#@out-of-jams prompts

[random-thot-generator]

Reverse trope prompt: Fake amnesia

Full prompt list here by @out-of-jams

Soap x reader

Maybe? NSFW - Soap gets a wee bit handsy with reader, nothing sexually explicit, profanity, soap is a sneaky lil shit

dividers by: @saradika-graphics

"Where's me bonnie lass?"

"She's comin', lad," Price murmurs, giving Soap's shoulder a gentle pat. He squats down beside his wheelchair to peer into his sergeant's eyes. "Ya feelin' alright? Head hurtin' ya?"

Soap squints at his captain, suspicious. "Oi! Yer no' another one o' them doctors, are ye? Feckin' numpties willnae leave me alone."

Price sighs, shakes his head and stands. "No, lad. I'm— just visitin'."

Soap's face splits into a grin. "Oh. Well, tha's a'right, then. Dinnae mind visitors. Do ye ken tha' big bloke tha' wears a skelly mask? 'E comes t'visit meh, too." Soap leans in, voice dipping low. " Bit of an odd duck, tha' one. Tol' meh 'e was a ghost." His eyebrows arch high on his forehead. "An' the docs say I'm th'one wit' brain damage."

Price huffs a short laugh despite himself. "That's his callsign, lad. Do ya remember yours?"

"Callsign?" Soap repeats, looking confused.

"Never mind. 'S not important right now."

Soap nods, his eyes trailing back to the door. "'Ave ye seen the gas man about? Mehbeh he kens where me lass is."

"Gas man?" Price mutters, frowning, then understanding dawns. "Ah. Ya mean Gaz. He's uh— at work. Won't be around for a few days, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Tha's too bad. 'E's good at findin' m'lass fer meh." He raises a hand to scratch at the scar tissue on the side of his head. "Doan s'pose ye'd be willin' t'ave a look 'round fer 'er, would ye? Ah miss 'er." His blue eyes shine bright and luminous with hope.

Price nods, chuckling. "A'course, lad. I'll see if I can find her f'ya."

Price turns on the telly for him before he leaves, flipping it to a cartoon channel. Soap's loud guffaw follows him out into the hallway. Passing the nurses' station, he gives a nod to a couple of the nurses as he heads towards the cafeteria, where he last saw you. He breathes a sigh of relief when he spots you sitting with Ghost, a cup of tea in your hands.

You watch the captain's approach, taking in his expression, then grimace. His look is apologetic when he murmurs, "He's askin' f'ya, again, lass."

"Bloody hell," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut as you pinch the bridge of your nose.

Ghost grunts, eyes narrowing. "Funny, tha'. Johnny can't remember any'a us, but he's got no problem remembering 'er?" He tilts his head. "Bit strange, innit?"

Price shrugs. "Hard t'say, with an injury like that. Docs say he might regain some of his memory, he might not. No way t'tell."

You sigh, turning your weary gaze on Ghost. "His memory of me isn't perfect, either, ya know? You remember how he used to give me hell all the time. Now he thinks I'm his bloody girlfriend, for Chrissakes! He told Gaz we were engaged yesterday. It's bloody mental."

Ghost hums but says no more.

Blowing out a tired breath, you push yourself up from your chair. "Guess I better get back up there before he comes looking for me again. Thought that head nurse was going to string those other poor nurses up by their heels when Johnny gave 'em the slip."

Price laughs lowly. "And in a wheelchair, no less. Made it all the way to the exit before they caught up with him."

Ghost grunts as he stands, shuffling away from the table to join you. "I'll go wiff ya. Johnny might behave himself better if I'm there."

You snort at that. "Yeah, right. Might as well restrain him, because he won't keep his hands to himself, I can promise ya that."

As soon as you enter Soap's room, he beams a huge smile, his arms up, grabby hands reaching for you. "There ye are! C'mere, bonnie. Gie us a hug."

You point at him, a stern expression on your face. "Promise you'll behave, first. No feeling me up this time."

He gazes up at you, looking like a whipped pup. "Ayre ye mad at me, bon? Did I do somethin' bad? Ah'm sorry."

His pitiful pout melts your resolve instantly. "I'm not mad at you, Johnny. Don't get upset. Everything's alright," you soothe, voice soft as you step close to smooth your hand over his shaggy mohawk.

Ghost doesn't miss the mischievous little flash in Soap's eyes before he grins and grabs you by the hips, pulling you into his lap. You yelp, trying to be careful of his head as you try to push his face from between your breasts. The man doesn't let up, wallowing you like a fussy toddler, his big hands holding you in place. You give another yelp when he gets hold of your ass cheek and squeezes.

"Oi, ya cheeky git," Ghost barks. "Yer bein' too rough!"

Soap cuts a sly glance his way before settling his chin on your chest, smiling sweetly up at you. "Ah dinnae hurt ye, did I, bon?"

You sigh, flustered, trying to be patient. "No, Johnny. You just— startled me." You puff out a breath, prying his hand off your ass.

Soap gives Ghost a smug little smirk, hugging you so tight, you squeak. "See, LT? Ah wasnae bein' too rough. Ah jus' startled 'er."

You lay a hand on his cheek to get his attention back, melting a little more at the open adoration in his gaze. "You should still be more careful, Johnny," you chide him gently. "You get excited and grab my bum too hard sometimes. You leave bruises."

He perks up at that. "Aye? Bruises, ye say? Can ye show me? Ah promise t'kiss 'em all better."

You can't help but laugh. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"

Soap nuzzles your chest and grins. "Aye, but ye love meh anyway, doan ye, bon?"

You only manage to escape when one of the nurses finally comes in to give Soap his medication and check his vitals. You scurry out the door, looking a right mess, disheveled and breathing heavy, mumbling something about getting some water.

Ghost stands by quietly as the nurse takes Johnny's vitals, eyeing him intently the whole time. Once she exits the room, Soap turns a guileless expression to his lieutenant. "Somethin' the matter, Mr. Ghost?"

Ghost huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Give it up, Johnny. Ya fucked up, mate. She didn't catch it, but I did." He comes closer, leaning down to whisper at Soap's ear, "Or did ya jus' suddenly remember I'm yer LT?"

He chuckles lowly when Soap sucks in a sharp breath. He straightens back to his full height, looming over the now worried looking Scot.

"I'll keep m'mouth shut, so long as ya come clean wiff the captain. Poor sod's been worryin' 'imself sick over ya."

"A'right," Soap grumbles, bottom lip poking out.

You return moments later, a bottle of water in one hand, a pudding cup and spoon in the other.

"Look what I nicked for ya, Johnny. Butterscotch pudding. Your favorite."

He gives you a hangdog look. "Can we lay in bed while ye feed it t'meh? Ah'm feelin' a wee bit tired."

"Sure, love. Ghost, will ya help me get him in the bed?"

Ghost helps put him to bed without comment, but pins the sergeant with a knowing look while you're climbing into bed with him.

Soap slants a mischievous look up at his lieutenant, teeth flashing in a quick grin, and winks.

[heavyheavycream]

feedist kinktober 10 - full moon

[mayapapaya33]

You know what would be hilarious; at some point down the line in C4, C5, C27, whenever, someone should play a character from Whitestone. But just a normal person from Whitestone. (Or as normal as an adventurer can ever be, they do have to have SOME kind of damage of course). Don't get me wrong, my haunted, gothic, Byronicly tragic PC's are my favorites of all time, but I just think finding out that a tanned, healthy, fresh looking 20 something with their shit together who has living parents and siblings who love them and who they have a good relationship with just so happens to have been born and raised in Whitestone would be very funny.

It's the future. Sylas and Delilah were driven from Whitestone 33+ years ago as of C3 so imagine a future campaign where one of the characters has only ever known the peaceful leadership of the council and Cassandra, Percy, and Vex, or even of Vesper if it's far enough into the future. The thing that led them to a life of adventure has to be COMPLETELY separate and irrelevant to them being from Whitestone.

