#last *I* can recall this was a perfectly fine sentiment

[something-about-sunflowers]

I mean what did you expect? It's a queer show on a streaming network, queer shows on streaming networks die all the time!

[bethanydelleman]

Hi! Love your blog :) I saw your previous reply about Jane Austen and cognitive neuroscience and it reminded me of a question I have about Persuasion that still haunts me, which I can't seem to find a definitive answer for on the general internet. So after Louisa is injured, its like she undergoes a pretty massive personality shift, leading up to her falling in love with Captain Benwick etc. My question is, is that change (in your opinion) supposed to be a mental trauma reaction, or more of a physical trauma reaction? Like are we supposed to infer that the brain tissue injury changed her or is it more like, she was in mental shock and also an invalid with plenty of time to brood on her role in things and that's what resulted in her being in a state of mind to love some poetry & Benwick? I do wonder if the total personality change is temporary or permanent, because sometimes people who undergo near-death experiences often have mental trauma-based reactions including apparently 180 degree personality shifts, but those don't last and as they heal from the trauma, they become closer to their older selves. In Louisa's case that would make for an interesting dynamic in her married life with Benwick if she goes back to her earlier personality eventually.

I personally think Louisa and Benwick's marriage is the most questionable one in all of Austen's works! Forget age gaps, no one should be getting married a few months after major brain trauma... I mean unless they were already engaged... maybe.

These are the two quotes about Louisa after the injury that are important here:

She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in love over poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced her fate.

and

He answered rather hesitatingly, “Yes, I believe I do; very much recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing; it is quite different. If one happens only to shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long.” Anne could not help laughing. “That cannot be much to your taste, I know,” said she; “but I do believe him to be an excellent young man.” “To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as myself. I have a great value for Benwick; and when one can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done him no harm, for he has fought as well as read. He is a brave fellow. I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before. We had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father’s great barns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better ever since.”

So firstly, Louisa was already into the navy and Wentworth, she has retained that interest. However, we will recall that Louisa's interest in the navy sprang to life in moments after meeting the handsome captain. But she's 19 years old, so sudden interests in things that a handsome guy likes are perfectly normal! I'm sure she's learned to appreciate poetry in all the time she had to be quiet and still.

Secondly, what Charles observes is likely lingering effects of brain trauma or what we might call post-concussion syndrome (Louisa had a worse injury than what is commonly called a concussion). Louisa's brain is still healing. She will probably begin to dance again at some point, depending on what damage is long lasting. This is the tricky thing with brains, permanent damage can be extremely varied. One person ends up with aphasia (trouble speaking), another with ataxia (trouble with muscle coordination), and a third with memory problems and so on. However, Louisa is young and her brain is still plastic (adaptable); hopefully she will recover completely without deficits.

Lastly, I included the part about Benwick being a great rat-hunter because we have to remember, he's not all poetry. He is in the navy, he is apparently competent to be promoted so early and we know he has a good fortune. He's a good guy, he's passionate, I'm sure he wants to make his wife happy.

So... I think they'll be fine. Louisa was going to mature no matter what, Benwick is a good person, and they will grow more alike. If not, navy wives weren't always able to travel with their husbands, so Benwick might be away for long periods of time and Louisa might be home with the kids.

But I still advise anyone to wait at least a year before marrying after a major brain trauma! (semi-expert advice, don't sue me)

[transhawks]

Hello! First things first, I'd like to thank you for the amazing meta you posted. It's a wonderful insight on both the dynamic between Twice and Hawks and Japanese culture with confessiona, so different from Western culture.

Second - I had to read the meta twice (pun intended) before coming with a few questions I hope you won't mind answering. I think you explained everything perfectly, so they are mostly me... speculating? Drawing conclusions? I don't know.

1. So, the "confession scene" is between Jin and Keigo. The latter, however, is seen as Hawks in that scene from Jin's perspective - as the hero, not the human underneath. You elaborated on this clearly. This arc plays out recalling past actions from previous arcs, and all the characters need closure in one way or another. I am also referring to Keigo, in chapter 299, mentioning how someone's true nature is revealed when pushed into a corned - but Keigo wasn't acting on his nature when killing Twice, he was pushing down his sentiments to carrying on his "duty"; that, at least in how I see it, was the mask, Hawks', nature (nurture?).

You also expandend on Hawks and his issues with trusting others, be it from hero work to emotions, and how trust was a core part of Twice and Hawks' dynamic - or, better, the lack of trust. This made me think of Tokoyami reminding Hawks, during the fight vs. All for One, he can trust him and Hawks' shocked expression.

Another conflict between Twice and Hawks appears inevitable at this point, even if Hawks tries to avoid it - so I was thinking, would it be possible we get a recall of the "confession", and actually see both the characters' natures this time? Is it possible we'll get finally a show of genuine trust? It's late for Hawks to save Twice at this point, he failed for all the reasons you stated, he can't go back and it's not his role; I, however, see BNHA as a very hopeful story, and maybe I'm being too wishful on this one, but I think a good cloruse for both characters is reaching an understanding that wasn't there - not as hero or villain, but as people, humans, bare in front of each other.

2. Just a curiosity: if I remember correctly, you mentioned a few times how important it is to use the characters' names and aliases and how you can play with them and their meaning. You did this in the meta talking about Hawks and Keigo, so I'd like to ask - was the switch from using Keigo to using Hawks in the last part (starting with "Hawks is not a high-schooler") and switching from Jin to Twice, intentional? Maybe I'm reading a bit too much into it, but it came across as premeditative. Though, I tend to focus too much into details sometimes, to the point I might miss the bigger picture, which... my bad.

Thought I had more to ask, but again, you elabrorated on the topic so well there's not much to ask about - at least not from me. Most of the questions I had were already answered in deep details.

Again, if you wish to not answer, especially the first question since it's more a bit of speculation and you might not like to give possible conclusions before the story ends, it's completely fine.

Have a nice day/evening!

Hi, thank you for the thoughtful ask! Let's get into it - because I know that 6,500 word meta is a lot and something to chew over, so I really don't mind discussing it.

I am also referring to Keigo, in chapter 299, mentioning how someone's true nature is revealed when pushed into a corned - but Keigo wasn't acting on his nature when killing Twice, he was pushing down his sentiments to carrying on his "duty"; that, at least in how I see it, was the mask, Hawks', nature (nurture?).

I am of two minds on this - I strongly believe Hawks is mentally ill, and repressing it, so his "actual" nature is a bit lost to us unless we see through the crops. However, you're right in that Keigo was actively going against his own nature and sense of self to kill Jin.

That’s the story Hawks and Twice are being used to tell by Horikoshi! To kill Jin, Hawks had to cast away sentiment, feelings, compassion for Jin, and so he did, at the same time sacrificed his own humanity to do so.

The kind of heroism that asks Hawks to do these things is inhumane. It’s the kind that expects people to kill the child in themselves, kill the friend, kill the compassion, and kill the person to become what it believes is a hero. 

A snippet from one of my metas on this topic - that Jin's name meaning humanity, that Jin constantly being shown as so utterly human, was a good way to introduce this idea that the "heroism" that created Hawks was inhumane. Keigo was just a boy who wanted to help people, after all.

I do think there will be some closure with Keigo and Jin. While I foresee a breakdown first for Keigo, I have a feeling Keigo and his clones will be used at the end to turn a tide for the heroes, completing the "all became heroes" aspect we're clearly headed for. I do think Keigo apologizing, admitting he was wrong, and probably reiterating what he actually felt is the best possible end to this arc. Stripped of all his protections, down to his "truth", I think Keigo can actually come across sincere this time around. When Jin and him speak not as Hero and Villain but as just two men.

You did this in the meta talking about Hawks and Keigo, so I'd like to ask - was the switch from using Keigo to using Hawks in the last part (starting with "Hawks is not a high-schooler") and switching from Jin to Twice, intentional? Maybe I'm reading a bit too much into it, but it came across as premeditative.

Congratulations! You're the first person who has ever noticed I do this in several years. I can't say I managed to not slip up in the meta, but yes, it's absolutely premediated. I make a clear distinction when I wish to speak about Hawks and Keigo in meta AND ESPECIALLY fic. In fic I'm extremely careful with what I call Keigo and when I make the switch and honestly use it as a literary device - for example when Hawks grows so disillusioned with heroism in Chapter 2 of my fic Minutes, I made the switch to Keigo. In meta, I don't do it as much, but I did it more this time around. Like I said, this meta was really special. I've wanted to write it since Spring 2020. The emphasis on Hawks and Keigo as separate identities is central to this idea of who Hawks really is, so I decided to explore it.

Thanks again for the ask. I'm really pleased with how much you noticed!

[alechaos]

"It didn’t kill me, but I came out stronger"

I can still clearly recall this incident. It was our last meal together before our father returned to Abu Dhabi to carry on his business there. We were getting ready since our father was taking us to Tagaytay for dinner so we could see the Taal volcano in its grandeur.

I was in my room doing my thing when I heard a big bang coming from my mother's bathroom on the first floor. My siblings were gathered around my father, who was holding my mother in his arms, while I hurried downstairs to see what was happening. It turns out that while having a bath, my mother stumbled on the bathroom floor. She said that at first, she felt quite lightheaded and nauseous, but within a few minutes, she believed she was already perfectly fine. We drove to Tagaytay and continued our dinner thinking she was okay.

After a few days, she began to experience severe pain in various spots across her body. She frequently complains how much her body hurts and how dizzy she is, among other things. However, she consistently asserts that it was merely a case of the flu and will eventually pass. It didn't, though. 

She finally agreed to be taken to the hospital after noticing how much weight she lost over a short period of time and we were so worried that we literally beg her to come with us and bring her to the hospital.. Then the doctors examined her, and when the tests revealed that she had diabetes and dengue virus. Her body was also injured by the fall, weakening her muscles and we were all taken by surprise.

She found it difficult to walk and stand still as much as she used to due to her physical discomfort, which caused her great stress because it meant she couldn't do her house work and responsibilities. We took care of all the household duties and tasks for her because she was unable to move. But as a result of feeling so worthless, she grows frantic and grumpier.

This continued for over a month. 

“Baka hindi na ako makalakad ulit or makatayo ng sobrang tagal like before kasi naaalala ko ang sakit no’n sobra kapag nag ta-try ako tumayo or maglakad magisa. Ayan talaga ang iniisip ko noong panahon na yun” 

Her head became overwhelmed with the idea of not being able to do the things she used to do. 

“Iniisip ko nga kapag bumalik na si daddy mo sa UAE eh sino na magpapaligo sakin haha” 

Not only her body felt weak at that moment but also her thoughts time since she felt so isolated from others. She was mourning the loss of her old life and good health. feeling incapable of looking over the worst-case situation or feeling helpless and hopeless. She has the  feeling of regret or remorse over the events and actions she believe may have led to her illness or injury. Shame at the impact her illness is having on those around her.

Everyone advised her to remain patient as her medication and recuperation progressed, which she did. She curbed her excessive whining and concentrated on her therapies. 

“Everyone said na huwag kong itago yung nararamdaman ko. Ilabas ko lang ng ilabas kasi okay lang masaktan. Okay lang matakot pero huwag magpapalamon sa takot na iyon.”

Your emotions exist whether you're aware of them or not, even if it may seem preferable in the time to avoid feeling them. Trying to suppress your emotions will simply lead to more stress and perhaps even a slower recovery. But if you give yourself permission to experience your emotions, you'll discover that even strong, unsettling sentiments pass, the initial shock you had upon learning of your diagnosis starts to fade, and some areas of life even get back to normal.

‘Nagulat nalang ako na one day okay na lahat. I can finally walk and move around ng hindi kailangan ng tulong na iba. Sobrang thankful ako na bumalik sa ayos yung condition ko. Syempre may prayers din doon but mostly thankful sa mga tumulong sakin.”

[infinityactual]

Spoiler alert: Halo CE *IS* old lol.

Note: I am purposefully ignoring the story elements and focusing on gameplay mechanics for the purposes of this post.

---

While the sentiment that 'old = bad' is not one I'm fond of, 'old = good' can be just as bad. Like anything, while age should be a factor taken into account when critiquing things, it should only be *part* of the equation.

I love Halo CE. I wasted a criminal amount of my junior and senior high school years on that game. And you know what? It *does* feel dated. I mean there isn't even an animation for climbing ladders!! The game mechanics are pretty simple, it's a straightforward run and gun game with a couple 'oop hehe we're gonna make you double back!' twists.

Halo CE is old and pretty fuckin clunky as far as gameplay mechanics go, and yet for it's time, it was THE first person shooter. I wasn't the Original, FPS games go back pretty much to the inception of the PC game (I wanna say Doom was the first but I'm also still half asleep and cant be arsed to google it. Besides, it's neither here nor there) but Halo paved the way for the modern FPS shooter as a genre.

I barely remember Halo 3. What I do remember is the 'loading' screens were annoying as fuckall and twigged my brain in a Bad way. I vaguely recall Cortana being reduced to a damsel in distress pissing me off, and I *vividly* recall being stupidly good at the endgame warthog run. But it just wasn't for me.

Halo CE was made for the original Xbox. Halo 3 was made for the next gen console, the 360. The OG Xbox had a FUCK of a time running Halo 2, so there was a lot going on with that game that ended up causing it to be very Meh, at least to me. They tried to push the console too far. Halo 3 was made for a console that could handle pretty much what they wanted to do.

That said, taking into account the rate at which computer tech improves, comparing CE and 3 is like comparing a 1995 Ford F150 with a 2005 model. They're siblings, yes, but the '95 will look and feel older than the 2005 unless you completely rebuild it, at which point you get into 'Is it really a '95 F150 anymore' territory. Remaking CE to have more 'modern' features (Halo 3 ain't no spring chicken itself lmfao) probably wouldn't be CE anymore. It would be another sibling that echoes the original, but is still distinctly different and unique.

People have preferences. And preferences are and always will be a subjective thing.

They are also varied. They can change with time or get more rigid. But they will never be objective. People will like what they like, and unless it's causing direct harm or contributing to direct harm to others, 'get new friends' as a reaction to a *video game* preference is a rather childish reaction. Does it need to be remade? Eh, who knows. Personally, Infinite killed any interest in future Halo content for me. 5 started it, but Infinite drove the last few nails into the coffin. Neither are inherently bad games, both have features that I love, but both are OBVIOUS cash grabs my Microsoft (not 343i, please be mad at the right company, ppl) and a remake of Halo CE has that *same* capitalist stink to it. Microsoft is still trying to milk their cash cow dry.

But, if people want to buy it and enjoy it, that is perfectly fine. Will it annoy me? Maybe.

Will it hurt me? No.

One thing I keep having to tell myself is "There is no ethical consumption under capitalism". Unless you remove yourself from the system entirely - which is pretty much impossible to do without giving up every single comfort and modern amenity - you are, willingly or not, a gear in the capitalist machine.

The remake will happen. If it bothers you that much, block the tag. If posts aren't tagged, scroll past and ignore them. If they're everywhere and unavoidable, take a break and go bitch to your friends on discord or something to vent frustration. Come vent to me! I'll listen! But don't be an ass and judge people for their preferences. Halo CE *is* old, clunky, basic and lacks any and all bells and whistles.

I *adore* it for that, but also it is not for everyone.

And that's ok.

PS: Any 'buh buh buh here's why you're stupid and wrong!!!' bs reactions or replies will happily ignored and/or deleted. I'm too old to care about hotheads on the internet trying to make their balls look bigger by attempting to prove they are Correct and Morally Good in a world where *nothing* is clear cut and well defined. To quote the late Harold Ramis, Embrace The Ambuguity. You'll be happier if you can.

Idk not to be a hater but if you can’t enjoy the game in its original state that’s a you problem and it does not need to be remade!!!

[mizunetzu]

Kuroo x reader - Kuroo’s Pocky Scheme!

⚠️ Warnings - Kuroo being a desperate simp, none!!

Pronouns - male, he/him

——————

Kuroo stared at the doorknob to the schools kitchen-y room. It was such a desperate, bottom-of-the-barrel move, but he was literally just that. A desperate simp.

He sighed and pushed open the door, more forcefully than he intended. A small, blonde girl jumped and whipped her petite form around.

Kuroo raised his arms in defense. “I come in peace, Yachi-san.”

The girl, Yachi, visibly relaxed. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “O-oh...you’re...sorry, I don’t remember your name, but you’re Nekoma’s captain right? Oh god, what if you told me your name and I forgot gosh I am so-“

“No-no! It’s fine, I dont think we’ve ever talked.” Kuroo nudged the door shut, and dropped his voice into a whisper. “Ok, hear me out. I gotta huge-and-kinda-stupid favor to ask.”

“M-m-me?! Wh-wh-whaddya need from me?!”

“Well-calm down, I don’t ‘need’ much from you, no offense.” Kuroo leaned against the door. “Uh-first lemme explain-and promise not to make a big deal outta this, okay?”

Yachi nodded. Kuroo looked around the room, seeing only Yachi and a big watermelon inside.

“So. I may or may not have a tiny...crush, on (Y/n).”

Yachi blinked. “Wait, who’s (Y/...(Y/n)..? (L/n) (Y/n)?! Oh my-!”

“That’s besides the point!” Kuroo flushed, waving his hands up to hush Yachi. He felt so pathetic. He felt like a desperate schoolgirl, coming up with ideas on how to get his crush to notice him with his school girl friends.

“Anyways,” Kuroo shakily ran a hand through his untamable hair. “I’m...uh, I’m kind of desperate, and I feel like I’m gonna explode if I don’t...kiss him soon.” That last part came out in a mumble. He shook his head.

Kuroo snapped a finger at Yachi. “That’s where you come in.”

Yachi nodded dumbly. She really had no incentive to helping out this...tall, scary man. But, if she recalled correctly, (Y/n) was close friends with him-so he should be perfectly safe, right?

“I need you,” Kuroo fished a red box of Pocky out of his Nekoma jacket. “To go up to (Y/n), and ask if you can kiss him. He’ll probably say no, but if you ask him and say you’ll do it Pocky-game style, he’ll say yes. He never rejects food.”

Yachi deadpanned. Then, she erupted into vast shades of red. “W-wait-! But I don’t like him! Why do I have to kiss him-!”

“No! Let me finish!” Kuroo was losing his cool. His desperate simp was really showing, huh. “Once he says yes, tell him to keep his eyes closed because you’re embarrassed or something, and while his eyes are closed-you and me will switch places and I’ll eat the Pocky in your place! I get my kiss, and I’ll owe you absolutely anything!”

Yachi sputtered. What if it went wrong? What if he didn’t switch in time and her poor first kiss was taken by this boy she wasn’t that interested in? He’d think she was interested in him and she’d have to marry him and have to live in a cave hiding for the rest of her life-!

“I’ll do it.” A mature, level headed voice suddenly pipped up. Kuroo and Yachi both flinched in suprise. The door softly pushed open.

“But if I may, I do have a few suggestions.” Kiyoko scratched at her collar, walking in and inspecting the two.

“Yeah-me too.” Yaku follower in after Kiyoko, sending a mocking lifted gaze over to Kuroo. Kuroo looked away in embarrassment. “Like, I don’t know, be more quiet so everyone-including (L/n)-kun, doesn’t hear about your stupid Pocky plan.”

Kuroo usually would’ve opened his mouth to retort, but Yaku could easily warn (Y/n) of his plan, and it would immediately fall into shambles. He probably wouldn’t get his kiss then. Kuroo, regretfully, kept his mouth shut.

“Anyways,” Kiyoko cut in, breaking the heated glare Yaku and Kuroo gave eachother. “I can ask him in Hitoka-chan’s place. But, I do have a few concerns.”

Kiyoko held her finger up. “One-how do we know he’s going to say yes in the first place? Even with the Pocky-“

“No, no. (Y/n) never refuses anything to do with food. I even got him to forcefully drag Kenma out of his room by offering to cook him dinner last year. He and Kenma had bruises all over. A kiss is nothing to him.”

Kiyoko hummed, seemingly accepting Kuroo’s answer. She held up her second finger. “Second, how will we-well I, ask him without seeming suspicious? If I ask him alone, and we do it alone, that won’t give Kuroo-san the opportunity to slip in and switch with me.”

“But if she asks him and all if us are, y’know, there, he’ll think somethings up or we’re tryna make fun of him.” Yaku finished her thought. Kiyoko nodded.

Kuroo blinked. He didn’t think this far. “Uh...”

“W-well, what if Shimizu-senpai asked (L/n)-kun while he was talking to uhm...Kuroo-senpai, and he tags along because he wants to just...be there...and Shimizu-senpai takes him to a room where me and...sorry, I-I don’t really know your name but-“ Yachi pointed at Yaku. “To a room with me and him in it?”

Yaku blinked. “Wait, wouldn’t it be suspicious If Shimizu took him into a room just to find us sitting there?”

“W-well...Wouldn’t it be more suspicious and awkward for Kuroo-senpai to be there alone with them? We can just, sit there and pretend to talk with Kuroo-senpai until (L/n)-kun closes his eyes.”

“Holy shit, that’s a great idea...” Kuroo rubbed his head in disbelief. If he had gone through with his original plan, he would’ve failed so hard. “Well then-what are we waiting for? Lets go-“

“I have one more thing.” Kiyoko turned to Yachi.

“Hitoka-chan, if what Kuroo-san is saying is true, we should have no problem asking him to do the Pocky game with me, but realistically, it would make more sense if you ask him.”

