#i love the art style and the rock on hand gesture. i am Losing my Mind

[dj-wayback]

"heres the drawing hope you think it's" cool- Dual of mind

[BROADCAST_ERROR — CONNECTION_TERMINATED]

[threecrowsinatrenchcoat]

Paint My Spirit Gold

Dukeceit Week Day 2: Green/Yellow

Fans of the YouTubers "Deceit" and Remus "The Duke" Sanders start to suspect that maybe, just maybe, the two of them are more than simple internet pals.

AO3 Link: [here]

Word Count: 2187

Warnings: n/a

@dukeceitweek <3

-

[ID: A screenshot of a Twitter post by user @CallMeDukie. It features a watercolor-style painting of a snake. The snake appears to be made of melting chocolate, and there is a large bite taken out of its tail. Cherries and jam are leaking out of the snake at the bite wound. The snake's expression of horror is overly-exaggerated to the point of comedy. The caption reads: "liked your snake boi, @SerpenThyme. thanks for the inspo." /end ID]

- 

A notification ding cut Janus off mid-sentence. 

“Wow, someone left their cell phone on, so professional,” he said, giving the camera a dramatic eye roll. That someone was him, of course, because he was the only one in the apartment- just him and the running livestream- but that was no excuse not to be a drama queen about it. He finished wiping flour off his hands and grabbed his phone to silence it; but the notification made him pause. He flicked his eyes up toward the camera and gave a slight smirk.

“My goodness, I’m famous,” he drawled. “The Duke himself has graced little old me with some fan art.”

Most of the comments in the chat wanted him to show it, so Janus opened up Twitter to see the full post he’d been tagged in. It was a watercolor painting of the coiled-snake chocolate sculpture- lovingly named Jake by his viewers- he’d made for his YouTube video last week; it was wearing an expression of such comedic horror that Janus had to stifle a laugh. He flicked his phone screen toward the close-up camera on his counter so his viewers could see.

“How kind of you, Remus,” he said. “All of you should go scold him for what he’s done to poor Jake here.”

Most of his viewers would know he was joking- after all, they were the ones to nickname him Deceit when he provided neither a real or fake name for his online persona. They knew full well what he was like by now.

The oven timer dinged. Janus silenced his phone and set it aside.

“And our first batch of cookies is done. You know, why don’t we show the Duke some appreciation?”

-

[ID: An Instagram post by user @SerpenThyme. The photo is an artistically-framed shot of a stack of sugar cookies with green, yellow, and pink icing. Propped up against the stack is another cookie, with an intricate icing-drawing of an octopus. The photo appears to have been color corrected to have high contrast, low saturation, and a dark vignette at the edges. The Instagram user @OctoDukie is tagged. No caption. /end ID]

- 

“You know, I have often been accused of actually being a little old lady, what with my fondness for knitted jumpers, rocking chairs, and incredibly fucked up murder mystery books. Today I am doing nothing to dispel this accusation, by making soup.”

The studio was dark and empty aside from Remus' workspace. Everyone else had left long ago, even his own brother, which meant that it was officially ass-o'clock in the morning (or, as most people called it, somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m.) But Remus was stuck in hyperfocus, honed in on putting the last touches on a commission that he'd been putting off for weeks. It's not that it was a tough painting- once he'd gotten started, it was actually a very creatively satisfying piece- but man, executive dysfunction could go suck a dick

“French onion soup, specifically. Because while I do like to pretend I am a classy bitch, I am also, regrettably, a lazy bitch with a distaste for anything that takes longer than one bottle of wine to make.”

Remus hated working in silence. It was stifling, almost suffocating. His brain needed noise like his lungs needed air. So when the studio had grown still and silent, Remus had flipped open his laptop and queued up some YouTube videos. 

“So we have here three pounds of onions that we need to slice up, pole to pole. You’re going to cry no matter what, so if you have any memories you’ve been repressing since middle school, now is an excellent time to dredge those up.” 

And if it happened to be 90% SerpenThyme videos, well. Sue him. 

“Now the first rule of caramelizing onions: fast and sloppy is always better than slow and thorough… at least, that’s what every man I’ve ever slept with tells me.”

Remus choked and glanced over to his laptop screen just in time to catch Deceit's trademark smirk directed at the audience just for a moment. It was the deadpan delivery that always got him. Remus could barely hold onto a joke long enough to get through it without cackling mid-punchline, but this fucker could say the funniest shit like an off-hand comment. 

He wiped his hands off on his jeans (what use were clothes if you couldn't use them as paint rags?) and pulled his laptop across the table.  He typed out a quick comment, citing the timestamp of the joke, and after it was posted, he shut his laptop. 

'Cause ass-o'clock was short for "get-your-ass-home-or-I’ll-kick-it" o'clock. 

-

[ID: A screenshot of a YouTube comments section. The first comment is by user TheDuke, and reads: "10:42 wow, rude." The second comment is a reply by user SerpenThyme, and simply reads ";)" /end ID]

-

Janus plopped down on the couch with a slight groan. He didn’t need to stream today, but he really hated missing days. Besides… he was fine. Really. 

He adjusted the camera until he was happy with the framing, and then checked the settings on his streaming software. Satisfied, he started the stream, and watched as his usual viewers rolled in. 

“What do you mean I’m not in my kitchen?” Janus drawled, addressing the chat. He glanced around with an expression of faux-shock on his face. “My goodness, when did that happen?”

He chuckled, and then gestured to his surroundings. “Yes, we are in my living room today. If you must know, my closest and most trusted friend tried to murder me today- yes, Virgil, it was attempted murder and nothing less- and I survived with nary a scratch… and a broken foot, but that is beside the point. Anyway, I’m not allowed to stand for long periods of time, and I may or may not be somewhat inebriated by pain pills and couldn’t stand even if I wanted to. So we are cooking from my couch today.”

Janus paused for a few moments to read the chat messages as they popped up. A few get well soon’s, a few theories about the “attempted murder,” Virgil- who moderated his chat for him- vehemently denying the “attempted murder” but otherwise refusing to clarify the event, and a large volume of wtf why are you streaming today, take care of yourself comments, which made him smile. But one particular comment caught his eye, almost lost amid the torrent of an active chat: wait this kinda looks like the Duke’s living room?

“Oh, VampSuga,” he said, addressing that commenter in particular with a slight smirk. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Anyway, since I can’t reach my oven from here, I thought some no-bake cookies were in order. For these you will need-”

-

[ID: A screenshot of a Discord conversation. The text reads:

“VampSuga: Ok ok hear me out. Dukeceit. 

Starstruck96: who?

IneffableSnek: lmao

FeralBeauYasha: lol

VampSuga: Deceit and Remus Sanders! They’re totally dating. I will die on this hill. 

FeralBeauYasha: Isn’t the duke w/ PatPat?

IneffableSnek: no thats his brothers bf

FeralBeauYasha: ohh

VampSuga: Did anyone see Deceit’s stream today? I swear that’s the Duke’s livingroom. 

StarStruck96: idk that seems like a stretch

IneffableSnek: no wait i kno what u mean

IneffableSnek: im watching the duke’s old videos and that one where he shows off all his old weapons he’s in a living room kinda like deceit’s 

FeralBeauYasha: They were acting all cute on twitter too

VampSuga: DUKECEIT”  /end ID]

-

"Hey guys, been a while since you've seen my face and not just whatever my hands are busy with, when it's within YouTube's terms and conditions I mean. They used to be way more lenient…" Remus trailed off for a moment, then shook his head sharply and plastered on a grin. 

"Anyway! In June me and a few other creators did a fundraiser for the Trevor Project, and y'all smashed the goal, so I let you decide what video I'd make this month." He paused, and gestured to the mountain of clothes piled behind him on the bed. "And you had so many juicy ideas to choose from, but you decided to dress me up like a Barbie instead."

Remus paused to scroll through his phone for a few moments. "Ah, ok, here we go. Twitter user YoonIsMyCat- oh, BTS, nice- sent in this first outfit. Uh… future Remus, put up the post here somewhere." He gestured vaguely to his right. "Y'all went with either a fuckton more clothes or a fuckton less clothes, which I respect. Apparently this outfit is called…” He squinted at his phone. “Amish chic? I take it back, no respect at all.”

Remus cycled through the outfits his viewers sent in, which ranged from the aforementioned “Amish chic” to “2008 rave attire” to “ok now you guys are just fucking with me” (which consisted of one of those big puffy snow coats, lime green in color; booty shorts with the shrug text emoji across the ass; fuzzy pink boots; and a yellow cowboy hat to top off the whole thing. It was awful. Remus loved it.) The mountain of clothes on the bed gradually became a mess of clothes spread across the floor instead, until there was just one outfit left. 

“Ok so Twitter user VampSuga sent me this outfit that I’m gonna call ‘sexy librarian.’ I couldn’t find this exact sweater online, but-” he paused for dramatic effect, before brandishing a sweater toward the camera like a bullfighter. “My boyfriend had something that was close enough.”

Remus hopped up from the bed and switched off the camera so he could change.

“They’re going to lose their minds,” a voice drawled from the doorway. Remus threw his shirt at him.

“Shoo, I’m getting naked.”

-

[ID: A Twitter post by user @CallMeDukie. It features a selfie of YouTuber Remus “The Duke” Sanders, a Hispanic man with his hair dyed green and styled into a spiked mohawk. He is wearing a yellow knitted cardigan over a black button-up shirt. He is grinning widely at the camera. The caption reads: “my viewers pick my outfits! now live on youtube. go see what i look like as a sexy librarian!” /end ID]

-

DukeceitStan

first and only dukeceit shipper ig

DukeceitStan

wow there’s so many of you now! Hi!!

DukeceitStan

i want this to be canon so bad omg

DukeceitStan

i mean just look

[image]

how 

[image]

cute

[image]

[ID: A series of three gifs featuring Youtubers SerpenThyme, aka Deceit, and TheDuke, aka Remus Sanders. Deceit is a black man with long, dreadlocked hair, and vitiligo patches along the left side of his face. Remus is a Hispanic man with green-dyed hair styled into a mohawk, many ear and facial piercings, and tattoos covering both arms. Each gif is edited so that the highlights are tinged yellow when Deceit is seen, and tinged green when Remus is seen.

The first gif depicts a close-up shot of Deceit’s hands as he carefully decorates a cookie with green and yellow icing. The cookie art he is working on appears to be a half-finished octopus. The gif then fades into a mid-shot of Remus, with his back to the camera, facing a canvas. The canvas is blank, and Remus appears to be laying out paints on a table to his left. 

The second gif depicts Deceit seated at his couch, facing the camera. He has many ingredients spread across his coffee table (including oats, cocoa powder, and butter) and appears to be in the process of laying out several more. The gif fades to show Remus seated at a similar couch with a similar coffee table in front of him. The camera is angled slightly downward to better show the myriad of knives spread out across the table. Remus is gesturing wildly with a morning star held in his hand. 

The third gif depicts Deceit in his kitchen. He is pulling on a bright, yellow knitted cardigan, and smirking toward the camera. The gif fades to show Remus in his bedroom, seated on his bed. He is holding up a similar-looking cardigan toward the camera and grinning. /end ID]

- 

“Remus, it’s almost two in the morning. Come to bed.”

“I’m coming, sorry. Twitter distracted me.”

“Mm. I can’t believe the bird app is more distracting than I am.”

“You should try harder.”

“Come to bed and maybe I will.”

“Ok, ok, I’m coming. Hang on though, is it cool if I post this?”

“Sure. They figured it out anyway.”

“Sweet. Ok, Jannie, I’m coming.”

-

[ID: A screenshot of a Twitter post by user @CallMeDukie. It reads: “Dukeceit is canon.” /end ID] 

[shanaraharlyah]

I gave up on trying to think of a good title for this and am just posting it as it is (I finished the art a month ago and the doc file is up to 17 pages now. And that's not counting the numerous snippets in my phone). Here is the first 2055 words. Hope you guys enjoy!

Return to Redcliffe

Upon clearing the Circle Tower of demons, abominations and blood mages, Ysmeria returned to Redcliffe with First Enchanter Irving and the other mages in tow. When they arrived at the castle and entered the great hall, the air was still thick with the tension of the situation. Ser Perth stood guard near the entryway. He gave a smile and nod to the warden and her entourage as they strode into the hall. Teagan and Isolde stood at the opposite end, their demeanors couldn’t be more different. Teagan looked stern, as he had taken control of the situation since they’d left and needed to be the strong front until Eamon was cured. Isolde seemed drained and despondent, shoulders still slumping as they had the day they’d stormed the castle. The demon had not acted out since Ysmeria and her party had left for the circle, but clearly it granted her no peace, knowing it was still there in control of her son and could turn on them again at any time.