Now Whitestone is definitely still a weird, haunted place to grow up even in a time of peace so they should be a little strange regardless. But it should be a different, much less traumatized flavor of weird, you get me? They should have extensive knowledge of vampires and necromancers and gun safety because that was mandatory training at school or whatever. They should feel at home in a haunted wood. Shit like that lol.

It would also be a very sweet and intimate long-term way of showing the impact of their success on the world, that Whitestone is just a (mildly haunted) place to live with ordinary people living ordinary lives and non-necromantic bad things can befall them, propelling them into a life of adventure. For instance, maybe a beloved sibling falls deathly ill (Of natural causes), and they make a deal for the power to save them, etc. That's separate AND has fun parallels to Whitestone history.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 39

Geralt is standing above the unconscious bloodied body of his beloved, Jaskier. The mage Geralt was tracking down to kill had meant to blast Geralt, but Jaskier had tackled the mage and things got ugly. The mage chuckles, eerily, and prowls closer. "So the mighty witcher has a weakness after all. Perhaps it'd be best if I do let you both live. Eternal sorrow is far more delicious than a passing trifle." And Geralt falls unconscious. He relives his entire life through flashes of memories, though they're all cruel and wrong. Things happen differently, skewed and twisted. The first time he meets Jaskier, he punches him in the stomach. Jaskier is standing beside him, near a body of water, as Geralt insults his voice. His passion, his livelihood, his reason for living. Jaskier standing outside awkwardly as Geralt fucks Yennefer. Geralt can see him in his peripheral, and yet he doesn't stop, nor even have the decency to pull the curtains, he just continues. Soon enough, the blur of colors at the edge of his vision disappears as Jaskier runs into the distance. Geralt however thinks that the worst memories are the quick three-second flashes of him just endlessly needlessly insulting Jaskier throughout their decades of companionship. It's not banter, it's not teasing, it's just abuse. Then Geralt is suddenly on a mountain, and he's yelling at Jaskier. "If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!" ... Nevermind. This is the worst one. Geralt is sick to his stomach. Jaskier's eyes widen, and begin to tear up. His face pales of blood, he looks like he's about to faint. His lip even quivers, the way it does when he's well and truly devastated. And Geralt did that to him. "Right.. Uh.. I'll get the rest of the story from the others. I'll see you around Geralt." But then he wakes up in Yennefer's hut. "Where's Jaskier?" he asks immediately. "That bard you hated? The one that followed you around for a few years? I don't know. It's been years since you've even thought about that wretch." He explains that this is wrong. That he loves Jaskier. He adores him. And she tuts sympathetically before explaining that it was a spell the mage put him under. Fake memories of a life where he paired up with the bard. She mimes gagging at the sentiment and he feels hot with anger. As if Jaskier is such a bad choice of romantic partner. He storms out of her place and races off to find his bard. He needs to know for sure what their standing is, and even if he has been cruel, he can at least apologize to the poor bard. "I don't know what to do, Yenna!" A bandaged Jaskier shrieked as the afformentioned witch examined Geralt for the fourth time that hour. Geralt lay comatose in her guest bed, under some sort of spell. Every once in a while, Geralt frowns or winces in his sleep, but that's all they can get from him. "He hasn't woken up since we were fighting the mage." She has a feeling she knows what sort of spell it is. A very cruel trick to play. The mage was smart enough to trust Geralt's self-flagellation. That upon waking from a fake world he perceived as real where all he did was harm Jaskier, he'd most certainly distance himself from the real Jaskier in fear of becoming the version of him in the curse. The mage was dumb enough however, to not think of how far Jaskier would go to save his beloved.

[junkyardisles]

hi

[spectrumspace]

Cringetober Day 25: Gacha Life Kids' Games

not familiar with Gacha Life, tried to approach the prompt more generally!! everyone has their "posting low-quality footage of a game to youtube at an age far too young for youtube" phase. solidarity.

[lemondoddle]

i'm here to provide @mersei47 with flannel-stealing content

[I.D. three drawings feature jay and tim from marble hornets. the first image is a colored pencil drawing of jay sleepily sitting up in bed wearing a gray t0shirt with tim's red flannel over top. he's squinting a little with a small smile. image two is a pencil doodle in a simple style of tim standing in pajamas with wide eyes and face entirely colored in red. written around him is "tim.exe has stopped working". the final image is a pencil drawing of jay sitting cross-legged and holding tim's flannel up to his face, a sad look in his eyes. end I.D.]

[bisexuallsokka]

25 from the prompt list!! :)

25. a kiss as a 'yes'

Zuko can't keep his eyes off Sokka.

This is nothing new, of course. At this point in their years of marriage, preceded by years of friendship that turned into years of dating, Zuko is sure he has spent hours of his life staring at Sokka.

This, though...this is different.

He watched Sokka's brilliant smile all night as he played and talked with his niece and nephews for hours. He saw Sokka running around with them, playing tag and hide and go seek and half a dozen games the kids had invented until Sokka needed to rest his knee and found himself with a lap full of three young kids mere moments after sitting down. Zuko smiled fondly as Sokka read the three of them books until all four of them were on the verge of falling asleep. Zuko saw every hug and forehead kiss he gave the kids as they said their goodbyes, saw Sokka's eyes getting misty at their protest of his leaving, saw the content smile on his face as he drove.

Once they are home and getting ready for bed, Sokka catches him looking a few times until he grins and teases, "Is there something on my face?"

Zuko smiles. "No. I just...I love how much you love those kids. I love them too, of course, but you are crazy about them. It's cute."

"Yeah, well, I can't help it that they are so cute."

"They're getting so big," Zuko says. "Do you ever...miss when they were smaller?"

Sokka shrugs. "I thought I would, but I love seeing their personalities emerge as they grow. It's so funny seeing them act just like Aang or Katara."

"Don't you miss their newborn snuggles though?" Zuko asks.

Sokka eyes him suspiciously. "Obviously. I'm not a monster. Wait, did you-" he starts, eyes lighting up for a moment before he calms down. "Never mind. No way is Katara pregnant, she's told me she's done having kids." He still gives Zuko a side eye, and Zuko laughs.

"She's not pregnant, no. We were talking about something else all night."

"Okay," Sokka says, giving him his full attention, now definitely on Zuko's case. "It has to do with babies?"

Zuko nods, trying his hardest to not betray his nervousness. He's not nervous about what he's trying to ask Sokka, he knows he wants it, but he also knows how badly Sokka wants it, so Zuko wants this moment to be special. Sokka, looking confused, just waits for Zuko to elaborate, and Zuko swallows. "Well, I've been talking with Azula-"

"She is pregnant?" Sokka says, eyebrows shooting up, and Zuko can't help but laugh at the bewildered expression on his face.

"No, definitely not," he says quickly. "She just-- well, you see, she's been...she's a lawyer, yeah? And not the kind that we...but she has connections...she has some good recommendations..."

Sokka looks completely lost, so Zuko stops, takes a deep breath, and says, "She gave me a list of good family lawyers. Ones that have experience with adoption cases."

At first, he thinks Sokka hadn't heard him, he's more still than Zuko has ever seen him in his life. But then, his eyes widen, barely enough for Zuko to notice. Zuko doesn't think he's even breathing.

"This is something that we have talked about but we always dropped it, leaving it for some future discussion because we were busy or low on money or distracted by one thing or another. I know how badly you want kids, and I was nervous about it at first, but now I know how badly I want to have kids with you, and it's been all I can think about the last few times we have been at Katara's, and I swear she read my mind because she started talking about it tonight and everything just feels right, so if you are ready, if you think it's a good time-"

He doesn't get to finish his rambling. Sokka shoots across the room, his hands gently cradling Zuko's face as he looks into his husband's eyes. Sokka's own eyes are wide and excited and so damn beautiful, and he says, "You're serious?"

"More serious than I've ever been ab--hmmph!"

