fanfics/writing/idk

[holdonrewindthetape]

The Fly and the Spider: MP 100 fic

There have been eyes on Shigeo for the last several months.

Not the usual ones, the ones that leer with thinly disguised malice and search his face for weakness. Those have been there for as long as he can remember. Those he’s lost hope to get rid of.

No, these…they’re not filled with anger or hate. He can’t even see them, he just feels them, like intricate webbing spreading across his thoughts. It feels like he knows them, even though there’s no way that’s possible. He doesn’t know anyone. He’s been alone for a long, long time.

Sometimes Shigeo can hear the eyes speak. Don’t you see? they say. They’re not loud, instead perfectly gentle and calm. You are like me. This is what happens when you aren’t lucky enough to be born with people who love you. To say you won’t use your powers against others…well. I almost envy that kind of naivete. 

I know I’m naive, he thinks as all of his things sink to the bottom of the river. 

I know I’m alone, he thinks as milk soaks into his hair.

I know there’s nothing special about me, he thinks as blood pours out of the poor snow white cat, the only thing that ever saw him as someone worth knowing.

When the world turns upside down and he starts to see the color red instead of just shades of gray, he feels the eyes become his own. A spider crawls out of his ear and out of the webbing that it’s been meticulously spinning, waiting and waiting for prey to arrive. It looks out at the feast it’s now presented with, and wonders if this could heal all the rotting within.

Shigeo wonders too.

[holdonrewindthetape]

Hungry Devils: Hazbin Hotel fic

Alastor was never a religious man, but he felt much better taking his chances with the Devil than with God. 

God is pure, a harsh bleached out white, a beautiful painting that is far too perfect to be marred with mistakes or artistic expression. They’re sterile in their goodness, clinical in their principles, and above all, boring in their morals. They would never understand the rabid animal that resides within his soul, they would try to put it down before it could ever bite anyone. They wouldn’t want the disease to infect the minds of the angels, fill them with the same monstrous hunger. 

But the Devil would understand. They would not forgive, that’s not their prerogative, but they would want to know the mass of contradictions that is Alastor. They would take his disease and keep it in a petri dish, watch as it grew and consumed his pitiful mortal body, and then they’d make it his purgatory. They’d dangle the steak in front of him until he lunged for it, and then they’d yank it just out of reach, taunting all the while. You think you can be satisfied? You think this will fix you? Poor little sinner. You’re a feral beast from birth, the only fate God has to offer you is a life of rotting flesh until someone decides to put you out of your misery.

He would much rather be tortured for what he is than forgiven for what he is not.

Alastor, ever the gentleman, extends the same courtesy towards his prey; he makes them painfully aware of the rot deep within them, the animal they just barely hide under their suits and ties. They’re always a bit meek in the beginning, pleading and begging and crying for mercy, until eventually something snaps, and they fight back with all the savagery they can muster. To Alastor, there’s no greater feeling. It’s much more interesting to chase a wolf than a hare, to see which one of them can strike first.

It’s always him, of course. He might let his prey get a few hits in, for the sake of the hunt, but in the end, there is always one clear victor. He is very selective with his game, and he does not intend to let them get away with their lives. 

Some of them pray to God to save their souls.

If they’re smart, they’ll know that the Devil always saves the souls of men. Without them, they couldn’t experience the pain and torture it is to have one. 

Alastor dreams of purgatory, of what it would feel like to be known.

[holdonrewindthetape]

Paul the Martyr pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo

He hadn’t realized how silent it had been before.

There was a before and an after now,  and he shuddered to think of the before. It was nothing but white noise and deathly quiet, with no discernible pattern to follow. It had been like playing a game of chess blindfolded, mindlessly making moves in an attempt at strategy, but with no clear end goal in sight. He had no purpose.

It hadn’t been something he was consciously aware of, but now that everything had a beat, a rhythm, a flow, a choreography that ran through every molecule in his body, the monotony seemed unbearable. Terrifying. What was he supposed to do? Who was he meant to serve? What gave his life meaning?

Emma, a soft voice whispers. We were meant to save Emma.

Oh, he’s trying to, but it’s almost like Emma doesn’t want to be saved, she’s being so difficult. She’s crying now, and not tears of joy at the prospect of salvation, but from something else he can’t pin  down. She’s backing away from his outstretched hands, shaking her head, screaming pointless words with no rhyme to speak of (she doesn’t understand yet, but she will), and repeating one sound over and over again. Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul.

She looks so scared. Why?

“Paul.” The thing called Emma doesn’t come any closer, but she meets his gaze for the first time since notes left his mouth. “Paul. Are you in there?”

No, he’s not. Paul measured his life in shitty black coffees and printer malfunctions. He had no concept of deliverance, and had to be expelled in order to achieve greater purpose. A necessary sacrifice, but nothing different from all the other poor insects of Hatchetfield, too small and simple to grasp the idea of their insignificant lives.

Emma seems to take his lack of answer as a good sign. How stupid. “Paul. I know you’re there. I bet you’re cringing at all these corny lyrics, but don’t worry. I can help. Do you trust me?”

“What if I told you a story-”

“No.” She looks torn between snapping his neck and throwing up. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the Paul who thought I wouldn’t notice how he stared at me as I made his garbage coffee, the one who tried to help me even when I thought he was having a mental breakdown, the only one that was brave enough to destroy the meteor. I want that Paul, not this bootleg copy.”

Why am I singing? I never wanted to, I never wanted to hurt anyone, I just wanted to be happy-

Paul never knew what he wanted, it’s what made him such a nuisance. Trying to get him to join their song had been like trying to catch air in a bottle, there was nothing to grasp, nothing at all. He was hollow. Empty. But it had also made him malleable, a blank canvas for a greater being to paint over and render anew.