As they approached, another guard brought Jowan into the hall. The mage had been upstairs helping to watch Connor, as Teagan had suggested before the wardens left for Kinloch Hold. Ysmeria observed him sorrowfully. He had been her friend at the circle until he dragged her into a scheme to destroy his phylactery and escape the tower with Lily, the Chantry initiate he’d fallen in love with. She had initially agreed to help him, but when he resorted to blood magic to escape punishment, she felt betrayed. And now he had poisoned the Arl. He pleaded with her to help him atone and he agreed to help however he could. His suggestion to enter the Fade to confront the demon was the reason she’d returned to the circle for aid. Ysmeria could see the remorse in his eyes as he was led toward their group to participate in the coming conversation.

When everyone was finally gathered in the hall, they promptly began discussing the situation with Isolde. Teagan hung back by the fireplace, awaiting their decision and direction, but he couldn't help admiring the warden. She truly was stunning. She was not so very tall and was lean as he'd come to expect of elven women, but the cut and style of her robes accentuated her petite form. Her lovely face was framed by shockingly red curls that cascaded down over her Tevinter styled robes, in stark contrast to her shining, white bangs. Her skin was like blue-glazed porcelain marked with dark, gracefully curling makeup, or were they tattoos? He hadn't had the opportunity to see them closely enough to tell.

Watching her now took him back to their initial encounter inside the Redcliffe Chantry, recalling her determination to help and their playful flirtation. Was it possible they could have more? The way she'd shown interest in him, asked about his family and seemed to fret about his safety when he agreed to return to the castle with Isolde, told him she might share his rapidly developing feelings. He wasn't exactly subtle when he expressed his own interest in her, netting him some... interesting looks from Alistair. But now might not be the best time for all of this as he had much work to do with Eamon incapacitated and clearly she did as well....

His train of thought was interrupted when Ysmeria set her gaze upon him. He gave her a smile and nod when their eyes met, and she returned it.

"I will be the one to enter the fade to confront the demon," she said, looking back at Irving. Though she knew Jowan wished to help correct his mistake, she felt this task was her responsibility for her part in helping him escape the tower in the first place.

"Then it is settled," Irving replied, turning to Isolde, "Take us to the boy and we will begin the ritual at once."

"Yes," Isolde agreed. She turned to look at Teagan, who gestured for her to go. She complied and led them down the corridors and up the stairs to Connor's bedroom. Teagan fell in step behind the group.

When they reached the bedroom, Isolde dismissed the servant who had been watching over Connor, and moved to sit on the bed next to her son, "Everything is going to be alright, Connor. Just relax, these men have come to help," she explained, sliding an arm around her son's shoulders.

"Alright, mother, I'll try," the boy replied, looking around at the mages who encircled the bed.

Ysmeria's companions remained in the hallway, knowing there was nothing they themselves could do. Alistair watched from the doorway, all too aware that he was the only one here trained to deal with the consequences if something went terribly wrong.

Teagan came up behind Ysmeria and placed a strong hand on her shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze, "May the Maker watch over you, my lady."

She looked up at him to see his worried, but hopeful smile. Turning back to the other mages, she declared, "Ready when you are."

Irving gave her a nod and, looking around to see the others were also prepared, began the ritual. When the last words and gestures completed the spell, Ysmeria's body appeared to seize as her consciousness was sent into the fade to confront the demon. A moment later her body began to fall limply, and Teagan swooped in to catch her, lowering her carefully to the floor. He knelt behind her, holding her in his arms as he looked up at the First Enchanter for guidance.

"Now we wait, and ask the Maker to guide her in her task," Irving said. The other mages nodded and left the room to grant the family some privacy.

Teagan turned his gaze to the bed to see Isolde rocking her sleeping son, the worry showing clearly on her face and making her appear older than her years. All the trauma they'd faced these past weeks was taking its toll. If the warden hadn't shown up when she did... He didn't even want to think about it. He shut his eyes tightly and held her closer.

As the minutes ticked by, he began to worry that something had gone wrong and he was about to lose his nephew and the lovely lady he now held in his arms. He tried to take his mind off of the possibility by studying the elven maiden's face more closely. From this proximity he could tell the delicate markings on her face were tattoos, and he wondered if maybe she was of Dalish descent. He hadn't had much contact with their people since they tended to avoid humans, but he had heard of their skill in tattooing. Teagan absently brushed a fallen hair from Ysmeria's beautiful face and allowed his thumb to trail down her cheek. Her skin was so soft. He wished he could hold her forever, but prayed she would come back safely.

Teagan wasn't the only one praying in that moment. Leliana knelt in the hall imploring the Maker to watch over, guide and protect her friend in her task, while Alistair, leaning against the door frame, prayed he wouldn't need to use his templar training against the woman he'd grown to care for so much. Even Fen'Harel lay quietly, sad eyes moving from one companion to the next, feeling their worry and making himself anxious.

What had only been five minutes, felt like an eternity spent with the tension permeating the room. And suddenly Ysmeria's eyes began to flutter. Teagan's heart pounded in his chest. He prayed she'd been successful and not been seduced by the demon. When she opened her eyes, she stared right up at him and lifted a hand to his face. He caught it in his, pressing it to his cheek, closing his eyes and releasing the breath he’d been holding before moving to kiss her fingertips. "Glad to have you back, my lady," he smiled, "Were you..."

He was cut off by an emotional cry from across the room, "Oh, Connor!" All eyes were on the Arlessa who was holding her son tightly in relief. "You're alright!" she exclaimed, tears in her eyes.

"Ow, mother, you're hurting me!" the boy complained as she squeezed him in her arms.

Teagan looked back at the warden who was still resting against him. "Yes," she replied to his half asked question, "I defeated the demon. It won't be troubling you any further."

"Thank the Maker!" Teagan breathed a sigh of relief, "And thank you, my lady."

She smiled back at him, "It was my pleasure to be of assistance." She had never met a man quite so polite and kind as Teagan. It could certainly be just the courtesy instilled by his noble upbringing, but something in his smile and the way he interacted with her told her it was all genuine.

"I know we still have much ahead of us, but I believe you and your companions deserve a rest in a comfortable bed this evening," Teagan continued, while tenderly caressing her exposed arm with his thumb, "as do we all. I will have the servants fix dinner and prepare rooms for all of you.” Turning his gaze to the bed, “Isolde, take all of the time that you need, for tomorrow we must discuss our next steps."

Isolde nodded, expressing her thanks to her brother-in-law and went back to fussing over her son. Teagan reached out and took Ysmeria's hands, helping her to her feet and spinning her around to face him, "Take Alistair and your companions down to the great hall. If you need anything, the servants can get it for you. I will join you shortly."

"Of course," she replied. Teagan's hands lingered on hers until she turned to leave with Alistair, Leliana and Fen'Harel following behind. He watched her go before turning back to Irving.

"She is quite remarkable, isn't she?" Irving commented, taking the Bann by surprise. Teagan blushed, a childish reaction he thought himself well beyond at his age. Apparently his attentions hadn't been as subtle as he'd thought.

"Indeed, she is," he replied, taking back his composure. "And so freely giving. I don't think I've ever met anyone like her."

"Nor are you likely to again," Irving added. "She is something special. I wouldn't let her slip through your fingers, if I were you. She is free of the circle now and her life is dedicated to the Wardens, but there may yet be room for more if she is so inclined. Not that I should encourage such things."

Teagan felt the heat return to his face. This man was too good at finding the gaps in his defenses. "Thank you for your advice, First Enchanter. Now, you and your men are also welcome to stay the night if you wish. I can have the servants prepare for your company."

"That's quite alright, my lord. I have much to do to aid with the recovery of the circle, so it would be best if we were on our way. But thank you for your gracious hospitality." Irving bowed to the Bann in gratitude.

“Surely you could stay for a hot meal with us while I have a ship readied for your return to Kinloch Hold. It’s the least we can do.”

“That is a generous offer, my lord. I suppose we can stay to sup since you’ve all but eliminated our journey home.”

"Excellent! And thank you again for coming to help save my nephew. I can't bear to imagine what could have been without your aid," Teagan clapped a hand on the mage's shoulder in a gesture of thanks.

"It is what we live for, my lord. Now, I shall take my leave. May the Maker watch over you all." Irving turned and bowed to the Arlessa and her son before sweeping out of the room.

Teagan turned back to Isolde, "Let me know if there is anything you need. I'll take care of everything for the evening and have dinner sent up if you so desire."

"Thank you, Teagan," Isolde replied, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze.

The Bann nodded, squeezing back before turning to leave and to inform the servants of the necessary preparations for the evening.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (13)

SHIT THIS WAS TOUGH. OKAY. FINALLY. Next chapter, I am excited because that’s when shit hits the fan.

Thanks as always to dickbutt for enduring my screaming.

<<Chapter 12

「Talon. Five grunts. Have not emerged since 03:40. Civilians potentially involved.」

He marks down their locations on pen and paper and in a shorthand near extinct in the age of handheld devices and advanced recording technology. Despite what some people say, traditional methods have their place in the current world.

(Long ago, he nor Genji had a love for stenography, but their father insisted and their mother encouraged it. He had wanted to please them both and worked hard at it, earning his mother’s gracious praise even though she was so much better: writing without skipping a beat or pause, fluid against paper like breathing. She awed him.

It’s fair to say his mother was proficient at anything resembling the arts or dealt with grace—martial arts, even, was a dance to her and dance, a martial art—overly attentive and focused just so, exceeding deliberate at everything from the tilt of her face to the inch of her step; the very model Yamato Nadeshiko with a gentle and endearing Kyoto accent that disguised a raging river and a passion. Warm and still at times, cold and unstoppable at others. A force to be feared by the clan, and a person to be respected and loved by her family. Distant as her memory is, he remembers the songs she used to sing with their father—he doubts Genji would remember; he was too young, too flippant to sit still and listen to their mother’s rich voice, too young to miss it. Too young to have missed her like Hanzo does.)

With a pensive sigh though his nose and a single rub at his aching eyes, he continues his notes until they are detailed to his satisfaction, briefly interrupted by his raising binoculars to his eyes.

Winston wants to know Talon's movements and who they’re working with, but specifically ordered him to not engage them. Hanzo has seen people who could resemble the dramatic organization around, catching glimpses of them among the sea of people in the narrow streets of Gibraltar, trying too hard to blend in and looking just a bit too dangerous to pass off as innocent. He does not know why they’re here, but it is likely because they know Overwatch plans on returning.

The objective of the mission itself is simple, but it’s difficult to do in such a small community. Gibraltar was miniscule even when compared to his Hanamura. The community here is tight-knit, prone to the same sights and the same people and the same habits. He would, undoubtedly, stand out and be remembered if he were to conduct his observations any more openly. That bodes the same for Talon, however.

So he resigns himself to staying to the shadows as much as possible.

But even that is difficult.

He doesn't know how he did not realize it before, but chalks it up to having been flown into Gibraltar in the dead of night and never truly leaving the base since his arrival to explore, but there are a ton of monkeys around that seem all too aware of his presence, their eyes fixated on him no matter where he goes or how he tries to hide. It’s all the more unnerving when at any moment they may open their mouths and alert Talon—or some unsuspecting local—to his whereabouts.

It's no wonder no one else could do this job.

(He tries not to think of Genji being thrown better candidate—he is, but he wasn't. Perhaps the Genji is is now. Not the Genji he knew.)

A stab of pain, imagined but no less real, wreaks havoc in his chest. And reluctantly, he lets it.

Coward.

Hanzo revels in the sting for just a brief moment. It keeps him awake in a way that the still tepid night cannot.

He shakes his head, bites the inside of his lip hard.

Focus.

Somewhere below him, the bustle of street vendors and a market sluggishly stirs to life like clockwork.

As soon as he can smell bread from the nearby bakery and sees the fisherman come in with their hauls and laying out their catches of the day, it would already be time for the rest of Gibraltar to catch up.

And time for Talon to make their move.

Hanzo brings binoculars to his eyes again to observe the number of trucks leaving the warehouses that line the opposite shore of the Rock of Gibraltar.

Most of them are fairly routine; he's long memorized their routes throughout the week. There are trucks from all over and ships coming in at all times. There's been suspicious movements among them, however, that do not follow any logic: from the docks down a path that's never the same as any of the previous ones to a single warehouse where nothing ever comes out of, but several cars go into. It's certainly possible that this is paranoia, but to him, it looks like the beginnings of a deal or the transactions of one.

He watches the weavings of different trucks for some time and marks down their destinations, ignoring the growing aches in his joints and muscles, and acutely aware of the sun slowly creeping up.

It seems that Talon is not feeling very active this morning, but it does not mean they will not move later.