Yachi’s eyes widened. Kiyoko continued. “I’m a year above him, and since much upperclassman girls don’t...idolize and fawn over underclassman like the ones in his grade or first-years do, it would feel a bit weird if I asked him.”

“You, on the other hand,” Kiyoko grabbed the box of Pocky from Kuroo’s hands and placed them gently on Yachi’s. “Are perfect for this, since girls like you seem to gravitate towards (L/n)-kun. The ‘shy-girl-who-wants-to-kiss-her-crush’ type. And we’ll reenforce it with the Pocky according to Kuroo-san.”

Yachi was quiet for a second, then she opened her mouth. “O-okay...I guess I’m doing it then...”

“Wheey!” Kuroo clapped his hands. “You guys are so nice, helping me with my boy problems.”

Yaku jabbed a finger at Kuroos face. “Yeah, you owe us big time Mr. Docosahexaenoic face.”

“You aren’t even doing anything, though.”

——

“(Y-Y/-!” Yachi was standing behind (Y/n). Her mumbles of “(Y/-!” were practically inaudible as the sticks inside the Pocky box rattled around in her shaking fingers. Kuroo side eyed Yachi, nudging his head to (Y/n)-who was talking to him so obliviously-egging her to go on.

“(L/n)-kun!” Yachi tensed and downcast her whole head, suddenly finding immense interest in the small rip in her shoes. (Y/n) turned around, facing away from Kuroo.

“Yes? Yachi-san? Did you need—is that Pocky? Can I have some?”

Yachi almost threw the box straight into the air. (Y/n) had his eyes fixated hungrily on the Pocky box, pointing at it gently with his hand. Yachi cleared her throat nervously. She felt her heart hammering in her chest.

“I-I-please don’t take this in a weird way but-c-can I k-k-kiss you-?!”

Yachi bowed down in a sharp 90 degree angle, making (Y/n) step back awkwardly. He looked at Kuroo, who gave him an innocent shrug, and looked back at Yachi.

“Uh-I’m sorry, Yachi-san, I don’t really-“

“We can do it Pocky game style! A-and I’ll let you have all of the Pocky afterwards! Please! Please! Please!”

(Y/n) eyes flickered back and forth from the box of Pocky up to Yachi’s sweaty, bowing hair. He really wanted that Pocky too. It was just a kiss, he never really cared about sentimental things like “first kisses” and whatnot. Plus, he’d get a whole box of Pocky afterwards.

“Okay then.”

“Really?!” Yachi raised her head, and (Y/n) nodded.

“You better keep your end of the deal and give me the Pocky afterwards, though.”

“I promise I will-!” Yachi stiffly bowed again, before trotting off with (Y/n) trailing behind her. “W-we can do this in the managers bed rooms!”

“Ok...” They walked in awkward silence. After a few seconds of contemplating, (Y/n) turned around.

“Tetsu, why are you coming?”

Kuroo shrugged. “Am I not allowed to come? I want some Pocky too.”

(Y/n) pursed his lips. “I mean I give you like, two, but don’t you think you’ll make Yachi-san uncomf-“

“It’s fine! I-I don’t care if he comes!” Yachi said a bit too quickly. (Y/n) eyed her suspiciously. Both Kuroo and Yachi broke into a cold sweat.

“...okay...let’s keep going, then.”

Yachi and Kuroo let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding.

——

“Hello.”

“Yo.”

Yaku held up a peace sign while Kiyoko waved. (Y/n) raised an eyebrow, waving back.

“I thought we were doing this in private?”

Yachi tensed. “W-well this is private enough for me...”

(Y/n) softly plucked the box of Pocky away from Yachi, walking away from them to sit down and open the box. Yachi and Kuroo shared a knowing, determined glance while Yaku and Kiyoko pretended to immerse themselves in conversation.

(Y/n) fished out a Pocky stick, and sat cross-legged on the bed mats. He waved it around, eventually settling to pointing it towards Yachi. “Sit down, so we can do this.”

“Yes!” Yachi dropped down abruptly, sitting in front of (Y/n). Kuroo walked over as nonchalant as possible and plopped down near Yachi. (Y/n) looked at him skeptically.

“Whaaaat. I just wanna see my good friend (Y/n) have his first kiss.”

“Pervert. Just say you wanna kiss Yachi-san and leave, you creep. Or do you wanna kiss from me instead?”

(Y/n) soft clad smile turned into a teasing smirk, making Kuroo break into another cold sweat. His heart started picking up speed once (Y/n) placed a Pocky stick, chocolate side first, between his lips. They looked so soft.

“C-close your eyes please, (Y/n)-kun.”

(Y/n) hummed from the stick in his mouth. “Eh? But they’re already...closed?”

“I-I meant keep them closed! ...this is...this is embarrassing so-!”

“Gotcha, Yachi-san. Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” (Y/n’s) gentle smile reappeared as he smiled with the biscuit in his mouth. “Now, bite on to the Pocky already.”

Yachi turned over to Kuroo. Kuroo, as slowly as he could, shuffled his way into Yachi’s previous spot, in time while Yachi backed away. Yachi could see the way Kuroo’s hands shook as he placed himself down in-front of (Y/n), who was waiting ever-so-patiently with his fingers tracing the Pocky box.

“Yachi-san?” (Y/n’s) confused voice came out a bit muffled. Yachi squeaked out a quick “G-give me a second-!”, and (Y/n) couldn’t help but tell how far her voice sounded, even if it was just sightly father. Eh, he was probably just imagining things.

Kuroo was sweating buckets. He never thought his plan would work so smoothly. Hell, he didn’t think he’d actually be going through with it in the first place.

“God, hurry it up Kuuuua...” Yaku trailed off into a cough. “-Yachi-san. Hurry up ‘Yachi-san’, and stop staring at (L/n)-kun like that.”

Kuroo glared at Yaku, almost responding with a “shut the fuck up!”, before letting his mouth clamp shut frustratedly. He looked at Yachi for assistance. Yachi got the memo, and responded with a “I-I’m trying-! I’m just so nervous...!”

“Awwe...don’t be nervous, Yachi-san! Just think of it like we’re eating Pocky and our lips just so happen to touch.” (Y/n) smiled, and licked his lips the best he could. The chocolate part of his end was starting to melt, and the stick was getting soft in his mouth.

“The Pocky is melting...”

“I-I-I’m on it! Sorry, I’m doing it now..!” Yachi frantically motioned at (Y/n) to Kuroo. Kuroo nervously gestered back, as if to say “I’m fuckin’ trying..!”

Kuroo gulped, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, and closed his lips around the Pocky stick. This was really happening. He was going to kiss his long time crush. He was going to kiss (Y/n). Oh god, he’s awfully close. He’s closer than he’s ever been. Why won’t his heart just shut up and calm down?

Before he knew it, (Y/n) was nibbling at his end of the biscuit. The distance was becoming shorter. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. He thought he was fully prepared to come into this all suave and nonchalant, but now that it was happening all of his preparedness flew out the window. He starting eating at his end of the stick aswell.

Both (Y/n) and Kuroo stopped eating once there was less than a inch of the stick separating them. (Y/n) briefly felt ‘Yachi’s’ nose brush against his, and Kuroo could feel the barely noticeable breaths of air from his nose.

The room was silent. Either that, or the vociferous thumping of his heart rate picking up speed drowned out Yaku and Shimizu’s voices.

And now that he was closer, he could see just how nervous (Y/n) was. His eyelids were fluttering, his brows were slightly pulled down, his nose was scrunched up just a tad, and his fingers were nervously tracing the packaging of the Pocky box. Even if it was cute, Kuroo couldn’t help but feel a bit bad.

But a plan was a plan. And he’d been waiting for years.

Kuroo broke down the last remaining barrier from his lips to (Y/n’s), letting the small Pocky nub lay on his tongue as he connected their lips together. He heard a small “yaay.” From who he assumed was Shimizu, and an obnoxious “Get it, ‘Yachi-san’!”, followed by a wolf whistle from Yaku.

He felt (Y/n) push closer, tentatively and unintentionally grabbing hold of Kuroo’s hand in the process. Kuroo intertwined his fingers with (Y/n’s), and that touch alone probably gave him away, but he couldn’t care less. (Y/n) could coil away in disgust right now, and he wouldn’t care. He got his kiss. A kiss that tasted like Pocky and (Y/n). A kiss he’s been waiting for for forever. His, and (Y/n’s), first.

Kuroo was the first to pull away. Half lidded and breathless, he sat back on his ass with a sigh. (Y/n) started to open his eyes, when Yachi’s scrambled to cover them.

“D-don’t look..! Please! I-I’m-uh, I’m still...embarrassed..!” Yachi looked back at Kuroo, who seemed to have come back to his senses, and shuffled back into the spot he was in originally. Yachi crawled over back in front of (Y/n), and removed her hands gently. She placed them in her lap, looking down with a blush no one in that room could tell was genuine or real good acting.

(Y/n) opened his eyes softly. His smile returned to his swollen lips, and he leaned his head on his palm. “That wasn’t so scary, right?”

(Y/n) clasped his hands together. “Congrats, you can officially say you stole (L/n) (Y/n’s) first kiss! Now you got something to brag about, huh, Yachi-san?” (Y/n) chuckled, still feeling the warmth of ‘Yachi’s’ lips pressed against his.

Yaku scoffed quietly. “Yeah, aha. ‘Yachi’ stole your first kiss.” He earned a flick to the forehead by Kiyoko.

Yachi stood up abruptly. “I-I’m gonna go! Uh-..brag...to my...f-friends.”

“Don’t go spreading rumors about me though.” (Y/n) looked up at Yachi, who squeaked out a “Yessir!” In reply. Kiyoko stood up aswell.

“I’m going to go with Hitoka-chan. See you three.” Kiyoko walked over to Yachi, seemingly ushering her out the door discreetly and shooting Yaku a look. Yaku stood up aswell.

“Well I don’t wanna be in here with you two. Pretty Boy and Docosahexaenoic Face. I’m gonna go see what Kai or Shibayama-kun is doing.”

Yaku shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the room, leaving Kuroo and (Y/n) sitting there alone.

Kuroo laid down on the floor next to (Y/n), resting his arms on the back of his neck like a cushion. (Y/n) sat there placidly, smiling at his reward that was the Pocky box.

(Y/n) fished a stick out, and munched on it happily. Kuroo looked at (Y/n), and closed his eyes with a smirk.

“So, how’d it feel having your first kiss with a cute girl?“

(Y/n) hummed, and took another bite of his snack.

“You’re not a bad kisser, Tetsu.”

Kuroo choked on his words. (Y/n) crunched on another Pocky stick. Kuroo sputtered and shot back up, staring at (Y/n) with wide, embarrassed eyes.

“Wh-h-how-wait-“

“To be honest you would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for, hm, 3 things.”

(Y/n) held up a single Pocky stick. “Number one. When our hands touched. It was pretty obvious your hand was too big to be Yachi-san’s, so that was a bit suspicious.”

Kuroo opened his mouth to say something. (Y/n) pulled out another Pocky stick.

“Two. When we broke the kiss, I heard you grunt. You would have literally no reason to do that unless you, per se, break a kiss and need to breathe in. And your voice, again, is too deep to be Yachi-san’s.”

Kuroo couldn’t do anything but helplessly stare at him, as he pulled out a third Pocky stick.

“Three.” (Y/n) set all three biscuits into Kuroo’s lap, to which he absentmindedly picked up. “You don’t really think I couldn’t see you? My eyes were open right up until we started eating the Pocky, Tetsurou. I was squinting...and you all were acting suspicious, so how could I not? Not to mention how weird it was for you to be sitting so conveniently close to me and Yachi-san.”

“If anything, if you weren’t planning something and you actually just wanted to watch, you would’ve sat near Yaku-kun once you saw him.”

Kuroo averted his eyes and broke a Pocky stick with his teeth, chewing on it to fill his mouth and prevent him from saying something stupid.

“And, even if none of those things happened,” (Y/n) pulled out another stick, this time twirling it around in his fingers. “I heard you discussing your ‘plan’ earlier in the kitchen. You really need to work on your volume, like Yaku-kun said.”

(Y/n) stood up, stretching his arms with a small groan. All Kuroo could do was stare up at him dumbly. He almost had a perfect scheme. Almost.

(Y/n) turned his head around, his back still facing Kuroo. “Next time you wanna kiss, buy me dinner and we can suck spaghetti noodles until it meets in the middle. Y’know, like in that one movie.”

(Y/n) waved around his Pocky box in farewell. “I’m gonna go see what Kenma and Hinata-kun are doing. Later, Tetsu.”

(Y/n) timpered off, shutting the door behind him. Kuroo stared at the door blankly.

“(Y/n), you sneaky bastard.”

——————

Happy new year!!

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Interviews - Henry Cavill x wife/actress reader

Summary: You and Henry have been married for a couple years now, and when you’re both part of the Witcher cast, fun interviews are to be had.

Warning: nothing but a good time, btw I’ve never written anything like this so I hope it’s good enough that I might feel motivated to write more

-Readers Witcher character is loosely based off my Geralt fic from here (just a little self promotion), but in this case you play a full vampire in this Witcher universe

The days have been long and grueling, filming hours upon hours of stunts and regular acting had taken its toll. Not to mention the countless times in hair and make up paired with costume changes and traveling to film on certain locations.

To say being apart of Netflix’s The Witcher was full of tiring days and some accidental bruises would be a huge understatement. But none of that mattered, nor did you bother to complain when through the thick and thin of it all did you have Henry with you along the way. And your favorite big slobbery bear, Kal whenever he was allowed on set.

Fortunately for you in the beginning of all the craziness, the casting and writers had wanted you specifically for the part of Y/C/N in the new series before Henry even auditioned for the role of Geralt, that was soon given to him after you accepted your fresh role of vampiric heroine.

It was ironically strange in a good way, you had watched your dork of a husband play the Witcher: Wild Hunt a few times before, eventually learning of what Geralt of Rivia was, who Y/C/N was in the story, who Yennefer and Ciri were, Tris and even Jaskier.

Who would have thought that you’d finally get to snag a role side by side with Henry in quite literally one of the most fantastic shows you’ve ever heard of. You didn’t even need to see the show yet to know how well it was most likely to be reviewed. Being a key character in the grand storyline was enough to convince you of how amazing it would most certainly turn out in the finished product.

And after all was said and done, you couldn’t believe how well loved and popular the show truly became in the following months after shooting and its eventual release onto Netflix. The after parties and cast celebrations truly made you blessedly grateful for pulling through to the vary end.

Then again you had your mans Henry by your side every step of the way. He was your rock and you were most definitely his. You know life on set would have been far less entertaining and dreadfully long if not for the lovely company of your dear Witcher, Henry. And so far after the fact, you and a good portion of the cast have been placed in random interviews for the majority of the day.

Reason being, The Witcher has at long last finally premiered and as per usual the people and media live for those cast interviews that always reveal some interesting events. So far this morning you’ve done some interviews with Anya that have gone perfectly fine since the two of you seem to click so well.

Also it helps ease the anxiety of your fellow newer cast mates to the world of continuous interviews with an experienced veteran actor like yourself, who’s gone round the ring more times then you can count. Though you can’t help but wonder how Henry’s doing, considering you’ve been separated since the sessions began at 10am, you’ve had lunch and now it’s about 1 in the afternoon with more hours to go.

Luckily for you, you’ve just been informed of another interview with the man of the hour himself. Saying your goodbyes and well wishes to your fellow cast mates, you stand and follow the guide into the advised place. Aka some really nice hotel room that’s been done up real nice for efficient interviewing, complete with the Witcher insignia on a large background poster and three chairs that happen to look rather comfy.

The camera and sound people nod in acknowledgment as you walk in, you nod back no doubt making their day with your friendliness and adorable smile that quite literally lights up a room. Soon you spot the bubbly yet nervous interviewee who instantly welcomes you into her space like you’re an old friend.

You sit, a bit confused as to where your partner happens to be at the moment, the interviewer, Lauren makes small talk before a door opens and her big bright doe eyes go wide in nervous excitement. A telling smile upon her face as she shifts in her chair before looking back to you again with a happy grin.

Henry says a quick hello to the behind the scenes crew before waving to Lauren, you smirk while watching him get comfortable next to you, “Well, well, well. Get lost on your way up, you know they have guides for a reason.” You tease as he chuckles at your humorous jab, relieved to see you again after a couple hours apart.

“Traffic.” He quips with a shrug.

“Uh huh.” You mutter with a shake of your head before drawing your attention back to Laura, “Can’t take him anywhere I swear, he does this all the time.”

She laughs as Henry pretends to gasp at your teasing, you chuckle along with them before she finally collects herself, “Well, welcome back to London. It’s fantastic to have you both in town once again, and your big beautiful faces all over Leicester Square.”

You both laugh, “Right.” Says Henry, “I guess we do look pretty cool.”

“Hell yeah, I mean where else can I see myself with a giant sword on a building? And anyways look at this beautiful mug,” You say gently squeezing Henry’s cheeks in your hand, “he’s literally killing it out there.” They laugh as you give Hen another playful squeeze before letting go and setting your arm against the chairs cushioned armrest. 

“Alight let’s start.” She says enthusiastically before glancing down at her cards then back up to you and Henry. Then into one of the two the cameras, “Hi I’m Lauren from Entertainment Weekly and today we’re here with the two stars of Netflix’s The Witcher.” She says enthusiastically while giving a nod to you two, indicating that the camera is now focused on you both, “Henry Cavill and Y/N Cavill.”

You both smile in acknowledgment as Henry gives a slight nod, “How you doing?”

“I’m great,” She beams, “So, I’ll get right into it, what do you like most about the story? What really drew you into the script that made you say, yes this is going to be awesome?”

Slapping a hand against Henry’s muscular leg, you hum, “I’ll let Hen take this one he’s a real expert on the linguistics of the whole show.”

“Thanks Y/N/N.” Replies Henry, bemused that you’re making him take the first question.

You nod to him knowingly with a smirk, “Of course.” Knowing how much he loves to talk about the show and also because you’d rather have him use his energy to talk about it then do that yourself. Priorities, right, though in your defense it’s been a long day.

“Well I absolutely love the games and the books themselves are phenomenal works of literature.” He explains, his face glowing with that usual glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “The story and the world of the Witcher is just so rich and full of potential that when I signed on for the show, I immediately knew it would be amazing, no doubt.”

You lean into the arm of you chair, “And of course I was there so that’s always a bonus.”

“That too.” He smiles adorably, “That too of course.”

Lauren smiles, “Great. So, what was it like working together, how was it having your characters interact with one another?”

You smile, setting a hand against Henry’s forearm, “This guy right here.” You deadpan before waving him off dramatically, “So annoying, my god he whined all the time and he was such a drama queen dear lord so ugh....” You start cackling before you can even finish the sentence causing Henry to loose it as well and with that the interviewer.

Shaking your head you rest your hand against his shoulder, “I joke, he was a gem to work with as usual...I mean I feel incredibly blessed to be able to act alongside my husband for months and months every single day. It’s a rarity in this line of work and I’m grateful to have shared this experience...and I guess more so this whole adventure with him as well.”

The interviewer aww’s as Henry tilts his head to lean into your hand that’s still resting atop his shoulder before pulling away just as quickly, the intimate sentiment not going unnoticed by you or Lauren who looks to be enjoying your loving yet calm energy with one another. “That’s so sweet, what about you Henry?”

“Oh yes absolutely,” Agrees Henry to your recent statement, “not only did I have her by my side through it all but the dynamic of our characters interacting together was so fun to shoot. I think the audience will really be able to see their relationship grow on screen into something strong and beautiful like in the books.”

Slow clapping you give him a curt nod of approval, “Well said.”

Lauren smirks, “Seems like it. Well, I was able to catch the premier yesterday and I gotta say...it was fantastic! I couldn’t believe how diffident the two of you looked from how you are now.” She gushes enthusiastically.

The corners of Henry’s lips curl into a proud smile for the fellow crew of the Witcher’s, “Oh that’s great then, honestly we gotta give all the props to the costume and makeup team, they’re so talented and know how to make us look like real badasses.” He adds.

You nod in agreement before grinning at a positive memory of your first interaction with Henry as Geralt, “Oh for sure, I remember during the early stages of production when our characters met each other for the first time, before this we came to set together but went separate ways to shoot our own stuff in the meantime so I never got a real look at him.” You recall with a bright smile as Henry watches your every move, beaming just the same.

“It was so funny, I was in the tent with Freya Allen, the wonderful girl who plays Ciri, and then suddenly her eyes got all big and nervous and I was like, that’s not me right? Something weird didn’t just happen with my costume? And then I turned around to find this man, wig on, face a mess, and his eyes looked so fearsome and different...it was a bit startling.” You say with a chuckle, “I clearly wasn’t expecting to see Geralt right then and there. He just looked so unlike Henry.”

“Yeah, I was almost hurt.” Laughs Henry, “She had to like squint and make sure it was me.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug, “He had some real creepy looking colored contacts, yunno?”

Henry fake scoffs, “You’re one to talk, I mean when I first say her, Y/N’s eyes were red and she had fake blood spattered all over her face and shirt. Oh, and not to mention those fangs they put on your teeth...we probably traumatized poor Freya that day.”

“Oh shit you’re right!” You exclaim with a snort of concealed laughter, “God I completely forgot about how I looked...now since I think about it, I did that a lot too. I would just walk up to people and be completely oblivious as to what kind of nightmare I looked like, honestly I might have scared one of our producers a couple of times.” You add with a half nervous laugh, it’s true, you did scare some of the crew unintentionally. Most of the time.