But if Emma wants Paul, then he could give that to her. “Of course, Emma. I’m here. I just…why don’t you understand? We could have everything we ever wanted like this. No crappy jobs, no sudden funerals, no sleepless nights. You could finally have meaning.”

She scowls at him and takes a step back. “Hey, jackass, your Paul impression needs some work. I have meaning, and it’s not becoming an extra in some off-Broadway fever dream.”

“An extra?” It’s his turn to scoff. How could she be so clueless? “No, no, no! A leading man is nothing without his leading lady, and I just know you would fit the role perfectly. The audience was on the edge of their seats after that helicopter incident. Pity about the blood, that would have been such a climactic moment. They love you.” He drops to one knee, offering his hand to her in an unspoken contract. “The Maria to my Captain von Trapp. The Audrey to my Seymour. The Elphaba to my Fiyero. Oh, Emma, won’t you just give me one note?”

Emma looks scared again. Why? What did he do wrong? “Paul never saw any of those, you freakshow, stop talking like you’re him-”

“I’m still the man you trust-”

“NO!”

In a sudden move of desperation, she lunges for a metal tray resting on a hospital bed and slams it into his head before he can react. Next thing he knows, he’s lying on the cold tile, blue liquid leaking out of his hair.

Something shifts.

When he opens his eyes, Emma’s crying over him, her hands and shirt stained blue. He has a vision of a redhead woman in a cat sweater leaning over a pulsing sapphire brain, oh god, Charlotte-

“Emma?” He croaks. His throat hurts.

She jolts like he just rose from the dead. Maybe he did. “Paul?” Her voice is so quiet, like she’s terrified to make a single sound. 

“Emma-the meteor-”

“Forget the meteor, it didn’t-it didn’t work, oh Paul, I’m so stupid-”  She starts sobbing in earnest, soaking through the crappy white dress shirt he bought on clearance. “Is it you, Paul? The real one?”

“I…I think so? I don’t know what a fake me would be like.”

“They’re an asshole, don’t worry about it.” A choked cry makes its way past her lips. “I thought you were gone. And that I was next.”

Pitch perfect notes are crawling past his teeth, a chorus pounds painful and heavy in his mind, too heavy to resist, but he never even thinks to, why would he, he’s been reborn-

“Oh.” But happiness can’t come before its fall.

Emma gulps. “I was going to kill you.”

“Is that why-”

“It’s why you’re lying on the floor with a bleeding head wound, yeah. Your blood is still blue, by the way. You’re certain you’re not still infected, right?” She says it so casually, but Paul can see the fear in her eyes.

“I don’t feel any different.” He realizes with horrifying clarity that he’s lying. He does feel different, has been since the meteor, and even now he wants to tap his fingers to the beat only he can hear.

Well, not just him.

His heart kicks into overdrive. “Emma, I think there’s more coming, we need to leave right now.”

“More?” Emma is already on her feet, and pulls him up with her. “But-it was just you, they raised the bridge, how did it spread all the way to Clivesdale?”

She looks at his hands. He follows suit. His fingers are bruised and calloused, and covered in scratch marks like he lost a fight with an angry possum. The cuffs of his jacket are speckled with red blood, the human kind, the only people who still have the will to fight back.

Emma meets his blue eyes. “Shit.”

There’s a banging on the door that threatens to tear the hinges off, and they both jump out of their skins. “Emma, I want you to join the party!”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit-”

“Do you trust me?”

She blinks, momentarily breaking out of her panic. “What?”

“Do you trust me?”

It takes her a second. Then she nods. “Yes.”

Paul walks away from her and opens the door.

There’s a nurse standing there, with bulging indigo eyes and a smile that doesn’t fit her face. Her neck is littered with bruises, notably ten in the shape of fingerprints closing in. “Paul!” she gasps as if starstruck. “The apostle!”

He smiles back like he has any idea what that means. “Yeah, uh, that’s me! What’s this party you’re talking about?”

The nurse cackles, raising an eyebrow. “The universal song, of course! You’re meant to lead us all in glorious rebirth-” She looks over his shoulder and sees Emma, trembling. “Emma! Why so sad? Don’t you want to join us?”

Emma doesn’t respond.

The nurse pouts. “Poor thing! I know just the remedy for people like you. What if I told you a story, how the world became peaceful and just?”

Paul grabs her by the shoulder as Emma scrambles backwards. “Beautiful! Just beautiful! But I can take it from here.”

A blink. “Huh?”

“It’s not your fault, don’t worry!” He pulls her aside like he’s telling her a secret. “Emma’s got the most wonderful voice, you see, but, uh…” He drops his voice down to a whisper. “She’s got stage fright.”

The nurse gasps. “Really?”

He nods. “Awful, isn’t it?”

“Tragic!”

“Just terrible. But I still want her to have fun with everyone else, so I thought she might feel better with someone she knows. So just run along, okay?”

She purses her lips, but evidently the hive mind doesn’t notice anything amiss. “Okay!” She winks at Emma. “See you soon!”

The door closes behind her, but he can still make out her singing, “We must go on with the show-”

To their horror, a large chorus answers back. “It’s inevitable!”

Emma’s hands fly to her hair. “You’ve got be shitting me, I’m going to die in fucking Clivesdale-”

Paul wants so badly to reassure her, to tell her that everything will be fine, but he can’t. It’s a miracle they’re even here at all, instead of him tackling her to the ground and strangling her with his bare hands. 

Emma’s trying desperately to open the window, but it’s bolted shut. “Damn military security,” she curses.