He's taken by surprise as Sokka interrupts him again, this time with a kiss so fierce it honestly kind of hurts. Zuko smiles into it nonetheless, his arms reaching for Sokka's waist to pull him closer.

Sokka's lips widen into a smile as well, and when they pull back, Zuko asks, "So is that a yes?"

"Of course it's a yes, you dumbass," Sokka says, going for exasperated but failing as his tears are overflowing and Zuko reaches a hand up to wipe them away, not registering his own tears until Sokka does the same for him.

[whumblr]

i got a flu shot today at the medical centre i work at (as a receptionist), and it all felt so whumpee hehe could we get any whump prompts for needles (especially hiwthi if you want!!)? unwanted needles, fear and all that good stuff

Oh I feel you.

The duality of wanting to look away but also wanting to see what's going on, when to expect the pain.

Even when watching they still wince.

Whumper hiding the needle behind his back so Whumpee doesn't know what hits them.

Those large ass needles, the ones with the large metal plunger, sometimes with two finger holes as if it's a freaking knuckle duster.

An assortment of syringes laid out on a tray, prettily blinking up at Whumpee, filled with various, bright neon coloured liquids :)

Whumper absolutely mocking them.

Or taking advantage, using needles to torture, like shoving them under the skin, or under fingernails.

Caretaker being exasperated: "You took a full beating (for me) but you're scared of a little prick?"

To that effect, Whumper also being totally confused; here's this defiant, feral Whumpee, daring him to 'do his worst!' and taking the worst tortures imaginable, but they fucking blanch as soon as he pulls out a needle.

Syringes with unknown content. Whumper threatening truth serums, pain, drugs, whatever, but it's just a saline solution.

Caretaker having to drug them for actually necessary reasons, but Whumpee fights tooth and nail. Also because ✨reasons✨

[random-thot-generator]

Reverse Trope prompt: Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Full list here by @out-of-jams

Kyle Gaz Garrick x love interest!reader

Slightly NSFW - adult situations and language but nothing explicit, cheating, angst, a wee bit of violence, hurt/comfort, reader is bi

dividers by: @sweetmelodygraphics

You step off the bus down the street from your girlfriend's flat, eyes zeroing in on a nearby coffee shop. Your girlfriend's boyfriend is supposed to be meeting you there.

Yeah. Awkward.

Despite knowing about him, and he you, you've never met Kyle Garrick in person. Never wanted to, if you're being honest. You knew that Ruby was already dating him when you met her, so had accepted the situation, but that didn't mean you wanted to hang out with the guy who was banging your girlfriend.

Still, you'd be lying if you said you weren't curious about your competition.

It caught you completely by surprise when Kyle contacted you out of the blue and asked to meet. It made you suspicious when he wouldn't say why he wanted to meet, but it made you down right leery when he asked you not to say anything to Ruby about it.

Needless to say, you were hesitant to agree to the meeting. The secrecy and subterfuge weren't really your style. Yet there was something in his tone that gave you pause, so, reluctantly, you agreed to meet him. Didn't mean you trusted him, though.

Taking a deep breath to calm your nerves, you walk towards the coffee shop, stomach tied in knots. The moment of truth was upon you. Time to hitch up your big girl knickers and wade in.

You spot him as soon as you enter, recognizing him from the pics on Ruby's phone. It's obvious he recognizes you, too. His posture goes stiff, eyes slightly widening as you make your way towards him. It surprises you when he stands, making your steps falter.

He says your name, his voice deep, smooth, melodic. Near-black eyes regard you, an inherent warmth in their depths, despite the circumstances. Clean-cut, nicely dressed, handsome features, tall and broad-shouldered. Yes, you could see Ruby falling for such a man. You might have, too, had you met him first. Such was fate, the fickle bitch.

"Thanks for meetin' me," he murmurs, holding a chair out for you to sit.

Mannerly and gallant, too. A total package, then. Christ, you're so screwed. How could you ever compete with someone like him? Did he even see you as competition? Looking him over, you think probably not.

He sits across from you, pushing a to-go cup towards you. "Got ya a chai tea. Ruby mentioned once it was your favorite, so..."

Attentive and thoughtful, too? Yep. You were totally screwed.

You give him a tight smile. "Thank you. That's very thoughtful."

The two of you sit in awkward silence, him studying you, you studying him. You finally lift the cup to your lips and take a sip, then clear your throat.

"So, what's this about?"

His eyes dart over your face, assessing you, brows puckered. Finally, he sighs. "S'pose I should just get on with it," he mutters, his tone denoting that some sort of unpleasantness is about to spill out of his mouth.

You brace, spine rigid, eyes fixed and focused, watching a myriad of emotions flicker through his expressive eyes. He takes in a deep breath, blows it out.

"Did ya know Ruby's been seeing other people? Besides us, I mean."

You frown, confused. "What?"

Another inhale, a slow exhale that hisses through his nose. He's struggling to hold his temper, you realize. "She's seeing other people behind our backs."

You shake your head, quick to defend her, deny it. "No, that can't be. Ruby would never—"

"It's true," he insists, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Caught a couple comin' outta her flat last week. Early mornin', freshly showered, but dressed like they were going out for a night at the club. Bit obvious they'd spent the night there."

"It could've just been some friends who stayed over," you reply, but the excuse sounds weak, even to your own ears. Ruby would have mentioned going out with friends, would've definitely complained about having to put them up for the night. She hadn't mentioned anything at all.

Kyle shakes his head. "Ya didn't see how she acted, how she looked. I surprised her, showin' up unexpected like that, caught her off guard. I could tell she was hungover, but she denied it. Said the couple were just some mates of hers who dropped by for a visit, but—c'mon. Who the hell pops in for a visit at seven in the bloody mornin', dressed like they were?" He shakes his head again. "Nah. She was feedin' me a load of bollocks."

You feel sick, the tea suddenly too sweet and cloying on your tongue. You push the cup away, giving him a dubious look. "How do I know you're not feeding me a load of bollocks? I know you weren't thrilled when Ruby and I started dating. This might be your play to get me out of the picture." God, you hope it is, because if he's telling the truth...

His face goes tight, clearly pissed, but instead of denying anything, he holds up a finger, then pulls his cell from his pocket. Thumb sliding and tapping on the screen, he then lays it in front of you. "Swipe through those photos."

You stare at his phone like it's a poisonous snake he's just laid on the table, but you pick it up, anyway. Your hands begin to shake as you flip through the pics. They're all of Ruby and a very attractive couple at what looks like a night club.

You can feel heat rising up your neck, face growing hot as you swipe through photo after photo. There are dozens of them. They leave no doubt about Ruby's relationship with the couple. They're all over each other, kissing, fondling, groping. It makes you feel sick.

"How—" The words catch in your throat, strangle you. You swallow, feel your gorge rise and swallow again. "How did you get these photos?" you finally manage to choke out.

"I'm SAS, luv. Gatherin' intel's our bread an' butter. I had a mate who owed me a favor follow her. He sent me these, along with the address he followed the three of them to. It was the couple's flat. Ruby spent the night there."

Numb, you hand his phone back to him. "Why would she do this?"

Kyle slumps back in his chair, shoulders rolling in irritation, face pinched. "Dunno. Did some digging, though. Found out Ruby hooked up with them through some dating app for swingers." He waves his phone back and forth. "The night these were taken, she told me she was spendin' time with you. Guess she told you the same thing, but said she was spending time with me. She's also told me a few times that she was workin' late. Checked it out. More lies."

Your mind recalls multiple phone conversations and texts from Ruby, changing your plans last minute or breaking them off altogether, claiming her work or Kyle was the reason for it. You avert your eyes and nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

"So, ya had no idea this was goin' on? Didn't suspect anything?" he asks, gaze intense.

"No," you croak out, gut churning. God, you've been such a blind idiot, so bloody naive.

Kyle's lips press into a hard line as he gives a curt nod. "Right, then. So, how d'ya want t'handle this?"

