#i finally finished playing TWAU last month after a years-long hiatus

[regrettablewritings]

Fuck it, since nobody’s humoring me with the ship meme thing, I’m just gonna do whatevadahell I want.

So

Bigby Wolf

Who the fuck put the Peeps in the microwave?: Mundies, for all intents and purposes, were just plain fascinating to you. You tried not to think too much of them (after all, you were a Fable for god’s sake, you surely had seen plenty in your ages of existence), but you simply couldn’t help it: Between all the strife and ridiculous affairs they got themselves into, they sure did come up with some interesting ideas! Like putting colorful, bunny and chick-shaped marshmallows into the microwave oven. You heard some kids on public transit talking about how they were gonna “nuke” their leftover Easter candy, and the thought intrigued you. What did they have to gain from it? Why had they tried to sound nonchalant about it while also holding back snickers? Curiosity got the better of you, and you made a pit stop on the way back to The Woodlands. . . . Unfortunately, if curiosity wasn’t going to kill you, then Bigby probably would. Well, maybe not kill. But you knew that look of his, when he crossed his arms and furrowed his brows, turning his head down just enough to emphasis his look of displeasure. It did not feel good to be on the receiving end of it. Suffice to say, the experiment wasn’t worth investing in: The tiny apartment now reeked of hot sugar, and it mingled terribly with the stench of your boyfriend’s cheap cigarettes. Damn Mundies.

Who forgot to put the cat outside before sex?: Y’all don’t have a cat. Thank god. . . .  But you do have a talking pig that, while not a pet, insists on intruding into Bigby’s apartment whenever he’s escaped The Farm on this side of the state. Granted, given that Colin is a full-grown, big-mouthed pig, it’s hard to miss him and accidentally give him a little peep show. But sometimes, he’ll come a-cloppin’ to the door, telling Bigby to open up, he’s parched, and Bigby winds up irritated and has to yell at him to piss off. “Ooohh, I see . . . Pigs have a superb sense of smell, Bigby; are you entertaining your lady friend --” “Colin.” The growl has notes of danger and exasperation. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll just . . . go down to the business office, I guess.” You hear him grunt lowly as he begins to slowly plod back down the hallway. But you didn’t get the chance to breathe a sigh of relief (or even one of agitation) before you heard that damn pig intentionally holler back your way, “And for Christ’s sake, Bigby, go gentle on her!” And by then, the mood is basically dead. In the end, Bigby has to use the sock-on-the-doorknob trick and a bribe of a pack of beers just to keep Colin away when the two of you want to get it on. It’s embarrassing, because you’re still basically announcing that you’re going au naturale, but it’s somewhat less so than having a pig with a grudge hollering at a wolf to not rail you so hard.

Who posts Vines/TikToks of the other doing embarrassing shit?: Neither. Social media didn’t exist yet. But say we fast forward to when it does, you still probably won’t do it. Bigby is like an old man when it comes to technology, and even though there’s some loopholes you’ve figured out with having a social media presence, it’s probably best not to put out videos of anything that might expose you guys as Fables. (That, and you know what a DILF is. Bigby may be the Big Bad Wolf, but if you show any image of him online, the public will eat him alive.)

Who breaks the most phones?: Bigby, absolutely. He and telephones have been one-sided enemies since the dawn of the latter’s creation. When they were cranked? He broke the crank. Landline? He slammed the phone back on into the cradle too hard or, if he had received particularly bad news, ripped it out of the wall in a fit of frustration. Sometimes, the phones getting knocked off the wall weren’t even his: They belonged to whoever owned the establishment in which he was getting his shit kicked in. When the 80s came and introduced massive-sized cellular phones, he didn’t fuck with them. Most Fables didn’t simply because they tended to be expensive. Plus, given his job as Sheriff (which meant, once again, often getting his shit kicked in), lugging that brick around would’ve made his job just a twinge harder. In the modern age, it’s not much better: As stated before, he takes to modern technology like any old man would, and this unfortunately also extends to how aware he is of how costly or important things like smartphones can be. But in an age where everyone has to have some form of portable tech on them, he winds up gifted with one by you. . . . Poor thing didn’t stand a chance. Nor did the next one. Or the third. They either fell out while in the middle of a fight, got crushed by him getting slammed in the middle of a fight, caught the bullet aimed at him, or got beer spilled on them. To be fair, though, most smartphones aren’t made to last, and you always kinda knew that maybe coupling your roughhousing significant other with a tender piece of tech probably wasn’t the best idea. But that didn’t make it any less embarrassing whenever he whipped out the sturdy Nokia flip phone you finally gave in and got him.