He wishes he could tell her that the music didn’t affect him at all, that it disgusts him, that it doesn’t wash over him like a bucket of cold water. He wishes he could say with as much as certainty as he did before that he would never be in a musical, but he just can’t. He wasn’t born a liar, and even after everything, he still isn’t. 

It’s too late for him. He can feel it.

But maybe it isn’t too late for Emma.

Paul grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her away from the window she’s been clawing at with a panicked fervor. “Emma, I need you to listen to me. There’s a stairwell down the hall, it’s how I got in, that’ll be your escape. The only infected people in Clivesdale are in this hospital, and if they go down-”

“-the infection can’t spread. It’ll be isolated to Hatchetfield,” Emma finishes. “That’s brilliant! But how are gonna blow this shit up? It’s not like we’ve got a pipe bomb just lying around.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to blow it up. There’s a faulty breaker box in the basement, if I can set it off, it should trigger an explosion that’ll kill all of the infected.”

Smart, clever Emma knows something is wrong. “And what about you?”

“It’ll kill all of the infected.”

She’s already shaking her head and trying in vain to get him to look at her. “No, no, no. I already thought you were dead once, we’re not doing this again. You’re cured now, you’re fine.”

“I’m not, Emma.” They both look down at his feet, which have been tapping in perfect harmony to the infectious chorus. “I’m really not.”

There’s a long pause. Emma isn’t trying to look at him anymore, instead staring at his tapping feet. “We could find a cure. Someone could make one. I’m sure we could find some brainy scientist type to whip something up.” Words seem to choke in her throat. “You’re in control, Paul. Not them. You.”

“You don’t know that.” No more lying. “I’m too much of a liability. If I lose control, if I become one of them again, if I kill somebody…there’ll be no stopping it. The infection dies here.” 

Emma lets out a wet, painful laugh. “So what? That’s it? You’ll just become a martyr again? Go out in another big movie explosion and hope for the best?”

“I’d rather that than…” His hand twitches violently, making a firm squeezing noise that echoes throughout the room. He clutches it with his other hand as tightly as he can. “...You should probably go, Emma.”

She goes quiet. Paul realizes that the room hasn’t actually been silent this whole time, the infected horde is still singing, but it’s faded into comfortable background noise at this point. He doubts the same rings true for Emma.

The barista hesitates, then lunges forward as quickly as she can with her broken leg and envelops him in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Paul.”

There’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to wrap his fingers around her neck and wait until her breath runs out. It’s easily overrun by the desire to hug her back, and he pulls her forward, resting his head on her shoulder. “I really would have liked to see that movie with you.”

Her nails dig into his spine. “Me too.”

They stay that way as long as they can manage, until Emma’s leg flares up and Paul’s hands drift a little too close to her neck. She breaks away, looking truly and utterly devastated, but still brave in that way he’s starting to recognize as just Emma. He wishes he could have half of her courage as she limps out the door without another word, but instead he’s shaking from head to toe like a rain-soaked cat.

A waterfall of blue washes over him, freezing cold and iron hot at the exact same time. It pulls a black veil over his thoughts, ripping out strings of words and sewing them into sheet music. One simple line of code, one singular objective, one collective purpose demolishing every idea that isn’t one of theirs. Isn’t this what you wanted? To have meaning? I can give you everything as long you return the favor, don’t you want be happy, don’t you want to be happy don’t you want to be happy, don’t you want to be happy-

Fire tears through every poor lost soul in Clivesdale Hospital, and hundreds of puppets are cut from their strings. 

Far away from the blaze, a scream sounds. 

[holdonrewindthetape]

Drowned Spirits: Six of Crows fic

Unlike most people, Jesper likes his boss.

Comparatively, anyway. Is his boss a nice person? No. Does he care about Jesper as anything more than a weapon at his disposal? Also no. If Jesper was going through something, would he be there for him? Oh no, definitely not. The mere idea of Kaz getting on his level and drying his tears away while saying it’ll be okay was laughable. The day Dirtyhands comforts him is the day Jesper stops gambling.

But it’s really not so bad. At the end of the day, Kaz cares about his investments, so as long as you have a use, there’s a good chance nothing permanent will happen to you if you screw up. He needs Jesper to be able to shoot, so when he accidentally lets his blabbermouth run wild at the club, it’s always a hit to the head, not his hands. Jesper can’t say the same for other Grisha indentures. He might be on a leash, but Kaz knows when it’s best to cut him loose, and when it’s best to yank it around his neck. 

Kaz is difficult. Moody. Damn hard to figure out sometimes, and impossible to reason with when he’s upset. He’s got a heart cold as ice, a temper hot as hell, and a mind flighty as crows. But Jesper likes him anyway. He knows that no matter the situation, Kaz will always be ready to play backup for him, make sure he’s not facedown in a gutter somewhere, tell him to shut the fuck up when even Jesper knows he’s being obnoxious. Despite it all, he’s not a dog that bites his own, just barks loud enough to feel like he did.

It’s one of those quiet nights at the Slat when Jesper gets a glimpse of what’s behind all the fangs and sullen glowers. The two of them are playing cards downstairs while a storm rages just beyond the thin walls, rags stuffed into the gaps below the doors to prevent flooding. There’s not much nightlife with this kind of weather, so the other Dregs have already retired, but Jesper and Kaz are running on too much adrenaline from their last shootout to sleep now. They’ve had a few glasses of shitty whiskey each, yet somehow Kaz’s face is still unreadable. 

“You’re cheating. I know you are.”

Kaz just hmms, looking through his hand with an air of indifference.  “What an interesting theory. Would you like to take it up with the dealer?”

Jesper scowls. “Like you couldn’t have pulled something while I was dealing, smartass.” He draws his next card, and tries his best not to slam his head on the table. Poker face. Poker face. Poker face.