Vigilance and patience will always yield rewards. It’s as his teachers once told him: “If you wait by the river long enough, eventually the bodies of your enemies will float by.” Yes, it is not efficient, but time claims all and there is a lot to be said about patience and perseverance as long as one does not tire. Though, Talon is being particularly patient, discreet in ways that does not quite suit their normal style.

It’s peculiar in a way that makes him wonder if he’s not misreading the signs.

He leans back a little into the nook he’s hidden himself in, carefully rolling his stiffened shoulders and shuffles away from the sun’s peeping rays and warmth. The last few days have been exhausting in ways he didn’t really think about before he joined Overwatch.  

Maybe he’s losing his touch or maybe he’s just gotten too stiff from being cooped up at the base while Winston attempts to navigate the minefield that is Overwatch’s international and local legal status. It’s a little strange to say that there feels like something missing from his missions—or rather, there is no opportunity to say anything: there’s no one to speak to.

Would it really be so shameful to say that he...misses the company?

Even when he spoke to no one at the base, there was at least you. You didn’t judge him—or at least, not that he knew since the last time you were both on ‘good’ terms.

He didn’t need friends, but perhaps there was some benefit to not having any enemies on base. Least of all, the hand that feeds him.

Junkrat’s reminder rings mockingly in his head. “Don't mess with the one who makes your tucker!”

The corners of his mouth turns downward sharply and he takes in a slow breath through gritted teeth. The world must be going mad if he’s taking advice from someone who is as likely to drink a molotov cocktail as he is to throw it.

He really couldn’t get out of the base fast enough after that little incident. He doesn’t know how you feel or how you reacted, just that Athena had pestered him about his meals while he doggedly tore into some MRE’s that he had squirreled away when he first arrived at the base, ignoring persistent calls to go down to the cafeteria to eat and the growing darkness inside that threatened to tear him down.

Not for the first time since he’s left for this mission, he wonders if he shouldn’t make up for it somehow.

It’s not as though he had done anything wrong, but he had been a little rude to you. Maybe. You likely didn’t know anything that was going through his mind at the time. It wasn’t your fault that he overreacted to a stupid seat. It wasn’t your fault that he was too cowardly to take the first step toward...whatever the rest of the meddling team was trying to accomplish. (Not that they should've. He would've done it in due time.)

For the upteenth time, he sighs, the growing bustle of the market below drawing his attention. A little unfocused, he watches the few people meandering the stalls. Some of whom have aprons on beneath their light jackets.

And he has to do a double-take, rapidly scanning the sparse crowd for any sign of a familiar face, and once more just in case.

He breathes a small sigh. Luckily (or unluckily), there were none.

This is normally the time when you both held your...meetings? Rendezvous? He doesn’t quite know what those late-night-early-mornings are. Indulgences, maybe. Moments of peace. At the very least, seeing as how you're not down there, he can take some small comfort in knowing that with his absence, you’re probably sleeping instead of staying up to serve him tea or whatever small treat you’ve cooked up.

Hanzo grimaces.

Just how much time has he stolen from you? Would you, if you had the choice, be down here in the morning? If he wasn’t there, would you be freer?

A particularly loud fisherman begin to advertise his catches for the day, his voice garbled at this distance, but has the intended effect and pulls in a tiny crowd. He finds himself watching the processions of haggling and seemingly satisfied customers coming up and leaving with their prizes.

If he goes down there, would he be able to identify something you could cook with? Maybe bring you back something? Not as an apology, of course, but maybe a gesture of good will?

Unlikely.

Even during his life as a vagrant, he’s never had to cook for himself or pick out produce that’s not already pre-packaged and prepared for him. (And even then, he’s not sure he can tell the difference in quality or that he won’t be cheated if he were to ask the shopkeep.) Japan having spoiled him with its conveniences: a discreet oden cart, a 24-hour convenience store, a small ramen shop; food was always readily available to him. When it wasn’t, he just went hungry, accepting it as the whims of life. However, those times were few and far in between.

Even fewer under your care. You always kept him fed until bursting, pacifying his appetite with seconds and thirds and no complaints.

And what did he ever do to deserve such indulgence?

Simple rice would do—it should do for someone like him.

But you insist on flavorful, fatty, fancy (but not too fancy) meals that remind him of a time he thought was long outside his grasp (not that he didn't sometimes dream of it, waking up with a hand grasping at the lingering tail of a more bountiful, powerful—meaningful—past). You insist on treating him like he’s human, like he’s worthy of anyone’s time, like—

Like you cared.

He shakes himself free of the thought. No, you treat everyone the same way. You’re a professional chef in the same manner he’s a professional assassin. It was appreciated before, but your good intentions—your professionalism—does nothing but hinder him nowadays.

Nothing he eats now tastes quite the same.

No matter how much he consumes, it's not enough to fill the void inside, not enough to satisfy a hunger deeper than his appetite, not enough to reach every empty crevice of his being. He would, even on the mission, wake up at the time of your usual meetings, craving something sweet or some warm drink to begin the day, only to realize he has nothing but a past that he didn’t realize he did not want to go back to.

Trained like some pavlovian dog to wake up and hunger for something that he himself thought himself above and willfully rejected.

You’ve infected him with something.

Slowly ruining his good judgment.

On cue, his stomach rumbles quietly, but not quietly enough that his skin does not prickle with the paranoia of being found.

He grinds a curse between his teeth. Fine.

Perhaps just once he can treat himself so he can stop being distracted by the lack of (good) food in his system. The past few days, he has only been subsisting on store bought sandwiches and easily consumable items. His position may be compromised now anyway and he cannot exactly continue if his stomach insists on being a hinderance. Once that’s done, he can return to his work.

Besides, he reasons with himself, today is the last intended day of the mission anyway. He can orientate himself while eating, get the rest of his mission and notes in order.

With that plan in mind, he abandons his perch and makes his way back down toward the more crowded part of town where he meanders, seeking sustenance while keeping an eye and an ear out for Talon.

It takes nearly an hour for him to find any restaurant open at this time of day and by then, he's ready to throw down his forsaken pride and for back to the Watchpoint and bluster his way through and get you to cook for him.

There’s one restaurant that catches his eye. It sits at the end of a winding road, perhaps once a part of some castle, but now remodeled into something more polished and gleaming with bleached brick and wide windows dressed modestly with translucent curtains.

At the arch of the main door sits a logo, one that he swears he’s seen before: a green heart with what seems to be dragon scales, blooming toward the tapered end. But where?

It’s a distinguished establishment with a standing sign in cursive that he could barely make out, the lines thick at the ends with delicate, thin loops in the middle with a brief menu written underneath. He scrunches his nose a bit when he finds that he cannot read it and almost turns around to find someplace else to patronize when his stomach growls. Loudly.

He supposes he might as well and enters begrudgingly through the old-fashioned wooden doors.  

The first thing he notices is the smell. Warm with the faint aroma of freshly-baked bread, lightened by something more citrius-y. There is the slightest bit of music playing—slow and jazzy—just enough to fill the silence but not enough to survive against prolonged conversation over a whisper.

At the entrance, an omnic greets him.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Cœur d’Artichaut. I am the manager of this humble restaurant, my name is Argus Twenty.”

She is immaculate. Her posture is straight and well poised with her hands folded and raised at waist level, her dress clothes—a well-fitted suit with bold stitches, the jacket open and revealing a tightly buttoned blouse—are without wrinkles, and her exterior shows little sign of wear. If he were still assuming the role of the Shimada clan’s young master, he would not have dined anywhere less. Now, it just seems like an excessive luxury.

“Is this your first time with us, Mr…”

“Tanaka. Tanaka, Ichirou.”

The omnic takes a moment to digest the information, likely searching her databases for someone of a familiar face. He doesn’t know whether it’ll be the last mistake he’ll ever make on this forsaken peninsula, but it’s far from the first (of which was coming here).

“Welcome, Mr. Tanaka,” she says pleasantly. If the face plate could allow her to smile, he’s sure she would. “Party of one?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way, please.” Seamlessly, she picks up a set of menus as she turns her heel and guides him.

He follows her through the mostly empty restaurant, mapping it out in his mind.

At one of the first few tables sits a much older man—skin even darker than his greying hair, mildly dressed with a stern look, unproportionately thick in the middle compared to his long limbs—looking down his nose at a newspaper, sipping what smells to be thick, bitter coffee.

Hanzo is sure, if something were to happen, he’d be able to defeat him. But then, he slowly uncrosses and recrosses his legs, firm lines of muscle casts shadows on his pants betraying the strength that lies beneath his aged look—it sends a slight thrill through him as he briefly imagines what it might be like to fight the unsuspecting man.

The windows they pass are wide enough to comfortably throw his body through without issue and the space between the tables scattered about would allow him to take someone down without disturbing the rest of the scenery.

She leads him to a table closer to the back, secluded with his own window where the light spills across the upper half of the creamy white sheet on the table. The tablecloth is good quality and, upon touching it, seems like it would not tear if he were to wrap it around someone's neck. It might even survive a knife fight depending on how it's utilized.

He sits down on the chair that Argus pulls out for him. It's very stable, unlikely to break after being slammed over someone's head. Excellent. He barely notices her propping up the menus on the table; he's too occupied thinking of the types of attacks this chair can withstand as he leans into it's cushion. Zarya could throw this and it may still come out with all its limbs intact.

“May I start you off with a beverage this morning, Mr. Tanaka?”

He grabs the menu and rifles through it.

“Hot tea. Green.”

“Is there any specific type you would prefer, sir?”

“Moroccan mint.”

“Would you like any sweeteners to accompany your drink?”

“Yes.”

“Honey, sugar, gum syrup, or—”

“All of them.”

To her credit, she doesn't even react to these unreasonable demands. “Understood. One moment, please.”

She bows briefly and walks away to let him digest the place.

It's, in a word, quaint. Clearly high-class, but in a way that is meant to impress only those who know the true value of money.

The breakfast menu is short—in English and some sort of Spanish and splatterings of French—and he easily reads through it in under a minute, noting the distinct lack of price tags. It’s the usual faire, unexpected but not out of place: a basket selection of breads and small pastries, pancakes or crepes with compote, eggs described in unnecessarily fancy ways, and strangely enough, churros. There are some savory options, but none that can prevent his eye from hovering around the thin cursive of pancakes.

There's no point to think too much of it. He knows what he likes.

The menu closes with a satisfying and heavy clap and he sets it back down only to pick up a small placard on his table just off to the side.

Having little else to do, he finds himself reading the brief history of this establishment.

Cœur d’Artichaut is a for-profit charity-restaurant committed to providing those who have been displaced or in less fortunate circumstances a healthy, hearty meal. Proceeds from each customer and donation is used to support the chefs who volunteer their time, employees, local suppliers, and our mission.

The restaurant’s namesake comes from the French idiom, “cœur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde,” meaning “the heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone.” The original idiom refers to a person who falls in love easily, handing out their heart to anyone and everyone. At Cœur d’Artichaut, we believe in giving more than just food; we believe in packing it with love. Each packaged meal is prepared—

He almost throws the card away, unable to stomach the rest of the idealistic musings of a restaurant who—for profit—believes in handing out something so vague as love. Instead, he turns it downward and slides it away from him.

What is wrong with the world that they are tossing such a word around so easily?

It must be some bias, he concludes. One of those paradoxical or psychological things where, having heard it once, he’s now seeing it everywhere.

Not even a full minute later, Argus returns with a full platter and sets it down, feather-light, on his table. An assortment of sugars, sweeteners stand at attention behind a tall vessel and a delicate teacup.

“Moroccan mint green tea,” she explains as she begins to pour him a cup, “made from a blend of fresh spearmint, lemon verbena, and pennyroyal with equal parts formosa gunpowder green tea.”

She sits down the tea vessel and begins to gesture at each of the small bottles.

“From right to left, we have honey, gum syrup, agave, granulated white sugar, light brown sugar, dark brown sugar, cane sugar, white sugar cubes, and more traditionally used with moroccan mint tea, pieces of sugar cone. Please enjoy.”

Before she can walk away, he raises a hand to keep her attention. “I also wish to order.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tanaka.” The lights of her face plate flicker. “What would you have this morning?”

“The pancakes and...anything else you recommend.”

She pauses and tilts her head. “Do you have any allergies or dislikes you would like us to be aware of?”

He debates it for a moment, but returns with, “None.”

“Understood, Mr. Tanaka. I will have the chef prepare something fitting. I ask for your patience.”

The mere mention of a 'chef’ makes his stomach tighten and simultaneously frightens and excites his appetite; Hanzo clenches the edge of his chair to keep himself from bolting off. Unaware of his predicament, Argus walks away again, picking up the menus from his table.

No. It cannot be you. You're at the Watchpoint, probably preparing breakfast for everyone else. Ludicrous of him to even think that it might be you preparing his food.