Lauren lightly chuckles, “That sounds like you were quite the sight to see then.” She says before glancing back down at her notes, “Alright I have’ta ask, is there anything that you two took home with you from set?”

“Besides Henry every night,” He holds back a laugh while covering his mouth as you nonchalantly continue, “Uh, yes actually I got to take home Y/C/N’s wolf ring that I loved so much and just thought was the coolist thing ever and....uh, I might have stolen some socks too.”

“So that’s why after filming the amount of socks of yours I had to fold increased?” Wonders Henry with a surprised snort of realization.

Turning your head to give him a “no shit” kinda look, you look back at Lauren, pointing your thumb at Henry, “Master sleuth right here, but hey, he folds my laundry.”

“Aw that’s great.” Adds Lauren with a smile before turning her attention to Henry, “What about you Henry? Take anything from set?”

“More then Y/N did actually...”

“He just about took the whole makeup trailer most nights, I swear.”

Henry chuckles, “That. Is true.” He agrees with a nod, “Interesting enough, at home I’ve got Geralt’s armor hung up in our living room and a multitude of other nicknacks that I’ve collected during filming.” He adds, glancing over to you, “So uh, yeah, we were fairly lucky to be able to snag what we could.”

Lauren smiles, absentmindedly shuffling her cards, “That’s awesome to have such special memorabilia, you guys really are fortunate.” She adds before reading off from another card, “Alright you two, care to play a game called guess the image? Witcher style.”

Your face perks up at this, you’re a sucker for interview games and Henry knows it, “Are you reading my mind or something, I have been waiting all day for someone to ask about playing a game.” You gush rather enthusiastically. 

He smiles at your adorableness and how excited you’ve just become, Lauren grins, happy that her suggestion has been so well received, “Okay so how it works is, I’ll show you an image on my iPad and then you have to guess who or what I’m showing you.”

“Oh, cool I’ve heard of this,” You reply, turning to Henry with a smirk, “Loser has to clean Kal’s yard poop for a week.”

Rolling his gorgeous blue eyes he chuckles, “You’re on.”

“Alright, the stakes are high, you two ready?” Beams Lauren, holding her iPad to her chest as she awaits an answer.

“Yes, I’m ready to kick his ass.” You quip, leaning an arm against your chair while Henry does about the same, though he does his best to contain his laughter.

“Okay, first image.” She holds up the device to show some sort of weird golden thing, it’s shiny and hard, worst part is that you’re not entirely sure what the hell it could be.

Sensing your confusion Henry nudges your shoulder, though you ignore it before he smartly answers, “Oh, is that...Renfri’s brooch?” Little shit knows exactly what that is, of course he does.

Lauren claps, “Correct.” Zooming out of the image to show the full picture of the golden brooch, “Right on, that’s one point for Mr. Cavill.”

You scoff playfully, “Beginners luck.” While Henry side eyes you with a humorous grin upon his plush lips, he nudges your arm, “I’m going to really enjoy not cleaning up Kal’s grass turds for awhile.” He mutters lightheartedly, though you know deep down he’s being serious, no way is he going to win this, you think. You won’t have it, hopefully the next few pictures aren’t as difficult, Kal duty is not fun by any means.

“Shut up.” You grumble with a dismissive wave of your hand, though just teasing of course.

“Okay next image.” This time the blurred photo looks much more familiar, soon it clicks as to what the obscured blurriness actually is, yes!

“Got it! Anya’s er I guess Yennefer’s dress from the fight at Sodden.” Lauren giggles, zooming the image out to reveal Yennefer in her tasseled blue and purple dress from the battle at Sodden Hill. “I’m amazing I know.” You boast at Henry with a casual little bow in your seat.

“It’s the second question.” He deadpans, eyes crinkling in amusement as you shake your head at him.

“Pffff get outta here.” You mutter back, gently pushing his arm off of your chairs armrest and setting yours in its place while he gives you a fake shocked expression.

In turn you can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips, so instead of saying some sassy remark that would no doubt get a reaction out of him, you turn your attention back over to Lauren who’s looking over her notes again.

“Fantastic,” She says, glancing back up at you and Henry, “you’re both tied with one point each. Alright, anyone know what this is?” She asks showing something red and fuzzy, a bit of dirty skin showing from one corner but with The Witcher this bloody image could literally be anything.

The both of you squint, puzzled as to what this could be, “Y/N you got any ideas.” Wonders Henry, brows furrowed as his face contorts into deep concentrated thought.

Raising a brow, you hum, “If I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Fair point.” He chuckles.

Lauren smiles, “Any guesses?”

 After a few concentrated moments, Henry shrugs in defeat,  “I’m stumped.” He admits as you study the image harder, mind racing to put the pieces together as to what the hell you’re looking at.

“No, I think I might know this....erm is it...me?” You wonder, voice raising in question, hoping to be correct about this or face the teasing of Henry.

Lauren quickly zooms out of the obscured image, “It is!” She says excitedly, revealing the picture of you from your characters debut in episode 2 where you save a girl from a werewolf, your mouth is covered in blood and so is most of your costumes chest area and left arm from the struggle. Not to mention the make-up teams fun 20 minutes of throwing fake sticky blood all over you to get the right look for the taxing scene.

You grimace a bit, “Oh god that was quite the day on set,” You recall with a half smile, “I was doing stunts all day covered in that red syrupy dye, I think it took a week to get out of my skin.”

Henry suddenly snorts with laughter, “Right! That reminds me, I thought Kal had gotten cut or something, it was just Y/N who had hugged him not realizing she still had some fake blood on her arm.”

“Jeez that’s right, I felt so bad, but I couldn’t stop laughing once we realized it was just me.”

Lauren grins, excited to hear some hidden information about little things that happens behind the scenes, “Oh wow that must have been a sight, alright Henry, Y/N’s taken the lead with a two to one score.” She says as you playfully nudge his strong shoulder. “Second to last image, what is this?”

Without missing a single beat Henry replies, “Jaskier.”

Squinting at the image you lean closer to the iPad, “How the hell do you see Jaskier?”

Smiling the interviewer zooms out to reveal the bards full outfit from the banquet scene, though he’s in the background of a fight between Geralt and some Cintran knights. “Right on!” She exclaims as you lean back into your seat dumbfounded, shoulder flush against Henry’s as he clutches your arm and squeezes it affectionately.

Ignoring his silent show of victory you shrug, “And they say he’s just another pretty face,” Earning a laugh from Lauren and some of the crew as you smirk at the camera, face them shifting to apologetic, “also I’m so sorry Joey you beautiful bastard apparently I’m blind. Uh, we don’t have to dwell on it, Lauren whatcha got?”

“You guys are both tied with two points each, last chance to win.” She replies before glancing down at her iPad, “Alright, what is this?” She asks, her iPad showing that of fuzzy bright colors, with a small corner smear of dull white that clearly wouldn’t make much sense to the untrained eye.

Smirking you glance at a puzzled Henry before sitting up in your seat, feeling rather good about yourself, “Would that happen to be, Hen in Stregobor’s illusion?” You answer with, though sounding a bit as a question considering you aren’t entirely confident as to what image this is.

Lauren’s brows raise in surprise, “Henry, looks like we have a winner. Y/N you are correct.” She beams, enlarging the image to reveal Geralt’s side profile as he talks to the old wizard while the background stays colorful and shrouded in various arrays of sunlight..

Shaking your fist victoriously in the air you give a couple enthusiastic whoop whoops while Henry simply takes it like a champ, “Have fun cleaning up Karl’s monster turds, cause this lucky lady doesn’t have to.” You boast as Henry and the crew laugh.

“Well that was something,” Beams Lauren, “I’m so glad to have chatted for a bit about your guys’ amazing new series, and maybe ended a relationship in the process.” She says jokingly as both you and Henry chuckle.

Patting his thigh affectionately, you smirk, “He’s a tough old bear, but yeah, it was awesome having you talk to us.”

“Yes, take care now.” Adds Henry while the interviewer Lauren stands, saying her goodbyes as she goes to exit the room.

The camera crew take a small break to adjust things and whatnot as you and Henry wait patiently for the next interviewer. He turns, an adorable smile pulling at his lips while you pretend to ignore his fiery gaze. “Well that went pretty well, minus the fact that I’m on Kal poop duty for a week...but uh...” He leans in close to you now, “I missed you all morning.”

Breaking out into a smile you raise a brow, “Boring without me huh?”

“Always.”

You casually shrug, “I figured as much. Don’t worry, we have a hotel all to ourselves tonight.” Your brows wiggle suggestively causing your blue eyed lover to shake his head with amusement.

“Say it louder next time.” He jokes.

Side eyeing the oblivious crew you begin to speak a couple octaves louder, “Henry I can’t wait to fu..” Suddenly his hand presses against your mouth before you’re able to call any attention to yourself. He gives you a warning look before slowly pulling his hand from your mouth.

You grin mischievously, “I wasn’t gonna say that...”

“Sure Y/N,” He mutters in your ear as a new interviewer walks into the room and finds their chair, “and I’m wasn’t going to make you scream tonight.”

Your brows raise in surprise and admittedly slight arousal at his choice of wording in this room of all places. Eyeing him up, face still showing surprise, you finally break out into a satisfied smirk. “You know what? I think you should consider changing your offer.”

He thinks deeply for a moment, though you know he’s only pretending to get you riled up, “Hrmm...maybe, possibly, should I? Should we? You are my co-star after all, that wouldn’t be very professional now would it Y/N?” He states with a shit eating grin, all done while the crew and interviewer get ready, minding their business and completely unaware to yourself and Henry’s teasing.

Scoffing playfully you lightly swat his arm, “We are way past being professional.”

He chuckles, looking from you to the rest of the room, “Oh, they have no idea.”

[scarlettscribbles]

she used to be mine

- Anthony Bridgerton & TwinSister!Reader

Tags: 4k words - 3rd person POV, sibling fluff, family fluff, Anthony/Siena (not the main focus), Anthony is a soft boi when it comes to you (the softest, in fact), mourning

Warning/s: a bit spicy at the beginning, mild injury, mention of blood, major character death

Summary: A question from Siena about love sends Anthony into the past; making him recall his memories of a sister long loved, but never forgotten. A story told in moments. 

a/n: don’t mind me, just manifesting my angst and bridgerton needs >> titles from waitress the musical

i. it’s not simple to say

“What do you think about love?” 

“Love? What’s this all of a sudden?” Anthony laughed. He captured between his hands Siena’s own and kissed it playfully, making her giggle. “What do I think about it, well. I love kissing you, touching you-” he planted a soft kiss on her collarbone as his hands trailed down her abdomen. “I love--”

“Okay, no stop. That is not what I meant at all!” Siena stilled his wandering hands, laughing. She snuggled closer until they were chest to chest. “Love with your friends, family,...women.” she waggled her brows at the last word.

“Women, hah.” Anthony cast his eyes upward. “The only women I’ve ever loved are my mother and five sisters.”

“You mean four.”

“What?”

“You have four sisters: Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth if memory serves correctly. Unless your mother’s pregnant, which I believe is unlikely. My lord, did you perhaps miscount?” Siena teased. 

“No, no.” he waved his hand, chuckling. “She…”

ii. i still remember that girl

She was born 9 minutes before him; the eldest Bridgerton. This was a fact she liked lording over him teasingly. She won many arguments by simply stating “I am the eldest Bridgerton and therefore…” 

Sometimes he could still hear her say it in his head. 

“Remind me why I’m accompanying you again?”

“Because I am your older sister and--”

“I should always agree to what you’re saying, blah blah. Oh this is so crowded! Why could you not just send a maid to fetch the book?”

“Well what’s the fun in that? Come on Tony, you’re being too slow! It will be nighttime when we arrive there and the book I wanted will be gone!” she moaned miserably, turning around and tugging on his hand to encourage him to make haste.

“You and your dramatics. Why is this book so important anyway?”

“It simply is. I need it for when I become the Viscountess.” she smiled at him, chin jutting out proudly. “I can’t wait to get Papa’s watch. I will get it right, as Viscountess? He will pass it onto me along with the title.”

“Uh no he won’t. I am the heir in case you have forgotten, sister.”

“But I am the oldest. We might be both 10 but I am 9 minutes older than you.” she argued, waving her pointer finger at him. 

“Yes, yes you’ve said that like a million times now! But you’re a girl, so you can’t. You shall marry some guy, not that there are any worth marrying. Why just the today I saw the son of that family I cannot remember for the life of me, doing something horrendous! I think it would be better for you to stay away from any and all men.” Anthony paused, realizing that he was - or is soon going to be - one of those men. “Except for me and Papa, of course.”

She merely looked at him in amusement. “Pish posh.” his twin huffed, eyes glinting in the sunlight. “I’m not going to exchange my ambitions for some mere man. You shall see Tony, I will have that watch. Now come on!” she dropped his hand and gathered her skirts, ducking and maneuvering between the throng of people. Anthony felt a tinge of panic, seeing his sister slowly becoming engulfed by the crowd. 

“Sister wait!” he started to chase after her. He saw the blue tail-end of her skirt when someone bumped into him. He whirled around to complain to whoever it was; however, he seemed to have miscalculated the strength of his spin and tripped, landing on his bottom. “Ow, hey watch it!” he shouted at the people who accidentally kicked him, not noticing his figure on the ground.

Anthony hissed as he dusted his pants. He examined the palm of his hand and noticed scratches from when he landed too roughly on the floor. There were spots of red slowly making its way down his hand, along with drops of water.

Oh. He was crying. 

“Where are you?” his voice warbled. “Sister…”

Has she left him, truly? Surely not. His twin is many things but never cruel. She was tenacious, smart, and…

“Tony! I let you out of my sight for a second and - goodness!” She ran over and knelt in front of him, glaring at the people who would come too close. They parted for her, giving them a wide berth. “Here, take my handkerchief. We should get home and wash your hands. We don’t want it to be infected. And your clothes are a mess, Mama is going to have a fit. Come now,”

“But your book?” he sniffed.

“Eh, I can get it some other time.” she smiled and patted his cheeks. “Don’t cry now, sister’s got you.”

...kind. She was kind.  

iii. reckless just enough

Anthony was sulking. Not that he’d let anyone know. Papa had gotten angry with him. It wasn’t even a big thing. He simply...borrowed his watch to look at it. Anthony thought maybe he could figure out what made his twin so interested in it. It was a plain thing, nothing special maybe besides the monogram. He didn’t mean to drop it from the stairs. He really didn’t. He heard his name being called for lunch and he jolted.

He got a dressing down from Papa with his siblings present; Benedict and Colin in particular snickering at his plight. It was embarrassing. As soon as Papa dismissed him, he ran for his room, ignoring the calls of his twin. 

Right now he was hidden beneath the curtains and behind his bookshelf. Did Papa really have to scold him at the lunch table? Anthony buried his face between his hands. 

“You didn’t eat.”

Anthony banged his head on the wall when he looked up too fast.

“Are you okay?” his twin asked him, smiling amusedly. She carried with her a plate with bread, cheese, ham and a slice of blueberry pie. 

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Laughing and smiling are worlds apart, Tony.” she shook her head and sat beside him, nudging him insistently until they were shoulder to shoulder. She slid the plate from her lap to his. “Eat.”

Anthony looked at her blankly. “Are you so distraught that you cannot eat? Do you want me to hand feed you like a child?” She made a motion as if she was going to grab the plate but Anthony shooed her hands away.

“I’m perfectly capable, thank you.” he stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth. “How’d you find me anyway?”

“Please swallow before you talk.” she said. “And, this is your room Tony. I’m simply using common sense.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Anthony picked up the ham and cheese and continued eating. For a moment, they just sat there in comfortable silence.

“It’s unfair.” Anthony said, breaking the silence. 

“What is?”

“Papa.”

“How come?”

“He was way too angry. I didn’t mean to drop his watch! And it wasn’t even broken. If it was, he could’ve repaired it easily.” he pouted.

“You could’ve also just asked him to look at it. You know, in his room. Where you can’t drop it from a height and possibly damage it.” she replied with a bit of sarcasm.

“Fine, yes, I could have.” he conceded. “I just don’t know why he was so angry.”

“It’s important to him.”

“It’s just a watch.” Anthony rebutted, pouting. His twin gave him a look that he knew meant “you look adorable but also stupid.”

“Nah.”

“No?”

“Nope.” she answered. “For one, it’s an heirloom. Heirloom is defined as -”

“I know what it means.” Anthony waved his hand. “Do go on.”

She gave him a faintly annoyed look which merely made him smirk. “I shall, and not because you told me to.” she cleared her throat. “The watch being an heirloom is just its value as a thing. There’s also the sentimental value. The memories and emotions attached to the watch. For Papa, he treasures it because it - probably - reminds him of grandfather and grandmother. Grandfather especially. Because he was the one to give the Papa the rights and responsibility for our family.”

“Is that why?”

“Why what?”

“I wanted to know what makes it so special for you.” Anthony shrugged. “You always talk about it, about getting the watch when we become older. I didn’t see the big deal. Is that why it’s so important to you too?”

“Yes, quite.” she answered. “I want to take care of our family, Tony. I know I can, I just do. I don’t want me to just be a wife. I’m meant for greater things. Also,” she grinned at him. “I want it so I could count down the seconds until I see you again.” 

Anthony fake gagged, pretending to chuck the bread and cheese onto his twins’ lap. His twin scrambled away far from him and yelped. “You are disgusting! Mama! Anthony ruined the new dress that we just got!”

“I did not!”

“You were about to!”

iv. i was never attention’s sweet center

It was just a stupid, off-hand comment from Benedict. Anthony knew his brother meant no harm but still, the comment hurt.

“Maybe she truly should have your title, brother.”

Anthony was no stranger to her loud and obvious wanting to inherit the head of the house. In fact, he supported his twin. If Papa permitted it, he would gladly concede to you. However, it was unspoken between the twins the knowledge that Papa would never agree to such a thing; no matter how much he loved his eldest daughter. 

Anthony was no stranger to her excellence either. While the both of them worked hard to set an example for their younger siblings. He always thought she was great at everything a girl should be and more. Though the ‘more’ part would never reach the ears of their mother or anybody else. Nobody should know that Anthony taught her how to sucker punch anybody that vexed her except maybe Benedict and Colin...also Eloise. That girl was far too curious and also far too attached to Benedict. Anthony thinks in the privacy of his mind that if she were a boy, there would be no quarrel that she’d get the title.

Other people also thought the same. Though they expressed it in a much less pleasant way, in words Anthony does not care for. They speak condescendingly. They speak of her gender with pity in their voices, their admiration twisted. They mention that her excellence should be toned down, that she should focus instead on things better suited to her. They speak of how inadequate Anthony is, how poor that a boy be overshadowed by a girl. They theorize how Anthony must hate her for taking all the spotlight. He hears all this, and she does too, seeing as they’re almost always attached at the hip. If it bothers her, she does not speak of it. 

They speak of lies. Anthony thinks that her abilities suit her as they are and that no matter how bright she shines, it would never be something to be upset over. He basked in her light. They are wrong for thinking that she’s taking a piece of his life away when in truth, she completes it. Best friends, twins, soulmates; he loves her and she loves him. Still, their words leave a mark.

So when Benedict said that albeit in a teasing manner, Anthony just ran away. As he got older, he found it the preferable way to escape his problems. If he could not run to her then he must run away. 

Anthony hugged himself as a strong breeze blew and made the unoccupied swing beside him rock.

“Tony.” And there she was. His twin was holding a book. She sat at the swing beside him. 

There was silence. The only thing he could hear were the wind, the scuffling of his feet, and the soft sound of her flipping the pages.

“Sister,” she did not look up from the book but she hummed, signifying that he was heard. “Why did you come out here? It’s better to read inside, surely.”

“You’re upset. Of course I would come.” she said matter-of-factly.

“Did Ben tattle?”

“Ben? Tattle? His mouth is tighter than a woman’s corset when it comes to secrets.” she laughed lightly. “Surely you know better than that.”

“Yeah, I do.” he smiled. Since they were little, even if they were distances apart, both of them would always know - or at least had an inkling of - what the other was feeling. During their early years they chalked it up to magic but now they both just conceded it as a twin thing. “Actually, I don’t. Know better, I mean. Everybody seems to think so. Am I inadequate, sister? Dumb perhaps? I feel like I cannot do anything right sometimes! Compared to you I - “

His twin laid a hand on his shoulder. “Tony.” her brows were drawn and her lips pursed. “First of all, there is no comparison brother. I am me and you are your wonderful self. We are both excellent, please do not doubt yourself of that no matter what anyone says. And I know they say a lot. I’m just so used to tuning them out that I never considered that you might not do the same. I’m sorry.”

She stood up and drew him into a hug. Anthony’s arms stayed limp at his side. “People will flap their mouths because that’s what they do; say their opinions even though it’s unwelcome. If we tried to stop every single one of them, why I believe it’ll take all our lifetime and more!” she chuckled. “We cannot change them so we must change how much we’ll let their words affect us. Their words don’t matter at all! If I could, then I would shove those words back up their mouth and let them swallow it. Which I don’t know how to do. D’you suppose punching them would work just as well?” Anthony laughed wetly at her quip. It would work but it would also involve somebody calling Mama and Papa for her ‘inappropriate behavior’.

“What I know is this.” she grasped his shoulders and held them so she could stare at him in the eyes. Anthony met her determined gaze head-on. “You’re good enough Tony. Hell, you’re excellent.”