“Any luck?”

“Huh?” Go for neutral. “Well, you know. It’s alright. Might be useful later.”

Kaz does that thing where he thinks Jesper said something funny, but he’s too emotionally constipated to admit it, so the corners of his lips twist up for a fraction of a second before they disappear. “I’m happy things are finally looking up for you, Jesper.” His eyebrows pinch together, the picture of concern. “Although, I think you said the same thing for the last three cards.”

“Shut the fuck up, Brekker.”

For tonight, everything is lovely. Kaz is in one of those rare moods where Jesper can curse him out and all he’ll do is laugh, where all the troubles Ketterdam can throw at him slides like water off his bulky black coat. In this moment, Jesper is allowed to wonder if he could consider Kaz as a brother and not an employer.

Jesper finally throws his cards onto the table, not caring if they fall onto the floor. “I fold, I can’t take this anymore.”

Kaz just clicks his tongue. “Only a full house? Tough luck.” He spreads his hand out for him to see, and Jesper nearly bursts a blood vessel.

“Four aces?! Bullshit you drew those, you cheating bastard!”

There’s a pause. Then Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel, is cackling not like a demon, but like a kid in a candy store. Pure, unfiltered delight is sweeping across his face, and there's nothing Jesper can do but stare, struck dumb. 

Someone from upstairs (definitely not knowing it’s Kaz laughing, and he can’t even blame them) yells at them to pipe down, but neither of them listen, and just keep giggling like the drunk teenagers they are. 

Kaz lets out an extremely undignified snort, and then, pulls off one of his infamous leather gloves. He’s showing Jesper how he slipped his cards in there, but he’s not paying that an ounce of attention. Instead he’s fixated on the smooth, even if a bit pale and sweaty, skin that Jesper has never seen because he still has a little bit of self-preservation left. When Kaz sobers up tomorrow, am I getting a bullet to the brain for peeking at forbidden flesh?

Something else catches his eye. A dark R sprawls across his left wrist, tattooed in the exact spot the glove would have folded over. It’s simple and understated compared to the Dregs tattoo, but somehow it feels more important.

He shouldn’t mention it. Kaz is in an uncommonly good mood,  and Jesper really doesn’t feel like facing his wrath when the alcohol is in control. But, of course, Jesper always thinks a few seconds after he’s already spoken.

“What’s the R for?”

Kaz freezes. All the joy vanishes from his features, and his brow furrows the way it does when he’s cracking a particularly complex safe. “Excuse me?”

Jesper mentally facepalms. Shit. “Uh…nothing. Just, uh, curious about the tattoo is all. Never seen it because of the gloves and everything.” Back off, back off, curiosity isn’t worth ending up as a bloody stain on the floor. “But you know, it’s none of my business anyway, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. Say, how about another round? You can deal.”

To his surprise, Kaz doesn’t take the bait. He just stares at the R like he’s never seen it before in his life, coffee brown eyes wide and vulnerable. Then just like that, the moment is gone, and he slides the glove back on quick as lightning. Jesper thinks that’s the end of it, and he’ll get away with his life here, and then- “It stands for Rietveld.”

Jesper’s mind shutters. “Who’s Rietveld?”

Kaz doesn’t meet his gaze, just grabs the bottle by his elbow and downs what’s left of the whiskey. “Just someone I knew a long time ago. They’re dead now.”

Oh. “How-how did they-”

“Drowned. In the canals.”

Suddenly Jesper knows how his neighbors felt when they tried to comfort him after his mother’s death. What are you supposed to say? “I’m sorry for-”

“Don’t.” His voice bites, right down on the vein. “I’m better off without them. They were holding me back.”

Jesper’s ever twitching hands are now moving so fast it looks like he took a hit of jurda parem. He has questions, thousands of them, but he worries if he pushes any further Kaz will disappear and Dirtyhands will take over. He’s not there yet, but he’s close, and that’s a timebomb he doesn’t want to touch.

Kaz’s tongue is loose now, his words spilling all over the table. “They were childish. Naive. Thought if they held onto hope and listened to what other people told them, everything would turn out fine. That a happy ending would just fall into their lap.” He scowls something fierce. “Their death was inevitable, really.”

He can’t contain himself anymore. “Then why did you get the tattoo?”

Kaz pauses as if he’s never thought about it before. The silence looms for a long, tense minute, before he speaks. “A reminder. I don’t miss them, but I’d rather not forget them either.”

A beat.

Then there’s a crack of lightning, startling them both. Kaz moves for the cards but Jesper beats him to it. “I got it, don’t worry. I can clean up down there while you sleep off the whiskey.”

He realizes a bit too belatedly that he basically gave his boss an order, but Kaz doesn’t argue, just scoops up his cane and makes his way up the creaking staircase, stumbling a little as he does so. Jesper makes quick work of cleaning up the table before collapsing in his own bed, exhausted and hyper in equal measure.

His last thought before he finally falls asleep is I wonder if Kaz drowned alongside that Rietveld.  

[holdonrewindthetape]

Green-Eyed Monster: Marvel fic

There’s a monster that lives in Loki’s mind.

It holds all of his thoughts hostage, takes control of his feelings, manufactures his reactions until he becomes nothing but a cartoonish version of himself. It strangles joy and despises hope, much preferring him to be in a constant state of fight or flight. It lives off the feeling of inadequacy, pushing and prodding and nudging at his self-esteem, until it eventually convinces him  that everyone is out to get him. 