Hanzo takes a breath and reaches for the tea, feeling silly for having such a visceral reaction to merely a word. He breaths in the steam as though it’ll cleanse him.

It smells heavenly; the refreshing scent cuts through the sleepy quiet of the restaurant and the heavy feeling in his gut.

He holds the cup tightly yet carefully by its porcelain handle. He sips it gingerly and his mouth is flooded with the cooling sensation of mint and contrary warmth. It's not overpowering or bitter, but light and allows him to taste the green tea lying beneath in earnest.

He adds a dollop of honey from the little porcelain pot the manager provided. Tries it. And adds some cone sugar. Another sip, and he adds a dainty spoonful of sugar.

Perfection.

It’s almost too easy to enjoy this tea in this quiet atmosphere where the different tracks of jazz seem to meld into another, the only other sound in the restaurant being the turning of a newspaper. It’s almost too easy to forget who he is, what he’s doing here, the danger that lurks somewhere on this peninsula.

The doors to the restaurant opens again, and Hanzo watched as a man and an omnic in suits walk in. Despite the emptiness of the place, their conversation with Argus does not carry. They are led stiffly to another part of the restaurant out of Hanzo’s line of sight. There is the sound of people walking up stairs, a door closing, and little else before Argus reemerges to return to her station.

He sets down the cup with excruciating care.

As he's waiting, he pulls out his notebook and begins to organize his notes from the past few days. It is unlikely anyone here can read his shorthand. Even if they took pictures of it, it would take forever to find anyone familiar with it.

Notes are rewritten and summarized, all the better for him to present to Winston.  

By the time his food arrives, he's halfway through with his task and starving.

“Your pancakes, Mr. Tanaka, with a mixed berry compote topped with a sweetened creme fraiche and salted brown sugar butter syrup on the side. Today, we have included, for your pleasure, a savory bread basket. Please enjoy.”

A modest stack of neat pancakes topped with a carefully scooped round of cream overlapping a palette of melting butter. A mint sprig and a small bed of berries tastefully lean against the side, drops of reddish sauce decorate the square plate that seems to be more for aesthetic effect that once upon a time, he would have judged harshly. On the side is a miniature pitcher of dark, brownish sauce.

It looks and smells acceptable. But what of the taste?

The first slice he makes reveals a slow river of dark compote in between each fluffy disk. He takes a skeptical bite and is rewarded with a multitude of flavors. Warm, buttery pancakes with an underlying milky taste by the sweet and almost overwhelming flavor of berries and berry bits with a cool and hearty dollop of cream on top that’s just as sweet as it is pleasantly tart.

The next bite is accompanied by the sugar-butter sauce and he scarfs it down with less finesse than the establishment may have found acceptable. Each time, he finds a new flavor mixed in somewhere that he hadn't noticed before.

The tea proves to be too sweet and he takes the second cup without any sweetener, relishing in the repeated cycle of rich, sweet pancakes and the refreshing drink of mint.

He has to fight to not finish his breakfast too soon.

They remind him of yours. They're not the same, but there's a balance in them that is not unfamiliar to him. Surely even you would find this acceptable.

The bread basket, too, contains some familiar flavors. It's not so much a basket as it is just a small affair of a few small, fat disks surrounding a small ramekin of something mildly spicy. It's delicious and reminds him of something that Satya might enjoy.

Hanzo narrows his eyes. It's unlikely, but too much of a coincidence. He wipes his mouth on the linens and waves Argus over.

“Is there something the matter, sir?”

“I want to meet the chef who made this meal.”

“Certainly.” Without skipping a beat, she turns and leaves. It must be a common request or he still retains that authoritative edge from his old days.

Now that he's asked, he looks back at the demolished remainder of his meal. He truly hasn't had something so filling since he left the Watchpoint.

Dread crawls up his back and makes his stomach clench sharply.

What would he say if it really is you? What would you say? Would you provide a polite explanation or would you tell him to get out?

Suddenly, his hands feels stiff.

Maybe it wasn't wrong to have thought of all the uses of this furniture after all.

Somewhere else in the restaurant, he can briefly hear the creak of a door and from it escapes a bubble of a heated conversation that he can barely catch before it's quiet again, the door having shut.

Argus returns shortly with someone in tow. He squeezes his hands together before turning his head up, holding his breath just in case.

And breathes a sigh when he finds someone he doesn't recognize standing there—the man’s face sports some lingering yellows and purples that almost blends in with his sun kissed skin like he’s been in a fight, his chef's uniform creased this way and that as though it hadn't been ironed in some time.

He bows at the waist briefly, his choppy, wavy locks flopping forward before they’re shoved back.

“I am the Head Chef here, my name is Asim Singh.”

A laugh or the beginnings of a nervous chuckle almost makes its way out of his mouth, rattling somewhere in his stomach. Right. It was unlikely. Impossible, even. The young man extends a hand and Hanzo shakes it, holding a little tighter than cordially necessary if just to ground himself to the reality that this is not you and to make any transactions beyond this a touch easier. To his surprise, Asim gives it right back to him.

Something other than indifference must have shown on his face, because the chef—Asim—asks, withdrawing his hand, “Is something the matter, Mr. Tanaka?”

“No, not at all. I wanted to...compliment you on this meal.”

The man beams and his chest seems to puff out in a way that reminds Hanzo of you. “Yes, our menu was developed with a lot of care and consideration of the local culture and French techniques. The additional dish you’ve requested is not on the menu—”  

The man goes on and on, gesturing at the various parts of each dish. Hanzo doesn’t pay such close attention to what he’s saying anymore, relieved and perhaps a little disappointed that it wasn’t you.

“Where did you...find the inspiration for these dish?”

For a second, something strange flickers over the man’s features, but it’s quickly replaced by that fake pleasantry that sends prickles up his ribs and spine. “The idli is a staple in my home country, and the pancakes are a recipe developed by the previous esteemed Head Chef who has now moved onto more managerial duties and is now working as the CEO.”

Again with the previous head chefs. Does every cook on this planet have a head chef that they look up to and seem to be shackled by?

“I see. A pity. I would have liked to meet this Head Chef-turned-CEO,” he says somewhat sarcastically.

“If you’re interested, Mr. Tanaka, we could set up a meeting. Though the CEO is rather busy at the moment.”

Hanzo waves a hand, silently wondering just how terribly he’s lost his edge if his sarcasm is so lost on a stranger. Maybe he's gone soft. Or maybe authority is just lost on this man. “Another time then.”

“My pleasure. If you change your mind about the meeting, you can speak to Argus. She’ll set you up.” He points to the omnic who is too busy attending to the other gentleman in the restaurant to notice. Asim looks like he’s about to take the towel hanging off his apron and throw it at her unsuspecting self, barely restraining a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Asim returns his attention back to Hanzo and smiles pleasantly—an edge of playfulness that wasn't there before just shadowing his lips. “Anytime. Enjoy the remainder of your meal.”

Quiet again, Hanzo takes the time to finish up his notes and his tea, trying out each type of sweetener he’s been provided until he has no more tea to try them with, relishing in the delicate bubble of peace this restaurant, away from troubles or dangers, provides.

It wouldn't hurt to stay here longer or return to this place at a later date. It's not overly stuffy like other high-class restaurants nor is it too casual that anyone would come in here to cause a ruckus. The food was acceptable and could even give you a run for your money.

Speaking of which...

He motions for the manager who is at his table within seconds.

“The bill.”

“Certainly, Mr. Tanaka.”

She produces a small holotablet from her inner pocket—he couldn’t help but notice some stippling that presses up against the silk of her dress shirt, like her chassis was heavily damaged—but that’s quickly covered up by her presenting the bill on the screen and placing it on the table along with a mint and card bearing the name of the restaurant.

“Please take your time, and if you have enjoyed your experience, I ask you to consider becoming a donor to our charity which strives to pro—”

“I am aware.” Awkwardly, he adds, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

She leaves him to debate just how much he would like to pay on top of his bill and just how anonymous Winston has made his chip card. Winston would not risk exposing Overwatch before it’s ready, but the gorilla is a scientist, not a financial expert or an accounts expert. Athena, maybe.

(Then again, Athena may as well be the expert on everything, be it finance or fashion.)

In the end, he pays the bill in full and leaves a sizable donation. It’s not as though the money he’s earning from Overwatch is of any use to him anyway.

By the time he leaves, several other customers have come in. Dignitaries, from the looks of their bodyguards who Hanzo is certain he’ll be able to take on no problem.

But he’s not here to cause any issues or take lives for no reason. He leaves it be, but mentally stores their faces in his memory for later.

The meal sits pleasantly heavy in his stomach but it’s missing something. Something Hanzo does not really have the luxury to think about. He has a mission to return to.

The day continues with a little more ground-level observations. Visits to places he knew Talon to have stopped by previously takes up most of his day and he decides to end things when the sun has begun to set.

His return to the base is quiet, weighed down by thoughts and intrusive regrets that grow heavier and heavier with the shortening distance. There’s no one to greet him—not unusual, it’s late at night and no one would take time out of their routine to give him so much as a greeting. Especially not since he left on such uncomfortable terms. If anything, he’s actual grateful for the solitude.

Hanzo pauses briefly as he passes by the cafeteria doors. He should go inside, he knows, but a heavy stone sits inside his stomach and in his limbs, refusing to let him budge. It’s unlikely his company would be appreciated especially after his rudeness. Even worse, what could he say that wouldn’t make himself cringe or want to potentially throw himself out a window?

(There’s tiny—so, so very miniscule that it may as well be non-existent—part of him that hopes your mood would change if he just ate something of yours. You always seem to be in a better mood when others have eaten and—while he’s not seeking your forgiveness—he would not appreciate having the person responsible for his meals to be cross with him.)

Again, his wavering pride makes him a coward and he reasons that he can do it after he gives his report. It’ll be better for the both of you.

Hanzo drops by the briefing room only to catch Soldier hastily clicking his mask back on and Winston looking a little more than frustrated.  

“Welcome back, Agent Hanzo,” Winston grounds out, trying his best to wipe away any previous aggressions his stance may have shown, his fur slowly falling from their raised position. Soldier crosses his arms and turns away, but seems unwilling to leave.

“If this is not a good time, I can return later.” Not that he’s eager to do that either since it would mean he’d be running out of excuses to give you space.

“No, no!” Winston waves his large hands. “Never a bad time. Please, come in and relax.”

“Thank you.”

He pulls out the nearest seat for himself, but his eyes fall on something. Familiar brown wrappers, all identical and crumbled, is littered across the table in front of Soldier: 76. It takes Hanzo a moment to realize they’re the mauled remains of those vile rations. Why does he eat those when you’re here? Unless you’re mad at Soldier, too.

The gaze does not seem to go unnoticed by the man. “What’re you looking at?”

Hanzo suppresses the urge to attempt to assert his authority and only answers, “I was only considering if those are recyclable.”

Soldier grumbles something underneath his breath that sounds very much like “punk” and sweeps the scraps of paper off the table and into a waiting wastebasket below his seat.

Winston clears his throat, trying to look more stern and take on the role he clearly was not meant to be in. “Thank you for taking your time to come here, I know you’ve had a long mission. Now then, Agent Hanzo. Your debrief.”

Over the course of  the next half-hour, he gives an attentive Winston and a half-listening Soldier a rundown of everything he’s observed in the past few days. The two others prod for details, interjecting with theories and occasional images of maps. But none of them get any closer to the what could be the heart of Talon's objectives.

Winston regards his words seriously, a frown on his features as he listens, occasionally stroking his furry chin. “Thank you, Agent Hanzo. Your report is excellent. They know we are active, but they do not know if this is still our main base of operations. Without coming in here, they cannot confirm such a thing.” Winston shines a grin on him and Soldier. “Not that any of our agents would let them.”

The gorilla’s optimism is nice, even ego-boosting, but the reality of the matter is much grimer.

“We should look into strengthening the defenses on base. We cannot rule out the possibility of Talon returning.”

“Fareeha and Torbjorn are in the midst of conducting a security assessment and security upgrades respectively. Unless there are some blind spots that we are unaware of, I have absolute faith in our defenses.”

Begrudgingly, Hanzo supposes that there’s no one better to do such a thing than a member of Helix Securities. Even in Japan, they’re well-known experts in the field.

“Anyway, Agent Hanzo, it's late and you must be hungry. Sorry for keeping you.”

Hanzo nearly winces, but manages to keep his features neutral. “No, not at all. I’ve already eaten.” In truth, he had only given himself a little bit of food to make up for the most decadent meal he's had in days.

“Shame. We have take-out and hate to let it go to waste.”

Blinking, he looks back down at the table where the scraps of MREs are.

Takeout?

“Different agents and at different restaurants, of course,” Winston quips, ticking them off his fingers. “Yesterday was Indian, the day before was Chinese, then before that was—”

But Hanzo has stopped listening. He's frozen to the spot, staring and feeling as though he’s slipped into some strange universe.