Anthony sobbed and quickly drew her into a fierce hug, his tears surely wetting her dress but he knew she didn't mind. “That is as sure as the sun that rises in the east. As sure as our family’s love, and ours for each other.”

v. bring back the fire in her eyes

It started with a cold. She had stayed up too long outside and now she’s bed-ridden. Anthony crossed his arms at the corner of the room as his younger siblings ran around. In his opinion there was too much ruckus for her to properly rest. However, Mama brought it up earlier and his twin just waved her concern away, stating that some liveliness will do her good. And who was Anthony to go against the wishes of his dear sister? It doesn’t mean that he has to like it though.

“No you’re the troll!” Eloise insisted.

“I was the troll last round!” Colin argued back.

“Now, now,” Benedict placated them both, then he glanced at Anthony in a way that promised mischief. “Why don’t we let Anthony be the troll then? He certainly looks the part with how grouchy he is.”

Daphne giggled. “And how he’s guarding his corner.”

“And how horrendous his face looks!” added Eloise. 

Now he’s had enough. “You all look far too happy for someone who’s going to be troll food soon.”

“Troll wuh - AAH!” Eloise screamed as Anthony lunged at her. She took off with a sprint and soon the other Bridgertons followed as well, laughing boisterously. “Noo, Ben save me!”

“This is survival of the fittest -”

“Survival of the fittest your face!”

“Ehem.” Suddenly all motion stopped. Colin face-planted on the floor, caught by his momentum. All eyes went to the door where Violet Bridgerton stood along with a maid. She had a smile on her face coupled with a vaguely exasperated expression. “I’m glad you’re having fun but please take you playing outside. I need to tend to your sick sister.”

Various moans and complaints filled the room but only with a raise of their Mama’s brow, they filed outside the room, murmuring farewells and well wishes to the sole occupant of the bed. All except one. Anthony remained rooted at the side of his sister’s bed.

“Anthony, please.” Violet gently said. A complaint was on the tip of his tongue when a hand laid on his bicep. He looked at his sister, looking frail among the covers but she merely smiled and shook her head.

“I’ll be fine Tony.” she said. “Go and check that our siblings haven’t set the house ablaze or anything.”

For a moment, both of them just stared at each other. A silent conversation passing between them both. Anthony sighed. “Get well.” he bent over to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m not sure I alone will be enough to stop them from doing that.”

She laughed. “You will be.”

vi. sometimes life just slips

It was only supposed to be a cold. A cold. 

Someone almost barreled through Anthony as he, Benedict, Colin came through the door. “Whoa!” he exclaimed as the maid said a rushed apology. Everyone in the house seemed to be in a mad dash. He exchanged looks with his brothers, who were as clueless as he.

“Anthony!” came the panicked voice of Eloise. He held her shoulders and looked over her for any harm of some sort that caused her to panic.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Anthony was surprised to see her looking up at him with teary eyes. Eloise is looking at him like how she used to when she was much littler, pleading to Anthony. Believing with all her might that her older brother will make everything okay. He looked behind her to Daphne who was pursing her lips.

“Oh God, is someone dead?” Colin quipped, then promptly made a punched-out  noise as Benedict elbowed him.

“Sister, she - “

“She’s dead?!” Colin cried.

“No!” Daphne growled, irritated. “She’s just...in pain. Mama and Papa sent for doctors.”

“Goodness, how serious is this cold? - Anthony, wait!”

Anthony didn’t hear Benedict’s call. How could he over the thumping of his racing heartbeat? He ran upstairs like the devil was on his tail, and even then he felt like he was too slow. He paused at her door, psyching himself to open it. If he went in, what would he see? He raised his trembling hands, the complaints of his siblings nothing but a faint echo.

The doors burst open and out came two elderly men and one woman. The siblings crowded around them. Anthony could only hear snippets as he zeroed in on you. Mama was kneeling beside his twin’s bed, holding her daughter’s hand tight to her chest.

“The young miss will be fine -”

“We expect her fever to break -”

“Dear.” Anthony jumped, startled. The woman accompanying the doctors addressed him. “Are you okay?”

“My - my twin sister, will she be alright?”

“Twin, huh. That’s why you’re so distraught. Well all of you are but you in particular,” she shook her head and smiled. “Your sister is strong. She will be fine. You can go in. I’m sure she’ll be glad for your company.”

She need not say it twice. Anthony ran into the room.

“Sister.”

“Tony.”

He felt like he could breathe again.

vii. rewrite an ending or two

“Are you sure you don’t want to get up here? We shared a bed when we were little. And when we grew, sometimes.” she paused, thinking about her statement. “Often.” his twin amended.

Anthony hummed when she stopped running her hands through his hair. “No.”

“The ground is cold, Tony. You might get sick.”

“How could I? You already took all the sick with you.” Anthony grumbled. “I’m fine, sister.”

“If you say so.”

“How about you?” Anthony asked. 

“Hmm?” she smiled. Facing down and in the darkness, Anthony couldn’t have seen it but he felt it. “I believe I will be.”

viii. she is gone, but she used to be mine

 It was a miserable day in spring when the eldest Bridgerton was buried.

ix. most days i don’t recognize me 

“She…” Anthony clenched his jaw.

“Are you ever going to finish that sentence?” Siena asked, smiling until she noticed how tense he was. She reached out to touch his arm, inquiring, “My lord, are you alright?”

Anthony sniffed and quickly stood up, hastily picking up his clothes. “Yes, fine.” he answered, hopping on one foot to put his shoes on. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Siena asked. Anthony barely spared a glance at her, pausing shortly halfway out the door. He checked his watch, eyes glazing over for a moment.

“I need - I’m needed. At home.” With that, he briskly walked outside and into his carriage. It was today. He must’ve forgotten. How could he have forgotten? But he also ‘forgot’ the other years. The grief consumed him on this particular day. It was always a sore reminder that he was missing his other half. So instead of going to her grave, he went drinking. Instead of spending the day with her in his mind, he spent it with his cock inside somebody. Anthony spent so much time forgetting but now it’s as if her ghost had come to haunt him. Every memory had come rushing back, especially the day she died.

He remembered the night before. The doctors had told them she would be better. She told him she would be better. But he needed to stay close to her. Anthony fell asleep with her hand in his hair. Then he woke up to her eyes open but her breath was gone. He had never screamed so loud in his life.

Anthony remembered their parents barging into the room, Mama taking a step back looking as if she was seconds away from fainting. Then she saw her son on the floor and immediately enveloped him in her arms. He woke up in a bed sometime during the night. He woke up convinced it was all a dream but that promptly shattered when all his siblings (all except one) filed into the room in their sleepwear. Their eyes were swollen and wet. And it stayed that way until her funeral, and even some more after that.

The carriage stopped. Anthony got out and stopped at the gate. He knew Mama held some kind of family gathering during this day. What they did in the gathering, he had no idea. He never stayed long enough to attend. But today was different, somehow. 

He padded softly into the drawing room. A quick glance noted him of all his siblings’ presence. Francesca was playing a familiar tune. Colin was singing in a low tone. Benedict, Eloise, and Daphne were all sitting on one couch, leaning against each other. The youngest ones sat on the floor, trying to follow the lyrics Colin sang. Mama was sewing. The melancholy vibe was replaced with a startled one. Francesca stopped playing and Colin stopped singing. Mama dropped what she was holding and walked towards him, arms open.

Anthony crumbled. “Mama -”

x. for the girl that i knew

“Mama what do you think about love?” It was indeed a bleak day in spring. Everybody had left after the service but Anthony chose to stay, lingering.

“Anthony I -” Violet began.

“Why does it hurt so much?” he whirled around, uncaring as tears and snot fell messily down his tired face. “I feel as if someone carved an unfillable hole inside me. Like every breath I take is not right. Half of me is buried six feet underground, mama. How can I bear it?”

Anthony curled into himself as Mama enveloped him into her arms. “One day at a time, dearest. You have us still.” she whispered. “One day at a time.”

[fin.]

[starcrossedkaiju]

Kingslayer AU: Chapter One

Finally! I’m sorry this took so long, I’m a nervous wreck.

Notes: this was originally a warmup for character interactions/setting. It is very dialogue heavy.

\\ Warnings: alcohol //

A single tumbleweed was all that crossed Scott’s path when he arrived in the Red Desert. It was rather comical, he stood and watched it roll away until he couldn’t see it through the sheets of sand blowing over the ground.

In the distance, the only mountain located in the desert biome loomed over the horizon. Imposingly backlit by the red, swirling, tendrils of the world border. Most residents kept away from the thing, as it was meant to give off an unsettling aura. Although Scott never minded it. The wall of his room was almost right up against it after all.

On top of the mountain was a barely visible “castle”, which looked as if it was built by someone wearing a blindfold. The inhabitants of the castle, and the aptly named “Monopoly Mountain” could be accurately described as menaces.

Clumsy when it came to forward thinking, and leaving hidden traps around so frequently that traveling through any wooded area required either a very long stick, or someone willing to take the business end of a TNT trap for the team.

They also happened to be Scott’s nearest allies. It hadn’t always been pleasant between them, but circumstance led to circumstance, and now Scott was making his semi-weekly visit to Monopoly Mountain to shoot the breeze.

Typically the only person at the base would be Grian. Scar liked to make himself elusive by causing problems elsewhere and returning late into the evening with a story to tell over dinner.

The base of the mountain was void of a bubble-elevator. To reach the top one must climb an absurd amount of stairs. Scott huffed and resigned himself to the task in front of him.

As his perspective grew higher and higher the rest of the map revealed itself. The roof of Joel’s house peeked over a swathe of trees, and the tall barricades of Dogwarts stood out as a stark silhouette against the sky. Scott took a few minutes to regain his purchase, shielding his eyes from the whipping wind.

The season was gradually descending into winter. Made obvious by the deciduous trees’ leaves choking out the last of their green pigment for fiery shades of red and orange. The weather was far less pleasant to endure. Everywhere outside of the Red Desert had to deal with bitterly cold conditions, although there hadn’t been snow yet, the sky churned with a constant overcast. Threatening to storm at the drop of a coin.

Scott rubbed his arms to fight off the oncoming chill and continued his ascent, hoping someone had installed a fireplace since the last time he visited.

Finally he rounded the last of the stairs and gazed up at the tall, thin roof of the Sand Castle. The Red Desert flag strung on the tallest rooftop flapped around in the wind. Pizza, the pet lama, grunted in Scott’s direction when he approached the front door. He hesitantly reached out to pet her (she bit him once and he’d never fully gotten over it) from over the fence of her pen, and she let him rub her fluffy bangs.

Scott knocked on the door three times and gave Pizza one last pat, anticipating someone to open the door. It would be a shame if he’d hiked all the way out only for nobody to be home.

Thankfully, the door swung open with a welcoming screech of it’s hinges.

“Hey dude,” Grian welcomed him from the front steps.

“Hey,” Scott greeted in return, “may I come in?” he asked.

“Of course! It’s freezing out here,” Grian replied and stepped away from the door, which slammed with a squeak behind the two of them.

Scott closed his eyes and waved to the resident enderman, who greeted him with a friendly, distorted “hello”. A furnace was running to warm the living room.

Scott took his coat and hat off. He draped them over the arm of the couch before swatting a layer of sand from the cushion and sitting down, observing the scene in front of him. There was always something going on in there.

This time, a myriad of blueprints were strewn across the floor. Each of them depicting heavily annotated structures and what looked like plans for redstone. Grian had planted himself on the floor with a pencil, and was furiously erasing a line of text.

“What’s that?” Scott pointed over his shoulder.

“These,” Grian held one of the outlines up to the other’s face, “are the blueprints for our secret bunker,” he explained.

“You hear that? Secret Bunker, so don’t go telling anyone about it m’kay?” He tapped the paper with the end of his pencil.

“Okay, fair enough. Is that redstone?” Scott slid another sheet of paper towards them with his shoe.

“Yup. I’m gonna equip it with a lava trap,” Grian said proudly.

“And this one will work?” Scott teased.

“Hilarious,” Grian pushed the other’s shoulder, “yes it will work, it’s going to be my best yet,” he assured.

“Oh good! That’s not a very high standard to meet then,” Scott congratulated.

“Blah, blah, blah,” Grian mocked back, “you better be careful what you say with twenty five reputation points,” he said.

Scott threw his hands up in surrender, still laughing at how the other man’s ears turned red.

The house fell into a comfortable silence after that. The sound of scribbling and wind served as a calming ambience. Scott intermittently shared a few words with the enderman, who seemed to understand more of what Scott said to him than the other way around.

“Hey, Grian?” Scott turned over on the couch to face his friend.

“Yeah?” The other said without looking away from his work.

“Do you think you would have still been friends with Scar if he hadn’t died from that creeper?” Scott asked.

There was a pregnant pause, then Grian said, “I don’t know. I never thought about it,” he doodled absently on the margin of his paper.

“Hm,” Scott replied halfheartedly. He mainly asked because whenever he visited Grian was alone. If they were even home at all. Other than that him and Scar were always attached at the hip.

“Why?” Grian asked in return.

“I don’t know, forget it,” Scott waved him off. Not wanting to get into it.

“When’s he gonna be back?” he asked instead.

Grian sat up and stretched his back, “uh, I don’t know actually. He said he went to gather resources but you can never really count on him doing what he says he will,” he explained.

“You didn’t go with him?” Scott asked.

“I don’t want to babysit him anymore. If he gets in trouble that’s not my problem,” Grian said. He stood up and wandered over the the kitchen, carefully avoiding the blueprints on the floor.

“Ha! I would drink to that one, Jimmy is the same way sometimes,” Scott replied and watched as Grian contemplated the contents of their cooler, reaching in and pulling out a bottle of red wine.

“Well then, let’s drink to it,” he held the bottle up with a grin.

“Where did you get that?” Scott vacated the couch and made his way over to his friend, taking the bottle and studying it, “I haven’t seen the fruit of the vine in years!” he recalled.

The bottle had clearly been tapped into before, although not much was absent from its contents.

“I have my ways,” Grian rummaged around in a cabinet and pulled out two glasses.

“I would say it’s too early for this, but for once, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Scott uncorked the bottle with a satisfying pop and poured each glass a third of the way.

Grian cleared his throat, “To the safety of our stupid partners,” he raised his glass.

Scott nodded in return and connected their drinks with a polite clink, then they drank to the sentiment.

The conversation traveled to the dining table, which was more of a booth. Talking points ranged from preparing for winter to future plans to expand their bases.

“I’m not going to get anything done with the weather coming on,” Scott complained over his drink, “I don’t handle the cold very well,” he downed the last of it.

“Well you can always move in with us for the season, the attic is vacant,” Grian offered.

“Never in a million years. I’d rather be sick at home than spend a week living with barbarians,” Scott refused the offer.

Grian rolled his eyes, “it is not that bad,” he defended himself.

Scott raised an eyebrow and shoved his hand in between the cushions of the booth. Pulling up a handful of sand, which he deposited on the table.

“We live in a desert! What do you want us to do about it, of course there’s some sand in here,” Grian threw his hands up.

“Some?” Scott repeated.

“Okay,” Grian glanced under the table and shuffled his foot around, which scraped across a layer of sand, “a lot of sand,” he corrected himself.

“Get a vacuum. For the hundredth time, get a vacuum,” Scott demanded.

“We have a broom that works perfectly fine,” Grian stood up and opened a linen closet to reveal a single broom leaned up against the wall.

Scott didn’t comment on it, but he had a feeling that broom never left the closet.

The conversation was effectively halted when the front door screeched open, letting in a gust of wind and sand. It blew a few papers off the floor and scattered them around the living area.

“Hey,” Grian called out, “Scar? You back?” he asked.

“Yeah,” came from the front of the Sand Castle.

“Okay! We have company by the way,” Grian prefaced.

Scar’s head poked around the doorframe, he waved at Scott who returned the gesture.

“What have you guys been up to?” He inquired at the sight of the wine on the counter.

“Just hanging out. It gets a bit lonely up here you know,” Grian closed the linen closet and took Scar’s backpack from him. He opened it and looked at the contents.

“Oh, you actually did what you went out to do,” Grian revealed a bundle of wood from the bag.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scar crossed his arms.

“Never mind, go wash up. I assume you’re hungry,” Grian opened a pantry and took some spices out, “are you staying for dinner Scott?” he asked.

Scott leaned out of the booth to check the time on the clock above the door, “mmm, yeah why not. I’m already here,” he decided.

“Let me just page Jimmy and tell him I’m gonna be home late,” Scott patted all his pockets but found no sign of his communication device.

“Hey Grian? Can I use your pager?” he requested.

Grian fished around in his back pockets and pulled out his pager, tossing it towards the other who caught it with both hands. Scott thanked him and flipped the screen up, selected the address he needed to contact, and typed out a short message. Making sure to say it was from him and not Grian before sending it to Jimmy.

“What’re we making?” Scott asked once he finished, intent on trying to help in the kitchen.

“Well, it’s Spaghetti Friday,” Grian declared and revealed a bag of Rigatoni pasta.

“That’s a thing?” Scott inquired, taking the bag and examining the packaging. It was pretty simple, mostly cardboard with a plastic window. Presumably from the village on the other side of the map.

“We’ve gotta have some fun around here, come on now Scott,” Grian said.

“You’re right, how can I help?” Scott said. Grian side eyed him.

“You can add the salt when I say you can add the salt,” he offered. Scott crossed his arms.

He wasn’t that bad at cooking. He’d only burned a few things, smoked the house out for three days once, and set scrambled eggs on fire.

“That one time was just a rookie mistake,” Scott retorted. It’s not like he did it on purpose.

“A rookie mistake that almost burned your flower forest down. I wouldn’t let you near the kitchen if I was Jimmy either,” Grian set a pot down on the stove.

Scar came back in the kitchen then, and was pulled into it almost immediately.

“A man can’t even sit down in his own house without his culinary skills being put up for debate?”

Grian laughed at him, sliding the pot under the water pump.

“That’s not an answer at all! Can you or can’t you?” Scott demanded to know, holding a salt shaker.

“I can cook,” Scar’s gaze wandered into thought, he started counting on his fingers, “pasta, assorted vegetables, mac and cheese, cornbread, mashed potatoes, and I can bake a half decent carrot cake,” he recited.

“I worked in a supermarket before the borders. We made some of our own stuff for the bakery and the buffet,” Scar said. It was the first mention he made of what he did back when things were normal. At least to Scott.

Scott was pleasantly surprised. He nodded, seeing as he’d been given a satisfying answer.

The spaghetti went off without a hitch, Grian was surprisingly good at making it. Scott had the sense that he’d done it many times before.

“Remember, you can put the salt in but you can’t take it out. Here taste the sauce and tell me if it’s alright,” Grian fished a spoon from a drawer and handed it to Scott.

“Hmm,” the other pondered after trying a spoonful, “maybe a bit more salt?” he suggested.

A window was propped open to let the steam and heat out. It was getting dark now, and the world border stood out against the purple hues of night falling over the server. The brightest stars made themselves known to the east as the sun set to the west. It was peaceful, the wind had died down. Scott wondered if anyone else was watching.

Personally, he enjoyed stargazing a lot more. His servermates knew next to nothing about the cosmos, which made him wonder who was teaching them about the greater universe. Clearly they’d never been out there.

“Yo,” Scar called him out of his trance. He handed the other a ceramic bowl.

“Thank you,” Scott said and waited to serve himself.

The spaghetti was pretty good. Decent meals were hard to come by, especially with the limited resources outside of villages.

Over the course of dinner, Scar explained his excursion of the day. He had been gathering wood to stockpile for the winter months (no wood in the desert, better to have a source available and not have to hike out and get more constantly) when he came upon Etho’s base.

“It’s entirely made of wool,” he recounted.

Grian raised an eyebrow in confusion, “All of it? Why?” he mused.

“Dunno. There was nobody around,” Scar replied.

“You didn’t steal from them did you?” Scott interjected.

“Not this time,” he said, which earned him a jab in the ribs from Grian.

The three laughed it off and switched the subject to current server affairs. Who had the best gear, everyone’s respective allies, the phantom problem, and the pros and cons of a vacuum.

“Well, I would say this is a fine work of spaghetti,” Scar complimented when he was finished.

“Indeed, couldn’t have done it without Scott. The best salt dispenser among us,” Grian agreed.

Scott tried to look offended but couldn’t repress a smile. He stood up, about to take his bowl to the sink; but Scar insisted that he was the guest, so he handed over his dish and sat back down. Preparing his “i’m out of here” pleasantries.

He settled on, “Well, I’m out of here,” after a few more minutes of banter.

“Okay! Thanks for keeping me company dude,” Grian gave Scott a hug as thanks.

“My pleasure,” Scott replied.

Scar offered to accompany Scott back to the Hobbit territory, but he refused.

“No need Scar, you’ve been out all day. I’ll be fine,” he assured as he adjusted his hat and jacket for the chilly walk home.

“Alright then, let me walk you out,” Scar proposed instead.

Final waves and good wishes were exchanged and Scott started back down all those stairs. It was quiet, save for the gentle buzz of the world border which sat right against the Red Desert.

Lost in thought for most of the journey, Scott traveled into the dark canopy of leaves. There weren’t many mobs out due to the moon being in its Waning Crescent phase. Scott rubbed his hands together and shoved them in his pockets, wishing he’d brought his mittens.

As he crossed over a clearing, an arrow whizzed over his shoulder. Scott ducked down in surprise, turning around and expecting to see a skeleton, but there was nothing there except a dreadfully dark bank of trees and a vacant plot of land.

Scott squinted into the darkness.

Then the handle of a weapon was brought down on the side of his face, and all the lights went out.