He doesn’t remember what it was like before the monster came into his life. It seems like it’s always been there, just beyond his forehead, infecting all it touches. The thing about it, though, is that it never hurts. It creeps slowly, almost shy, knowing exactly what button to press to spark a reaction. You deserve more, it wonders. They don’t like you very much, do they, it suggests. Why show off, you’ll just end up embarrassing yourself, it advises. 

It’s maddening.

Loki learns to keep the monster on a tight leash, knowing that nobody else seems to have one, and that to let his run wild would be distasteful. Nobody likes it when the monster speaks. Nobody wants to know what it’s thinking. So he tries his best to keep it dormant, press it deep down until it’s nothing but a heavy stone in his gut. People will like him more when his fangs are sheathed and his claws are behind his back. 

But they don’t. Somehow, whenever someone looks at him, they can see the monster plain as day. It must be something in his eyes. 

The monster is hungry now. It’s angry. It wants to feed.

It hurts now. It’s not soft anymore, it’s sharp as a needle, sharp as a dagger he plunges into the back of anyone who’s ever loved him-

It’s a cacophony instead of a lullaby, screaming from its dark throat they have what you want they have what you want take it take it take it take it-

Sunlight personified is holding onto him, begging him to stay, and oh he wants to, but he’s more shadow than man now, and his nature is to shrink away from where it shines-

The blackness invites. Loki answers.

He falls, and the monster holds on tight, shrieking all the way down.

[holdonrewindthetape]

What We Call Home: Matchablossom fic

When Kojiro was younger, he never saw himself as the type to settle down. He had always been a wanderer, even when he was six years old and would ride his bike out for hours at a time, never thinking that maybe he should have told his parents where he was going before they called the police to report him missing. As a teenager, his home felt like a prison, and as soon as the stars went up, he’d make a daring escape through his window and meet up with Kaoru and Adam. They’d tour the city, making messes wherever they went, and he felt so free that it didn’t matter how Kaoru looked at Adam when he thought Kojiro wasn’t looking. When Adam left with barely a word, Kaoru went back to his roots, but Kojiro couldn’t get further away. It was selfish, but he wasn’t sure he could stand to look at Kaoru’s forlorn expression any longer, how he saved every letter Adam had ever written him, and had polished the skateboard he left behind to a mirror shine. Italy was a haven, a place he could thrive without any chains, where he could flirt with whoever without thinking of betrayed golden eyes. There was a time where he wondered if he would ever come back to Okinawa. 

But he did, returning to old roots and setting up new ones, and when he saw that smirk framed by sakura pink tresses, he thought how could I ever leave this?

“You have those T.V. dinners on the list, don’t you?”

Kojiro looked over his shoulder to find Kaoru staring between two boxes of cereal like he was choosing whether or not to send out a nuke. “Why? I thought you hated those things.”

Kaoru didn’t look up. “We need something to feed the kids, and we both know it’s not going to be my cooking.”

“Uh, hello?” Kojiro scoffed. “Professional chef here? Just because you’re helpless in the kitchen doesn’t mean I am. I can whip up something that’ll make them want to come over every weekend.”

This time Kaoru tore his eyes away from the cereal boxes to fix him with an unimpressed look. “I know you can. But you won’t. Because Miya will want to show you a new trick he learned at the skate park, and then Reki will dare you to do something stupid and dangerous, and Langa will want to film it, and then you’ll come back with a sprained ankle just in time for me to order takeout. Sound familiar at all?”

He blushed then, knowing damn well Kaoru was right. So what if he had no willpower and wanted to impress the kids a bit? “Maybe a little.” He slung an arm around Kaoru’s shoulders, making him jolt. “I think you’re forgetting the part where you’re crying laughing as I sprain my ankle, and Miya pays you 3000 yen because you betted against whether or not I could do it.”

At first, Kaoru balked like  Kojiro had accused him of murder, then his face softened into that smile he loved. “It was pretty funny.”

“I was in pain!”

“And your pain made me a wealthy, wealthy man.” He finally chose between the two cereals, settling on some sugary marshmallow kind that probably caused diabetes in every serving. 

“Huh. I definitely thought you would have gone for some whole grain, all natural bullshit instead.”

“Rude.” Kaoru started pushing the cart through the aisle, not meeting Kojiro’s gaze. “Miya likes it, and I figure it might be okay just for a little while.”

Oh, how he loved this man. He pressed a kiss to his cheek, watching with satisfaction as his face turned as pink as his hair. “Who knew, you are sweet. I thought all the raisin bran and greens had shriveled up your heart completely.”

He saw it coming before it happened, but he still let Kaoru’s hand hit the nape of his neck. “And I thought all that pasta would’ve clogged up your arteries by now. Shut up and help me find the pancake mix.”

As Kaoru studied all the bottles of mix like he was a health inspector, Kojiro studied the love of his life. There was a part of him that missed the eyeliner and piercings, but he was happy to trade those for the glasses Kaoru would push back up whenever he got frustrated, the yukatas that would stain with ink at the hem, the ponytails that would whip by him as he got his ass kicked at S, the fingertips singed brown from Carla’s electrical wiring. 

“I know you’re staring.”

Kojiro blinked. Kaoru wasn’t looking at the pancake mix anymore, and was giving him his best deadpan face. It was only slightly ruined by the faint blush on his cheeks. Kojiro smirked. “Don’t mind me. Just watching a pancake connoisseur in action.”

He wasn’t at all ready for the pen that came flying at his nose. “Hey!”

Kaoru just smirked. Little shit. “Sorry, I thought you asked me for a pen. Did I mishear you?”

“How many of those do you have?”

“About a dozen or so.”

“A doz-what in god’s name do you need a dozen pens for?”

Kaoru flipped his hair, nearly hitting him in the face. “For showing gorillas where they can shove their opinions.”

