#Thread: Bon Appetit

[rhysknees]

These Infinite Threads transformed my brain to mush

Meme dump

[melpcmene-arch]

@breathofcosmos ( meryl perhaps? ) / vash-centric starter call

Memories flooded him; overwhelmed him to the point of breaking mentally. Screaming. Hot tears ran down his cheeks. It broke him in half. No. It completely broken him in thousands upon thousands of sharp, small pieces until there was barely enough to scrape by. Screaming so raw that if Vash was considerably feeling human, he would feel it. But he didn't. He continued to cry and yell. Wings sprouted forth from his body. Wings unfolding from wings; uncurling out, long, unnaturally long. The weight of his wings, the complicated amount of them, made Vash lose balance. He ended up on his knees, practically balled up a little, crying loudly.

His tears clouded his vision, a mind messy and shattered, but he looked up to see someone. He couldn't tell. His mind was unfolding onto itself. His tears obscured some of his vision and his mental state was becoming feral.

[bailesona]

"emergency meeting." 👀

send in "emergency meeting." to hear what the company of v would have to say about your muse (i.e. are they a threat, a person of interest, a potential risk? if so why? etc.)

these meetings are a rare thing. they've never covered more than one person before. and discussing khione took far longer than they'd anticipated; meaning that his reaction to seeing hope baxter on the next line of the agenda might be blamed on little more than impatience and a yearning to get the hell out of vivian's eerily perfect home.

" hope? seriously? " edgar scoffs, thrusting the clipboard from him with a roll of his eyes. " careful where you step, it seems like our company may have something of a vengeance against people with superpowers. "

" only the ones who pose a threat to us. "

" a feeble defence, rose. " he releases a short line of neat tuts, drawing a glare from the lawyer. " isn't that what half the population is crying? besides, hope is a good person. kind, compassionate, trying to recover from what those bastards did to her. she already has her own enemy; leave her be, she won't even cast a glance in our direction. meeting over, yes? "

" he has a point. " isabella agrees warily, cautious against making eye contact with those around the table. instead, she pretends her tablet is displaying information of keen importance, surveying the posts and DMs with a listless glance. " there's nothing to report in her social media contributions. not really. only that her connections are strong and with people of noted influence. we could make a move... but at what cost? is it really worth it? i mean, what happened to not causing a splash? we've all worked too hard to lose everything over interfering with a woman who, as of yet, hasn't actually done anything wrong. "

rose, needing no recovery from edgar's swift rebuke, taps the screen of her own tablet, illuminating it with a stunningly intricate spiderweb of ideas. " so glad you mentioned that, princess, because my plan happens to use social media to our ever grateful advantage. hope baxter is becoming very well-acquainted with the world of heroism. i daresay she'll be the rising star of the avengers, or guardians, or whatever hyped up little nickname the hero group du jour has. so we work that to our advantage. she's fine, for now. but the second she places a lovely dark curl out of line? we crucify her in the public eye. rising star plummets, taking out multiple civilians with her. destroy her reputation, her public image, so entirely that nobody will ever be able to recover her again. "

edgar doesn't get a chance to intervene. nor does isabella, who shares a startled knee-jerk response with gavin. marcus powers through, gleeful over such a brutal response that lacks the bloodshed which they're endlessly attempting to limit. " we maximize civilian casualties. get one of our fall guys to interrupt communications, prevent evacuations, and unleash hell in one small, confined location. it's a devastating tragedy; we could make it happen in one of edgar's buildings, have isabella's software pick it all up. we release statements, gracious, merciful, kind. highlight a contrast between our generosity and hope's mistakes. let the people loathe her on their own. "

gavin's the first to scramble through the plan's aftermath, snatching up the small notebook from the table and leafing through it until he finds jude's final passage. " baxter is a considerable adversary when provoked, but too much time and energy would go into a confrontation. advised proposal is to aim for a non-lethal, non-aggressive response when needed; past traumatic experiences may be utilized to neutralize her. "

" that's bullshit. kill her. find a way. you seriously think aisling won't team up with her? help her find the ones who took her and take them down? and then we're next on the to-kill list. no. no more mercy, no more waiting; i say we pour all our resources into eliminating her now, before she has a chance to do the same to us. " vivian seldom gets angry. to see the flash of sharp wrath in her gaze is a jarring experience, and one that amita hastens to try and mollify.