This isn’t right. Why are the members of the organization eating take-out of all things when they have you? You’re here to cook for them, that’s all you’re here for. You’d never stop feeding anyone if you could help it. So why?

Unless...

His mouth is dry and he winces at the crack in his voice when he asks, “Where is the chef?”

Winston doesn’t look at him, but his fur does something strange. His blood runs a touch colder, a touch quicker. Soldier looks at the gorilla-scientist expectantly and if his mask were off, Hanzo was sure the man’s expression would be more than a little smug.

Again, he asks, a little more insistent, “What happened to the chef?”

A few moments of silence pass. Winston’s huge shoulders rise and slump with the force of his sighs. There’s a grimace on his face that looks a little more than just a bit guilty.

“I regret to inform you that...the chef isn’t here. On base, anyway. We’re not quite sure where either, unfortunately. Chef refuses to answer any communications recently and—”

“How long?”

“Since a week ago.”

A week.

That’s how long you’ve abandoned your duties?

A brief moment of faintness passes Hanzo by.

Nothing is more important to you than providing for Overwatch. You’ve never really hid that fact, risking your own health to ensure that. So what in the world could force you away from such a thing? Especially with Talon—as quiet as they are—roaming around, potentially ready to pounce on any unsuspecting agent.

Resolutely, he stands and declares, “I will go to look for the chef.”

“Don’t.” Solider: 76 stands up, rolling his shoulders back. “It's better this way.”

Hanzo whirls around, mouth open and ready to demand what Soldier means by that—you’re a necessary existence at the Watchpoint, you belong here, you work hard and sacrifice sleep and health just so that each and every single one of them may be more ready for the day and Soldier thinks it's better than you're gone?—but he shuts it because he, too, had once thought the same. “Got something to say, Shimada?”

Hanzo realizes his thoughts must be showing on his face and tries to school it into something more neutral.

“What do you mean by that?”

The red of the visor bites into him, makes him squint, but he tries to level it look all the same. Slowly, Soldier rises from his seat and tilts his chin.

“Civilians shouldn’t get involved in our line of work. Chef made the right decision and left, we should keep it that way.”

But why did you leave? What forced you to go? You were happy here—or were you?

Something sinister whispers in his ear that it’s likely his fault and something ugly curls around his insides in response, squeezing out every good sense and reasonable thought from him, replacing it with something darker.

He rejected your goodwill. He’s broken more of your drinkware than he remembers. He pushed you over the edge and forced you to abandon your own principles and left.

Well, if it were so easily broken by a single person, it mustn’t have mattered as much as you always made it sound. Just pretty lip service for a weary customer who keeps you up way past a healthy bedtime (not that he’s had such a wonderful luxury, but what right did he have to rob you of yours?).

“How are you sure that the chef has not been compromised?”

Soldier huffs like it’s ridiculous. “Intel shows that Chef is still alive and kickin’. That’s good enough for us.”

“What intel?”

“Above your paygrade. Any more questions?”

Hanzo gnashes his teeth at that. It’s not as though he was paid very much in the first place. What he has on his chip card is even less now that he’s given a sizable donation to that restaurant he’s already forgotten the name of.

A scowl makes it onto his face and reluctantly, he mutters, “No.”

“Good. Conversation over. Dismissed,” the man says, hand coming up and then down, suspiciously more out of habit than anything else. Hanzo did not dwell on that for long, however. The doors behind him opens and the sound of spurs give away the exact person who walks in.

“Don’t be like that, Soldier,” McCree quips, shoving extra emphasis and dragging out the title. For what reason, Hanzo is unsure, but it seems to get a slight rise out of the old man. Like there’s a secret in the word that he was purposefully left out of the loop from.  

Overwatch and its damned secrets.

“Come on, archer. Gon’ show you where the grub is. Got too much t’ finish by my lonesome.”

Without much else, McCree turns his back and attempts to walk Hanzo out of the room. Behind them, Hanzo watches as Soldier: 76 stares, a deep furrow in his balding brow before the old man turns away and goes back to whatever he was doing.

It's not until the doors shut behind them and they're a good distance away does Hanzo begin his uneasy interrogation.

“Where is the chef, McCree?”

“Still on Gibraltar, I reckon. Didn't say a word to nobody,” McCree explains bitterly. “Upped in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. Gave everyone a good scare.”

“And the chef is safe?”

“Guaranteed.” Then, McCree gives him an uncomfortably sly grin. “Why? You worried?”

He bristles but doesn’t dignify that with an appropriate answer and so he just says, “I’m hungry.”

McCree, mercifully latches onto the new change in topics. “In that case, got some grub in the common room. The Junkers got it, so no guarantees it’s legal—”

Hanzo doesn’t know whether to laugh or to shout. The Junkers? Loose in Gibraltar? And how did he not notice? He had been keeping a close eye on the going-ons of Gibraltar.

“—though they came back without any of the cops on their tail. ‘S a good sign. That or Zenyatta’s chucked e’ry witness into that Iris of his.”

A mix of a snort and a noise of disbelief gets caught in his throat and Hanzo has to cough into his fist.

McCree doesn't seem to be perturbed, even smirking at the idea. “He's gettin’ them tamed. Miracle, if y’ask me.”

Silently, Hanzo agrees.

McCree steers them to the common room where the table in the middle of the room contains a heap of takeout bags and utensils. The spurs of McCree’s boots jingle obnoxiously as he flops onto a couch. Hanzo, however, takes a much more careful approprach, sitting himself down on another couch.

“Hope y'like steak,” McCree says as he passes Hanzo a container from one of the bags.

Hanzo takes the package and uncovers it, scrutinizing the contents of steak, vegetables, and potatoes. It does not smell particular bad, but it does little to stimulate an appetite.

“Why do you not use the kitchen?”

McCree gives him a funny look like Hanzo’s said something ridiculous before he starts picking at his own meal.

“We all thought 'bout it and figured it'd best be used when there are more people 'round. S'only Winston, Soldier, the Junkers, Mei, you an’ me here now. Everyone else got sent off.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Lúcio's supposed to be here soon, though. Tracer's gone t’ pick him up.”

“I see.” He wants to press the matter and ask if it isn’t because you will return and get angry at them or if it’s not because they respect you, but he didn’t want to tread that road.

Instead, he saws apart a piece of steak for himself—the insides a bit greyish and barely pink—stabs a few soggy string beans and shoves it into his mouth. He nearly gags.

It’s lukewarm and overcooked. The meat is chewy and dry and he finds himself searching the discarded paper bags for anything that could make it more palatable and fishes out pats of butter which he slatters onto the crappy steak.

McCree asks with a laugh in his voice, “What? Too shitty for ya?”

He tries to swallow down his newly slathered piece of steak and finds it marginally more acceptable. “How can you even eat this?”

McCree shrugs one shoulder, and as if to prove a point, shovels a forkful into his mouth and eats it like it’s actually palatable. Hanzo has to repress a shudder, but not to be outdone, he does the same as McCree speaks.

“Well, when you been on the run, you know how it is.” He waves his fork around, gesturing at some unseen knowledge. “Don’t get much of a choice, an’ it’s better than starvin’. Trust me.”

The archer makes a face of disgust as he chews through another soggy string bean. “I’d rather starve,” he mutters to himself.

“Helps if y’ killed your taste buds years ago.” He pauses and then gives Hanzo an unnecessary wink. “Don’t tell our dear old Chef, though. Don’t want t’ be breakin’ no one’s heart, hear?”

The air goes still, the confession striking a delicate chord inside him.

And out of some childish spite, he almost wants to. He has your contact information, he could easily send a message telling you that McCree’s love of your food, for all the praises he sings and the gusto which he eats it, is a damn lie—

But that would crush you, he’s sure.

The anger surges anew as he strikes another thought. If he did not truly appreciate your cooking, then why would he even want you back? Maybe he doesn't and that's why he's sitting here as though Overwatch isn't missing a valuable asset. Maybe he even wants you gone, too, just like Soldier.

“If you can't taste anything, then why even bother with the chef?”

“Cause,” he drawls, “it ain't gentlemanly t’ turn down someone's kindness. ‘Sides, man’s gotta eat.”

“You never deserved that kindness!” he shouts, slamming a hand onto the table. The plate and fork clatters. McCree only looks up at him, a strangely smug expression on his face that only enrages him even more. Hanzo almost wants to sink his teeth into the bridge of his nose, rip it off, and just make the cowboy regret ever being born.

“And you do?”

Hanzo takes a staggering steps back. The words struck him so hard that the world tilts momentarily, the edges falling away and his vision turns blurry.

No.

No, he never did.

So why is he here, lecturing someone over something like he's any better? McCree lies and pretends like he gives a damn about your food, but because he cares to preserve your feelings.

And he?

Nothing comes to mind except the things he’s never wanted to face, things he thought himself to be above, to be superior to, but are constantly plaguing him and nipping at his heels.

“Excuse me.”

“Hey, wai—”

He ignores McCree and uses up every bit of willpower to not sprint to his room like a child scolded. He returns to bed, orders Athena to  a little hungrier than he would've liked, head buzzing with implications and unanswered questions and the irritating knowledge that he has learned absolutely nothing from his previous experience and just keeps repeating his mistakes.  

Sleep comes and goes for several hours until it becomes unbearable.

Hanzo throws himself off the bed, ignoring the time that so clearly indicates why he is awake and stalks down the familiar path that leads him to the mess hall. He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, but the Watchpoint seems quieter and colder somehow. It feels like a stranger.

Again, he pauses before the doors, less restricted but hesitant nonetheless.

You’re not there. You’re most likely not in there. But he wants to—needs to—confirm this with his own eyes to quiet the incessant whispers of ‘what if’. With a deep breath, he steels himself and steps forward, allowing the sliding doors to reveal what he had hoped is not true.

The cafeteria is cold.

Almost unnaturally so.

No milky-silver moon hanging over the large glass windows above, no artificial lights from the service window, no sound, no movement; just himself and a terrifyingly familiar sensation of having, being, knowing nothing.

There's nothing but an all-consuming darkness and strange sense of despair at the empty partition.

Where are you?

Chapter 14>>

[alipiee]

Ali, I am looking for new fanfictions, can you suggest some of your favourites? Victuuri And Otayuri I love them both! Thank you! ❤️

Oh gosh strap in, I have read far too many so this list might end up being kinda long! I don’t read Otayuri but I have a lot of Victuuri to throw your way buddy

(Under the cut)

Kintsugi by @witchsbane 114k (wip)

Yuuri Katsuki is a hitman burdened with a debt he can never repay. His target: Viktor Nikiforov, next Pakhan to one of the most dangerous families in the Russian mafia.

When the two are drawn into a treacherous alliance after a mission gone wrong, the bonds of love and loyalty to family and duty begin to unravel—even as they get more tangled up in each other.

ok but this is honestly my favourite yoi fic of all time!! The writing is so amazing and you get immersed straight away bc its so vivid and descriptive!! The plot is i n c r e d i b l e, I always seem to come back and reread it because its just as amazing the second (and third) time around. I literally can’t recommend it enough!!

empty spaces between stars by @victuuriplease 124k (wip)

Victor gets just as drunk as Yuuri at the Sochi Banquet, and they disappear together after the dance-offs. They wake up the morning after with rings on their fingers, and pictures of them kissing after getting married the night before are all over the tabloids… but neither of them remembers a thing. They decide to stay married for a while for the sake of Victor’s sponsorships, and in exchange, Victor coaches Yuuri through nationals…

!!!!! This is fantastic !!!! I’m such a sucker for fake dating marriage fics, and this might be the best one I’ve ever read! The fluff is wonderful and balances out the angst and pining and just!! I love it a lot!! 

The Boyfriend Experience by @victorsporosya 240k (wip)

Katsuki Yuuri is an accomplished escort at 23, operating under the pseudonym Eros, in Detroit. When one of his favourite clients sets him up with none other than world-renowned figure skater Victor Nikiforov, the delicate balance between Yuuri’s personal and professional life teeters ever closer towards ruin.

Ok but this fic also owns my life, Adele’s writing is so beautiful and even when you’re crying from the angst, you still feel blessed to be reading it! You can tell how much thought has been put into every sentence and it deserves all of the love and appreciation

Kings in Couture by @forovnix 15k (wip)

a devil wears prada au in which victor is the editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, yuuri’s his new secretary, and instead of talking about his feelings, victor just sends him on a bunch of errands—“Okay, okay. Ready.” Yuuri starts scribbling as the voice on the other end, someone from the Style and Trends department, relays instructions. “Sorry, can you please spell ‘Gabbana’?”

The person on the line promptly hangs up on him.

Awkwardly, he sets the phone back on the receiver. “Guess not.”