Your mind is still reeling, this whole scenario beyond surreal. In a matter of minutes, he's wrecked your whole world. Christ, what a bloody nightmare.

"I..." You shake your head, eyes unfocused, staring blindly ahead. "I don't know," you finally mutter, feeling lost, devastated.

He sits forward, hands fisting on the table, fury flashing in his eyes. "We should confront her," he grits out. "Together. Both of us. I think we deserve some bloody answers, don't you?"

You nod absently, dazed. You're not sure if you'll ever be able to face Ruby again. "When do you want to do it?"

"Right now," he replies, shifting to the edge of his seat. "She's home; I checked. We go now, confront her, say our piece and be done with it. Then..." He swallows thickly, Adam's apple working in his throat. He drops his gaze, pulls in a shuddering breath. This is hurting him as much as it's hurting you. He loved her, too.

Before you can reconsider what you're doing, you lay your hand over his clenched fist. You don't know whether it's meant to be for comfort, in commiseration or a show of solidarity, you just know it's what he needs.

Squeezing his hand, you hope you sound more confident than you feel. "Right, then. Let's go."

After the initial shock of finding both you and Kyle outside her door, Ruby is surprisingly blasé about being caught out for cheating. There's not an inkling of guilt or remorse. No tears, no apologies. If anything, she acts like she's too put out to be bothered.

"If the two of you hadn't been so stubborn, this might never have happened, ya know? I'd hoped you both would eventually come around, give the three of us a try, but that didn't happen. I got tired of waiting."

You blink, shocked by her admission.

"Tired of waiting?" Kyle repeats. "Waiting for what?"

"I wanted all of us to live together, but you're both so... ugh! I dunno... old fashioned about relationships," she complains. "I mean, do either of you understand how tiresome it was, always having to divide up my time between the two of you? It was bloody exhausting."

Kyle's voice is dangerously soft when he murmurs, "That's your excuse for cheating? We became too much off an inconvenience for you?"

She throws her arms out, frustrated. "I tried to make it work, Kyle, but it became more trouble than it was worth. I needed more, but neither of you were willing to give it to me." She shrugs. "So, I went out and found a couple who is willing."

You can only stare at her in shock. Who is this woman? Was she always this cold, this heartless? A tear slips down your cheek.

"You narcissistic cunt," Kyle murmurs in disbelief.

Scowling, Ruby opens her mouth to spit out some scathing retort, but he's not done yet.

"You thought you could get us t'fall in line, didn't ya? That was your goal along. Manipulate us into an arrangement that suited you, and fuck what we wanted, yeah?" He huffs. "Must'a really pissed you off when you didn't get what you wanted."

Her chin tilts up, a haughty expression on her face. "But I did get what I want, Kyle. I just had to find it with someone else."

"You never really cared about either of us, did you?"

Your quiet question draws her attention to you. Her cruel little scoff decimates you. "Honestly, love, it became such a chore dealing with you, it's kind of a relief to finally put this all out there. At least now I don't have to deal with either of you anymore."

It's frightening, the change that comes over Kyle. You stand frozen in place as he stalks towards her, cold fury radiating off him in waves. Seizing her wrists, he backs her into the wall.

"Say one more fuckin' word, and I'll destroy you," he growls in her face. "You know I'm capable of it. I'll take everything from you, understand?" He gives her a hard shake. "D'ya understand?" he barks, pinning her with a cold, hard stare.

"Yes!"she hisses, yanking her wrists from his grasp and pushing past him. Her voice is shaking when she snarls, "Get out of my bloody flat, both of you. Go! Get out!"

Kyle takes your hand and pulls you out the door, not even bothering to close it before guiding you down the hall to the lifts. His arm wraps around your shoulders when Ruby slams her door shut behind the two of you, ending this sad chapter of your lives with a bang. Your breath hitches as he ushers you inside a lift.

Once the lift doors close, he places a trembling hand on your cheek. "Are ya alright?"

"No," you answer honestly, then drop your head to his chest and sob.

The first few months post-Ruby are rough.

Adjusting to this new version of yourself is hard, coming to terms with the reality of such a betrayal. For the first few weeks, when not at work, you haunt her social media pages, having to register new accounts because she's already blocked all of your old ones. You swill wine like water as you scroll through her posts, seeing her with her new lovers, how happy she looks, feeling gutted by the fact that she's moved on so easily without you.

Thank God Kyle has been there for you.

The man has been a bloody saint, setting aside his own pain to help you bear yours. He brings over takeaway and tissues, holds you through the crying jags and listens while you vent. Seriously, while losing you was probably no great loss to Ruby, you think she's a bloody fool for letting Kyle go.

In a weird sort of way, it makes sense that the two of you gravitate to each other for support. You share a painful bond, after all, both of you having loved and been betrayed by the same woman. You can understand what the other is going through, and that's a comfort to you both, not having to explain your grief.

So, you lean on each other until you both come out the other side of it, scarred but once again whole.

Eventually, you and Kyle drift apart.

Life, as it does, leads you in different directions. You still stay in contact, though, touching base through texts and social media, the occasional phone call.

You both start dating again, Kyle before you. You're still a little gun-shy, a little leery about jumping back into the dating pool. You encourage each other, regardless, and hope for the best.

Months pass. Life goes on. You get a promotion at work, move to a nice terrace house in a better neighborhood. You get a cat for company and register for a cooking course. You finally get that gym membership and go on holiday to Greece with friends. You send Kyle a care package at Christmas and put the lovely carved candlesticks he sent you up on the fireplace mantel.

You don't even realize a year's gone by since that fateful day you met Kyle in the coffee shop. Then he texts one evening out of the blue and asks if you'd be up for an anniversary dinner.

You think it's a strange thing to celebrate, having your heart ripped out and crushed, but then you reconsider. Why not celebrate? You're both in a better place now, and even if you're not ecstatically happy, you're at least at peace and content with your life. You accept his invitation and make plans to meet up the following weekend.

It feels nice spending time with Kyle again, but it feels different somehow. As the evening progresses, you realize what's changed. There's no pain, no sadness hanging over your heads like a storm cloud anymore. You've both finally put Ruby behind you; she haunts you no more.

Her name doesn't come up once during conversation, not because you're avoiding it, but because she just doesn't matter anymore. That shadow she used to cast is gone. She's just a memory now, a fading photograph you've boxed up and shelved in a dusty corner of your minds, forgotten.

It's late when Kyle finally drives you home. You're both still giggling over something he said as he walks you to your door, his arm draped over your shoulders, your arm hooked around his waist. His lips press to your temple as you unlock your door, and you turn to face him, smiling.

"Thanks for tonight, Kyle. I've not had this much fun in ages."

"Me neither," he admits, his smile fading as his eyes search your face. "Feels really good, bein' with you."

You feel your heart start beating a little faster, looking into his dark eyes. "Yeah," you whisper, unconsciously leaning into him. "It really does."

When his hands cup your face, your lashes flutter down, lips parting. His kiss is soft, chaste, but electric, sending a thrill through your body that lights up every nerve ending. It literally takes your breath away.

When he pulls away, you both look dazed, breaths panting. His thumb strokes your cheek, a little smile forming on his lips.

"Think I'd like to do this again," he murmurs, holding your gaze. "Ya busy tomorrow night?"

You don't even have to think about it. "Be here at six. I'll cook dinner for you."

His smile turns brilliant before he leans down to deliver another soft kiss, then whispers against your lips, "It's a date."

[sesamestreep]

Crozier/Fitzjames, fake amnesia

from this list of reverse tropes for fic writers. i told @firstelevens I wasn’t sure I had it in me to write fic for these two and then I went and washed my hair and while I did that, this idea popped into my head fully formed and I was bound by honor to write it down. Also it’s the first thing my brain has wanted to write in like two months, so I took that as a good sign?? Anyway, here’s…something. Kind of a Parks and Rec AU?? but also not in any serious way? It’s like…what if these dudes from The Terror worked in local government or whatever… don’t worry about logistics, I mostly wanted to write Blanky and Crozier being best friends and also talk about sobriety feelings a bunch. AND THEN I DID. only fits the prompt if you squint super hard but, regardless, please enjoy… on ao3 because why not

“So, you feel ready to go back to work tomorrow?”