[sofwrites]

Each other's biggest ally

Polin Week Day 1: Favorite Quote

“No, his method of attack was a lazy smile, a well-timed joke. If Colin ever lost his temper...

Penelope shook her head slightly, unable even to fathom it. Colin would never lose his temper. At least not in front of her. He'd have to be really, truly—no, profoundly —upset to lose his temper. And that kind of fury could only be sparked by someone you really, truly, profoundly cared about.” - Romancing Mister Bridgerton, pg. 64

The one where Colin profoundly cared and had no choice but to lose his temper.

Type: One-shot, angst, sentimentalism, protective/mywife!Colin, protectective/myhusband!Penelope

Length: 3.3k

Read on ao3! Or continue under the cut

In the late months of the year 1825, Penelope Featherington Bridgerton published her debut novel titled The Wallflower. And in the early months of the year 1826, she relished in the praise of her work and suffered in the consequences of her now-public identity.

The response to her book was generally positive. Whether or not they were willing to admit it, the members of the ton were eager to uncover the scathing details surrounding Mrs. Bridgerton’s former pen name. They devoured the secrets hidden between the lines of the pages- forming their own conclusions and theories of what was fact and what was fiction.

It seemed that after many years of Penelope appearing to be invisible, the gravity of her voice was finally truly understood.

But as in all life, there were complications as well.

One gentleman in particular was quick to make his discontent known, and it was all due to just one short excerpt.

Although Beatrice did not befriend even half of the ton, she had made the acquaintance of nearly everyone at one point. And though they never realized, she scrutinized them almost as much as they disregarded her.

Even with her close examinations, she generally liked the people she met. There were bores, many in fact, as well as those with whom conversation could rarely be carried, but most were reasonably pleasant. There were exceptions, however, as there always are. One such exception was as follows:

It is an earlier season for Beatrice, one still full of wonder and disillusioned hope. She looks at the dancefloor with wistfulness in her eyes, dreaming, praying that her prince charming will notice her from across the room and ask her to take his arm.

He does not, of course. His mind is still focused fully on the small group that surrounds him, drawn to him like a shining star amongst the thinly veiled candlelight. Although the music is certainly too loud and the conversations too many, our heroine can perfectly hear his laughter through the crowded ballroom. She can hear it because she knows it better than she knows her own.

Later that evening, he’ll ask her to dance. He’ll remember her minuscule presence in his life, likely prodded by a sharp finger to his spine and a voice carrying a gentle reminder. And even though she knows why he will do so, knows that it is due to a kind sense of duty rather than true desire, she will cherish it all the same.

Right now, however, Beatrice remains at the edge of the dancefloor, her silent woes interrupted by the familiar voice of her mother.

“Beatrice, dear, this is Mr. Wetherden. Mr. Wetherden, I present to you my daughter, Beatrice Harpenton.”

Another bachelor, this one ranking second-tier rather than third. Her mother seems to have given her more credit this evening, Beatrice thinks as she looks at the familiar face.

The introduction is an unnecessary formality, of course, as are many of their rules; they were made acquaintances during her first season. Nonetheless, society calls for her to curtsy and give a gracious smile, and she obliges.

At the same time, he assesses her similarly to how he did so a few years before. And she sees it immediately, the dismissal that passes over his eyes even before he fully bends into his low bow.

Her mother leaves them to it- the stifled conversation in an even more stifling ballroom. The unfortunate girl in the canary-colored dress stands on the sidelines, trapped in conversation with yet another uninterested bachelor who is just as much forced upon her as she is on him.

He speaks endlessly, unquestionably more for his benefit than hers. He spends fourteen minutes explaining the difference between rugby and football. She suppresses three yawns and is interrupted twenty-six times throughout the topic, clearly expected to be an audience member rather than a participant.

At this time, she thinks this is Mr. Wetherden’s worst offense. Later on, when she is years older, Beatrice discovers that she was sorely mistaken in her youth. That without the cautionary lights of London (albeit often cloudy and forgiving), he is much worse.

She later on learns about his propensity to unwilling women. To frightened young housemaids who are often not given the options that women of a higher class are granted.

Our heroine also finds out later exactly how commonplace such a tendency is. And with it, her vision of social seasons- the one with balls and picnics and musicales- begins to splinter.

Penelope hadn’t named him, of course. She hadn’t named anyone directly.

She couldn’t publish a memoir, not really. Even though she was related to a fine variation of important characters in society, she couldn’t put such a strain on her family, and particularly not on her husband. Her husband, her lovely, amazing husband who supported her through the entire process even despite the fact that so much of their own private history was laid out in the pages of her novel. Penelope had written the truth, which hadn’t been entirely pretty. But Colin had agreed with her that the truth was more important than sheltering their secrets.

But even though she couldn’t publish a direct recounting of her life and experiences with the ton, she’d been unwilling to just hide behind fabricated stories.

Penelope’s telling of that night at the ball wasn’t completely factual. She did not know how many times Phillip Cavender interrupted her during their conversation, nor whether or not Colin had even been present that evening. But the details of the matter weren’t as important to her as shedding light on the entire situation.

She’d been young and naive during her first few seasons, believing that a few nasty comments and looks were really the worst of what society had to offer. Later on, she’d found out that she had been wrong, and that there was much worse than she’d ever known. And when her sister-in-law, Sophie, had recounted the night she and Benedict had met (well, met again), Penelope knew that she had to shed light on the matter. She had to make it clear what happened outside of the fancy dresses and giggling parties.

But as mentioned, such decisions did not come without their objections.

“Thank God, they’re leaving.”

The words came from just a few feet behind them, full of indignancy and bitterness. The couple had been walking together, arm-in-arm, towards the door, quite eager to return home for the evening.

They’d been attending an intimate house party at the request of the gentleman’s mother. She’d been unable to make her attendance that evening and had asked that her son and his wife go in her stead. They hadn’t been particularly excited about the prospect, but they’d agreed for her.

The party itself hadn’t been bad. The food was good, the music was pleasant, and almost everyone in attendance had offered the woman praise for her work. Though they hadn’t exactly been excited to attend, the evening hadn’t been at all poor.

That was, until they’d been nearing the exit and heard the troublesome remark behind them.

Colin glanced down at his wife, who grimaced, her nose scrunching as her eyes closed. They’d been met with a number of sneers and snide comments in the last few weeks, but they never became easier to hear.

With a small sigh, he turned them both around, looking directly at the man holding a glass of port too large and wearing a lip too curled.

Colin gave him a smile, the familiar one he used whenever he was looking at something that both irritated and mildly amused him. “Didn’t see you there, Cavender. So nice of you to offer us a sendoff.”

The opposing man’s mouth turned downwards, a stark contrast to the grin still on Colin’s face. Penelope swallowed, quickly cutting in. “We really must be getting home.”

With a pointed look directed towards her husband, she began pulling him back towards the door. Though Penelope would have loved to see Phillip Cavender get put into his place, she knew far better than to spar with a man holding a petty vendetta.

But before they’d even fully turned around, there was a mocking bark of laughter, followed by a slight slurring of words. “You do everything she tells you then? Follow her around like a lapdog?”

This time, Colin’s brow lifted ever so slightly, the same half-smile still imprinted on his lips. Penelope felt an uncomfortable heat rising up her neck as she reluctantly turned from the door again.

“If it means getting to share my life with this incredible woman,” Colin sent her a small wink before shrugging, “Then, by all means, call me a lapdog.”

There was some tittering around them by the small audience they’d attracted. With a quick glance, Penelope could see the angry lurch in Cavender’s throat, the narrowing of his eyes, the twitching of his fingers as they tightened around his glass.

Please, just let it go. Let us just leave and go home.

But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

“I know what lies she’s spread about me.”

“Oh?” Colin’s face took on a thoughtful expression, one that might have been convincing in any other circumstance. “I don’t recall ever hearing my wife mentioning you.”

Cavender’s glare deepened. “In that bloody book of hers.”

Penelope cringed inwardly as she felt the twitch of Colin’s hand in hers. Her eyes darted around the room as an overwhelming sense of dread engulfed her. The ballroom was small and the guests were bored, and a public row was certainly enough to draw a crowd- one that was full of prying eyes and listening ears.

Colin’s face remained the picture of serenity even though Penelope could sense the angry heat rising from him. It was something she could feel in him that others always missed, a secret fire that he did so well in masking.

Looking at the other man, Colin let out a sigh, one that was forcibly tired, as though he were speaking down to an overly emotional child. “I can assure you that all the characters in my wife’s novel were fabricated. And if you saw yourself in one of the less attractive personages, then I’d venture to say that such is simply a reflection of your own self-image.”

The whispers around them grew, and Cavender sputtered for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the easy taunt. But his surprise only lasted a moment before he hardened once more.

A man with a petty vendetta did not often allow himself to be diverted.

His eyes flickered to Penelope before they returned to Colin and he sneered. “You realize that she’s made you out to be an ass, don’t you? You can act high and mighty, Bridgerton, but the wife you so proudly boast has fashioned you into the biggest fool in all of London.”

It was at this jab that Penelope frowned, feeling her own prickle of anger. And for the first time in the nasty exchange, she turned directly to their shared foe, a hard, determined look set on her face. “Excuse me, Mr. Cavender, but I must ask that you don’t speak to my husband that way.”

She could almost see his eyes flash in fury as they set themselves on her. But before he could give the biting retort that was no doubt resting on his tongue-

“And I’d suggest that you consult a dictionary to properly understand the concept of fiction.” Colin’s tone was relaxed, just a sprinkle of mocking mixed into it. But Penelope could feel the tension in him, the protective edge that mirrored her own.

Cavender’s gaze shifted back to Colin, his rage appearing a bit more controlled as they listened to the snickering that surrounded them. Slowly, his mouth thinned into a tight line, and he took a step closer to the couple. By instinct, Colin angled himself in front of Penelope as her grip on his hand tightened.

He was just a few feet away from them when he finally spoke, a voice so low that it was barely audible over the murmurs. “And I’d recommend that you consider taking yourself and that bitch of a wife,” his eyes darted to Penelope for a moment, “out of town.”

And it was this comment that wiped the smile completely off of Colin’s face, along with any attempt of levity.

It was as if a chill had passed over, one that was both icy and burning at the same time. He stiffened like a board, a wave of unmistakable anger coming over him. And when his words came, they were low and even, colder than anyone had ever thought possible from Colin Bridgerton.

“You would do well to avoid threatening my family, Cavender.”

Though there was a slight tinge of red on his face, Phillip Cavender did not retreat. Instead, he took another step forward. “And why is that, Bridgerton?”

Penelope could see the muscles in Colin’s jaw moving from where she was angled, could practically feel the heat radiating off of his body. She’d seen him angry before, furious even, but this was different. This was so much more.

She wasn’t frightened, not by Colin nor by the man standing across from them. Fright was not why she wanted this to stop.

She didn’t want her husband’s anger to be made into a form of entertainment at a party. For him to have to serve the role of gallant protector whenever she upset someone. So, she attempted to silently will him to calm down, running a featherlight thumb across the surface of his hand.

But Colin wanted to finish what they’d started and instead let go of her and took his own step forward, almost shielding her completely.

“I think we all know that I have more than enough relatives to run you out of town,” he said, eyes locked on Cavender.

There was a flash of worry that crossed his face, but it was quickly forced away by a snort. “Is that meant to scare me? The threat of a duke and a viscount?”

Colin didn’t falter. Instead, his head tilted as he considered the man, considered the shaking fingers and the smell of alcohol on his breath. He’d never been a violent man by nature, even having grown up with two older brothers. He preferred words when he fought, and they almost always gave him his victories. He wasn’t opposed to physical repercussions, but he knew that a private gathering was not the place or time.

He looked Cavender directly in the eyes, speaking in a low, clear voice. “I will ensure that you are ruined, that is a promise.”

And because he couldn’t help himself, “And if that is not enough, be rest assured that we will do worse. My only qualm in doing it myself is that my brother would be disappointed he wasn’t able to help.”

There was a silence in the room that followed as Cavender glowered at him. His eyes darkened in fury as his face reddened, trying to figure out how far Colin could really go.

But there was something in Colin’s threat that didn’t allow for any consideration that he might have been exaggerating. Perhaps it was the definitive and resolute tone in his voice, or the strength behind his gaze, or the tight set of his jaw.

Or perhaps it was because Colin Bridgerton wasn’t the type to quicken to anger. Wasn’t the type to have a temper or even hint at unpleasantry.

Whatever it was, it made Cavender finally break eye contact and step back. He turned away, taking another large swig of port.

Colin could hear the pounding in his ears as he looked at the pathetic man, anger still coursing through him. But then he felt a warm hand lace through his, and the red glare of the world began melting away. Penelope was whispering something, her voice calm and soothing. He squeezed her hand in understanding but kept his gaze on Cavender.

There was a familiar casualness when Colin spoke this time, but it was threaded with venom. “Do not forget what I’ve said.”

And with that, he turned to his wife and pressed a kiss into her hair.

“Good night,” Penelope nodded to the remainder of the crowd, who finally had the decency to look away.

A few minutes later, when they were finally in a carriage returning to their home, Penelope sighed. With her eyes glued to her skirts, she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Colin.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, taking in a deep inhale of breath.

He’d been scared after the reveal of her identity, terrified even. There were evenings where he’d lie awake in bed and imagine all of the awful things that could happen to the person who was his entire world. And though they never spoke of such worries aloud, he knew that she was just as aware as he was.

Italy had been like taking a deep breath after being underwater for too long. There, no one cared or knew, and the only threat they faced was the harsh sun.

And then Penelope was pregnant, and a new light was added to his life, one that shifted his fears elsewhere.

Then they became a family of three, and Colin was thrilled. He still worried, of course, but his joy outweighed everything else.

Old wounds had been reopened in the recent weeks, that was for certain. But it did not mean that he blamed Penelope for them.

So, Colin pulled her into his side and tucked her head under his chin. “You have nothing to apologize for. We both agreed that you did the right thing.”

For a few moments, she said nothing, just listened to the sound of his heartbeat and the wheels on cobblestones. And though he couldn’t see her, Colin could sense in the silence that she was crying. Wordlessly, he handed her a handkerchief.

Penelope dabbed at her eyes a few times before leaning back to look at him. “I didn’t want to force you into this position.”

He smiled and lifted a hand to stroke her cheek, feeling the familiar warmth of her skin. “I watch you every day with nothing but awe, Penelope. I love you, I’m proud of you. And I will gladly stand by you through anything.”

Her eyes moved slowly as they crossed his face, searching for any hesitance. There was none, not even a hint of resistance.

Instead, there was so much love that it overwhelmed her, struck her with the same shock that it had years before. It was a love that mirrored her own, a fierce desire to protect and support another with as much reverence as one did for themself. It was one that never faltered even in the most difficult of times.

Her eyes were glossy when her hand reached up to meet his, and the smile on her lips was weak but true. “I love you so much. And I can’t believe that I’ve become so lucky in my life to have you by my side.”

And with that, they settled into their drive home, sharing whispered conversations and watery chuckles.

They still had a long road ahead of them, of that they were sure. But they knew that they would cross it together.

[ironmandeficiency]

that’s not a shirt

pairing: marcus pike / reader

word count: 1584

summary: marcus comes home from work & finds the strangest thing in the laundry.

a/n: for @autumnleaves1991-blog and her wednesday writing challenge! writing domestic marcus pike is my therapy. unbeta’d and posted from mobile (honestly my laptop is becoming less convenient to post from even tho posting fic on tumblr is literally the reason i bought it last year)

three long, miserable weeks. that’s how long marcus has been out of town for a case that had him jetting all across the country, far away from you and your comfortable bed. he’s almost never at the apartment he pays rent for every month. most of his clothes and his favorite pillow are at your place, and the small quilt his grandmother sewed decades ago is draped over the back of your couch. in everything but name, he lived with you.

when he entered your apartment with his key, he took note of the fact you weren’t there and got set to cleaning up a bit. work leaves you exhausted more often than not and he doesn’t want to leave everything undone for you to worry about when you get home.

upon first glance, he could see the laundry was half done. a heaping load of clean clothes was in the hamper in front of the dryer and there were wet clothes in the open washer. when he looked further, there was also a load in the dryer, which told him that you stayed up late to get things done then fell asleep on the couch waiting for the dryer to finish. with a fond smile, he started the dryer for a few minutes to get wrinkles out of what’s in there. when those are done, he can get what’s in the hamper unwrinkled and hung and folded.

dinner was next on the to-do list. something nourishing to welcome you home after a long day but simple enough to do while catching up the clothes: spaghetti. there’s something about his mom’s recipe for the sauce that makes his spaghetti absolutely heavenly — your words, not his — and he can’t wait to see your reaction to having marcus home two days earlier than planned along with his best dish.

in the time it takes him to get the sauce cooking and the water boiling on the stove, the dryer announces that it’s finished with the first load. he hums as he folds the bath towels and dish rags without a care in the world, making the trip to stow them in the bathroom cabinet with a spring to his step.

checks the sauce for flavor and consistency before putting the second load of wrinkled clothes in the dryer, finding it needs just a smidge more rosemary before it can be left to simmer. picks another sprig from the plant you keep on the windowsill and cuts the leaves very fine before sprinkling them in with a flick of his wrist.

satisfied with his efforts, he turns back to the laundry. he dutifully empties the lint filter (you’re adamant on emptying it after every load and the trait passed onto him) before he begins to grab things to toss into the dryer. about a third of the way through the basket, his hand grabbed onto something weirdly solid and plump.

“mroww!”

last marcus checked, shirts don’t make noises like that. he tore his gaze from the inside of the dryer to the hamper to find a grey and white kitten lounging in the hamper. the little thing was nudging his hand with their head, clearly wanting the attention of the man slowly depleting its bed. he was perplexed. you didn’t have a cat when he was last here, but there was one seeming to be perfectly content in making itself at home in your apartment.

“where did you come from?” he knew the cat wasn’t going to give him a coherent answer but he felt the need to voice his confusion anyway. the first thing to do now: check to see if it’s male or female. it’s a female, looks to be about three months old and is perfectly content with being handled by marcus.

marcus can’t recall the last time he had a pet. with him being too busy with work, he never thought it would be fair to a pet to have an owner constantly gone. he didn’t have enough stability in the past with where he lived and didn’t want to only be a half ass pet parent. the past several months, however, have been nothing but stable. not counting the seldom out of town cases, he goes to work in the morning and comes home to you in the evening, and he rinses and repeats as needed. maybe this kitten is the perfect prelude to taking the next big step in his relationship with you.

for now though, marcus doesn’t let himself get carried away with his daydreams about living with you full time. he’s got laundry to finish and dinner to cook, and now he has a sous chef to accompany him. he holds the kitten to his chest, scratching her chin with a hooked finger and melting at the way she looks up as if telling him to keep going. “alright sweet girl, let’s finish up dinner.” a soft “mrrow!” is her reply and it makes marcus huff a quiet laugh.

dinner is completed with marcus using one less hand than normal, his sous chef being fabulous company. the few times he had to use both hands, his feline friend perched on his shoulder (which he thought was the best thing ever) and waited to be held again. however this cat got here, marcus didn’t know; the one thing he did know is that it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

the front door was unlocked when you came home and you knew with absolute certainty that you locked it before you left. your walmart bags filled with cat supplies were immediately dropped to the hallway floor as you began to inspect your front door and the area around it. marcus taught you how to spot the basic signs of forced entry (like the protective sweetheart he is) and when none of them were there, you cautiously entered your apartment, mace in hand.

the adrenaline washed away when you spotted your loving boyfriend in the kitchen, gently bobbing his head along to whatever music he had playing. one hand was stirring a pot on the stove while the other was plenty preoccupied with the kitten. shit, you forgot to warn him about the kitten before he got home!

this was the last thing you thought would be here to greet you, but it was a very welcome sight; the feline was finicky and marcus wasn’t due home for another few days, a double whammy. “i see you’ve met the kitten.” you’re honestly just thankful he didn’t get upset about the little thing. neither of you have talked about pets or whatever your living situation is becoming, so the way he seems so taken with the kitten is a sign pointing in a great direction.

when he hears your voice, marcus visibly lights up. “hi honey!” the hand with the spoon immediately drops the wooden utensil into the pot and waves at you happily. “this is my sous chef, say hello, pasta!” he grabs one of her little paws and waves it at you before resuming his stirring, a beaming smile on his face.

did he really just name the cat pasta? and how in the world is she so calm with him right now?

you found the kitten, now known as pasta, huddled in a cardboard box beside a gas station dumpster headed home from work. she was mewling her little head off back there and you were lucky enough to hear her. taking her and her box, your list of things to do was thrown out the window as you rushed her to the vet. they cleaned her up real good and schedule her vaccinations, and sent you home with a list of supplies to buy and advice on how to take care of the little thing.

she was pissed at you after the vet trip. didn’t let you pet or hold her unless she was in the mood for it and if you tried to pick her up otherwise, she would scatter and give you a glare from a safe distance away. but here was marcus holding her like a baby, and the little brat was eating it up! to be fair, you were the same way with marcus when he was being affectionate so you didn’t completely blame her.

“why pasta?” you knew that cats were more likely than dogs to have strange names. you just didn’t think your boyfriend would be the type to give a cat a name like pasta. at that rate, you might as well name a dog goose and call it a day.

he smiles at the furball, giving her a few affectionate pets while he talks. “i was cooking spaghetti when i found her in the laundry hamper, and then i noticed a little spot right on her hip that looks like penne. i couldn’t choose between the two so i went for the middle ground. is that okay with you? or did she have another-”

“marcus, i love it.” and you really do; that sentimental dork just made you love the name pasta with nothing but two sentences. “and honestly, i’ve just been rotating between baby girl, squeak toy, and dumbass since i found her the day before yesterday.”

he scratches pasta under her chin as he laughs at the thought of you calling his sous chef a dumbass. “pasta is not a dumbass! you tell ‘em sweetheart, tell them how smart you are!”