This fic is a blessing tbh, it’s so witty and fun to read and two chapters of pure gold

hey stranger (don’t i look familiar to you) by @forovnix 4k 

It’s not that Yuuri is a nosy person. To be fair, he thinks anyone would wonder about the person they’ve been sharing a space with for the better part of a year.

Or, Yuuri is a part-time professor who shares an office with someone who writes themselves too many post-it notes. There are a lot of facts to process, and Yuuri’s got a lot of assumptions.

This is so heckin cute!! Had me smiling all the way through!! Once again Justine has blessed us with her lovely writing

not gold like in your dreams by @ebenroot 87k (complete)

“Victor, you could have let some psychopath into your apartment.”

“Oh come on, he’s not a psychopath,” Victor chides. Christophe makes a gesture with his hand that says ‘are you seriously this naïve or are you drunk at work again?’.

“Victor, you don’t know that. You don’t know anything about him. Whose name am I going to give to the police or face I’m going to describe to the sketch artist when they find your body chopped up like Hannibal Lecter’s side dish?”

–

in which Victor and Yuuri are roommates and Yuuri has a secret

A penelope au was definitely needed and this was amazing! Honestly I prefer this fic to the film its just so soft and cute!! I’m weak for it and the last chapter made me cry so much idk how many times I’ve reread it at this point but I kinda wanna read it again now 

never tasted rubies by @ebenroot 16k

Phichit puts up a poll on the radio website. It reads ‘What Do U Think About Yuuri K. from Hasetsu Nights and the Mysterious Caller Victor?’

Seventy-five percent of listeners said ‘lol they should just f*ck already tbh’.

–

in which Yuuri is an unwilling radio host and Victor won’t stop calling in to chat with him

My heart was so full while reading this, it was so funny and cute and perfect!

seek those who fan your flames by @ebenroot 48k (wip)

Yuuri gets hand-delivered a black-print T-shirt by one of his bodyguards on Friday. There’s a small sticky note attached to the collar in Victor’s handwriting that reads: ‘Our new band shirt! Logo is still a work in progress. Name too. But it’s a start! Let me know what you think after school. - Victor’

There’s a heart next to his name that is hastily scribbled out. Then another heart next to that one, like Victor decided to put it in anyways.

Yuuri thinks he’s in love.

–

in which Yuuri is a teenager that’s actually a prince, and Victor is a teenager with a band that just wants to listen to rock music with him

I had a mighty need for a princess diaries au and this is wonderful!! Victor is such a sweetheart in this and its all just so wonderful and warm! 

turn it, leave it, stop, format it by @ebenroot 19k

“If you want, I can recommend you some security programs that you can download for free and protect your computer. That way, you won’t be at risk of losing these cute photos of your dog even when you browse websites like ‘Luscious Lonely Wives’.”

Victor gives one long ‘haa’. “I don’t browse those websites,” he says through his straining smile.

–

the ‘i will break any and all electronic devices that get into my hands if it means I get to talk to the cute tech support guy’ fic

This fic had me l i v i n g, it was so funny and cute and fluffy!!

The Rules For Lovers by @adreamingsongbird​ 323k (complete)

Prince Yuuri Katsuki has a duty to his country, above all else (his desires, his dreams, and his happiness included), and he knows this alliance will help to ensure the safety of his people. That’s the only reason he accepts Prince Nikiforov’s hand in marriage. The pleasant surprise, of course, is the part where they fall in love along the way. The unpleasant one, well…

That’s a long story.

This is so i n t e n s e! The fluff and humour is so perfect and Yuuri and Victor’s relationship is so perfect (and although the angst is painful as heck), its perfect! The plot is amazinggg and every update had me shook! It belongs in a bookstore to be honest, its so so so incredible!

to sweep me off my feet by @adreamingsongbird​ 33k

Yuuri went to school in America to get a good, stable job—no, really, Mom, he meant to, he swears! And journalism was promising! It was really good! Until supervillains started appearing and then a (rather attractive) superhero showed up too, and, well…

This is his life, these are his choices, and it’s absolutely unfair that he has to have the office across from someone as hot as Viktor Nikiforov.

The cutest superhero au, with the cutest art, and cutest plot!!

But Monsters Are Always Hungry, Darling by @orchids-and-fictional-cities​ and art by @iruutciv​ 61k (wip)

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-con 

“You do this, you do. You take the things you love and tear them apart or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours. So, you kiss him, and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn’t moved, he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never forgive you, and maybe now he’ll leave you alone.”

A brutal murder on Christmas Eve abruptly pulls one Detective Nikiforov out of a holiday he was just starting to tolerate, and forces him to come to terms with demons he’s been pretending not to see. On that same night, a man walks into a bar and waltzes into his life, lighting a spark that grows into a monster of its own.

Wow. This fic is so incredibly well-written and the plot thickens with each chapter, I’m so excited every time it updates honestly!! As if the writing wasn’t descriptive enough, there’s also equally beautiful art for every chapter and together its just amazing!

Confidential Information by @iwritebetterthanispeak​ 77k (wip)

Yuuri never imagined that being able to figure skate would be useful for his job at Interpol. He was very, very wrong.

Viktor Nikiforov, as a famous athlete popular in the public eye, has received threats before. There are very few he takes seriously. However, as more secrets are uncovered and nothing is as it appears, the stakes rise until it becomes clear that there may not be a way to save him this time.

I’m finally getting around to reading this and!! Addy is back with her amazing writing and I can’t wait to catch up!

If Perfect’s What You’re Searching For, Then Just Stay the Same by @iwritebetterthanispeak​ 6k

Yuuri took a deep breath, and faced the starstruck barista. “I am sorry, my Russian is very bad,” he said tentatively, shoulders hunching slightly. “Do you want me to repeat?”

“N-no, sorry, sir,” the barista said. She blushed and brushed her hair behind one ear. “I’ll get that for you right away!” She stepped away from the counter and called in fast-paced Russian, “Dmitri, come here! The most beautiful man in the world is back!”

Viktor’s smile grew. The employees of the coffee shop weren’t being cruel or making fun of Yuuri’s accent, they were enchanted with him. Viktor could sympathize, his fiancé was very enchanting.

And then he noticed that Yuuri was curled in on himself, eyes lowered and arms wrapped around his chest.

[In which Viktor realizes that Yuuri is a somewhat unreliable narrator]

Well this was just so cute, thank u addy for blessing my life once again

Love Letters by @shslshortie   44k (wip)

Ever since he was young, Yuuri Katsuki had always admired Victor Nikiforov. He was the one who had inspired him to start skating. He had pictures and posters of him all over his room — and Victor was his idol.

Like any fan of an idol, Yuuri loved to send Victor fanmail. Of course, he could never bring himself to sign it as anything other than “Your Secret Fan”, but it still made his heart come alive to write about his love for the silver-haired skater

This is one of those fics that you just can’t put down, I was reading it during all my free periods at college and its the cutest! Also all of the letters are drawn and in the body of text, so it adds so much more to it, its so wonderful!

starstruck by @haikuyus​ 167k (complete)

“Hold my son for a moment,” says the Viktor Nikiforov, live in the flesh, sweaty and panting.

“Wha—” Yuuri can’t even begin to comprehend what’s going on before Viktor is gone, and there’s a child in his arms.

(in which yuuri is a barista-turned-babysitter, viktor is a famous movie star, and yuri is an 8 year old kid stuck in the middle of it.)

so i developed a love for kid fics, and this was the first one I read, its sooooo good! Yuri is so precious and Yuuri is so precious and Viktor is so precious and just,,, theyre all so precious!

Lessons in Love by @fangirlandiknowit101​ 113k (wip)

All Viktor wants is for his son to be happy - and if that means spending countless hours at the ice rink, a million more in the ballet studio, and devotedly cheering for Katsuki Yuuri at every competition he enters, then that is precisely what he’ll do.

He just didn’t expect to become a fan, too.

(He didn’t expect to fall in love.)

This fic has me so weak, its the softest thing ever! Yuri is the cutest, and Viktor is the best dad and Yuuri is just the best tbh, I have a lot of love for this!!

on growing; by @crossroadswrite​ 125k (wip)

Yuri Plisetsky glares at him with all the righteousness five year olds possess, and says in heavily accented and clumsy English. “Be more gooder, stupid!”

And then he storms out in a sweep of blond hair and blue and red lights from his Sketchers.

(Or: in which everything is the same but Yuri Plisetsky is Victor’s bratty five-year-old child.)

This fic cleared my skin and watered my crops, its so fluffy and each chapter is a blessing

sweet like love (soft like pain) by @postingpebbles​ 10k (wip)

Loving Yuuri was a choice that Viktor never regretted making. His smile, his laughter, the way his lips felt against his own—nothing could make him happier than having Yuuri in his arms.

But when the entire world has no idea that rivals Yuuri Katsuki and Viktor Nikiforov are in a relationship, Viktor can’t do anything at all when Yuuri gets in an accident and is rushed to the hospital the day after he proposes in a hotel room in Nagano.

I love ollie and she loves hurting my heart apparently, this is such a wonderful fic and I can’t wait for her to bless us even more with her writing

The Selection by @gallopingmonroe-blog​ 262k (wip)

Returning home on the tail end of an injury that ends his dancing career, Yuri Katsuki is trying to find his future again. As a Five, he knows his options are limited, but when he finds an invitation to Crown Prince Victor Nikiforov’s Selection, he is convinced by a friend to apply.

He never thought he’d be Selected.

When he is, he finds that his world is changed forever, and that the Crown Prince is not exactly what he’d expected.

!!! This fic is so beautiful !!! Yuuri and Viktor’s relationship is so cute, and Yuuri’s friendship with Yuri and Phichit and all of the others is so cute, and the entirety of the fic is so cute!!

a black heart of gold by @katzuyas​ and beautiful art by @lamenart​ and @iruutciv​ 67k (complete)

Victor Nikiforov, aka Grand Prix, knows that he’s Yakov’s most skilled hitman. That’s just a fact and he isn’t in the habit of arguing with facts.He also knows that he’s the only one Yakov trusts, period. In this case though, he’s the only one Yakov can rely on to take care of the elusive sniper Eros, who kills Yakov’s henchmen left and right.What Victor doesn’t know, however, is that Eros’ little vendetta is not a matter of coincidence, but pure premeditation, and thus… he falls into a trap that a rookie like Little Fairy could see from a mile away.He falls in lust.And then in love.The fool.

This fic is so intense and so descriptive and playful and just! Amazing honestly!!

November’s Secret by @lanaberryrawr​ 233k (complete)

Overwhelmed with anxiety and his fear of failing, Yuuri faces the issue of if he should continue skating. His best friend, Yuko, proposes a solution - if no one knows it’s you, then it’s less embarrassing, right? Yuuri begins to create a completely new disguise and persona.

But it works a little too well.

Before he knows it, Yuuri has become the biggest mystery of the skating world and everyone wants to know who he is. Especially Viktor Nikiforov, the idol he’s been loosely basing his new persona on for years.

This was such a cool and original concept for a fic and oh my godddd it was incredible!! Definitely one of the best I’ve read!! 

Gunned Down Butterflies by @lanaberryrawr​ 207k (wip)

Everyone’s lives revolve around two names - the name of an enemy, and the name of a soulmate, both tattooed on their wrists.

But for Yuuri, his fated soulmate and enemy are the same person. One name tattoed on his skin.

After years of believing it meant only unhappiness and pain, he begins to bandage them up and hide them from the world. He even begins to forget about them - until he meets a new client in need of a guard against the Russian mafia.

Nothing can hide him from fate - not bandaging the names, not forgetting about them, not even moving on without them. The owner of the name on his skin will find him eventually.

Okay but the amount of cliffhangers in this fic is amazing, it’s so good and I love it!! It’s such a cool take on a soulmate au!! I can’t wait for the next few chapters :D

Behind these Locked Doors by @axlaida​ 79k (wip)

“I will find a way out of here,” Yuuri stated firmly and Victor’s expression never faltered. His face was stone cold – frozen like ice. “I know it may take a while… but I have to try.”Victor let out a breath, shaking his head as he smiled. “I said the exact same thing when I arrived.”

They were trapped with no way out. And all that stood between them and their escape was a door - locked and impossible to escape from. But Yuuri had hope. He would escape this, whether the man wanted them to or not.

This is such an amazing mystery fic! I literally sit and think about it someimes at night, trying to work it all out lol, its so good!!

learn to love the skies I’m under by @linneakou 37k

The day after the Sochi GPF banquet, Katsuki Yuuri disappears without a trace.

The day after the Sochi GPF banquet, Viktor Nikiforov finds a stray poodle and takes it home with him.

These two events are, oddly enough, connected.

I never knew I needed a fic where Yuuri turned into a dog and lived with Viktor a while, but this fic changed my life tbh, its so good!