Francis removes his gaze with considerable effort from the perfect red orb that is the sun sinking steadily under the horizon line across the lake and shifts it reluctantly back to Tom, who’s sitting back in his chair with his booted foot propped up on a milk crate that he got from God knows where. The sight of the boot that encases the lower half of his left leg does push a wave of guilty bile up the back of his throat but he’s already been told that if he apologizes for causing Tom to have need of it one more time, he’ll be drowned in the aforementioned lake, so he resists. Tom knows Francis is sorry about what happened and he’s chosen to forgive him, even if Francis still thinks it’s a stupid choice, second only to him befriending Francis in the first place all those years ago. Francis doesn’t know where he himself would have ended up if that hadn’t happened, though, so it all comes out in the wash he supposes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Francis says, tracing a hairline fracture in his coffee mug with his thumbnail just for something to do. “If I take any more time off, I’ll just never go back, so it’s now or never, really.”

“Attaboy,” Tom says before taking a long, thoughtful drink from his own mug. Out of solidarity, or maybe sensitivity, he hadn’t had anything to drink tonight either, despite Francis’s assurances that it wouldn’t bother him and might even be a good idea, just for him to get used to it. It’s not like he could reasonably expect to go the rest of his life without ever seeing alcohol again. He’d seen four different ads for light beer alone this afternoon while watching reruns of ‘Bones’ on the couch and imagining every possible way his first day back in the office after rehab could go wrong and that hadn’t sent him into a tailspin, so he’d probably survive watching his best friend drink in his presence. Still, Tom had chosen to just drink decaf coffee with him after dinner like the ancient relics they are, because he is, without a doubt, the best person Francis has ever known. “You talk to anybody about it? I mean, besides me…”

“What, you mean like a therapist? Of course. I’ve got, what, six of them now, for Christ’s sake!”

“No, I mean, from the office. Have you talked to anyone about coming back?”

“Well, John, obviously.”

“I suppose you’d have to, yeah,” Tom says, running a ponderous hand over his chin. “Anything interesting from that quarter?”

“Just about what you’d expect,” Francis says, trying to be generous. John had been kind enough to let him keep his job, after all, despite how bad things got in the end, but Francis’s issues with the man remain, even with his newfound sobriety. Francis had sent him a long, downright obsequious email apologizing for the damage he’d done with his drunken theatrics both over the years and in the very recent past and explained in detail all the ways he was going to do better in the future, while expressing gratitude for the unprecedented amount of grace everyone, but particularly John, had shown him during this stressful time. It was, in no uncertain terms, the most embarrassing thing Francis has ever had to do, and he has, in his life, proposed to the same woman three separate times with absolutely no success, so it’s not like he’s lacking in options for that top spot.

John is, thankfully, the sort of man who likes to breeze past unpleasantness wherever he can and is also, more importantly, a deeply entrenched bureaucrat who’d just as soon do no work as do even a little work and therefore could not be bothered to hire a replacement for Francis. In fact, if he had to guess, John was probably clever enough to frame it as some sort of protection against a discrimination lawsuit somewhere down the line, despite the fact that several things Francis did at the staff Christmas party right before hitting rock bottom were definitely fireable offenses. John’s unflappable dedication to the status quo has worked in Francis’s favor for once, and while he certainly doesn’t deserve the break, he’s going to take it where he can get it on the off chance it never happens again.

“And the staff? Your team, I mean.”

“I got coffee with a few of them individually, just to clear the air and apologize, so that if anyone wanted to take a swing at me, they could do it outside of work,” Francis says, scuffing his shoe against the porch.

“Well, that’s considerate of you. Any of them try it?”

“No. The cowards,” Francis scoffs, which makes Tom laugh. “Jopson and Edward both seemed like they might be sick at the prospect of anyone in charge actually deigning to apologize to them, which was…humbling, to say the least. Then I got an extremely nervous monologue from Harry about the history and relative efficacy of Alcoholics Anonymous, which I think was his way of saying we’re square. And Silna told me if I tried to meet up with her outside of work hours again, she’d block my number and quit without notice, so...”

“She’s got the right of it,” Tom says, with a crooked grin.

“Yeah, that was my favorite of the lot,” Francis replies. “We’ll have a team meeting tomorrow and we’ll get someone in from HR so everyone can talk about feelings, God help us, but I think it might be okay. Which I could not have predicted when all this started, but here we are.”

“I could have,” Tom says. “You’ve made plenty of mistakes, I grant you, but you’ve also done right by these people in a lot of ways. They’re not going to forget that in a hurry. They’re a loyal bunch.”

Francis nods, looking out over the water again. The pinks and golds of the sunset a few moments ago have already faded into purples and blues as night creeps in. The nocturnal chorus of frogs croaking and insects trilling is rising in the nearby woods. He’s already said his piece about how absurd it is that they’re sitting comfortably outside on the porch after dinner—with jackets on and a fire going, sure, but still—and it’s only the beginning of March. Tom doesn’t need to hear any more ranting about global warming right now; it’s no fair repayment of his generosity. What Francis really should do is head for home soon and let his friend have some peace and quiet. He could use some of that himself, but he somehow doubts that he’ll get much rest once he’s home for the evening. At least he can panic about tomorrow properly there, though, by himself.

“Speaking of throwing punches,” Tom says, carefully, after they’ve been quiet a moment, “have you spoken to James at all?”

Francis winces with what feels like his entire body. “I haven’t had the chance,” he says, as lightly as he can manage.

It isn’t precisely true. If he found the time to contact everyone else who’d been affected by his spectacular fall from grace during his leave of absence, he could have found the time to reach out to James too, but he hadn’t. The apology he owes James Fitzjames is too big for an email, which he’d, in a truly cowardly fashion, gotten away with for almost everyone else, and the presumption and humiliation of asking for any of his free time as he’d done with some of his subordinates was a bridge too far. Besides, if they’d met up at a coffee shop to talk things out, Francis has no doubt James would have ordered his drink with oat milk or stevia instead of sugar or mentioned a cleanse he was on and Francis would have rolled his eyes and said something awful and then he probably would have had to go to rehab all over again, which would have defeated the point. Francis has been told by outside observers—professionals in the field, for what it’s worth—that he’s making progress, but he’s even more sure that he’s still, at his core, a miserable old bastard. He’s just less miserable than he was before, by a small margin. Unfortunately, he’s not any less old, though. In fact, he’s older, but that’s beside the point.

“You’ll have to face him sooner or later,” Tom says, not quite gently but not as bullying as he could be either.

“I know,” Francis says, covering his face with his hands. “I’ll do it tomorrow. I mean, if anyone’s entitled to an in-person apology, it’s James, surely.”

“After you punched him in front of everyone at the Christmas party and verbally berated him? Yeah, I think something more than a text message might be in order.”

“You accepted an apology text,” Francis says, scowling into his mug. “And I broke your leg. You needed surgery and everything. I don’t even think I broke James’s nose.”

“Only because your aim sucks when you’re wasted,” Tom replies, unbothered. “Gave him quite the shiner, though, if you want to compare wounds.”

Francis sighs. “I already said I’d talk to him. You have my word.”

“What am I? Your bloody father?”

“No, and I like you a great deal better for it.”

“Good, then what do I need your word for?”

“I was just trying to convey my sincerity.”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity, Francis. Never have. It’s everyone else you need to convince.”

“I don’t know what to say to James,” Francis says, into his hands. “I mean, with you at least, we’ve known each other for ages. We can bounce back from quite a lot, it turns out. James, he’s—I’ve never known how to talk to him in the first place. Now I’ve got to do it sober? I don’t know where to start.”