How Kaoru’s fans at S thought he was all elegant and dignified he’d never know. Dignified my ass.

Once the exhaustive and incredibly detailed shopping list had been paid for, the two of them settled into Kaoru’s glossy black car and stared at the amount of bags they’d accumulated.

Kaoru pursed his lips. “Do you think we bought too much?”

You made the list. “Nah, I’m sure it’ll be fine. At their ages, they’ll probably eat us out of house and home.”

“If you say so.” A smile, the one as soft as goose down, graced those lips. “What do you say to dinner at Sia la luce? Our last quiet night before they arrive?”

Kojiro let himself get lost in eyes of molten gold, relishing how they melted just for him. Once upon a time, the pain he saw in them had driven him away, but now they had all but leashed him to the spot, burying his feet in the earth and calling it home. Home is here, they said. Home is where I am.

He smiled back. “Of course. Food’s on me.”

When your home is a person, there’s no need to wander ever again. 

[holdonrewindthetape]

A Night at the Opera: Thranto fic

Eli knows the exact moment he fell in love with Grand Admiral Thrawn.

It’s not conjecture, it’s not an estimate, he can pinpoint it down to the millisecond. It hadn’t been when they met, when he became Thrawn’s aide, or even a few years after that. It had been nearly a decade in the making, and it still felt like it all had happened much too fast.

A group of commanding officers had gotten VIP seats at the Coruscanti Theatre, where they were putting on a production of Waiting in the Stars, some opera from over a thousand years ago that he’d never heard of. Normally, Thrawn wouldn’t have been invited due to jealousy (and some xenophobia for good measure), but Governor Pryce was attending, and personally extended an invitation towards him. Eli had secretly been a bit relieved not to be included, knowing the officers would either pretend he didn’t exist or snicker every time he spoke. A quiet night in for once might be nice. 

But of course, because it was Thrawn, the admiral insisted that a seat be reserved for Eli or else he would have to cancel. 

Pryce must have been very eager to get into his good graces, because she agreed and got him a seat with her own money. And that’s how Eli found himself dressed in the stuffiest suit he owned, seated beside Thrawn in the biggest theater he’d ever seen. 

Eli leaned closer and whispered in his ear as the lights went down. “Do you know anything about this opera? I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Nor have I,” Thrawn admitted, engrossed in his playbill. “It says in the description that the story is a relic of the Nabooian golden age, and has since been reproduced hundreds of times across the galaxy. I’m curious to find out the cause of its cultural significance.”

He just hummed, settling into his seat as the curtains opened. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

…………………………

It was awful.

Eli had never seen an opera before, so he had no frame of reference, but he was sure no production should ever be this dull. He thought for a second that the actors may as well have been droids for how much emotion they displayed, but then realized that was unfair to droids everywhere. More than once, he found his eyes closing of their own accord.

You can stick this out. Thrawn went through all the trouble to get you here, the least you can do is pretend to be interested.

He turned to look at Thrawn, hoping to sneak a peek of his classic artwork face, with lips pursed and eyes mesmerized-

Wait.

Thrawn was staring at the stage intently, but with a lack of any kind of wonder or interest. In fact, his whole face was scrunched up like he just drank a whole keg of jawa juice. His brow was furrowed hard enough to leave lines, and his nails were constantly on the edge of being bitten clean off. He looked anything but enthused.

Eli tried his very best not to howl with laughter, but something must have slipped out, because then Thrawn was looking at him, his face still tight with displeasure. Eli froze, but Thrawn did nothing but raise an eyebrow.

He bit his lip. Hopefully he won’t be offended. Eli did what he hoped was a very convincing impression of Thrawn’s expression, then jerked his head towards the opera.

The furrows and lines melted away into amusement, and then into something that can only be described as toddler stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. There was a moment of hesitation, and then Thrawn started mouthing out the dialogue, all with overdramatic gestures and faces.

Eli wondered if there was an electric shock planted under his seat. Molten lava had been injected into his veins, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to grab Thrawn by the collar and snatch those stupid words right out of his lips. 

He still had some self-restraint, though. He might have just had a world-shattering epiphany less than a second ago, but he knew better than to kiss his commanding officer right next to all of his higher-ups. He played along, relishing every smile and snort Thrawn released. By the time the opera was over, neither of them had any idea what happened in the story, and they truly could not care less.

“Well, that was a waste of an evening,” Thrawn deadpanned as they left the theater.

“I hope poor Governor Pryce gets her money back, those tickets weren’t cheap.”

Suddenly Thrawn froze. He turned to Eli with a startled look in his eyes. “Governor Pryce mentioned in her invitation that she would like to discuss Lothal military funds with me after the performance. I forgot all about it.”

A beat.

Eli couldn’t  hold it in anymore. He cackled with laughter, and pretty soon Thrawn was laughing too, albeit with much more dignity. As the admiral threw his head back, head tilted towards the stars, Eli’s heart pounded.

Oh, you’re so fucked. So irrevocably, impossibly fucked.

“Maybe she’ll get another chance soon. I hear the Coruscanti Theatre Company is going to be putting on another production in a few weeks.”

“If it’s another Nabooian epic-”

“What are you, psychic?”

Thrawn chuckled, smiling softly. “She would have to hold a blaster to my head to convince me to attend another one of these travesties.”

Eli looked anywhere but those crimson eyes. “I don’t know. I might do it again.”

A pause. “You’re not serious?”

He shrugged his shoulders and grinned up at him. “So long as you’re there to keep me company, I think it could be fun.”

Thrawn stopped dead in his tracks for a fraction of a second, before continuing his path like nothing happened. “Hm.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, could you just be straightforward for once? We can’t all be super geniuses, you know.”