Who dies first?: Fables are hard to kill, but it can be done. Bigby is living proof of that, having endured more than his fair share of accidents, incidents, and injuries that would’ve killed any Mundy, and technically should’ve also flat out killed him. But his luck can only go so far and for so long. He might’ve been pushing it that night, but fuck it: He knew that Fables and Mundies were supposed to keep their interactions to a minimum and inconspicuous, but he wasn’t about to let that shitbag keep harassing you. And given that you couldn’t use your magic, lest you draw even further attention to yourself, that meant he had to step up. But how the hell was he supposed to know the little shit had a gun on him? Granted, it seemed like most every punk in New York did. Goddammit . . . Now you were crying. He couldn’t quite see it (his vision was blurring), but he could smell your tears. But he could also feel your thighs serving as a pillow for him, hands trembling as they alternated between frantically carding through his hair and then raking through your own and then pressing a hand against his, and pressing them both against his wound. In a way, it felt nice. Certainly better than the searing pain he felt in his chest, and the scratchy concrete beneath the rest of him. So this was how the Big Bad Wolf was to meet his end? Bleeding out on the concrete? From what he could tell, not if you had anything to do with it. Everything sounded so goddamn loud but he could make out one hand -- the one not pressing against his wound -- leaving to grab your phone and begging for Dr. Swineheart. It was . . . depressing. Depressing because Bigby knew you were trying. He knew you didn’t have the kind of magic in your arsenal to stop it, let alone in a way that wouldn’t draw more attention than what you were probably already about to get, now that the surrounding buildings had enough time to recognize that the gunshots had ceased. He knew that you felt it was all your fault, that this wouldn’t have happened if you’d just smiled at the guy or given him your purse or whatever the hell it was he wanted. But it wasn’t your fault. It never was, and never would be even when enough time would pass after the fact. Bigby chose to protect you, and even if he’d known about the damn gun, he would’ve done it still. And he wanted you to know that. He opened his mouth to tell you, only for blood-flavored gurgles to come out instead. He heard you yelp at him to not talk. “Y-you need to save your breath, okay?” you said, voice shrill and quivering. “Just until Swineheart . . .Until he --” He’s not gonna make it. Bigby thought. I’m not gonna make it, he wanted to say. But clearly, you wouldn’t allow it. And at this rate, he knew he probably missed that window anyway, what with the blood and all. But there was maybe . . . one thing he could do. Could still do. It took nearly every iota of strength he still had in his body, nearly forcing him to heave up the blood welling in his abdomen, but he managed to lift a hand. It trembled; something Bigby never did in all the years you had known him. Granted, it was because of his current predicament, but still: the sight unnerved you. If he squinted, his vision could focus on you just enough to better recognize you beyond the blur you had quickly become in his eyes. Your own were widened and wet, dampening your cheeks and wobbling lip. One of the last things he truly felt, though, was your hand slowly answering to his own. His large palm felt so heavy in your own, if only because his strength then left him. Felt nice to him. Felt . . . comforting, sick as it was. But maybe it was also the overwhelming need to sleep that began to blanket over him. Bigby was always so tired . . . And as much as it pained you to, you let him rest. He always deserved rest, what with all the protecting he did . . .