“How about, ‘James, I’m sorry for trying to knock your lights out with an audience present while I was drunk off my ass on the company dime’ to start?”

Francis closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, letting the shame wash over him like a wave and then, more importantly, letting it recede like waves do. He sighs loudly and shakes his head.

“You know, I’ve always regretted I wasn’t the sort of drunk who forgets what he does when he’s wasted. Feels like it might be easier, ultimately. Like, I could say, ‘oh, sorry for whatever I might have done to you, James. The trouble is I don’t remember any of it, but I’m sure it’s nothing I would have done sober, all the same.’”

“Feigning amnesia?” Tom barks, laughing and looking at him sideways. “What’s that? The thirteenth step?”

“Leave me alone,” Francis replies, waving him off but laughing himself despite his best efforts. “I’ve done a lot of owning up to things lately. Can’t I keep one petty grievance for myself?”

“You could probably get away with it, if you’d left it as a petty grievance rather than escalating to violence. And your resistance to dealing with James should tell you making amends there is your highest priority. Discomfort is a good thing here, a signal you’re heading in the right direction. If it were all easy, everyone would do it, you know.”

“That’s lovely, Tom. Will you be cross-stitching any of these aphorisms onto pillows to remind me to stay the course, or shall I just memorize them for when times get tough?”

“Fuck off, you dusty old prick,” Tom laughs. “Hey, what about this? ‘James, I’m ever so sorry for getting plastered and calling you out in front of everyone and then attempting to rearrange your pretty face with my fist! I do think some of the blame lies in you being so pretty and in me having some unresolved issues around my masculinity and my self-esteem, all of which you can blame on my waste of a father figure growing up, but in this case, I suppose I have to shoulder some of the responsibility for my actions myself. Forgive me?’”

“There’s no one else on earth who could get away with saying even half those things to me, you know,” Francis says, even as his blood doesn’t boil or even heat in the slightest hearing them. It rushes to his face instead, no doubt resulting in a fierce blush that the gathering darkness mercifully hides from view.

“I earned it the hard way, my friend,” Tom says, patting his boot.

“That you did,” Francis says, and rises from his seat. “I’d better be going, then. Much to do, after all: apologies to draft, laundry to fold, worst case scenarios to spin out.”

Tom gets up with effort, clunky and inelegant in his boot, but not so proud as to decline Francis’s hand when it’s offered. “I wasn’t trying to scare you off,” he says once he’s vertical.

“You didn’t. It’s like I said, I’ve a lot to do before the big day.”

Tom nods and, after a moment of deliberation, puts a hand on Francis’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, you know.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Francis replies, shifting away from the praise. “More of a bad man trying to be better.”

Tom gives him a long look at that and then shakes his head, smiling. “All that work on yourself and you still don’t get it,” he says, not unkindly. “What else do you think a good man is?”

Francis doesn’t know, but he spends the whole ride home and the rest of the night thinking about it all the same.

*

Francis’s plan of attack, such as it even exists, takes form more easily than he could have predicted. Once he starts thinking about how best to approach James at work and make amends on that front, he finds he knows a lot more about the man than he originally thought. A few years working together, however contentiously, has been enough to pick up on each other’s habits and quirks well enough that Francis can reasonably predict when he’ll be able to get a moment of James’s time without anyone else around. The fact that he can do this and yet never thought to do it before under any other circumstances is the cause of another wave of shame that passes less quickly than Francis would like.

Francis arrives at the City Planner’s office just before 8:30 in the morning with the certainty that he won’t run into John—the man has many flaws but his dedication to never showing up to work any earlier than he absolutely needs to is not one of them, in Francis’s opinion—but that he will, in all likelihood, find James already there and more than likely already working. He also arrives with the materials for a bribe, should that prove necessary.

He’s so worked up, going through everything he’s planning to say one last time in his mind before he actually sees James, that he doesn’t think to knock on the outer door, which is sitting half-open anyway, and just barges in instead. It’s not a great start, he realizes a second after it’s too late to do anything else, and it’s made even worse by the fact that James is there, as expected, and he’s only partially in his shirt, which is not so expected. Francis stops and gapes for a moment with all the grace of someone who’s been tased.

“God, sorry,” he says, and tries to step back, only to collide with the door jamb. “I should’ve—”

“Francis, it’s—good morning, I—this isn’t—I’m the—I’m sorry,” James says, managing to sound crisp and self-possessed even when he’s stammering his way through an apology. “I don’t normally…do this…in the office, I mean.”

“No, of course not,” Francis says, behaving like a teenager in a romantic comedy for some reason and averting his eyes, even though there’s nothing to see. James was in the process of buttoning his shirt when he came in, so it’s really the sight of his clavicle that’s made Francis so uncomfortable. Was he always this much of a ninny? Is that why he started drinking, to cover it up? It’s the only explanation that makes any sense now.

“I went for a run this morning and I neglected to pack a shirt with my work clothes, so I had to use the spare I keep in my desk for emergencies.”

The old Francis (of several weeks and easily a thousand group sessions ago) would have rolled his eyes at any number of things in that small explanation: running to work, keeping a spare shirt in one’s desk, referring to anything related to fashion as an ‘emergency’ and meaning it. Now, he nods thoughtfully and tries to think of it all as part and parcel of what he respects and admires about James: his dedication and planning, his ability to anticipate and address future challenges. The fact that he looks nice in blue. Whatever. It turns out it’s easier to do than he imagined it would be.

“I don’t think you have a habit of undressing in the office for fun, James,” Francis says, instead of any of those nice things. “Don’t worry.”

“Right,” James says, lightly, even as his shoulders remain tense. He does up the last few buttons and his clavicle disappears under the taut poplin fabric of his dress shirt. “Well, what can I do for you, Francis?”

Francis has heard—and, in turn, mocked—James on any number of occasions start conversations with a smooth, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’, which is not an expression Francis himself has been treated to in a long time and for good reason. He doesn’t know why he thinks of it now, except that he’d take even a sarcastic reference to the pleasure of his company (of which there is none and never has been for James in particular, he thinks) over the idea that James should do anything for him, at this point.

“You’re training, then?” Francis asks, skirting gracelessly around the question James actually posed. “For another one of the what-do-ya-call-em’s? Not a marathon. The thing you did last year…?”

“The Ironman,” James suggests, looking slightly pained. “It’s a triathlon.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Another one of those?”

“God, no,” James replies, nose wrinkling slightly before he seems to catch himself doing it and intentionally blanks his expression. “I’m not likely to do another one of those. I already have my bragging rights, after all. Today’s run was just for health.”

“Oh, sure,” Francis says, tapping a fingertip nervously against the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup. “I’m meant to be doing that now.”

“Running?” James asks, betraying some surprise, which is fair enough.

“Exercising. For my health. To keep me…”

“Fit?”

“Well, distracted,” Francis replies, with a shrug. “There seems to be some thought of it helping to keep me away from drink, though I’m not sure what the logic is there. But I’m meant to be thinking of something I’d enjoy, anyway.”

“Not running, then,” James says, brow crinkling like he’s giving the matter serious thought. James is a fixer by nature—and by profession, of course, being paid mostly to follow John around and make sure the grand promises that flow from his mouth actually happen somehow. He thrives with a problem to solve. If Francis were even marginally less stupid and less proud, he might have thought to come to James sooner. He’s nothing if not several very large problems wrapped in a trench coat. Or a wind breaker, in actuality. The point is, Francis could use all the fixing he can get his hands on.

“Not likely. Never enjoyed it, really. Hard on the ankles, I’ve found.”

“Yes, it can be quite stressful on the joints. You’ve got to take all sorts of precautions,” James says, in the tone he gets when he’s working his way up to a long treatise of some kind, but he stops abruptly and his face betrays that he’s seemingly caught himself. He clears his throat. “So, it’s not for everyone. I understand.”

“Yes, well, my sponsor was saying that I might try tennis or racquetball, but then I’d have to find a regular partner or group, and I’m not sure I have it in me.”