“It’s a maybe, Lieutenant Vanto. Only if Governor Pryce can be coerced to procure a ticket for you as well. Otherwise I’d rather be eaten by a sarlacc.”

Eli laughed, his whole body warm and fuzzy. If fondness could kill.

[holdonrewindthetape]

Jasmine and Ash: ATLA fic

There’s this boy at the tea shop. 

He must be a new employee, because Jin’s never seen him before in her life. Even though she’s not exactly a regular at Pao’s, her mother just likes the oolong tea and sends her out for it every now and again, she thinks it would be pretty difficult to forget someone like him.

It’s not just because of the scar. He has this…way with the customers, and by that she means a way of irritating them as quickly as possible. He’s blunt, he’s awkward, he’s prickly, he’s standoffish, and Pao has to come up to him several times a day to remind him that the customer is always right and service with a smile. Just a couple weeks ago she spotted him flashing a middle finger at Pao as soon as he turned around, and had to stop herself from choking on her tea.

She doesn’t think he’s mean, though. It never looks like he’s trying to be confrontational, he just has a knack for stepping on other people’s feet and then not apologizing. Jin knows he cares; she’s seen it. She saw when that sleazy merchant was groping the girl next to him at the counter, and tea boy ‘accidentally’ spilled hot tea all over him. She saw when a group of young kids came in with all the change they could muster, not one of them knowing how to read, and he carefully explained every single item on the menu to them. She saw when the old teamaker (Mushi, she thinks) was putting a jar back on a high shelf, when the ladder suddenly wobbled precariously, and tea boy rushed forward with a panicked Uncle! He held the ladder firm, helped Mushi down, and proceeded to rant at him about how stupid that was and he needed to stop being so reckless. She also saw how whenever Mushi needed something from high up, tea boy automatically volunteered himself to get it. 

He’s sweet. He’s cute. He’s a mystery, and she desperately wants to know him better. So when her mother sends her out on another tea run, she vows that today, she will at the very least learn his name. 

When Jin arrives, it’s rather busy, but it’s not much out of the ordinary these days. Ever since Mushi and tea boy came to Pao’s, business has been booming and she finds herself being sent out for tea much more often. Lively chatter fills the space, smiling faces everywhere, except of course for him, who is scowling at a kettle like it’s personally offended him. 

She strolls right up to the counter and can’t help but giggle as he doesn’t glance up at all, instead focusing intently on the steaming kettle. She stands there for another few seconds, before clearing her throat.

He startles, the scowl melting away but the furrow in his brow remaining. “Oh, uh, sorry. I was just…never mind.” He tries for a smile, but it looks less welcoming and more like someone’s holding a knife to his throat. “Welcome to Pao’s. How can I help?”

Jin tries her very best not to laugh, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I’m putting in a to-go order, with two oolongs, one matcha, and…hm. What would you recommend?”

He averts his eyes. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask.”

She tilts her head. “Why not?”

“I don’t like tea.”

“You work in a tea shop.”

“I know.”

This time, Jin can’t hold back the cackle that escapes her, and the red hot blush that is now covering tea boy’s face doesn’t help matters. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not trying to laugh at you, I just…you’re funny, you know that?”

He scowls again, but there isn’t any malice behind it. “Uncle says that too sometimes. I don’t see it, though. I’m not trying to be funny, but people laugh anyway. Whatever jokes they think I’m making, I don’t get them.”

Jin hums and purses her lips in thought. “Well, I think that might be why. It’s always a little funny to watch someone say something they didn’t mean to. I get the feeling that happens to you a lot?”

“Um…” He blushes again. “Maybe.”

“It’s okay. I think it’s cute.”

His face looks like it might explode at any minute, and she worries she’s gone too far, but then something else catches her attention. “Is something burning?”

He blinks. “What?” Then he sees that the kettle is steaming like mad and he swears. “Oh, shit-” He douses the flames and then picks up and moves the kettle with his bare hands. Jin winces, but he doesn’t seem to be affected. He pours some of the tea into a cup, except it doesn’t pour, it just oozes, jet black and bubbling like hot tar. 

“What kind of tea is that?” What kind of tea was that is probably a better question.

“Jasmine, I hope,” he grumbles. “Uncle had to pick up a delivery, so he left me in charge of brewing while he’s gone. I told him it was a bad idea…”

Jin considers herself to be a smart girl. Her parents say she’s got a good head on her shoulders, her teachers say she’s a bright young lady, and she herself thinks that she’s not one for rash decisions. But tea boy just looks so defeated, she can’t help what she says next.

“Can I try some?”

His brow furrows even further. “This?”

“Yeah. Can I try some?”

He’s looking at her like she’s just escaped a mental asylum, and she can’t really blame him, but he hands her the cup anyway. “Your funeral.”

“Thanks.” She takes a sip, bracing herself, and…

It’s bad. Really, really bad. She can’t taste the jasmine at all, it all just kind of tastes like charcoal and nightmares. It’s thick, it’s gritty, it’s slimy, it’s probably one of the worst things she’s ever had. Regardless, she somehow plasters on a smile. “It’s not bad.”

She swears his eyes are sparkling. “Really?”

“Really. It’s a little overdone, but you know…it’s not bad.”

He smiles at her, but not the scary one from before, this one’s soft and warm like a blanket left out in the sun. “Well, uh…thanks.” There’s a comfortable pause between them, until he suddenly jolts. “Your order-I forgot all about-uh, right, two oolongs, one matcha, and um…what else?”

Jin startles too. She’d forgotten about her order too. “One jasmine, please. Your kind.”

He nods like he’s not quite comprehending what she’s saying. “Right. My kind. And this order is for-?”