“mroww!”

“see? she’ll be the next einstein.”

marcus pike taglist: @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @obirain @themarcusmoreno @catsnkooks @torradoza @stardustsunrisekisses @darthadeline @max--phillips @jedi-mando @darklingveracruz @andysficrecs @pedropasscals @qhbr2013 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @greeneyedblondie44 @princess76179 @kaermorons @lv7867 @whovianwar @purelypascal

[caffeinated-cryptid]

patton and the no-good day

5.9k words | AO3 link | warnings: angst, alcohol, swearing, arguing, lashing out, minor injury, crying, fire, repetition.

“Patton wants to know what it’s like to make the right choices, so he tries...And tries. And tries and tries andtriesandtries-

(aka: a time loop fic where patton manages to revisit the day of svs, this time with the goal of making everyone happy. he quickly discovers that he's bitten off more than he can chew.)”

________________________________

Patton was unhappy. And he was unhappy because everyone else was unhappy. After the wedding, he had become so intimately aware of every mistake he had made. From Logan’s quiet dismissal when he tried to talk to him, to Virgil’s obvious avoidance of everyone, to Roman’s complete shutdown.

The only sides he could assume weren’t mad at him at the moment were Janus and Remus. And Remus was only a maybe, just based on how excited he’d been to hear that he had turned into a giant muscular frog alone.

Patton could only grimace upon recalling his breakdown. It was supposed to be the turning point for him, an indication of ‘Hey, I've come to realize that I’m deeply flawed but now I’m able to start fixing things!’. But of course, it didn’t turn out like that. Every day that passed only grew harder and harder with his mistakes staring him in the face. He was tired of waking up, dreading the insurmountable process of trying to make things right and failing, only to fall asleep and try again the next day.

It was like he was trapped in a loop of identical days, each one as ineffective as the last.

Patton could barely imagine the end of this tunnel, until one morning, he woke up and for once everything felt... different.

He ignored the feeling at first as got ready as usual, heading out towards the kitchen with the expectation of seeing empty chairs at empty tables once more. Except when he walked in this time, preparing to make a breakfast no one would eat, everyone was there already seated. It was just like how everything was before-- Janus and Remus were absent, but Logan, Virgil, Roman...all of the sides he considered his best friends were there, all togeher in one place for the first time in weeks.

He burst into tears on the spot and they collectively startled, immediately questioning what was wrong. It took a few minutes to convince them all that he was fine, that he just got emotional seeing them all because he loved them so much (which wasn't even a lie!), and in the end they accepted his explanation because sometimes that was just what Patton was like. As he sat down and tried to act as normal as possible, he couldn't help but stare at all of them, so carefree as they chatted and poked fun at each other. There wasn't a single furrowed brow, or a hidden frown, or a look of hurt. It was unfortunately because of that that he knew his gut feeling was right; there was something strange going on here.

Throughout the morning, Patton couldn’t put his finger on what was so familiar about this day until he felt a certain series of events occur: Thomas gets a call. He picks up the phone and talks with the casting agent for a famous director. He’s told that he got the callback for his audition and he’s terribly excited, so excited that his sides come out to celebrate with him and-

Oh. Oh! That was his cue, wasn’t it? Patton bit back a frown, rising up to share their excitement and then to remind them about the wedding that was scheduled for the same day. It was hauntingly familiar, seeing the way Thomas and Roman became dejected and knowing that this was only the start of an uphill battle.

And then Fauxgan came in- or rather Janus, disguised as Logan- and when Patton saw his new snakey friend, his chest swelled with excitement. This was his opportunity to change things! He knew that in the current script, Janus would soon reveal himself and begin pushing back against what Patton had said. So when that happened this time, he could simply agree and make it seem like he had been convinced to change his mind. That way, they could reach a different solution and everyone would be happy.  Simple!

Patton watched and waited patiently as the others made comments back and forth; Virgil and Janus snarking each other as Janus made his case to be listened to.

“That...can not be where the bar is!” Virgil protested in disbelief once Thomas agreed to hear him out, based on his vague 'the enemy of my enemy is a friend' ideal.

“Well, the bar for skipping an important opportunity should be higher than a...social engagement.” Janus replied distastefully.

This was where he originally jumped in to disagree. Patton saw Roman grow shifty out of the corner of his eye and knew: this was it!

“Maybe Janus is right! This is a huge opportunity. We should try to figure out a way to make both events if we can, but this means a lot for Thomas so we shouldn’t just skip it.“ Patton said confidently, even though the argument felt strange coming out of his mouth. At least he knew this time around he was making the right choice by backing down.

But the others only looked at him strangely, with varying degrees of confusion across their faces.

“Who’s Janice-”

“You’re agreeing with  him?! I knew you were acting weird-”

“How do you know my name-”

Patton’s eyes widened, realizing his subconscious mistake. He had gotten so used to referring to Deceit as Janus over the weeks that they’d been friends that his name just automatically slipped out. It was too late to take it back; the conversation was quickly derailed, with too many accusations coming out at once to even try geting back into the dilemma. At one point Janus wondered aloud if Remus had somehow gotten out and taken the form of Patton, which only raised more questions and ended with a sword pointed at his throat.

It was a disaster. They make the last-minute decision to go to the wedding out of spite for Janus and Patton.

________________________________

The next morning, Patton woke up with a start, looking around his room to find that it was exactly the way he had left it the day prior. Normally this wouldn’t be such a cause for alarm, but today it was because Patton was certain he had thrown a few things last night in childish frustration at himself for messing things up. Only soft items, because he couldn’t bear to accidentally destroy anything in his sentiment-filled room, but the fact remained that seeing his pillows lined up at the end of his bed again was a strange sign, one that had him suspicious about how this day was going to go.

To test his theory, he went down to the kitchen without bothering to change out of his pajamas, only to see the other three sides already sitting there in the exact same places as yesterday. He paused in the doorway, waiting for them to show recognition of the day prior-- for some kind of hostility or accusation. The only thing he received were snickers.

“Nice PJs, Pat.” Virgil smirked over his bowl of cereal before going back to scrolling on his phone.

Patton’s mind slowly processed this. It was as if the day had reset, back to the world he had woken up to yesterday. He sunk down into the last remaining chair and forced himself to make a joke about ‘having a PB&J sandwich to match this PJ day’, despite Logan’s protests that he would not be sharing the last jar of crofters (He always said this to deter them from eating his jam, but it was always a lie and he'd always let them have some in the end. Patton didn’t realize how much he missed that habit of his until he almost started crying again over Logan passing him the jam jar).

After a perfectly normal breakfast, he quickly returned back to his room to change and prepare for what was ahead of him. Now that he knew the day was definitely repeating and could recognise where he went wrong yesterday, he just needed to ensure he didn’t make such a silly mistake right off the bat again.

He went through the motions: Thomas getting a phone call, him reminding them of the wedding, and then the beginnings of debate.

“I agree with Deceit.” He said this time, smiling as he remembered to not use Janus’ name.

Despite his conscious effort, it doesn’t go over much better. Janus was surprised and suspicious of Patton’s sudden change of heart and Virgil immediately got on the defense. Once again, the argument quickly escalated.

“Why would you side with him?! He’s one of the others! You can’t trust him!” Virgil cried, hands tugging on his hoodie strings as he desperately tried to convince them. It was currently three against one. He must have felt cornered, having no one on his side, Patton realized belatedly.

“And how are you so sure of that?” Patton still responded back, feeling offended on behalf of his friend. He had promised himself he wouldn’t make things worse this time, but seeing Virgil get so angry at him hit a sore spot. As long as he was right about his theory, this day was already ruined the moment he sided with Janus, anyway.

“Because I was one of them!” Virgil yelled, and his expression quickly changed from frustrated to devastated to frightened. And then he sunk out, giving no one the chance to stop him.

The remaining sides stood in silence before Janus broke into hysterical laughter. Patton could hear it echo in his mind as the day reset for the third time.

________________________________

The next time, he didn’t bring up the wedding at all.

Patton didn’t want to kid himself; he was scared from seeing Virgil sink out so suddenly. After having Virgil’s anger directed at him twice and seeing him leave upset once, he figured that meant that outright siding with Janus was a risky thing to do if he wanted to make sure everyone was happy by the end of this.

So instead of trying to change his stance, he simply removed the confusing aspect out of the equation altogether and made sure no one remembered it or brought it up. This way for sure, he thought, everything would go a lot smoother.

...He was wrong.

Weeks passed after the phone call and everything was peaceful-- Patton didn’t experience any resets and he took this as a good sign, enjoying the time with his family which he had dearly been missing out on. The sides were excited for the opportunity, which only grew when the callback came and went and they aced it. It was like Patton had finally achieved the dream scenario, until one day later when Thomas summoned them with a horrified look on his face.

“I skipped Lee and Mary Lee’s wedding when I went to the callback.” Was all he said.

“...Huh? How is that possible?” Virgil asked, simultaneously looking like he was going to faint and/or run away. “That couldn’t have been yesterday, could it? I mean, the odds of that…”

“It was. However…” Logan spoke up, and everyone watched as he summoned his calendar, wearing baffled expressions when he pointed to yesterday’s date-- revealing that the wedding had never been written down at all. Thomas had somehow pushed it completely out of his mind.

“But...it was for a big opportunity! Surely they’ll understand if you explain why you had to miss the wedding.” Roman argued, glancing around at the panicking sides.

“That’s the thing, they’re upset that I didn’t tell them about it beforehand and they think I blew them off on purpose. Now all of our mutual friends think I only care about myself.” Thomas stressfully looked down at his phone as he got another text message- and not a very kindly-worded one at that. “I don’t know what to do to fix this!”

Patton paled. Surely that couldn’t be right. Could things really have gotten this bad, just because he hadn’t reminded them of the wedding?

“It looks like Thomas has become a social pariah.” A smooth voice cut in. “And I’m sure you all know who’s to blame.”

No-

________________________________

The next time, Patton woke up in tears, unable to get the image of Janus turning against him out of his mind.

This time he doesn’t try to avoid the debate. Debates were crucial; they were how they got through most of their problems! In retrospect it was silly to try and skip that part of the day altogether, but at least now he had a clearer idea of what to try next. The issue from the last attempt was that Lee and Mary Lee weren’t spoken to, so this time he’d back Roman up when he suggested communication.

When they were next able to arrange a meeting to talk, Thomas explained the situation to the couple; how he had gotten a last-minute once in a lifetime offer. They were excited for him and encouraged him to take the opportunity, but Patton saw it in their eyes, how they gave Thomas sad smiles and looked at each other with disappointment.

He panicked, and Thomas changed his tune, pretending to check his phone and coming to the ‘realization’ that he got the time wrong, that he could go after all.

Lee and Mary Lee were thrilled.

But the others hated him for it.

________________________________

The next time for sure, he thought he’d get the courage to do it right.

They talked to Lee and Mary Lee. Thomas explains the situation, and this time Patton doesn’t make him change his mind. They’re disappointed, but despite knowing this deep down Thomas stays firm and decides to go to callback anyway.

During the lead-up to the 13th of April, Roman keeps looking to him for guidance, asking if this was really alright. Patton tries to assure him, but even he doesn’t know. He feels like everything he’s doing is putting them on the right track, but after thinking he was doing the right thing and being wrong several times, he isn’t able to say for certain that they were making a good choice. Especially not with the unknown variable of Lee and Mary Lee's disappointment thrown into the mix.

Eventually Roman learns to stop coming to him with his fears, and when it comes to the callback he chokes during the performance. Thomas messes up and someone else gets the role.

They don’t get to go to the wedding or win the callback.

Roman ducks out the same day and Remus takes his place.

________________________________

The next time, Patton was overly aware of his lack of certainty. He hadn’t realized how close Roman had been to falling over the edge, so during his next attempt he can't help but keep it fresh in his mind.

Throughout the debate he makes sure to agree with the creative side. He didn’t oppose any of his arguments or call him out where he originally thought he was being selfish; he’s as kind and gentle as can be, haunted by what had happened one cycle ago.

It makes Janus upset. He knows Patton’s true stance and can’t understand why he’s silencing his voice so much for one side alone. He ends up pointing out how Patton is being underhanded by trying to use flattery to get things to go his way and then mentions how that must be how he's managed to keep everyone under his thumb for so long. Patton sees red.

It’s nice to get his steadily building frustration out. Perhaps Janus is an undeserving target of his anger, but the criticism just hit too close to home for him to accept lying down. He didn't want to be a manipulative person. He had been trying so hard to let others have their voices be heard and not seize control the narrative too much, but in the end wasn't that what he was doing now? Trying to manipulate everything, even if his motives were good? The realization had blood pumping in his ears, drowning out everything but his own voice.

Everyone becomes tense when he starts yelling and Janus only stares in shock, confused and oddly enough, hurt to be the focus of the usually happy pappy's wrath. Patton yells until his throat is hoarse, and then some more because he knows he can't damage his vocal chords here. He does it for Logan, who had been pushed aside almost every time they've done this. For Virgil, who had so many doubts and fears and was too afraid to share them until they become too much. For Roman, who was the most likely to get crushed whatever they did. For Janus, who was just trying to get a seat at the table. For Remus, who potentially never would.

For himself, who just couldn't get this right.

When he's done the room is so silent that they would have been able to hear a pin drop and he feels a weight off his chest. He's made his point, loud and clear.

Even though the others have no idea what he’s talking about.

________________________________

The next time, Patton wakes up feeling guilty for losing his temper, despite how cathartic it had been to let loose a little bit. He can’t look the others in the eye when he goes to breakfast, and instead spends the whole time in his head, trying to figure out what to try next.

This time he decides to soften his voice. He already knows it’s a mistake based on prior experience, but he doesn’t know what else to do-- doesn’t have the time to consider any other approach to take before Thomas is getting that phone call once again.

Throughout the debate, his statements fall short. He lacks conviction. He subtly tries to side with Janus and Roman, but not to the extent where it makes Virgil upset, and it only makes him look flakey. He’s flimsy; uncertain, and everyone can tell. He can practically feel Logan’s desperation to take his place from the back row.

In the end, Thomas is convinced that he’s a completely horrible and selfish person due to Patton’s lack of assertion otherwise and avoids both events out of a self-induced spiral of guilt and anxiety.

________________________________

The next time Patton is too firm. He keeps assuring Thomas that he’s not a bad person, and realizes too late that he fell back into his old habits.

Roman sentences them to the wedding again.

Patton summons a pillow to scream into in frustration.

________________________________

By the 50th loop, Patton had more or less given up. He starts the day by rolling out of bed and popping open the cork of a wine bottle right into his face. It’s in the moment he starts feeling a black eye form that he makes the formal decision: fuck it.

He skips breakfast to sip wine through a silly straw (because casual alcoholism doesn’t count when you make it fun. Or when you’re stuck in a figurative nightmare), and he changes into the most ‘dad on vacation’ clothes he owned; a gaudy hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. He forgoes shoes because decidedly this isn’t a shoes kind of day, and after 50 god-forsaken attempts at trying to get this right, he thinks he’s earned a little self-indulgence.

When the time rolls around to start the video, he belatedly rises up in the living room tispy and wearing his old 2015 new years novelty sunglasses. The others are immediately taken aback at his appearance while Thomas grimaces.

“Ah… So that’s why I’ve been thinking about cursing people out all day.”

“You should. It’d be funny.” Patton giggles.

“...Okay.” Virgil states, likely finding his behaviour too familiar for comfort. “What the fuck."

Janus doesn’t join them this time around; instead the real Logan shows up because suddenly everything had switched courses into a completely different problem. The four of them try to figure out what’s wrong with Patton, and he refuses to cooperate the entire time, just for the heck of it. Eventually he grows bored of watching them fuss and squabble, so he starts saying the first things to come to mind, the deepest opinions that were buried under all of his repression-- things he wouldn’t dare say if he were sober and free from this hell.

“I hate all of you sometimes.” He announces over their discussion without guilt, too far gone to care how hurt the faces that looked back at him were. He knew it wasn’t real anyway, at least it wouldn’t be when the next loop started.

“I hate how I can apologize forever and it’s still not enough. I hate how I have to accept the mistakes made against me, but you all get to sulk for weeks and not even let me try to make things right. When all I’ve ever wanted is to make you happy.”

“Patton-” Logan begins hesitantly. He looks like he wants to contradict him and Patton doesn't care for it.

“Stupid of me, right Logan?” He cuts him off with a laugh, dry and completely unlike himself. Logan closes his mouth, regret flashing across his face, and it just felt so good in that moment to be the bitter one for once. He’s never done it before; always having to take the high road while everyone else chose to be petty and self-absorbed in their own egos. No fault to them for that; he felt pretty amazing right now, going against the moral code he had built and adhered to for so long. It felt forbidden and like the sort of thing he’d regret later. (And heck, with all the mistakes he’d been accidentally making, perhaps doing something wrong on purpose was like taking that power back.)

“I’m doing all of this- going through this day again and again- for what?” He continues, glaring at them individually. “I’m doing my best here- just to make everything alright again, and- fuck.”

Patton ignores the shocked expression he gets when he swears. He’s getting too close to feeling bad again, so he summons another bottle of wine. He learns from his mistake and points it away from himself this time, and the cork doesn’t hit him in the face; instead it smashes into the tv screen. Roman and Virgil yelp. Thomas stares.

“...Patton, what are you talking about?” Thomas asks.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Patton giggles again after taking a long swig, sliding back against the blinds until he's on the floor. Away from the cameras, at last. “None of you will remember this anyway.”

And they don’t. (They never do)

________________________________

The next time, he wakes up without a black eye or a hangover and considers not leaving his bed today. He does anyway, just to make sure he hadn’t done something irreversible and ruined everything for real this time.

He goes to the kitchen to find everyone sitting like they always do, in the exact same positions at the exact same time with the exact same food, without fail. They acknowledge him the same way they always do as he enters the room and he can’t help but grind his teeth when it feels like mocking. So he walks over to the cupboard and starts pulling out plates to smash against the ground.

They’re surprised, worried, taken aback, and as he stands in a sea of broken china he doesn’t care about what they have to think about him. He already knows nothing he does right now will have later consequences, even if it means cutting up his feet like an idiot.

He’ll just have to do better next time.

________________________________

He doesn’t do better. Instead, he gives into the urge to stay in bed all day. No one comes for him and the discussion happens without him, which he knows because he resists the summons to go testify.

Maybe Logan got to be the lawyer this time. That’d be nice, he supposes. ________________________________

The next time he sets fire to his room, just to see what it would feel like to see everything he cares for burn.

(It doesn't feel much like anything, because he already knows it'll be back the next day. He hates it in unspeakable amounts when he's proven right.)

________________________________

The next, he goes over to the other half of the mindscape and steals Janus’ hat, feeling a bit more carefree as the side pursues him around the mindscape and the rest of the day is derailed.

________________________________

The next, he tries to make a cake to celebrate the callback and accidentally burns it. He feels like there's some sort of cosmic irony there.

________________________________

The next, he does nothing but make puns until the others cry in frustration.

________________________________

Next, he goes to the other half of the mindscape again and hangs out with Remus all day, just to check up on him after not seeing him since he took Roman’s place that one time.

Remus tries to attack him several times but Patton is past the point of being afraid of him. At one point he catches the shuriken Remus throws at his head and he finally manages to earn his favour.

They end up having a good time, talking until everything resets again.

________________________________

Next, he kisses everyone on the cheek and apologizes for getting drunk and being mean to them.

(Despite them being reseted versions of themselves and therefore not remembering any of it. He still does it anyway and it still makes him feel slightly better afterwards).

________________________________

Next, he finds the energy to make a genuine effort once again.

This time Logan ducks out. Patton spends the next few loops in mourning.

________________________________

By around the 75th loop, he’s finally had enough. There’s no more fun to be had messing around with these constantly-reseting sides, and he’s so so tired of trying to keep the peace and failing. Nothing he does was working-- in fact it seemed like he was just making things worse based on the amount of times one of the sides had broken down in front of them or tried to duck out or left with undealt with emotions. (There were so many things he had seen that would stick with him for a while, wondering just how close they were to having something similar happen in reality. He couldn't even rest anymore, kept awake by the questions.)

If he were a different side, one more accustomed to problem solving, perhaps he would’ve had a solution by now, but he just doesn’t. It's not how he was meant to operate. So instead of trying to figure it out, he goes to Virgil’s room after breakfast and starts blubbering in front of him until he’s led onto his bed where he's awkwardly consoled.

Virgil, without even knowing why he’s upset, places a comforting hand on his back anyway which sends Patton into even greater sobs. It had been so long since he'd let someone hug him or show him affection- so upset with himself for his failings that he stopped believing that he deserved any of it. This time he just lets it happen because he needs some comfort and if he doesn't get it he doesn't know how he'll be able to continue forward.

The two of them end up moving to a more neutral part of the mindscape as to not make his feelings worse, and he allows himself to indulge in just being held. He's aware of exactly how long they have until the start of the debate, so he milks his time with Virgil for all he's got, until eventually his crying evens out into sniffles, leaving him with tired eyes and a runny nose.

He knows Virgil wants to ask what’s wrong, but he breaks the silence first when he finally manages to calm down.

“Do you know how to get out of a loop?”