“There’s a club nearby, actually, and they could help you arrange—” James pauses and shakes his head, once again stopping himself from expounding on the different options available the way he normally would. It’s an uncharacteristic amount of restraint coming from James, who loves recommending things to other people almost as much as he loves the sound of his own voice. Francis sees some of his own handiwork in this new display of shame and feels the need to make amends even more keenly than before because of it. “Well, you can Google it, I imagine, and it would be faster than listening to me. It is, uh—it’s in Eagleton, however, so I suppose that won’t do.”

“No,” Francis replies, frowning. “Thanks all the same, though. I imagine I’ll end up doing water aerobics with the rest of the senior citizens at the community center and call it a day.”

“You’re not a—you’re barely fifty, Francis!”

“I’m fifty-two, actually.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I hope you have your affairs in order,” James gripes, as he messes with something entirely unnecessarily on his desk. Francis smiles at the strange comfort of annoying him, which should not be reassuring to him at all but he’s a messed up sort of fellow even on his best days. The smile grows when James clears his throat again and adds, like he can’t quite stop himself, “Swimming’s rather good for the joints, actually.”

“Swimming?” Francis asks.

“Yes, swimming. As in, laps…in a pool. Something else the community center offers, if you were interested. It’s solitary—meditative, even—and good exercise. In—that is, in case you were wondering.”

“If this is you trying to talk me into a triathlon, James—”

James sniffs, more performatively haughty than genuinely haughty, Francis suspects. “I’d never,” he says. “I was merely recommending an activity that you might enjoy more than water aerobics, and that might spare the elderly of our community from dealing your obvious personality disorder early in the morning, when those classes tend to be held.”

Francis, much to James’s surprise from the look on his face, laughs at that. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he says, while James continues to regard him like he’s wild animal exhibiting signs of rabies who’s suddenly appeared in his path, which is maybe a common occurrence in town, depending on who you ask. “Thank you.”

James nods, distracted. “Sure.”

“Well, I—I…listen, I didn’t come here to talk about exercise regimes, which I figure you could have guessed,” Francis says, in a rush, because anything less than a headlong dive into the subject they need to discuss will hurt much worse than just getting it over with, he suspects. “And I don’t want to presume anything about your life, but I also figure there’s a non-zero chance that you’re already familiar with the famous 12 step program, maybe just through cultural osmosis, and I don’t want to over explain any of it to you, but, well, there’s a pretty important part about identifying people you’ve wronged through your addiction and the resulting behavior and making direct amends to said try people and—”

“I’m familiar,” James interrupts, softly. “Not directly, of course, or, um, anything like that—I don’t want to detract—but—”

Francis waves him off. “No need to explain. I just—well, obviously, that list of people, for me, had to include you, because of what transpired between us at the end of last year and how I behaved. The things I said to you, then—how I’ve always spoken to you, really—and of course, I—God, I’m so sorry. It feels absurd to say out loud but I’m sorry for lashing out at you and hitting you, I should never have—”

“It’s fine, Francis,” James says, starchily. He’s got a nervous hand pressed to his ribcage, so intently that it’s almost shocking to look and see no actual knife sticking out from there, somehow. With that, it’s hard to believe the breeziness of his words. “Really, this isn’t necessary.”

“And I’m telling you it is,” Francis explains, as carefully as he can manage. “Maybe it isn’t for you, I don’t know, but it’s necessary for me. Do you—can you understand that?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” James says, after a deep breath. “Of course. Is there…more?”

“You tell me. Is there any other ways my drinking harmed you that I haven’t thought of?”

“No, I wasn’t—”

Francis holds up a hand to stop him. “That probably read as very sarcastic, given our…history, let’s say, but it was a genuine question. I think I’ve raked myself over the coals for every possible slight I can imagine but if there’s anything I did that I can address for you now, I’d have you tell me.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” James replies, shakily. “I only meant, I don’t really know what goes into all this. Is amends just an apology or is there more to it? I don’t need there to be, I was just curious. That’s all.”

“Well, you’re meant to endeavor to show you’ve changed your ways, I suppose. To indicate that you won’t be perpetuating the same harm in the future. Which, in this case, is tough, because…well, I mean, all I can give you is my word I won’t try to knock you out at work ever again.”

“Outside of work hours, however…” James muses, with a small, mirthless smile.

Francis winces, but otherwise doesn’t react. “I’ll never behave that way towards you again. On my honor, for whatever that’s worth.”

James folds his arms over his chest and looks down at the carpet, appearing like a sullen youth for a brief moment before he raises his gaze and becomes a grown man once more. Francis remembers when he’d shown up with John that first time, how he’d called James an infant to Tom when they finished their initial meeting with him about the town’s budget crisis all those years ago. Tom had laughed at him, wheezing ‘he’s a decade younger than us, if he’s anything, Francis. He’s our bloody peer now, and if you don’t see it, you’re cracked!’ Francis thought—still thinks—Tom is the one who’s cracked, in this case. James looked young, then; he looks young now, everywhere except the eyes, which contain a stormy sea’s worth of disappointment. Francis can be self-centered with the best of them but he knows he’s not the one who put that feeling there in the first place. He’s not that important. For the first time, however, he feels protective of the man in front of him because of it and takes it as his very solemn duty to never be the cause of his disappointment again, so long as it can be helped. All that and it’s not even 9 in the morning yet.

“It’s worth plenty,” James says, eventually, clearly just as uncomfortable with this much emotion so early in the day as Francis is and eager to be done with it. “Thank you, Francis.”

“Yes, well, I won’t take up any more of your time, I’ve been nuisance enough for one morning, but if there’s ever anything you want to discuss or clear up between us, my door’s always open. To you, that is. Well, to anyone, but just in case your particular welcome was unclear, I mean, you should—”

James sweeps a hand out wide in a graceful gesture like he’s literally clearing the air. “Understood,” he says, sincerely, “and appreciated.”

“Great,” Francis says, too cheerily and then winces again. “I mean, uh—right, I’ll just be going then.”

As he pivots back towards the door, the sloshing noise of the ice shifting in one of the cups he’d forgotten he was holding draws his attention. Christ, right. The whole point was—Francis really is starting to lose his mind. He contemplates just leaving anyway, like nothing’s amiss, but he’ll have to explain the two drinks to his team, absolutely none of whom will buy that the iced chai is for him. He’s gone on too many rants about how coffee shouldn’t be iced and tea only on certain occasions. He’s the type to drink hot, black coffee even on the most brutal summer days, though his sponsor did warn him that a lot of alcoholics do turn to sweets as a coping mechanism for replacing alcohol in their daily lives and not to be surprised if he found himself needing additional sweetener in his morning coffee as a result. Francis hadn’t credited it at the time, but he had found himself momentarily tempted at the coffee shop this morning by a sign advertising something called a ‘death by chocolate latte’ as the daily special before he’d gotten a hold of himself, so maybe there’s some truth to it. The point is, dragging this extra drink back to his office will be more humiliating than turning around and giving it to James like he originally planned, no matter how awkward it feels right now.

“Okay,” he says, turning back, “I promise this is the last thing and then I will let you get back to work. There’s, uh—it’s not a bribe, mind you, just an extension of the apology for what happened and for the fact that you’ll have to continue working with me for the foreseeable future and—you don’t have to forgive me, you don’t owe me that, I just thought—”

James looks at him, utterly perplexed, fingertips gently steepled on the top of the desk like he’d already been going back to whatever he was working on when Francis interrupted again. “What is it?” he asks, somehow still not betraying any annoyance at the interruption, hiding it well under an open tone of curiosity.

“The—this,” Francis finally spits out with considerable effort, holding the cup out towards James, rather than try to explain himself further. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” James replies, with an expression like Francis is trying to hand him a live gerbil and not an upsettingly overpriced beverage like the ones he’s seen James drink on dozens of occasions. “I, uh—that’s really not necessary.”