Call you by name by @linneakou 13k

Drunk, depressed, and lonely, Viktor Nikiforov makes a wish that has unforeseen consequences for himself and many people around him.

(an alternate take on the premise of learn to love the skies I’m under)

This version is also incredible!! I love them both a lot!!

Puppy Love by @phyona​ 10k

When Yuuri gets turned into a dog, the last place he expects to end up is Victor Nikiforov’s apartment. He learns quickly that the only thing worse than being his idol’s pet, is watching him pine for someone else.

Oh man,,,,this fic you guys, I love it so much! The angst oh my gosh, its such an amazing story! 

Green Light by @gia-comeatme​ 21k (complete)

Chris knows what Viktor looks like when he has a crush, and he is 100% sure that Viktor Nikiforov has a crush on his pole dancing classmate, Yuuri Katsuki.

What he doesn’t know is why Viktor hasn’t gotten off his ass and gone for him already.

As a good friend, Chris is obligated to help Viktor out a little bit.

(And that’s where everything goes to shit.)

Red Light by @gia-comeatme​ 30k (wip)

Chris has had many lovers in the years that Viktor has known him. However, none of them can even compare to Chris’ newest boyfriend.

Viktor knows it’s wrong, but he falls in love with Yuuri Katsuki anyway.

Both of these fics were sooo good oh my god! I have a weakness for misunderstandings and angst with a happy ending, so like these were right up my street and they were amazingggg

Dr. Shiny and the Case of the Beautiful Man by @etherealalchemist​ 6k

There are about five things that Victor, in this very moment, is absolutely sure of.

1. The spawns of satan are here2. they are not accompanied by their angel of a mother3. they are with the most beautiful man he’s ever seen4. his scrubs are wet from where he’d dropped water on himself5. and Victor is very, very gay.

Emphasis on point five, with a side of cupid’s arrow and “ba-dum ba-dum” on a plate.

Because he is Very Gay, and not only is he Very Gay but he is also Hopelessly Attracted to a man who is undoubtedly Very Straight and very Unavailable and is perhaps the Most Beautiful Man Victor has ever seen.

—

in which Victor is a doctor, Yuuri is a godfather, and Yuri just wants some peace and quiet and a larger stash of lollipops.

This was so sweet and funny! I had to take a second while I was reading it from laughing so much honestly!

We Two Boys 11k (wip)

Yuuri talks about his crush on Victor Nikiforov while recording an episode of his and Phichit’s podcast We Two Boys. It’s not a big deal until it Becomes A Big Deal.

An ocean away, Victor falls in luv.

this is so funny omg, I love Phichit and Yuuri’s friendship so much

turntables by @vitavitali​ 4k

It happens approximately one week after Yuuri’s disastrous performance in Sochi.

Viktor Nikiforov @v-nikiforovI wish I could date pretty black haired boys who dance well.

“Ooh, the candidates are already flooding in!” Phichit says with an amused grin.

“Candidates?” Yuuri asks and Phichit helps Yuuri scroll down to read the replies. Most of them are variants of “date me!” with pictures attached. It’s all very interesting.

“You should send one too!” Phichit says and Yuuri doesn’t even bother answering him. “Look, I’ll send one if you send one. It’ll be fun!”

Oh my gosh I remember reading this so long ago, and I found it again a few days ago and I still love it so much

posterboy by @vitavitali​ 1.5k

“I’m going to kill whoever who did this,” Yuuri assured the poster. “I’m going to kill them for you. Don’t worry, baby, I’m going to murder anyone who thought it was a good idea to harm you. They’ll die screaming.”

“What?” came the poster’s startled reply.

“What?” Yuuri parroted back, because posters weren’t supposed to talk, especially not in Viktor Nikiforov’s melodious Russian accented voice.

This is iconique honestly, theyre both so cute!

Rainy Days by  @vitavitali​ 5k

Director’s List Viktor Nikiforov falls in love with bad boy transfer student Katsuki Yuuri. What happens next will warm your heart.

So I kind of binged this authors fics and this one is also amazing!!

There’s still so many fics I want to recommend but I’ve spent like 2 hours on this list and I don’t want it to get too long, so these are the ones that sprang to mind,  happy reading!

[spideywars]

prompt- where niall and harry are assigned as partners to have a fake baby *whispers* they are friends but they have their own groups and still love each other so much like they'd give each other a kiss on the cheek in the morning and a hug because they're special even tho they don't always hang out *squeals* then they become more than best friends. PURE FLUFF AHHH.

This was fun until I accidentally pressed paste instead of copy when I was planning on putting this prompt on tumblr…but the good news I loved doing this prompt and the second time writing the whole thing made it better than the first. This is pure fluff and cuteness and Niall and Harry are adorable. Please give this some love :)

–

“Harry Styles and Niall Horan.” The family studies teacher Miss Hive spoke out across the room as she listed off partners while staring down at her notebook. She sat lazily in her office chair, not even looking up at any of the students.

Harry knew that name of course, it was Niall Horan his kind-of-friend, the boy he would walk to and from school with. It was complicated, he knows, but it had all become a thing when him and Niall were in the same drama class for a semester, they had bonded over music and the arts and had grown to enjoy each other’s presence. It had gone to the point of Niall waiting outside the school every day, waiting with his back leaned against the fence and binders hugged to his chest so he could walk home with Harry.

Everything was normal for them, talking together, walking together. But only in that certain amount of time in the mornings and at the end of the day, never during school where they had different friends and different classes to go to. It was a silent agreement they had, pretending each other doesn’t exist during school hours, but after and before that they acted like the best of friends. It was probably because their own mates didn’t like each other, music geeks and crazy art folks who fought over what is more important, paintings on canvas’ or instruments in symphony’s.

They never let that effect their time together though, no matter the fight or stupid shit that went down. They’d walk home, and if school was too stressful to talk about they moved to a different more fun topic, it was like they knew each others feelings like a mother would to her new baby. It was kind conversations, everything becoming so nice and perfect and feelings exploded before Harry’s eyes like rainbows so hard and fast that Harry would never be able to help himself before he’d be leaning down to give Niall a small kiss on Niall’s cheek before they parted.

It was a routine just like them walking together, the kisses. 

It was a friendly kiss though, something Harry couldn’t control. They were just friends.

Yeah, just friends that didn’t like hanging out with each other in public. Which brought him to the dilemma right now, of course the only class they have together they get partnered up.  

“I’m sorry, what?” Niall’s voice cut her off from saying anything else, him sat across the room from Harry with his two friends Lauren and Eoghan who were both apart of his little music group. He didn’t look angry when Harry looked up, just confused with brows furrowed as he stared at the teacher who didn’t look at all impressed that she was interrupted.

“You and Mister Styles will be partners for this final assignment Niall.” She said, voice with no emotion to it as she stood up and carelessly threw the notebook back onto her desk. “Harry did not even pick a partner, and you can’t be in a group of three with your friends that’s not how it works. Everyone else had partners and did what I asked so I am afraid you will have to leave it as it is.” She scrambled to get another file, not even looking at Niall as she explained.

There was silence, everyone trying to hold in their giggles and smirks as they looked towards Harry and Niall. It was embarrassing, and Harry wanted to dig a hole into the ground and disappear forever.

“Class, be quiet please. This is not an assignment on relationships, I am grading you all on parenting skills. Enough of this.” She snapped, and a large wave of silence quickly draped over the class. She looked proud of herself, now walking towards the chalkboard to explain details of the assignment.

Harry’s mind just went off into another world after that, he didn’t care that he wasn’t listening. Everything had become a tornado around him and his anxiety was crumbling everything to ashes and dust. He didn’t know why though, because Niall was a good friend and they have obviously talked before. This wouldn’t be any different, but it kinda was…wasn’t it.

“Harry?” Niall’s voice broke through the fog in his mind and he whipped his head up from where it was nested in his hands. Niall was in front of him, holding the fake baby in one hand and trying to balance a large baby carseat that was slung across his arm.

“S-sorry, let me help.” He grabbed at the carseat and lifted it onto his desk so Niall didn’t have that much weight on him. He looked thankful at Harry’s gesture, smiling softly with the baby still in his arms.

“It won’t be that bad that we are partners, I think, since we kinda know each other already right?” Niall looked like he was trying to blow over the awkwardness, but Harry was too nervous to speak, his throat feeling like it was clogged and tied up in a knot.

“Uhm…” Niall didn’t know what to say now, a pulse of silence hitting them both as people conversed around them until he finally found the words he wanted to say. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over to my house after school instead of just dropping me off? Just so we can, ya know, get used to the baby.”

Harry wanted to ask if he could think about it, he felt like he was put on the spot with Niall’s eyes staring down at him like a spotlight. It made his skin crawl and itch, and before he could really think about it he answered.

“Yeah…sure.”

Niall smiled now, and Harry’s answer was apparently worth it in the end because that smile was like a prize.

-

Harry wasn’t a good parent, he kind of concluded that as he laid spread out on Niall’s bed staring up at the ceiling light. The baby was crying and crying, never taking any breaks with constant screams coming through it. He has had enough, had been done with the cries the first hour he came to Niall’s house, and he was starting to get a unforgiving headache.

“Shhh baby.” Niall mumbled, rocking it with little effort anymore since he’s been doing if for a good half hour. Harry kind of felt bad for not helping, but he was worried if he’d touch the thing he’d lose control and just end up kicking it right out the window or smother it under a pillow.

He kinda needed to pass family studies anyways, so those options were out of the question.

“What should we name her?” Niall suddenly asked when the crying died down to small little hiccups. Harry almost didn’t hear him, feeling like he was deaf now from hearing those never-ending cries.

“Her?” He managed to say.

“Yeah, cause Miss Hive gave us only pink clothes so I mean…I guess she wants us to have a girl.” Niall craned his neck to look behind him where the bag of baby supplies were, and Harry followed his eyes to see what he meant.

“We should give it a boy name, just to make her mad.” Harry chuckled out, moving to sit up against the headboard now that it was a little more peaceful in the room.

“I like Gracie though.” Niall answered, giving Harry a small pout. It was almost like he knew what that little pout did to him, and Harry was caving in before he could even think any further into it.

“Gracie’s a great name, uh…that’s fine.” Harry smiled reassuringly, and Niall mirrored a smile back. It was nice to see, Niall’s smile, something that had him happy with the answer he gave. He isn’t even a fan of the name Gracie, but Niall’s happiness reigned overall, really.

It was a few hours later with another three good crying sessions that Harry decided it was time to go. But he didn’t just want to leave, he could see the way Niall looked exhausted, blinking away the sleep from his eyes as he picked Gracie up, set her down, fed her, changed her. Here Harry was tired himself but not even participating.

The guilt was eating away at him, and as soon as he saw Niall rub at his eyes with the hand not occupied by a fake baby, he stood up.

“Listen I can take the baby for the night, you need some sleep and I haven’t really helped you out yet.” He was moving to grab the baby from Niall’s arms, but Niall batted his hands away and put Gracie back into the carseat himself.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to lose sleep.” Niall was worried, and Harry tried to look as unbothered as possible even though he dreaded his future time with this baby. He kept a good fake smile on his face though, acting classes really went to good use now.

“I’ll be okay, promise.” He grabbed for the handle of the carseat, letting Niall escort him down the stairs and through the house towards the front door. Niall’s parents were cooking in the kitchen by now, back from their works. The smell of chicken was a heavenly aroma moving throughout the household and making Harry’s mouth water.

“Please call me if you need any help Harry, okay?” Niall made sure to urge as he opened the front door. He looked worried, almost like this baby was actually real, but instead of it making Harry laugh, he sighed and gave Niall a weak smile and warm eyes.

“I promise.” He walked off and down the porch after saying that, but stopped abruptly when he got to the last step, realizing he forgot something.

He settled the carseat on the ground, twirling fast back towards Niall on his heels and rushing back up the steps. Niall looked confused, stuttering out a question but quickly stopping when Harry leaned forward to give him a short but sweet peck on the cheek.

There it was, that soft blush along Niall’s chest and bashful grin as he stared down at his socked feet. Harry had to bite his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling too big, happy that he at least got his goodbye kiss before he left to have a night of pure hell.

“Have a nice rest of your night Niall.”

-

Harry was right that his night was going to be horrible, he was now up for the third time tonight, being woken up by the dreadful sounds of the babies wails in the carseat across his room.

He tried rocking her, feeding her, letting her sleep on his chest. But it was no use, and he had resulted to shoving the baby back into its carseat to smother himself in pillows and blanket to try and mute the annoying noise around him.

He knew he shouldn’t, Niall had said he could but the smaller brunet was probably sleeping peacefully in his bed, all tucked away and ready to have energy for the next day. But Harry was losing patience, and he’d rather not have to explain to Miss Hive why the baby had it’s batteries taken out.

