories of my mom too. Blank spaces in my memory to replace the trauma’s emotional attachment & accessibility. Slowly becoming more & more out of focus. Until it’s passively unnoticed.

Oblivion.

I need space. Somewhere that I can ultimately clear my head. My mind’s clouded. My judgement & vision impaired because of my frantic thoughts & dissociative behaviour. & the fact that I’ve been existing inside this state of ignorant bliss - for so long, that I actually believed I could do this forever - has ultimately left me conflicted & confused. I’ve stagnated.

Time hasn’t been on my side - I don’t think it’s ever been. & now it’s the only thing I have left.

Why tf do I feel so angry @ myself?

Why tf have I not been able to bounce back & continue like everything’s normal.

Why tf do I feel so consumed?

- work today really sucked. I feel like they’re doing what Michelle said. Slowly fading me out. Gently pushing me to disappear. As if I don’t matter - as if I haven’t mattered all this time. Tangible.

I guess this is my balance. I’ve been on the other end of this spectrum for so long, it had to return to me, eventually.

Karma.

I’ve been using these girls. Unintentionally. I don’t know how to stop. The moment I feel some sort of security & comfort with one of them, it always ends up cycling through the same pattern. A predictable series of events.

They attach.

We try.

- I mimic all forms of basic human intimacy & emotion: simulated through narcissistic & sociopathic traits deep within my being. Lack of conscious control and awareness. Mindless. Empty. Meaningless.

I detach.

They hurt.

I project all of my insecure reflections so unstably, I don’t even consciously notice it anymore. Effortlessly acted upon without warning or reason - preluding detachment.

Unconsciously incompetent: blindly hurting everyone along the way to your own carefully orchestrated demise. Hurt people hurt people, right?

Maybe I’m just superficial. A narcissist. Incapable of actually being real or manifesting faucets that are. I’ve been fucking lying to myself. & everyone else. I don’t even have an outlet to express myself anymore. I’m struggling to accept this block.

Everything’s slowly being taken away from me.

& for the most part - I really deserve it.

I hate writing. I hate writing. I really hate writing. Solidifying the moment with articulative thought. Only for it to cease to have any relevance as the moments pass.

I never use to be like this.

I never use to hold such doubt & genuine loathing unto myself - I’m so insecure. & it shows.

Everyone sees.

Everyone knows - but they will never understand. & I wish they’d never understand.

We all speak out about how our situations affect us, and in your experience: you’re the centre of attention. The hero. The villain.

The victim.

Sometimes I wish I knew the answers. & the questions that I genuinely need to ask - instead of opening myself to every single person I meet only for them to exploit my weaknesses. Over & over & over again.

I still feel so young & naive.

I fucking miss my mom.

I fucking miss being able to confidently move through life. To have confidence in my thoughts. & words. & actions. & decisions.

I fucking miss being able to let go & be the rawest form of myself without feeling vulnerable & uncomfortably anxious. & how much I was able to embrace the essence of my character - someone I was so proud of & willing to be.

I fucking miss everything that I failed to appreciate in the moment - how much I’ve taken for granted. How much I didn’t know I had to lose.

I’m too weak to fix all the faults I’ve allowed myself to bare. All the silent suffering I’ve allowed myself to endure - just to blatantly lie to everyone & have them believe that I’m somewhat okay. Somewhat still there.

I’m not okay.

I’m far from okay.

I’m far from responsible.

I’m so far from being stable.

I’m so far from really being myself.

I’m so okay with ending it here.

Everybody doesn’t seem to agree.

Apparently I still have so many things to live for.. so much potential. So much promise.

I don’t feel as important as everyone makes me out to be. I’ve been existing for everybody else’s closure - for their sanity. For their own personal gain. Used. Used. Used. & I guess I’m okay with that.

Selfish.

Selfless.

I don’t know who I am anymore.