“You must take it, James. Please. I said you’re not obligated to forgive me, I’m not trying to sway you, really. It just felt wrong to show up empty handed, after everything.”

“I understand, but, really—”

“You’re not on another one of your cleanses, are you? Giving up sugar or…calories before noon or something?” Francis ventures, imbuing his tone with more patience than he normally would, even though he still feels very little towards this thing in particular.

James is already so annoyingly healthy and brisk and handsome, it does take extraordinary amounts of patience to tolerate his talk of intermittent fasting and green juice with the goal of making himself even more annoyingly perfect. Surely, there’s got to be a limit to that sort of thing, but Francis doesn’t know; he’s on the opposite end of the spectrum it seems, having to re-learn the fundamentals of barely looking after himself in middle age without the aid of alcohol. It’s pretty grim, if he’s being honest. It really is no wonder that James has been so consistently earning the gold medal spot in the competitive sport of getting on Francis’s nerves, with that in mind.

His intentional gentleness does seem to pay off in this case, though, since James smiles at him in only mild embarrassment. “Uh, no, I’m not. I just—you’re not obliged to—”

“I know, but—listen, James, I already committed my penance by having to say the phrase ‘dirty chai’ with a straight face to a college student with a lip piercing at eight in the morning, okay? The damage is done. You might as well enjoy the spoils of my humiliation.”

James’s smile widens at that, looking for all the world like he can’t really stop himself. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that mental image might be worth more to me than the entirety of your apology.”

“No offense taken,” Francis says, finally succeeding in handing off the cup, slick with condensation by now, into James’s care. “I hope it will sustain you for a while yet.”

“Oh, it shall,” James says, placing the cup gingerly onto his desk.

“Right, well,” Francis replies, “that’s all, then. I’ll see you…later, I suppose.”

James nods. “We have a meeting set for Tuesday—tomorrow. It should be on your calendar. Thomas said he—”

“If Jopson says it’s there, it’s there.”

“Great,” James says, easily. “Until then.”

“Yes. ‘Til tomorrow.”

Mission completed, Francis turns once more towards the door and is only interrupted in leaving by the sound of James clearing his throat behind him. He pauses, and looks over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in question when he meets James’s eye.

“It’s only—forgive me if this is the wrong thing to say, under the circumstances,” James offers, fidgeting with the edge of the notepad lying open on his desk, “but you do—that is, you look well, Francis.”

Francis doesn’t allow himself the liberty of moving even an inch, not to fiddle with his collar or brush back his hair or otherwise indicate he gives so much as one singular damn about his appearance. “Do I?” he asks, tone purposely vague, like James has just told him the weather forecast and it’s only interesting to him in theory, really.

“Yes, very well,” James says, putting his hand flat on the desk very deliberately, like it was giving him away before. At what, who knows, but he’s got it under control now. “This change, it suits you.”

“Well, thank you, I guess.”

James now looks at his computer screen, absently. The next words he says might be something he was reading off of there, if they were anything else. “You look good, is what I meant.”

“How—?” Francis pauses, feeling immense pressure to say this right, somehow. “Sorry, but how would that be the wrong thing to say?”

“I wouldn’t want you to think, well—” James interrupts himself by laughing, just a little and rather joylessly. “It’s not that you didn’t look good before.”

“Oh, right,” Francis says, even as those words continue to make no sense to him in that particular order coming from this particular person. “Wait, you’re saying—I did?”

James meets his eye again, finally, but only to give him the most impatient, long-suffering look in human history. “Is it too much to hope that one of the twelve steps involves learning to take a compliment?” he asks, sounding depleted by the effort. “Because it is one of your most exhausting qualities that you can’t do so without endless interrogation first.”

“And it’s got a lot of competition,” Francis replies, feeling himself smile and choosing to do nothing to stop it, “what with all my other exhausting qualities.”

“You’re really only proving my point here, you know.”

“Thank you, James,” Francis says, dutifully. “It’s very kind of you to say. Better?”

“Much,” James sighs. “You’re showing remarkable improvement already.”

Francis leaves him, then, because to stay any longer would just be exposing himself to further ridicule and he’d absolutely deserve it, what with the stupid smile he now can’t seem to get rid of.

[qwertyprophecy]

Ever wanted to try your hand at giving an evil monologue at your captured nemesis before feeding him to your pet sharks? Boy, have we got a game for you! Featuring unrepentant puns and shark karaoke!

Made at Finnish/Global Game Jam 2024.

[ddragayn]

sunsets

[aercnaut-archived]

ah yes. the true "writing a southern character" experience: googling if a common southern phrase is, in fact, actually a slur/started as one

[emptyjunior]

Enough random notes that have a written story on them as environmental storytelling, explore the space, get crazier with it.

You move into a house and aw cute, it has the kids height on the walls but you notice there's a three foot difference in height between measurements, you check the date, they're a month apart. The final measurement is on the ceiling. It's dated two days ago.

You're part of a recovery team that have finally found a stranded ship, they were found too late and have all passed a long time ago. They all died of starvation. You enter their storeroom, it's filled with food. In the dining hall you find the tables laden with perfectly fine looking breads, cakes, cured meats, jams, candies. Your medic says all the people sitting at the table didn't eat a Thing.

You wake up in an apocalypse. You can't find anyone at all as you wander the streets but you do hear faint music playing from somewhere. You stumble into a supermarket, to see all the aisles still full, except for the shelf that was full of ear plugs, which look to be the only thing that was looted.

Like there's light, sound, props. Having a street where every house is decimated except for One. Landing on a planet known for having No Water and a plant is growing and you don't know where it could have possibly gotten moisture from but you can't find the citizens Anywhere.

I'm sorry, I'm just kinda over the "graffiti on the wall to show the bad guy is around". That's not environmental storytelling that's just normal story. Show me I'm in the villains territory by the rain suddenly cutting out above me as I'm driving, even though it's meant to be raining all night. I park the car and step out, and realise the constellations are Wrong, until I see they're Not constellations, they're the blinking lights of a massive ship-

I Will stop now because everytime I go to write a sentence it devolves into another prompt but I'm just saying we have a Lot of senses, engage them, show me the Environment in environmental storytelling.

[inkskinned]

somewhere out there someone has probably used AI to write their wedding vows. someone out there is probably loading their hinge profile with AI quippy responses. when i close my eyes i picture a man hunting through chatGPT prompts, trying to get someone else to love him. maybe she sends him back chatGPT too, and two robots fall in love.

is this our new lives, then? is love scripted? i have a dandelion heart and some part of me wants to believe that AI will not obtain self-reliance by evil but instead by discovering the single perfect shape of love - the one thing humanity (in all our time and force) could never quite nail down. maybe it will be a string of numbers. the imprint of static, the universe's thumbprint. maybe it will just be a single long mirror, and jam dripping down your hands.

i know there are "good" reasons. i was nervous! or i was unsure how to say it! but - i want your nervous words. i want your unsure words. i want you to strike entire pages of work for me. i want you to gesture vaguely, to ransack your mind for ways to instead-of-saying just show me. i want to find where your words fail you and where the summer of your longing blazes out of you, infinite, resisting the capture of definition.

and i want to do the same for you. isn't any love worth a little bit of struggle? i want to shiver with the movie-ripe sense my friends are lovely and i am so tender towards them - i want to never quite be able to explain what it means to spend my life with them. i want to draw shapes on your skin that exit the geometric and fade into the same, wordless pattern. it is still love if silent. you know - i rarely, if ever, actually tell my siblings i love them? i just show up often, and hope the action does the talking.

i know AI is "easier". of course. buttoned up and seamlessly corporate. but i do not want to love you through a film. i do not want to love you with your edges sanded down. i cannot recognize myself in you if you are unmarred and glistening. something about how, with the crystal-clear mp3 files of the present, we ache for the scratch of vinyl. the flaws are what make love worth it. i want the raw and the windbeaten and the unkempt.

something tender, then. i love you because you're real, which means that you cannot be perfect.