" look... you raise a strong argument. but let's not forget the ones who took her. they're a key part of this, hm? i say we research them, present them to her on a silver platter. let us sell them out and guarantee a more favorable relationship with her. these people were horrific, on every level possible; the world is better off without them, and with her. don't burn any bridges we may wish to travel along later. "

" and if she sees through it? " edward cocks an eyebrow. " let's entertain that a moment. let's say that hope's so bloody paranoid after what happened, that she takes your silver platter and decapitates all of us with it. no. we give her one chance. all she has to do is nothing. there's nothing in her finances to help us, but we don't need to use that angle anyway; she does nothing, we do nothing. simple. "

gavin has closed jude's notebook, pressing the leather-bound covers between his hands as though in prayer. his forehead presses to his thumbs, head shaking in sorrowful disbelief. " she's not doing anything to indicate she's a threat to us. she's just a woman who wants to have a good life. is that really all it takes? the criteria for killing her, for destroying her life, is just that she happens to have powers? we can't. we can't do this. even the psycho assassin thinks there's a better way. "

that prompts a small chuckle from xavier, who leans back in his chair, reclining leisurely in the soft, supple leather backing. " okay. alright. i'd hate to be morally worse than a psycho assassin. fine. we let ms. baxter go on unimpeded. but i concur with edward; she gets one chance. one opportunity to be complacent. if she chooses to throw that away, then... i guess edgar's going to need to pick a building to destroy. "

[burningquake]

Ingrid truly didn’t plan to become a regular at the perpetual stew pot, but the countless possible evolutions of its flavor profile enticed her; so much could change over two weeks. Although it hadn’t been anything extraordinary, the good results from her first visit emboldened her to both proclaim the stew’s merits to anyone that asked, and to visit again. And she was certainly not going to give up the opportunity while she had a willing volunteer with whom to partake. 

She waited for Shez by the doorway into the room–their designated rendezvous point, slightly early as usual, a bag of herbs in hand as her carefully chosen offering today. Inside, the old woman kept her diligent vigil stirring the pot. The scent that filled the space was different this time: still a base of savory, but layered with something a little sweeter, maybe tart. Ingrid was still taking covert staccato lungfuls of the air, trying to analyze the smell when she spotted her companion for the day.

“Shez, hello,” she greeted with a nod, smiling warmly. “Thank you for accompanying me. You’re braver than most.” Her eyes flickered down, scanning. “Did you bring anything to add?”

@bladeunbound

yelp reviews would never lie

pearlescent: non mission task board (perpetual stew)

[octaneink]

Hips don't lie

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will doesn't feel very confident for the match, the Reader helps him practice. Warnings: Bit of make out at the start but nothing descriptive nor sexual and its implied that the Reader knows football Notes: Based on this request, I hope you dont mind that I went in this direction! Not to sure about this one, to quoute James Acaster "Started makin it. Had a breakdown. Bon appetite." football is hard as fawk

The credits of Shaun of the Dead danced across the screen, painting the dim living room in erratic bursts of blue and grey. Empty popcorn bowls littered the coffee table, their buttery scent mingling with the sticky-sweet residue of spilt soda. Will’s laughter from the film’s final joke still lingered, but now his knee bounced restlessly, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his jeans. You tilted your head, studying him—the way his gaze clung to the paused screen, avoiding yours, and the tension in his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

“Out with it,” you said, nudging his slipper with your socked foot. The couch groaned as you leaned closer. “You’ve been jumpier than a squirrel on espresso.”

He lobbed a lone popcorn kernel at you—a weak shot, missing entirely. It skittered under the couch. “Twitchy? I’m Zen. Practically meditating.”

“Sure. And I’m the Queen,” you deadpanned, snatching the remote off his thigh. The screen froze on Simon Pegg’s blood-smeared face, mid-yell. Will’s grin faltered, and his throat bobbed as he picked at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve. You waited, elbow propped on the sofa back, until the thread snapped.

“Simon asked me to play in the Sidemen charity match,” he blurted, voice strained with faux nonchalance.

“That’s brilliant!” You grinned, but his flinch cut you short. His knuckles whitened around the cushion.

“Last time…” He huffed a laugh, sharp and brittle. “Last time, Twitter had a field day. ‘WillNE? More like WillNOT.’ Trended for three days. Three. Days.” His imitation of the trolls was pitch-perfect, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. It flickered to the floor, where the rogue popcorn kernel glinted in the dim light. “Now they want me at Wembley. In front of—Christ, millions. What if I…” He trailed off, jaw clenching.

You shifted closer, knees brushing. The heat of his arm against yours steadied the room. “That was a year ago. It’s different now, you’ve done more in terms of overall fitness. You’re quicker now. Smarter.”

“And if I faceplant? Become a national joke?” The raw edge in his voice pricked at your chest.