“Jin.” 

He writes it down, and he’s about to turn away and disappear into the kitchen, she has to do this now-

“What’s your name?”

Tea boy stands and stares at her for what feels like an eternity, before he finally stutters out, “Li. Uh, my name’s Li.”

It’s not what she expected his name to be. It’s a bit too normal for someone as unusual as him, but she carves out a place for it in her mind anyway. Li. “Nice to meet you, Li.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes, choosing instead to focus on his shoes. “Er-nice to meet you too.”

Jin leaves Pao’s that afternoon with a box of tea, a foul taste in her mouth, and one thought spinning around in her mind- I want to make him smile again. 

[holdonrewindthetape]

A Ballad of Heroes and Villains: Danganronpa fic

Kokichi was used to hating people.

He had a short fuse and a lot of pent-up anger, so he found it extremely liberating to take it out on anyone within a fifty-mile radius. The mailman, the old woman in the apartment next door, that useless bitch at the fast food joint who always judged him for buying a double burger at 1 am (mind your damn business and just take his money already). 

But he’s never hated anyone as much as he hates Kaito Momota.

If there’s one thing Kokichi isn’t, it’s stupid. And it’s glaringly obvious what Kaito is supposed to be in this story- a foil. He’s the light to Kokichi’s shadow, the hope to his despair, the soft pillow to his bloody garden of thorns. He’s the hero brandishing his weapon for chivalry and justice and so forth, while Kokichi is nothing but the lowly villain destined to fall at his hands. Kaito’s only destiny is to be Kokichi’s undoing.

Nobody else seems to mind, trailing after him like a pack of dogs  and letting themselves be pulled into his orbit. He welcomes them all with open arms, blindly believing that not a single one of them would dare to stab him in the back, while condemning anyone who notices a blood-soaked knife clutched in a ‘friend’s’ hands. At least Kokichi has the sense to stab them first.

It’s all a show, the two of them, and if that’s what the audience wants, Kokichi is happy to oblige. He’ll put on a pair of plastic horns and show them just how devilish he can be. He’ll parry Kaito’s strikes with his own sword, he’ll bite at the hand he extends until he scurries away with disgust, he’ll dance around him until his feet bleed and he doesn’t know what song is playing anymore. If Kaito is meant to be his downfall, then Kokichi isn’t going to go down without a fight.

But in the end, when the curtain is pulled back and the blinding spotlights reveal them both as liars, Kokichi crumbles. All of their truths are lying there in a sickly pink puddle on the floor, and there are no devils, no angels, just a pair of actors with no more lines to say. 

I understand you, Kaito’s eyes seem to insist. Let me be the hero just this once. Let me save you.

Kokichi meets his gaze with ease.  I don’t need you to save me. I need you to put me to rest.

With the press of a button, the curtain falls, and the audience cheers.

[holdonrewindthetape]

Like Summer: Merlin fic

To Merlin, there were familiar faces everywhere.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew they weren’t actually there. They were just normal everyday people going about their lives, completely unaware of any resemblance they might have to a figure in Merlin’s past. None of that stopped him from seeing them.

There was the chivalrous young man with thick dark hair at the grocery store, helping an old woman carry her basket. There was the old man at the pharmacy counter, giving an evil eyebrow and withering stare to any potential thieves. There was the young woman at the laundromat, with beautiful chestnut curls and the scent of fresh linen following her wherever she went. There was the woman sitting on the train, elegant with high heels and waves of ebony hair, a psychology book in one hand. 

But, of course, there was one face he saw more than any other. 

Sky blue eyes bringing his check at a restaurant. Golden hair soaked from a rainy day in the city. A boisterous laugh across the street. Like summer, he’d come back to Merlin, again, and again, and again. 

And every time he’d stop and stare, trying to pretend for just one moment that nothing has changed.

[holdonrewindthetape]

Supernova: Billford fic

It’s rare to find someone so all-encompassing, so fascinating, so alluring that they pull you into their orbit with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Everything ceases to exist around them, but it never feels like a crime, because it’s only natural that the rest of the world becomes overshadowed by their light. They’re a burning sun, a fiery meteor, the last star left in the sky after everything else has exploded into dust. 

It’s impossible not to fall in love with them.

They’re strange, yes, but that’s just how gods are. They’re constantly shifting and changing, imperceptible to mortal eyes. It’s likely you won’t ever know what they’re really like, what they truly desire, but what does that matter when they map out constellations along your jaw,  sweep you off your feet and tell you they’re all you ever need. Every word feels like a saving grace, and so you melt in their arms, drowning in their attention. They’re right. How could you ever survive without them?

You blur the lines between love and worship, down on your knees and pressing kisses to their knuckles with all the reverence of a disciple. You make me more than I ever was, you whisper.

They smirk, basking in your affection. I know. But you had something before. I just set it free. 

You don’t care who you were before, all that matters is who you get to be now, with them, lost in paradise. But you’re not one to question their word.

They take your hand in theirs, starlight masquerading as human flesh. You’re my kindred spirit, you see. I couldn’t just let you waste away in obscurity. I had to give you purpose. Aren’t you grateful?

A thousand replies of yes leap from your tongue. If you were a bolder soul, you might have laughed at such a ridiculous question, but you would never speak to your muse in such a way. You press your face into the mass of inky black hair, hoping to convey what words cannot. 

They seem to receive the message, releasing a laugh that rings out like the answer to everything. They squeeze your hand tighter, almost possessively, but you find a kind of comfort in the action. You are theirs. And you dream that perhaps one day, they will consider being yours.

You don’t see me as a monster, do you?

This time, you really do laugh. If you’re a monster, then I’m happy to be eaten alive.