Which one I could see as being lactose intolerant: Food allergies and digestion issues aren’t exactly commonplace amongst Fables, but they can happen. And given your longevity, it also wasn’t unheard of for cases of food intolerance to ebb in and out of a person -- or animal’s -- life like the tide. But it still bothered you when the 80s hit and you began to develop stomachaches whenever you ate ice cream or cereal. At first, you just assumed the milk had gone bad, especially whenever you spent the night at Bigby’s apartment. But when the pain persisted even when you bought new cartons of milk, and when you dragged Bigby to the new ice cream parlor you’d been dying to try, Swineheart presented you with a diagnosis. “You need to stay away from dairy. We can find you some supplements, but --” “You can’t supplement the taste of strawberry ice cream!” But supplements, you had to make and take. Thankfully, one of the other, more experienced witches on your floor took pity on you (“I had my time in the 1860s, I know your pain,” she told you) and offered you a script of a spell made to make certain foods taste similar to the dairy-containing ones you were now forbidden from eating. It did alright, but it wasn’t quite the same. Unfortunately and ironically, Bigby was one of your biggest obstacles when it came to trying to sneak things. Sure, the big oaf could completely disregard Fabletown’s doctor when it came to getting a bullet shot in the ass or whatever, but God forbid you eat a spoonful of yogurt as a little snack! Those Huff-n-Puffs may be able to block out enough stimuli, but Bigby’s nose can’t be fooled all the time: He can smell the lactose on you. And if that’s not enough, your literal bellyaching that inevitably follows soon after bemuses him to no end. Whatever . . . At least you learned that chilled Cool Whip was a decent enough supplement. For now.

Who thinks they can do something really well even though they can’t?: In all the centuries the Fables had existed, nobody really understood why or how you and Bigby got together: Witches and wolves weren’t unfamilar with one another, but it just seemed strange. Especially given how Bigby was more no-nonsense and you tended to try and be a bit on the kinder side of things. Gren and Holly weren’t really open people, but your ability to make even them crack a smile wasn’t anything to sniff at. That might’ve built up your ego a little, though, considering you pouted whenever you’d regale Bigby the same stories or jokes that killed down at the Trip Trap, only to be met with a blank expression or a confused head-cock. Whatever, Bigby has no taste: the wolfman technically has a bedroom but barely uses it because he prefers to sleep in the den -- the literal den of his tinyass apartment. He doesn’t seem to be amused by your noting of this, even as you grin about it. “. . . Gren and Holly thought it was funny.” “Gren and Holly like anything that makes me look like a dick.”

Who is more likely to get kicked out of bed?: You love Bigby, you really do, but you’d be lying if ever told anyone that being with him was easy. He may be a sweetheart trying to atone for his past, but that doesn’t not make him a slob, scary, and extremely rough around the edges. And sometimes, he says things that really sit with you wrong because he didn’t think to sit with those words before saying them in the first place. He rarely uses the bedroom, but tends to use it more once you come into the picture. After all, his armchair doesn’t exactly make a great bed for two. Really, it’s odd that you’d kick him out of his own bed when you not only live in the same apartment building, just on a different floor -- you could really just leave and go back to your place and leave him to his own devices. But for as kind as you can be, you can also be a bit petty: Staying but kicking him out of his own room was about power. You wanted him to know you were upset with him. And unfortunately, Bigby and emotions are constantly doing an awkward shuffle around one another, so he doesn’t always know what to do. He’s used to sleeping in his chair, but it feels wrong doing so when you’re in the next room. It feels lonely, like every night before you did. He can’t quite find a good position to get into, either, not when he feels this guilty. Though sometimes, the loneliness leaks into the bedroom with you. Because yeah, you can’t sleep, either. It feels just as weird being in a place you know Bigby is in without actually being around him. And when that feeling gets bad enough, you can’t stop yourself from gathering the old comforter blanket and shuffling into the den. His eyes may be closed, but you know Bigby’s still awake. He only opens them when he feels you climbing into his lap and trying to make yourself comfortable, blobbing the blanket around the both of you. And aside from the faint sounds of the city being alive outside the window, all is quiet. “. . . I’m sorry,” you hear him say. It’s low, as though he were afraid of destroying the quiet. Like his reputation as a walking mass of destruction would carry over to the potentially tender moment. But you yawn and nuzzle into his chest, finding the scent of his cheap cigarettes and cheap soap oddly comforting. “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” you murmur. The agreement is done in silence. Of course, you both wake up with aching bones due to how uncomfortable sleeping in the chair ultimately can be. But neither one of you wanted to break the comfort of being close in that exact way by getting up and moving back to the bed.

Who uses the computer the most?: You. Just. You. Go back to the phone bit and remember that Bigby is an old man.