He can’t see Virgil’s face from where they’re hugging, but he can tell that he’s at odds with the question.

“You’re asking me, the MVP of spiralling, how to get out of a loop?” Virgil asked unbelievingly.

“Yeah, you’re right- It was stupid.” Patton begins, pulling away before Virgil stops him.

“I didn’t say that.” He says quickly, worriedly. Then he goes quiet in deliberate thought. “...You have to rely on the people around you to get out of it, I guess.”

When Patton makes a questioning noise, he continues.

“I mean… Sometimes it’s all you can do, y’know? You’re always gonna be biased when you’re living in your own head, and if you’re struggling to get through something yourself... the best thing to do is ask for help. Get a different viewpoint.”

"Sounds scary." Patton laughs wetly. Virgil joins him, sounding relieved.

"Yeah. It's definitely not as easy as it sounds. Being vunerable and reaching out to people, that is."

"...How do you manage?"

"Well..." Virgil pulls back a little. "I don't always. But you just have to trust that it'll be worth it in the end. And it usually is."

After a moment of thinking that over, Patton draws back fully and stares at him. Virgil meets his eyes with barely-veiled worry as he continues. “So… If you’re dealing with something, you can always tell us. You should know by now that you don't have to deal with everything alone, popstar.”

Patton can't meet his gaze any longer when his eyes heat up once more. "...I just want to be there for all of you," He finally admits in a small voice. "It's my one goal, and I feel like I only let you down. I can't expect you to carry my problems with you, on top of that."

Virgil's frown deepens. "It's not us carrying a burden for you, Pat. It's sharing the load equally so you don't fall under the pressure." His hand found Patton's back again, rubbing small circles. "If you feel like you have to be the one to fix everything all the time, then maybe we failed you as friends."

Once again, the dam broke, and Patton sincerely did not know what to say to that. Virgil pulled him back to his side, letting Patton rest his head on his shoulder as he let out his second round of tears for the day. They were spending too much time talking about his issues, he realized as the video started once more, but Virgil didn't make any move to leave his side, and for the nth time that day, he was incredibly greatful to him.

Something about their conversation clicked in his brain, and it was like he knew exactly what he needed to do. When he was finally ready to let go of this day, he gave Virgil one last hug and thanked him for his advice. He then sunk out back to his room and fell into bed, waiting for the cycle to start over again.

Perhaps he had known all along what he would have to do to end this, and Virgil had given him the final shove.

Either way, he so was ready for it to be over.

________________________________

On the final loop, Patton decided to follow Virgil’s advice.

He goes back to acting as normal-- eating breakfast, getting the call, rising up, reminding them about the wedding-- and this time he doesn’t do anything especially different.

Unlike his previous attempts where he tried to change his tune, tried to see through every possibility, tried to stop arguments before they started; he instead tries to do everything the same way the original debate had gone, to be the best of his memory.

He didn’t falter when he said things he now knew to be insensitive, he didn’t hold back on disagreeing with the others, or insert himself into problems that weren’t his to help with yet. He watched as the cracks formed between each side, watched the gavel swing down, watched every other side sink out after shooing Janus away.

And he knew it would be just fine.

He looked into Thomas’ eyes and felt nothing but pride. Just like the real thing, this one looked uncertain, but was briefly relieved by the conclusion they came to, putting his trust in Patton as he reassured him in his decision. He knew that by choosing this route he was accepting the heartbreak that would come later, but he accepted that. He understood now that hiding in fantasies of getting everything perfect was counterproductive and unrealistic. He knew it was time to go back.

As he sunk out to his room for the final time, he realized that if this exercise taught him anything, it was that above making the right choices, above having the right things to say to fix everyone’s problems, all he needed, all along…

Was patience.

________________________________

Patton opened his eyes to the sight of dim spotlights overhead. With a loud dad grunt he was glad no one else was around to hear, he rolled over to sit on the edge of the stage, looking out to the seat in the crowd he had once been impersonated at.

He took in the room once last time before the lights continued to dim, which he instinctually knew to be the mind’s way of telling him to leave. He was ready for it; so he did.

Hopping off of the stage, he walked between the aisles towards the exit, pushing the doors open to be greeted with the familiar space of the mindscape. He stood there for a second, letting his eyes adjust from the darkness of the theatre as his memory slowly returned to him-- compressing the months he had just gone through until he could remember why he had come here in the first place.

“So.” He heard a familiar voice come from next to him as he regained his bearings. “Are you satisfied with what you found?”

“...Yeah.” Patton said softly, turning to smile at the figure.

“And?”

“I didn’t need to change anything in the end.”

There was a sharp exhale, barely a scoff. “Well, I could’ve told you that, and it would’ve saved you a lot of hassle.”

“You could have.” Patton agreed. “...But it was helpful seeing all the way things could have been different, too.”

His eyes fell to the ground, recalling the different outcomes that were wildly different and much much worse than their current situation. It made him grateful for the way everything had turned out-- imperfect but not broken-- and made everything seem so much less bleak than how he first thought it to be. When he was so lost that he had chosen to relive that day for the sake of getting peace.

“Oh? And what exactly happened in there?”

“A lot. One time I stole your hat. You got so mad that you started hissing.” Patton’s smile widened at one of the better memories, even more so when his friend grumbled.

“Wow. I’m so glad the hour I spent out here waiting was used productively.” Janus sighed, pulling his hat down subconsciously. “...I am glad that it helped, though.”

“I am too.” Patton hummed. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Janus finally returned his smile and Patton brightened up. They weren't yet confident that they could fix everything that had happened between the sides, they didn’t even know if it was possible for them to do so alone, but they were at least willing to take that step forward and offer a helping hand.

And that's all that matters, right? No matter how many times they were let down or faced an obstacle, they just kept getting up to try to be better. It didn't matter if things weren't alright again right away; sometimes earning forgiveness meant trusting the other person to come back to you eventually. Waiting for that opportunity to glue back the pieces together.

And if Patton was certain about anything, it was that he was more than prepared to wait.

________________________________

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[utterlyinevitable]

Could you do

11 for Ethan x Odette

20 for Ethan x Becca

from the First vs. Last writing prompts?

I hope it's not too much. Thank you! ❤️

Thanks so much for the request! 💕 i just went with whatever came out. apologies for any mistakes or nonsensical rambling. 

> first vs last list <

Small Moments (Ethan x Odette)

11. First touch 

A companionable hand squeeze. A rub of the shoulders here or there. His hand in hers as she’s bandaged him up. All of them quick, natural brushes of support; small sentiments of understanding. Something they don’t think anything of, it’s all part of the job - the bond they’ve formed. 

The first time Ethan and Odette really touched one another for longer than a fraction of a second is when her arms wrapped around him. The biggest embrace she’s ever given. Hands lingering and rubbing instinctive soothing circles along his back. Her neck craning to let his heavy head rest on her shoulder; Ethan’s slumped body using her for support. 

This is the kind of support she’s seldom given anyone else. Not like this. Not hunched over on the gym floor, wrapping her body around a broad man keening into pieces she’s trying so hard to keep from fully shattering. 

She’s never done something like this before, for anyone. 

Ethan’s never let anyone see him like this, let alone let himself need this. 

Odette holds him as he cries. Her hands working his back, shoulders, forearms, anywhere to help sooth the heaving chest whilst he leans against her. 

Neither really think about what they’re doing - breaking down fine barriers - It just is. It’s what’s needed. 

It’s just the beginning of how much they need the other. 

Last touch

“Okay. I’m going,” Odette announces with finality. 

She’s staring at her suitcases. Out the corner of her eye she can see Ethan raising a brow in wordless questioning. 

She’s been muttering the phrase as she packs the entirety of the last two days. 

“I mean it this time.” 

Ethan doesn’t say anything, just moves closer. Until he’s a breath away from her. 

“I know.” 

His arms wind around her waist, cradling her close. 

Naturally Ode leans into him. Her hands trailing up his clothed arms delicately; as if taking the muscles to memory. Drawing light patterns until her fingers graze the freshly cut hair at the base of his head. 

“I wish I could take you to the airport,” he says. 

“I know.” 

Neither thought she’d have to move across the country this soon. 

“I’ll be fine,” Ode tries so hard to reassure.  

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” 

Two sets of darkened and cloudy eyes meet when Ode cups Ethan’s cheek. “You’ll survive.” 

They both know she’s right. They’ll both survive, but they don’t want to. 

“I’ll visit as soon as I can.” 

“Please don’t push yourself. We knew what we’re in for. Edenbrook needs their Chief more than I do.”

Ethan presses his desperate lips to hers, as if telling her he doesn’t give a damn what the board or the hospital needs; he’s conveying what he needs. Which, as always, is her. 

Just as it deepens and her arms are wrapped so tight around his neck, their phones sound. Ethan’s with a hasty buzz and Odette’s with a resounded ring. 

With one lasting peck she picks up her bags and walks out the door. 

Liquid Courage (Ethan x Becca)

20. First time seeing them super drunk 

He’d thought he’d seen her drunk before. 

The boisterous sounds of her and her friends giggling in the corner of Donahue’s for all to hear. Singling and making a ruckus and doing whatever it is they do. He’s also quite certain he and Becca have drowned their sorrows into oblivion together. 

He knows the way her ears and neck flush red. The way her brown eyes near black as they’re consumed by her pupils. The lopsided smirk and perpetual parting of lips he knows can’t end well for him. 

Ethan recalls - purely convinced - of her inebriation in Miami and his too. How else had they ended up the way they did. 

He’s seen her lose herself in the music; singing at the top of her lungs. But, as he’s come to realize, he’s never once witnessed her beyond reproach. 

His phone rings at such an unsociable hour. 

Ethan should be asleep but restful nights are far from plenty. 

Against all reason, he answers. 

It’s in the heavy breaths and confidently shattered tone that Ethan knows. Understands he’s never once encountered her properly drunk before. She’s drunk enough to phone an ex... what? 

Becca’s certainly seen him at his lowest point. The guilt washes over Ethan at being a part of hers. 

Last time seeing them super drunk

“Another already?” he chides as he approaches his wife - his wife! - at the open bar, signaling to the bartender he’d like whatever she’s having. 

“I should be asking you the same thing.” Her smile is crooked and Ethan can already see the stain of red wine lips overtaking her lipstick. The flush of her neck and chest peeking out from beneath the mesh of her ivory gown. 

“My tolerance is higher.” 

“Sure.” 

Ethan can’t help but wrap his arms around her and place a kiss to her balmy forehead as they wait. 

“I also did not start the day with mimosas,” he mutters against her skin. 

“Two words;” she holds up two fingers to accentuate her point “Family. Colleagues.” 

He chuckles, “Point taken.” 

They both give a nod in thanks as they take their drinks, drawing a long sip that parallels the exhausting day. 

“What else is on the list?” 

Once again Becca starts to count things off her fingers. “Did the rounds. Did the pictures. The first dance...” her smirk grows disastrously wide and her eyes glitter under the fairy lights; “I think we’re good to indulge.”  

And indulge they did. 

Refined shots with her friends. Champagne toasts formally and informally by anyone who was willing to listen and sing the praises of such a fine couple. Unabashed indulgent kisses in front of everyone. 

Not a care in the world. 

Ethan and Becca snuggled in the back of the car driving them up to their private cabin on the property. 

The two of them fumbling through the door and shedding the clothes they’ve been in for nearly fifteen hours. 

Naked and slicked with days old sweat, they fell into bed. Becca fitting perfectly in Ethan’s arms as they drifted off into sweet, publicized, marital sleep. 

_____________________________

a/n: thank you for reading 💕

@openheartfanfics 

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[writefightandflightclub]

Return to Sender: (Richard Alonso Muñoz x GN reader)

What is this? This is 4/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. I’m not gonna share the prompt as it’s spoilery, but it was requested by @sergeantkane​ who is a genius for picking this combo! It’s a prompt about LOVE LETTERS! Omg! And thus, it matches perfectly with Richard (trust me, I had NOT made that connection when I made the prompt list :P). Thank you so much for requesting, Clarke, and I hope you enjoy it. I’m excited about this one!

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Oh, I really quite like this one. Hope it makes you feel as soft as I did for Richard while writing it! Also- it’s my first bash at writing him, so let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who helped with film details too: those not already tagged in the post- @prurientpuddlejumper​ @witchyavenger​ @veuliee2​ @waatermelon-sugaar​ @pascal-isaac​

Word count: 4.5 k. So not a blurb, then? :P

Rating: Mature, for light steam (not explicit, but 18+ or out, please!)

Warnings: mentions of food/eating. Mild angst (but it ends well), Steamy. Kissing, brief non-explicit mention of erection. Implied coitus (cut scene). Richard works in a “correctional facility”. Small mention of attempted break-in. If I missed any let me know.

Tagging: @anetteaneta​ @isvvc-pvscvl​ @nowritingonthewall​ @supernovafeather​ (ONLY READ IF 18+)

GIF by @nathan-bateman​

“Have you ever received a love letter?” Richard wonders shyly, without looking up from his crossword puzzle, his long eyelashes fanned out as his gaze dances over the monochrome squares.

Meanwhile, your eyes snap up immediately from your magazine, which you are idly leafing through, a breath catching in your chest.

You bristle at the question, and yet Richard seems either entirely oblivious, or entirely determined not to look-up at you. Perhaps both. So, instead of looking, he simply slurps the dregs of his milkshake, and pushes his plate of waffle remnants further toward the far end of the diner booth.

When he finally raises his gaze – a gentle prompt for you to answer him- his eyes are large and shining under the fluorescent lights as he peers at you over his glass, dabbing at his thick moustache with a paper napkin shortly after.

“No, never,” you state sadly, heeding his prompt with a small smile and a shake of your head. Not even a love e-mail.

“I’m surprised,” he flatters with a cautious smile. And, if you’re not mistaken, his eyes light-up with the faintest trace of desire. The barest undercurrent of passion, which is enough to have your heart beating like a drum. You notice it sometimes; this dull heat emanating off of him. It is a spark which never ignites, however - to your endless disappointment; you would fan that flame if only you knew how.

You swallow. He’s surprised? He can’t be that surprised, you think, a stone sinking through your stomach as you dwell too long on the topic of love letters, and meanwhile, Richard’s attention seamlessly diverts back to 3 across.

“You deserve one,” he says, still looking at the page, but a smile animating his wiry moustache. “A letter.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a spiralling sadness catching hold of you. Does he not understand what this is doing to you? This painful reminder? “Can we drop it, Richard?” you say tensely, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are even more soft and cautious than usual, causing you to admonish yourself for the bite in your tone.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course,” he smiles thinly, apologetically.

It’s simply the new job, you think. Director of Communications. The man has letters on the brain. Richard is so considerate, that you realise he must not intend to hurt you in dredging up the past; he would never. In a way though, you think, it’s even worse that he brings it up so… casually. You can only conclude he has forgotten that you sent your letter to him at all. Had your heartfelt words, declaring your love, had so little impact on him?

Maybe that’s it. After all, they seemed to have so little impact upon him at the time. What could you expect years later? On the other hand, you -apparently- remain rather sore about the topic, all this time later. It’s natural to be sensitive though, isn’t it? You’d written him a love letter and he didn’t write you back. He didn’t say it back. Didn’t feel it back.

And, perhaps it still stings so much, even all these years later, because you never did stop loving him, even if he never started loving you.

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming haste to leave, you thumb through the pages of your magazine so furiously that the next table turn their heads to look at you, until you find what you were searching for.

“Here, Richard. The article I mentioned. Dramatherapy for people who are incarcerated.”

You fold the magazine back on itself, fobbing it off on him with an unprecedented urgency, hurriedly signalling to the waitress that you’d like the check. The roomy diner booth suddenly feels suffocating, and you want to get out. Meanwhile, oblivious, Richard chuckles at the title of the article -some kind of pun, you recall- as you try to push down the unpleasant emotions surfacing within you.

“Thank you for this,” he smiles, looking up at you earnestly. Looking concerned as he reads the expression on your face. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes fix on the table, where his fingertips inch hesitantly across the surface, hovering moments from yours as he debates whether to extend comfort. You make the decision for him, snatching your hand back from his reach.

“Yes. I’m Fine,” you say, unconvincingly. “Can we please go? I need some fresh air.”

“Alright,” Richard agrees gently. He looks a little flustered, but, now sensing your urgency, he begins to sweep up his papers and to shrug on his jacket. He pulls out a small comb to fix his neat curls in place, and offers you a soft smile. “Maybe we can go to the park next?” he suggests.  

As much as you want to run, you nod, some of your agitation dissipating now that the prior topic seems to be forgotten. “Okay. Yeah. That would be nice.” You school your expression into something calm, and you offer him a reassuring smile as his soulful eyes dance over you, a lingering but unobtrusive concern there.

As you split the check, you tell yourself for the millionth time that being his friend is enough; but even after the millionth time, you can’t quite believe it.

Still, today -Sunday- is your one day with him this week. And, no matter what you can’t have; you’ll take anything you can get.

He’s too dear to you to settle for anything less.

************

One month later:

You crouch in amongst the boxes on Richard’s front lawn. He is having a clear-out, setting out some items for goodwill, and some for a neighbourhood yard sale happening next weekend.

You are having fun assisting him in sifting through various items, occasionally bursting into a fit of laughter when he reveals yet another ill-informed, late night shopping channel “bargain” – usually some new-fangled, scarcely-used exercise contraption, which he proceeds to demonstrate in good-humour, making you fold over clutching your stomach in mirth. Occasionally, as you rifle through the boxes, you’ll be overcome by a pang of sentimentality when he uncovers an item with a memory attached; and -no matter how useless- he usually sneaks said item into his ever-growing “to-keep” pile.

“But this is the picnic hamper we took to Bound Beach Island! For your birthday, remember?”  

“Yeah, Richard, but it’s battered! It has holes! It needs to go.”

“It was a beautiful day. The light and the dunes were beautiful… and… and y-“

“-Oh my goodness, what is this?! Please for the love of God tell me you never actually wore this!”

You work through the midday sun until you come to a tired, dead halt on the grass, finally parking your ass down and wiping your brow. Richard looks warm too, a “v” of sweat soaking his old, oversized “Save the Turtles” t-shirt. No - he really doesn’t throw anything away. You smile fondly, though, remembering his sea turtle phase. Of course, he’d read some article. He always was looking for a cause.

“I’ll make us some iced tea,” Richard announces with a tired puff of breath, looking more spent than he probably wants to admit after shuttling the various boxes. Still, the way his grizzled curls have fallen away from his harsh side-part appeals to you, sitting disobedient and undone on his forehead.

Thinking of him undone, you hear a faint beating of drums sound in your chest.

You ignore the music though, like always, instead smiling gratefully as he heads inside, and you take a second to collect yourself before dragging the nearest box towards you, deciding you may as well continue. This next box is taped securely shut, and you chuckle quietly to yourself when you notice it’s labelled “workout-gear”.

You peel the packing tape away and open it up, scooping out the pile of miscellaneous papers sitting right on top. Beginning to leaf through, you surmise it’s mainly unopened junk mail; mainly garishly printed promotional flyers - from a pizzeria which closed down years ago, you recognise. Probably hastily stuffed in before his last move and never dealt with. Absent-mindedly, you begin to bundle it up for the recycling pile, when a smaller, more humble envelope drops out on to your lap, a hand-scrawled address on the front. The stationary is resoundingly familiar.

In fact, everything about it is familiar.

Your heart hammers in your chest as it immediately dawns on you.

It’s your letter.

The letter you sent him, all those years ago. You’d needed to be apart from him- needed to go away to take care of family, and you simply couldn’t go without letting him know. Letting him know you were in love with him.

The memory is like a slow knife sinking into your chest as you idly turn it over in your hands.

But… It can’t be…?

It’s… unopened.

All the air leaves you lungs.

No. No. It doesn’t make a shred of sense.

You’d spoken to him right afterward, on the phone. The first time he’d called after you left town he’d almost pleaded with you, giving you an unequivocally clear, and endlessly painful answer that he didn’t want what you wanted. What you’d written about. He’d made it abundantly obvious that he simply wanted to be friends. “I- I don’t want anything to change. I want everything to stay exactly like it is between us – please? Can we still talk every day?”

But if he didn’t read it…?

You heart pounds so hard that you hear blood rushing in your ears.

He doesn’t know.

His words didn’t mean what you…

Oh my god. All this time.  

You shoot abruptly to standing when you see him approach, as if you’ve been caught red-handed, guiltily stuffing the letter into your back pocket before he can ask you what it is, an abundance of thoughts screaming in your head.

He hands you the glass of tea, ice tinkling gently, and you take it from him, the coolness shocking your palms.

Assessing what you’ve been up to in his absence, and noting the carcass of another box, Richard glances down at the pile of papers strewn at your feet. He looks suddenly worried for a moment, as if you might have found an old porn stash or something – and he looks just as suddenly relieved when he sees they are more innocent papers, scooping them up from the grass.

“Richard?” you say, your eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, and the letter burning a hole in your pocket as he drops the items into the recycling. He hums for you to go on. “Do you... You know when I moved away...?” your voice is strained, and you gulp hard. “Just before, do you remember getting any unusual letters or... weird post from me?”

“Like what kind of thing?” he asks curiously, turning back to you.

“I don’t know exactly,” you lie, nervously. “I have a feeling I sent you something? A sappy goodbye thing?”

You see him mull it over, combing his impressive moustache with his fingers. “I don’t remember, sorry. But apparently I was drowning in junk mail at that apartment. Maybe it got lost, or returned to sender?”