“Then you’ll be the funny face plant. Memes for days.” You nudged him, earning a half-hearted eye roll. “But you won’t. Blocking’s about reading your opponent. It’s simple, I’ll teach you.”

His brow arched. “Says the klutz who trips on flat ground.”

You hurled a throw pillow. He caught it, grin widening, and the room’s tension dissolved like sugar in tea.

“Fine,” he sighed, lobbing the pillow back. “But if we’re doing this—”

You lunged, toppling him into the cushions. His laugh burst free, warm and startled, as your socks tangled and the TV’s static hum faded beneath your pulse. “—We start with jockeys,” you declared, nose inches from his.

“Tyrant,” he muttered, but the protest dissolved as his palms slid around your hips. His thumbs pressed into the hollows just above your waistband—a searing imprint through the thin fabric of your shirt. You stiffened, every nerve crackling at the contact, his calluses catching on the ribbed hem like a struck match.

His breath hitched when your knee accidentally brushed his thigh. Distract him. Keep it light. You forced a smirk, tilting your chin up. “Scared I’ll beat you?”

His grip tightened reflexively, fingers digging into the soft curve of your hipbone. A shiver skittered down your spine. “You wish,” he scoffed, but his voice had gone low, frayed at the edges. The earlier tension in his shoulders had melted, replaced by a coiled heat that made your throat dry.

“You’re doing the thing,” he said softly, his gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back up, a flicker of mischief cutting through the shadows under his eyes.

“What thing?”

“Your nose.” His thumb brushed the slope of it, feather-light. “Scrunches when you’re scheming. Like a rabbit with a vendetta.”

You swatted his hand away, cheeks burning. “Piss off—”

He kissed you. Deep and languid, his lips parting yours with a sigh that tasted of salt and the ghost of artificial butter. Your fingers twisted into his hoodie, cotton bunching beneath your grip as the world tilted—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping a route he planned to revisit. His hands slid up your back, calloused palms skimming the ridges of your ribs through your shirt, and your breath hitched. Everywhere he touched sparked, a live wire beneath your skin, and when you bit his lower lip—just a teasing nip—he groaned, low and throaty.

Not yet, your brain hissed, even as your hips pressed closer, even as his thumbs dug into the dimples above your waistband, anchoring you against him. The static hum of the paused TV blurred into white noise, replaced by the ragged symphony of his breaths, your pulse, and the creak of the couch as he shifted to deepen the kiss. His earlier hesitance had dissolved into something reckless, hungry, as he murmured, “Christ, you’re—”

You didn’t let him finish.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, sweat-damp and trembling. His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the room’s dim light, but his grin was pure mischief. “I don’t know how good a coach you can be,” he rasped, thumb brushing the smudged corner of your lip. “You’re too distracting.”

The dizzying warmth in your chest flared—a wildfire threatening to burn through your resolve. You shoved him back against the cushions, ignoring the way your traitorous hands lingered on his chest, the heat of him seeping through his hoodie. “Jokeys first,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “First thing tomorrow.”

He flopped backward, arm slung over his eyes in mock defeat. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel.” But his laugh was bright, unburdened, “Though I trust you, teach me how to not die at Wembley.”

The pitch squatted between a dual carriageway and a Lidl car park, its chain-link fence trembling under the lash of a north-easterly wind. March in London wasn’t spring—it was winter’s spiteful encore. Frost clung to the dead grass in jagged lace, and the penalty area had become a boggy quagmire from last night’s sleet. A deflated football lay stranded near the corner flag, half-submerged in a puddle slicked with rainbow petrol.

You found Will leaning against his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood pulled tight against the weather. His breath plumed in the air as he squinted at the pitch. “This is where England’s future dies, then?”

“This is where you learn a new skill,” you corrected, slinging your kit bag over the fence. The metal rattled like a cage. “Pitch is alive. Listen to it.”

He snorted. “Alive? It’s wheezing.”

You let the silence stretch, the wind filling it with the groan of distant traffic. A crisp packet skittered across the centre circle, snagging on a tuft of frost-bitten grass. Finally, he shoved off the car, muttering, “Should’ve stayed at home.”

The first touch was a disaster. Will’s boot sank into the mud, the ball squirting sideways like a bar of soap. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and you bit back a laugh. “Lovely pirouette. Swan Lake at Wembley, yeah?”

“Piss off,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

For twenty minutes, you drilled him on stance—knees bent, weight forward, stop standing like a lamppost. The wind stole his curses as he wobbled, overcorrected, and nearly face-planted. By the time his shadow began to resemble something competent, the sleet returned—needle-sharp, horizontal—and the pitch became a slurry of ice and gluey earth.

You tossed him the ball. “Eyes up.”