The phone was in his hands in seconds, fingers working fast along the touchscreen as he dialled Niall’s number. He placed it on his ear, waiting with a impatient tap of his foot against the floor as he glared down at what he now wanted to call the spawn of satan.

“Harry?” It was Niall’s voice in only two rings, and Harry didn’t expect such a quick answer, stuttering out a reply.

“H-hey Niall, fuck I’m sorry to wake you up but Gracie won’t stop crying.” He tried not to sound too upset, but his teeth were clenched by the end of his sentence as he tried to talk over the babies constant screams.

Niall let out a long sigh on the other end, but spoke softly to Harry. “I am sorry I wish I could be there to help you, you must be really tired…” He trailed off at the end of his sentence, and Harry didn’t dare interrupt yet.

“Can you put me on speaker? Maybe she likes my voice or something, I think there’s a microphone on her chest that you can put your phone by.” Harry wanted to laugh, and almost did before he realized that wouldn’t be appropriate. Plus, he would actually do anything at this point, his exhaustion taking over his body fast and hard.

He did as he was told, moving the phone to the babies chest with Niall on speaker and waiting for Niall to do what he planned on doing. It didn’t take long before he spoke, so sweet and welcoming Harry almost melted.

“Hi Gracie, It’s me Niall. Me and Harry would love for you to fall asleep so uh…daddy Harry can sleep too.”

Even though it was cute, Gracie kept on crying. Harry was close to just calling it off, telling Niall thanks but it was no use, but Niall spoke up again before he could.

“Or how about I sing you a lullaby huh? Would you like that? Maybe Harry can rock you while I sing yeah?” Niall was focusing on talking to Harry at the end, and Harry didn’t have one piece of fight left in him to object.

He managed to have the phone against Gracie’s chest and him cradling her at the same time, moving slowly back and forth on his feet. There was a small pause, and Harry had almost thought Niall had hung up before his angelic voice came through the speakers.

It sounded like it was lifting Harry’s soul, the voice smooth and something that had him almost crying himself as he listened. Niall’s voice had been trained all school year since he was in the music group, but Harry didn’t think it was this good.

He ended up humming along to the song, voice quiet and not enough to overpower Niall’s. A grin came across his face, staring at the phone lovingly as if he was looking right into Niall’s eyes, watching him sing his heart out. 

Here he was, in a situation where everyone would think was hilarious, him standing in the middle of his room cradling a fake baby with his phone in his hands as he kept it close to it’s plastic chest, all while his family studies partner sung it a lullaby. It wasn’t funny to Harry though, there was no humour about it at all, because it has now dawned on him how much he loved Niall, and not just as a simple friend.

He doesn’t want the small talk as they walk to and from school, or the too-short cheek kisses as goodbye. He wants their lips locked together till they can’t breath, Niall’s hand wrapped in his as they walk home like a physical promise to never let go. And Harry’s clothes to be packed deep into the bottom of his backpack so he can stay the night.

[theepitomeofsimplicite]

Dear Cutie,

After recently getting back from what I believe to be one of the most incredible, wild, fun, and memorable road trips I’ve ever taken so far to Nevada, Utah, and Arizona visiting sights like the Vegas’s strips and the impressive Hoover Dam, hiking the Angel’s landing of Zion Park and visiting the breath taking lower & the adventurous upper Antelope Canyons, as well as a stop and climb on rocks at the stunning Horse Shoe Bend, I am delighted to share with you (and my dear readers & friends) my thoughts on dating an american guy (like you), a topic that has been feeding countless debates for lots of conversations I’ve had with my fellow french expats.

Horse Shoe Bend Secret Spot

Thinker Pose at the Horse Shoe Bend

Upper Antelope Canyon- Not a Couple Yet!

Beautiful Antelope Canyons

Road trip in Utah

Firstly, I am honestly still trying to process (recall self-reflection, self-thinking, and why not throw in affirmation in there ahah) how two total strangers suddenly come together and create new beautiful stories to share with the world (because that is what I believe life is all about and I am grateful to have a space like this blog as a conduit to share my stories). I also believe that traveling together is the best recipe to test patience, teamwork, and a person’s ability to be fun to hang out with; you see, when two people get stuck in the same car for more than 12 hours sitting through awful traffic, there is no other choice than… sharing laughter, giggling and singing/dancing all the way to our destinations right?! I enjoyed how you are not scared of trying new things with so much enthusiasm, learning from one another something new every day (aka soporific is in fact an English word), and offering each other different perspectives on life…

From my own experience, there are some unique and interesting cultural differences I wanted to highlight in this post that affect dating from both sides of the Atlantic between the Europeans (particularly the French) and the Americans. Evidently, this is not meant to merely create a generalization as each person and situation is specific, but rather some things to consider from my recount of dating you. Ready to read my thoughts on dating an American like you?!

The Hoover Dam

A Caveman Waking Up!

Seahorse Spotting at the Lower Antelope Canyon

Not a Couple Again at the Lower Antelope Canyon

Gorgeous!

On first impression and personal style: French guys tend to carefully select their clothes for the fit and create outfits with neutral color palette. They are usually well groomed and take great pride in looking attractive on the date. American men (including you) are more casual and show up wearing anything ranging from their favorite graphic band’s tee-shirt (see post here of my take on being effortlessly cool) or a pair of loose jeans (shameless about ill fitted clothes) and a polo. They are more concerned about comfort than looking good! Wouldn’t you agree?

On the concept of dating: this vocab is non existent in France! People meet each other via group settings such as hanging out with friends unlike the Americans, they don’t get into a formalized pre-packaged deal as stereotyped in movies where it’s a candle lit 1-1 rendez-vous mid-week dinner. That’s so much pressure particularly if you don’t know the person well enough. Meeting someone you like in friend’s environment also allows to observe how the person of interest interacts with your friends so French dating accounts for a community dynamic rather than a private affair when it comes to going out with someone.

Speaking of going out settings, where to go on dates: when you would like to see the person you like in private, it is usually a walk by the river or a visit at a museum. It’s very casual and non-chalant and all about being in the moment. On out first travel night out, we walked through the strip of Vegas when everything has already closed down due to the holidays (no clubbing, no adult shows urgh, no comedy, etc…) and yet we did our best in each other’s company to have a fun time together regardless (breakfast for dinner at Denny’s for instance was so much fun especially seeing my friends’ reaction to associating this unlikely place for dinning with me or even Stratography as a noble profession or the Virgin River). Unlike the Europeans, Americans tend to plan out all activities in advance which isn’t always a bad thing but it loses all the spontaneity?!

What to talk about on dates? American men tend to overemphasize on degrees earned and career related and take great pride in predicting the future with topics such as university studies, internships, promotions, and the workday. But money is taboo for the French and talking about what people do for a living or how they spend their money. It has more to do with creating personal connections. I really enjoyed when you described the casserole dish you make back home in Louisiana or the guinea pig you lost when I was sharing my experience of losing my dog too as we drove by an animal shelter in Utah.

Flirting is a way of being French while Americans are more direct (include the Dutch here too). I recently start to grasp why Americans don’t understand the flirting signs of the french as it is so cryptic and embedded in our cultural. I would often disagree with you cos it’s more fun that way even though I may not necessarily believe in what I argue about. I could be perceived as stubborn and opinionated on many topics so get ready to take a stance! Know your geography for god sake it’s really embarrassing! And when I ask tricky questions, it’s not because it’s to test you (nah actually it’s always a test and it’s so fun). Yet you still must answer this one: Can two people from two different worlds get together well? Yes/no and how?

First Pose Together at the Zion Park, UH

Zion Park

A Beautiful Deer Sighting!

Secret Spot of a Cave in Zion Park called the Passage Way (My Naming)

Off Trail of the Angel’s Landing at Zion Park

Goofing at the Lake Las Vegas

On seduction: while European men are charming with their words and are superior on verbal seduction, American men are sweet yet more reserved with the outpouring of compliments. They may point out something they like about what a woman’s outfit or hair for instance. This may sound anti-modern but European men love the chase by mastering the skills of being persistent and clever and by being persuasive with the art of negotiation. Women who gently resist, make them work harder and sweat more to win over her heart, which creates tension/attraction in this push/pull interaction presented as a playful challenge. On the other hand, American men tend to be more direct, straight talking, and super relaxed (perhaps like you). If they want to court a woman, they will let her know through a series of thoughtful actions and words without much fuss. Let me know if you disagree or have anything to add 😉

Sarcasm is a native language to the French and a great flirting tool: let me describe an anecdote… As I’m staring at the guy’s shirt (yours!) and make a disapproving face, I exclaim: “Please Burn this shirt!” Wait for a couple of second to see how his mind is racing and how heart failure might occur in any moment then add “because it’s giving you an unfair disadvantage!” So please don’t always get offended for everything I say because it’s not meant to be harmful because I am in truth also sensitive and kind hearted.

Americans always want to know what lies ahead (i.e. defining a relationship can be part of it) while us French, we just go through this process called life and enjoy the ride. We don’t overemphasize the final destination. So European men like to live in the moment. Although they mat have work and familial obligations that require advanced organization, they value letting their life’s process unfold day by day. But when it comes to marriage, there exists a lot of external factors regarding economic crisis and strong family pressure that draw the path of marriage sooner rather than later. American men are more future oriented and value the path of efficiency, hard work, and planning to reach both short and long term goals, so I’d imagine that they tend to commit and marry sooner but for the reasons of building a life side by side with her while it’s advantageous financially speaking. Capitalists!

The Hoover Dam and IG Modeling Going On!

Ponte Vecchio at Lake Las Vegas

Outfit Post at Tropicana, Vegas

Deep Thoughts Processing at the Zion Park

Ponte Vecchio at Lake Las Vegas Romance

A Photo of a Photo at the Lower Antelope Canyon

French people enjoy the little frivolity in life (dancing in the living room, giving you my last caramel au beurre salé from my summer trip, or sharing with you a little sweet surprise from my memories of Rome, or how you open my door and pull my chair, or how you planned marvelously our trip and I thank you for your preparedness (Americans!!) something I seem to lack of when it comes to trips, even how you laugh at your own jokes is abominably really cute). I also enjoy someone who is always willing to go along with the fun and crazy ideas I may have. Being spontaneous and having an appreciation of small delicate attentions to me is the ultimate sexy.

Transactional interactions (who pays for the first date?!!) Although American men value a woman’s strength, intelligence, and have the natural inclination to be caring and protective of her, they tend to be more passive if a woman reaches for the check or offers to pay half. With women making equal or even more money, a power struggle or blurred lines can occur anywhere from making plans, initiating communication, and determining the direction of the courtship. From my own experience, the French tend to be more chivalrous and pay for the whole date but then I’ll always offer as it’s a gesture from me to be part of the team playing aspect. However, these guys would be utterly offended if I ever dominate to emasculate them by actually paying half or god forbid me the whole date!  This might explain why the French must be more assertive when it comes to the so called taboo of who pays for the first date and the French women enjoy a man who has this confidence and won’t let her impede such details of the date progress.

Lastly, to be a couple or to not be a couple? I think this is the easiest to answer… by the French meaning of a kiss! There is no need to discuss exclusivity as it’s implied in the kiss. Voilà!

Shot by the Cutie at the Horse Shoe Bend

Outfit Post at Tropicana Vegas

Vegas Strip

The Hoover Dam and My Elise Chalmin Tee

Upper Antelope Canyon- Watch out for spiders!

Night Fall in Zion Park, UH

I wrote these observations with lessons learned from my previous relationship in mind and so I hope to make the best out of ours. (Evidently hope is not a plan so I’ll rephrase to I commit to work to make the best out of ours). Is that an American thing haha

I am so looking forward to more laughter with you and long car rides and more travel stories (hello Europe!). Looking forward to cooking together with our friends and making drinks and also snowboarding. I am just thrilled that you are now part of my story (including Instagram stories hahahah) and that the internet is more than ready to take you in haha but promise me that fame won’t get in your head too soon!

PS: I love how cute you are when you are eager to speak french and know that I think you are really smart. I may fail to express it verbally so then I write it here for you. Keep working at it!!!

Thoughts on Dating An American Like You Dear Cutie, After recently getting back from what I believe to be one of the most incredible, wild, fun, and memorable road trips I've ever taken so far to Nevada, Utah, and Arizona visiting sights like the Vegas's strips and the impressive Hoover Dam, hiking the Angel's landing of Zion Park and visiting the breath taking lower & the adventurous upper Antelope Canyons, as well as a stop and climb on rocks at the stunning Horse Shoe Bend, I am delighted to share with you (and my dear readers & friends) my thoughts on dating an american guy (like you), a topic that has been feeding countless debates for lots of conversations I've had with my fellow french expats.