Despite everything, you exhale a small laugh. In a roundabout way, you suppose it had been returned to sender after all. You look at the ground.

“Was it important?” he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he looks at you.

Biding time, you take a sip of your tea while you search for an answer. It’s refreshing.

“It… Uh. It was a long, long time ago. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” you muse, masking your sadness, and he nods, looking at least half-satisfied with your answer.

Except, it does matter. It matters more than anything. And, with a sudden, overwhelming need to grab on to the past, you track to the “to go” box, rescuing the battered picnic basket from the pile of junk.

“You shouldn’t get rid of this,” you state, your back to Richard, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your voice falters. You tense as you feel him settle by your side, his hand hovering tentatively at the small of your back but never quite touching. “It was a beautiful day.”

“No,” he insists. “You’re right. I shouldn’t hang on to it.”

His words are like a punch in the gut. You turn your head to your side, where Richard is, your eyes and heart almost overflowing.

Noting your sadness, and connecting it to the picnic basket, he does everything he can to smooth things over, like always. “We can get a new one,” he says, his brown eyes sweet and hopeful and bright.

You love him. You love him still and you can’t help but turn towards him and reach out your arms, dragging him in for a hug.

“No! No, I’m sweaty,” he protests self-consciously, but you don’t care. You just need to hold him, even only for a moment – and, for a moment he stills as you loop around him, never quite clutching you back.

When you pull away though, you could swear that dim spark of passion is present in his eyes again. That spark that never catches, no matter how much or how often or how hard you wish it would. Oh, how you wish.

“Don’t ever change, Richard,” you say sincerely, your voice imbued with fondness. “Okay? You’re a sweet, wonderful man.”

His eyes are immediately soft and bashful again, the colour of his cheeks deepening a little, a crimson undertone blooming under his brown skin.

“Yes. Okay,” he offers, with a nod, his eyes creasing at the corners, and his posture even bolstered by the compliment, you could swear, his chest puffing out proudly.

For the rest of the afternoon, you ignore the unread words in the back of your pocket; but for the life of you, you can’t ignore those drums.

************

One month later:

You bundle the yapping, happy little white dog into your arms, relieved that she’s okay as her little tail happily beats against your arm.

“Are you okay, Lady?” you coo as she nuzzles her snoot into your face, eagerly lapping little kisses on to your cheek. “Thanks goodness, sweet little floof,” you baby-talk as your eyes quickly scan around Richard’s place, setting his spare key down on the kitchen counter.

You’d barrelled across town to get here, after receiving a call about an attempted break-in. His neighbour to the left had your contact details in case of an emergency -it’s not very easy to reach him at work, of course- so here you are. You came to give things a quick checking over, assured that no-one suspicious had continued to loiter. Richard won’t be much longer -his shift has nearly ended, and you’d left him a voicemail so you’re sure he’ll hurry- but you still thought you’d go on ahead of him, especially so that he wouldn’t worry about Lady.

Looking around, thankfully all seems well, and you don’t think anyone made it inside after all. Slowly then, you allow your nerves to calm and your heart to settle, bouncing the little bundle of fur in your arms, and feeding her a treat from the packet on top of the microwave, just in case she’d been stressed out.

Calming, you can’t help but smile as you look around, absorbing all the little details of Richard. You do hang out in his apartment a fair amount, but most often you will meet or sit outdoors, when the weather allows. After all, he loves to feel the sun and fresh air on his face, especially after spending all day cooped-up in windowless rooms. To you though, this Richard-ness is like a breath of fresh air, and you let it all wash over you, drinking in the details of his simple daily routine. The discarded half-plate of frijoles and rice by the sink. The ironing-board piled with identical uniform-issue shirts, pants, and plain white t-shirts. The photos on the fridge door – some of you and him too.

Doing a lap of the living space, you further note the dining-for-one TV table, evidence of his relatively solitary existence, and you can almost see him sitting there. Can almost hear his soft voice relating the far-fetched storylines of his favourite telenovelas. You imagine him chuckling warmly - perhaps shedding a tear sometimes too.

You decide you should pop your head into the bedroom and bathroom to check there too, for good measure, and you set Lady down, the dog trotting along at your heels. Once you’ve done a loop, you sigh, seeking out a fresh task, and you circle back to the sink, scraping his discarded plate and rinsing it, stacking it in the dishrack. Then, you move towards the TV chair, intending simply to sit yourself down and wait for Richard to come home. After all, you’re here now - you may as well say hello; or, maybe you can even prepare him dinner after his long shift, you muse.

As you revisit the small, rickety table, however, your eyes more keenly notice that a bunch of papers are strewn over it, all identical- a series of pastel pink leaves of paper and envelopes.

Letters.

Handwritten, in his familiar scrawl.

Letters addressed to you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, as you wonder what they could be. You don’t want to invade his privacy, of course, but perhaps this is something that’s meant for you? After all, sometimes he leaves you notes when you come over to feed or walk Lady.  

Still, this feels different, and, with a lump in your throat that you don’t quite understand, you pick up one of the leaves at random, skimming the first line, yet feeling only more confused than you did before.  

You see your name at the head of the paper, followed by the words “my dearest love,”, and underneath, some other half-formed paragraphs, scribbled over and crossed out.

No, you shake your head, your stomach flipping over. That can’t be right, you think, even as your fingers scramble for another leaf - for leaf upon leaf, until you piece together what’s going on. Until, with every line you read, fragments of both English and Spanish, you feel as though you are piecing together his heart.

Could it be true? Is this really true?

Your fingers dive for a sheet more developed that the rest, where you see paragraphs of writing, and you devour the words like you are starved of love; for you are, aren’t you? Starved? And yet, you suddenly feel so full. Brimming.

My darling,

There are infinite ways to fall in love. Some are elemental, like a raging fire. A shock of lightning on first sight. Some are slow-burning and constant, the heat of friendship warming your hearth, defrosting your iced fingertips when you come in from the cold.

There are infinite ways to fall in love, and I should know, my heart, as I have experienced every one of them with you.

You can barely read the rest as tears blur your eyes, and your hand comes to clamp over your mouth as realisation sinks through to the pit of you, the page quaking -like a leaf- in your fingers.

You make my heart beat like a drum. When I look at you, I am music, without being played. When you’re with me I am dancing, without movement. If only you would touch my skin, I feel like I would sing. If only you would-

“-Are you safe? Are you alright?” Richard asks from behind you, and you tear your eyes away from the page with a start. You were so absorbed by this swell of beating music that you didn’t hear the scrape of his key in the lock. You didn’t hear his hurried footsteps coming up behind you.  

“Richard,” you suspire, and for once his touch is on you without hesitation, his hands clasped around each of your shoulders, slowly running down your arms, and you nod quickly to reassure him, your mouth opening wordlessly. You’re safe.

His touch is warm through your clothes, and you think he is right- your skin would sing for him too if he touched you. Your love rattles you, like drums beating musically in your chest, pulsing through your body.

Then, Richard clocks your sideward, guilty glance at the pile of letters, and you see his panic instantly surface at the thought of all his unsent and unspoken words laid bare before you. All the pieces of his heart exposed.

At first, he looks apologetic, but then you step forwards a little more, into the circle of his arms. Arms which suddenly fall, unsure, at his sides once again. And, achingly slow, endlessly sure, you lift up you hand and you place it on his chest, over his heart, smoothing over his shirt and over the cool metal of the shield he wears there. You feel his heart really is beating like a drum. His chest is rising and falling beneath your hand, his breath quickened – eyes nervous.

You step a little closer, and your fingers continue their slow crawl, dancing up around his collar, inching further up until your fingers finally brush the bare skin at the nape of his neck, pushing up into the curls behind his ears, your thumb skimming his sideburn. You touch him, with your fingertips, and he does sing for you, a half-choked moan leaving his mouth at your tender caress.

“Richard,” you say breathily, searching his face, eyes openly appraising his beauty. “Don’t worry, sweet man. I love you too.” And, when you next meet his eyes there is no nervousness there. Not any longer. Instead, you find his dark, expressive eyes brewing with adoration, and that gentle but ever ascending note of passion.

“Darling, can I kiss you?” he pleads, his voice dogged by desire, his brow knitting together and his hands slipping bravely to your waist, circling you as you arch into him.

“Yes. Yes,” you say, and his mouth meets yours in a desperate, tumultuous crush. You sing too, your skin thrumming as you finally know the feeling of his thick moustache brushing against you. As you taste the sweet flavour of cherry sucker on his kiss. As you finally feel the texture of his slicked curls beneath your fingertips.

You kiss, urgently, until you are each smiling too broadly to continue, and instead Richard beams and presses sweet, intermittent kisses all over – your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, your neck- his moustache tickling wherever it touches. His hands are everywhere they can be politely, roaming over your back and your arms and your hair, and it feels so good to finally be held like this.

Eventually, he pulls back, his smile no longer tugging at his lips so keenly -lips now kiss flushed with deep colour- but shining in his liquid eyes. “How long have you loved me back?” he asks in a still choked, disbelieving voice.

You bite your lip, but then allow your face to split in a radiant, unrestrained grin.

Always. Always. I loved you first, you think.

You reach for your bag, reluctant to break from him so trailing your love’s hand in yours- and you fish out the letter. The one you’ve carried around since it was returned to you. “Take a look, Richard,” you encourage.

He looks from you to the small envelope, turning it in his spare hand as you pass it to him. “What is this?”

His brows rise in confusion as you tap the stamped postmark with your index finger. Years. Years ago.

“I sent you a letter,” you explain. “Telling you I loved you. That I love you,” you correct, squeezing his hand tightly in yours, amazed at how natural it feels already, to touch him.

He audibly gasps in air, looking pained. Devastated. “I never got it. I would’ve-“, he fumbles for words, but he can’t finish them, the magnitude of all those years lost to yearning too big to wrap his lips around. “I never got it,” he repeats sorrowfully.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about that now,” you soothe. “I got your letter.” And, as you engulf him with your arms a soft smile takes over his features once again. He can’t help it.

“I’m so glad you did,” he beams, drawing you to him for another kiss, which you eagerly accept, opening your mouth to him.

God, he’s a good kisser, his tongue in you deep and eager, and the heat generated is quick to catch, a fire lit in the pit of you. That moustache is a divine thing too, his lips soft and full beneath, his mild-mannered tongue positively sinful as it works against yours.

Letting the kiss grow, you grab hold of him by the belt to draw his body closer to yours, arching your hips into his, and you feel an impressive bulge greet you as you do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers bashfully, angling his hips away from you, in case you’re not ready for… that yet. “You’re perfection. So perfect, I… I’m a little bit, uh, excited.”

You don’t blame him. You’re a little bit excited too. There’s a drum beating in your chest. Music in your heart. A song everywhere. A dance in your body.

“W-would you like to take me to the bedroom, Richard?” you purr, softly. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You wish you could capture the bliss which sparks in his eyes then, and keep stoking it forever more. His whole being glows as if you are the sun shining down on him. He loves the sun on his face. He loves you.

He loves you.

*******

Later that night:

At some point after round three, Richard is ravenous, and so you head to the kitchen to grab some snacks. One of Richard’s plaid shirts wards off the slight chill, settled over your otherwise naked body. As you microwave something quick, you can barely keep the smile from your face – even more so as you glance over at the table full of half-finished letters. As the microwave pings and you grab out the plate, another idea occurs to you, and you simply can’t help yourself.

So, you pad mysteriously back towards the bedroom, where Richard is waiting. The blanket is slung low over his hips, skimming the dark trail of hair which draws your gaze down beyond his abdomen. He is covered, and yet you bloom blissfully with heat at your new-found knowledge of what lays beneath. He’s laying with one hand folded behind his head, and one hand rested on the soft, roundness of his stomach, which you had laid your head on only moments ago.

Richard’s eyes shine with unadulterated admiration as you enter, and you flash him a mischievous smile as you transfer the plate to his hands, and subsequently tip a cascade of his letters into the middle of the bed.

“What’s all this?” he asks, with a contented laugh as you bounce eagerly into bed by his side, humming in equal contentment as you slot yourself under his arm.  

“I want you to read them to me. Will you?” you ask, sweetly, and he looks bashful all over again. “No-one has ever sent me a love letter.”

“Me neither,” he chuckles. “Or I thought so…”

He hesitates, perhaps feeling shy, but he wraps his arm around you securely, nuzzling you into his side as he picks up the closest leaf of paper.

He hums gratefully as you begin to stroke his smooth chest. He really does sing whenever you touch him.

“They’re not finished,” he caveats. “I wanted to find the perfect words and I… I couldn’t.”

“The words don’t have to be perfect. It’s more important that they’re delivered,” you say, your voice soft as you sink into him, and so, he gently clears his throat and he begins to read, his words and his rich, soothing voice filtering over you like warm sunshine.

After a moment listening, and letting his love and his letters envelop you, you interrupt him gently. “My sweet man. Promise me you’ll never write me another love letter?”

“Are they that awful?!” Richard exclaims.

“No!” you laugh, into his chest, tipping your chin up to look him in the eyes. “They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s just… I think I hate love letters, Richard. They’ve only ever kept me from you.”

His expression becomes wistful, lost in thought until a smile finally captures him. Then, with a finger curling gently under your chin, he dips down to plant a small kiss to the very tip of your nose.

“No more letters then,” he promises softly. “Let’s always promise to say it out loud from now on. Let’s talk every day.”

You heart full, you bring your hand up to caress his cheek, before planting a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips; and, despite what you’d just suggested, you plead for him to keep reading to you, his voice and his love lulling you to sleep in his arms.

With the love letters as kindling, your dim spark finally catches, your fire now blazing. You set it in a hearth in your chest, and you vow to keep it stoked for always.

THE END

Bonus:

[hatterstan-shameblog]

💫✨💕send this to ten bloggers you think are wonderful. keep the game going 💕✨

You infected my brain with hatter stuff

You will be hearing from my attorneys

And by attorneys, I mean random thoughts that pop in my head

Good day!

That’s it, you’re getting

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Hatter Has Definitely Kissed Every Executive At Least Once And This Is How It Went:  Niragi Edition

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Rating: PG-13

Tags: violence, language, death threats, dubious consent (tagging that just to be safe), creative problem solving

Summary: Violence isn’t always the answer, but it’s usually some part of the equation (at least, it is in the Borderlands…)

“Ah, Mori, so nice of you to—“

“Shut the fuck up!”

There is an old adage—timing is everything in life—and that sentiment is truer today than ever before.

At least, it is for Aguni.

He has managed to show up in the meeting room just in time to witness Niragi holding a very loaded rifle right below Takeru’s jaw. The energy in the room hums tense and hot; one strike of a match and the whole place might explode.

“Put the gun down,” Aguni growls, mood shifting from ‘mildly annoyed’ to ‘enraged concern,’ “or I’ll snap your goddamn spine—“

“Now, now, there’s no need for all of that,” Takeru placates, “Our friend Niragi is just expressing himself.”

“I’m gonna express your brains all over the fucking wall if you don’t stop fucking talking,”

“Such a vivid description,” Takeru muses, cocking his head to one side and eyeing Niragi curiously, “is there something about the sight of blood that you find exciting? Not necessarily in a sexual way; although it’s perfectly fine if that’s the case—“

“Stop playing with him,” Aguni interrupts with an exasperated roll of his eyes. He turns his attention to Niragi and points an accusatory finger directly at his chest.

“And you,” Aguni seethes, “you’ve got until the count of three to put the gun down and step away before I snap your neck—“

“You will do no such thing,” Takeru gently chides, giving a soft smile, “I have everything under control.”

“Yeah,” Niragi taunts, sneering at Aguni, “this is none of your fucking business.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Aguni grumbles, clenching his fists at his sides and clenching his jaw. He’s just about to storm his way over and wrestle the gun from Niragi’s devious grip when Takeru holds up his hand in a bid to stop his approach.

“Do you remember our last trip to Sendai,” Takeru asks, furrowing his brow as he tries to remember the details, “it’s been…oh, a good five years since then. Maybe six, I can’t quite recall at the moment.”

“The fuck you talking about?”

“We stayed at that lovey little inn, just outside the city center,” Takeru reminisces, paying no mind to his confused assailant’s question, “we were lucky enough to catch the autumn leaves just before they began to fall. Magical experience, I so hope to go back some day…”

“Pretty sure the yakuza won’t let you back in,” Aguni adds, “barely got away as is.”

“But I did get away,” Takeru reminds him, sounding very pleased with himself, “And, if you can recall, I used a rather effective method of escape.”

“Whatever you did for those clowns won’t fucking work on me,” Niragi insists, pressing the barrel of the gun even harder against Takeru’s skin.

“I’m not so sure,” Takeru hums, “you seem like the type of man who’d be receptive to a…softer approach.”

To illustrate his point, Takeru puckers his lips and releases them with a an audible ‘pop’—an imitation of a kiss, complete with a cheeky wink thrown in at the end.

Niragi looks horrified.

“Did he,” Niragi asks, voice scratched thin as if on the verge of a screech, “fucking…make out with the goddamn yakuza?”

“Yes,” Aguni confirms solemnly, “yes, he did.”

“And it worked! Splendidly, too, I might add,” Takeru exclaims excitedly, “Almost as magical as the changing trees.”

“Takeru,” Aguni grits, “that’s not gonna work here…”

“You’re goddamn right it’s not,” Niragi spits, eyes narrowing into two knife-sharp slits, “ugly-ass motherfucker like you couldn’t even make me blink twice.”

“You’re a man who knows what he likes. I appreciate that,” Takeru says coolly, letting his gaze slip over the gun-wielding maniac in front of him, “just like I appreciate the occasional wager. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in that sort of thing, would you?”

“Takeru,” Aguni hisses, “he’s got you at gunpoint—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Niragi jabs in Aguni’s direction, before turning his attention to Takeru once more, “Gimme your terms. I wanna hear what kind of stupid-ass ideas you got.”

Takeru smirks.

“Nothing too complicated. You let me kiss you,” he explains, “and, if I don’t have you falling to your knees by the time I’m done, you can shoot me as many times as you like. I’ll even have Mori here give you his pocket knife so you can do some slicing, if you like. Could get some really unique blood spatters on the rug that way, like a Jackson Pollock.”

Takeru’s smirk tightens as Niragi imagines the scenario—no doubt in gory, brilliant technicolor, with all the drama and carnage a young man of his macabre inclinations could possibly dream of.

“Of course,” Takeru adds, “if I do manage to succeed, you let me go. No penalties, no petty revenge; we walk out of here as friendly as ever, and none shall be the wiser.”

Niragi snorts.

“Un-fucking-likely. But you know what? I’m feeling fucking generous.”

Niragi lowers the gun a smidge—just enough to allow Takeru some head movement—and shoots him a chilling smile.

“Give it your best shot, old man,” he says, “unless you’re too much of a fucking pussy…”

“I assure you, darling, that I most certainly am not,” Takeru replies.

He brings a hand up to Niragi’s face and very gently pushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear—a gesture which earns him a confused frown and furrowed, pierced brow.

“For fuck’s sake,” Aguni mumbles from the sidelines, watching as Takeru’s hand snakes around the nape of Niragi’s neck and cradles it like he would with any other lover, “are you seriously gonna—“

And, yes; apparently Takeru is ‘seriously gonna’ because he does. His opposite hand has wrapped around Niragi’s waist and pulls him sharply towards himself. The hand at Niragi’s nape performs a similar, albeit more tender, motion, guiding Niragi to kiss him fully and passionately on the mouth.

Niragi closes his eyes—whether instinctually or from the reluctant pleasure of being kissed by a man he had until this point considered his enemy, he can’t be sure. All he does is feel, letting Takeru slip his clever tongue between his lips and trying not to groan at the flush of heat flaring in his face.

A swift jab to his right kidney has him yelping out in pain, while a firm stomp to his foot has his knees buckling and his throat screeching in pain.

Niragi crashes to the floor in a messy, loose-limbed heap. His gun falls to the side and is quickly kicked just out of reach by a casual, flip-flopped foot.

Niragi looks up to see a smug-looking Takeru staring down at him.

“And that’s how we do it in Kabukicho, bitch.”

“Not fucking fair,” Niragi wheezes in protest, arm twisting so he can clutch at his aching back, “you…cheating bastard.”

Takeru picks up the discarded gun and hands it to Aguni, who snatches it from his grip with an angry grimace.

“I may be a bastard, but not a cheating one,” Takeru gloats as he watches Aguni unload the bullets from the gun’s chamber, “I kissed you, you fell to your knees, end of story. I won fair and square.”

Aguni hands the bullets to Takeru, who pockets them with a certain measure of glee.

“If it makes you feel better, I had a lovely time,” Takeru says, “I don’t often come across tongue piercings, so that was quite a treat.”

“I’ll…fucking…kill you!”

“Not today, you won’t,” Aguni says, kicking the unloaded gun back to the floor-dwelling man, “Meanwhile, I suggest you try to get some sleep while you’re down there; you just doubled your patrol duty for the next three nights, so you’ll need all the rest you can get.”

Niragi immediately dissolves into angry, breathless protests, even going so far as to pound his fist on the floor in rage. Aguni remains unswayed, and motions for Takeru to follow him out of the room.

“Brilliant addition, old friend,” Takeru commends Aguni, patting him on the shoulder thrice as they begin to make their way out of the room, “shall we do lunch?”

“Fine,” Aguni agrees, “but you and I are going to have a serious talk about risk management…”

And the two men exit the room, chatting as if they hadn’t just been part of a life-and-death experience, leaving Niragi to gather himself and his pride from the floor.

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.