He stared at it like it owed him money. “Why?”

“Because”, you said, stepping close enough to see the sleet caught in his lashes, “Harry’s not your nan. He won’t care if you slip. He’ll just take the ball.”

The ball skidded, the wind howled, and the real work began.

“Eyes up, remember?” you said, tapping your temple. “Not on the ball. Not yet.”

He dragged his gaze to your face, shoulders rigid. “Their eyes lie, hips don’t. Got it.”

“Good.” You feinted left, hips closed, and he shuffled sideways—too early. The ball rolled untouched through the gap he’d left. “Trust yourself. Watch mine.”

He groaned, kicking a clump of half-frozen mud. “Thought this was supposed to be simple.”

“It is. And you’re overcomplicating it.” You repositioned him, hands firm on his shoulders. “Feet wider. Knees bent. You’re not posing for a thumbnail.

He sank into a crouch, more gargoyle than athlete. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You stepped back, dribbling lazily. “Next—eyes on my hips. Ignore the ball. Ignore my feet. Just… react.”

You shifted left, hips snapping open. Will mirrored, a beat too slow, his boots skidding on frost. The ball slipped past, and he cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of a passing gritter truck.

“Again”, you ordered.

By the fifth attempt, his movements grew less wooden. On the sixth, he anticipated your pivot, cutting off the angle with a grunt of effort. The ball ricocheted off his shin guard, vanishing into a puddle.

“There!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You saw it.”

“Saw your hip do a… thing.” He wiped his nose, red from the cold. “Still don’t get how this stops, Harry.”

“It helps you think and predict others’ movements.” You reclaimed the ball, spinning it under your heel. “By Friday, we’ll talk about huddling him toward the sidelines—that’s when you break his ankles.”

Will blinked. “Huddle?”

“Using the pitch like a cage. Force him where you want him.” You gestured to the chain-link fence, its rust bleeding onto the frost. “But that stuff’s for later. Right now…” You feinted right, hoping he’d pick up that your hips were falsely screaming go left, and Will bit hard, lunging. The ball slipped through, kissing the inside netting of the goal.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands braced on his knees. “Feels like learning to walk.”

You tossed him a water bottle, your voice softening. “Day One’s about trust. Trust your mind. Trust the pitch. The rest?” You nodded to the empty stands, where a lone pigeon pecked at a discarded crisp packet. “That’s just noise.”

He straightened, squinting at the goal. “Again.”

This time, when you danced forward, he held his ground—hips square, stance wide—though his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still arguing with himself. You juked left and right, your boots hissing over the frost, but he matched every feint, forcing you toward the touchline until your heel grazed the chain-link fence. The ball died in a slush pile, and his laugh burst free—bright and buoyant, a sound that carried the weight of unspoken relief.

“There you are,” you said, toeing the ball back to centre. It left a ragged brown scar across the ice.

He caught it mid-bounce, mud streaking his gloves. “Where’d I go?”

“Into your head. Again.” You nodded to the sodden turf. “But your feet stayed here. That’s… progress.”

He punted the ball skyward, its arc slicing through the sleet. “Progress? I just channelled prime Maldini.”

“Maldini wept during his first tackle.” You let the ball thud into the muck, untouched. “You’re drier. Marginally.”

He barked a laugh, but his gaze flicked to the goalposts, their nets sagging under the weight of old rain. “What’s tomorrow? You making me cry?”

“Depends.” You lobbed the ball at his chest, softer this time. He caught it, his reflexes sharper now, breath steady. “Tomorrow’s about why you held your ground today. Why you didn’t lunge.”

He rolled the ball under his palm, quiet for once. The wind gnawed at the silence, carrying the distant clatter of a train on the tracks behind Lidl.

“Dinner. My place,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Carbonara. Or the biryani you’ve been whinging about since Tuesday.”

He brightened instantly, the practised sarcasm dissolving. “Finally. I’ve been dreaming about your carbonara since the last time you made it.”

You arched a brow. “Thought you’d beg for the biryani.”

“Carbonara’s your peace offering. Biryani’s for when I actually impress you.” He lobbed the ball into the gear pile, his grin widening. “Don’t pretend you’re not smug I remembered.”

You turned toward the gate, sleet needling your neck. “Keep standing your ground like today, and I’ll even add garlic bread.”

He fell into step beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Bribery? What happened to discipline and professionalism?”

“You’re the one moaning about my coaching,” you said, nodding to the abandoned ball—still upright, still defiant in the mud. “Discipline’s tomorrow. Tonight’s about… recalibrating.”

He hummed, a low, contented sound you’d only ever heard after he’d nailed a drill. “Recalibrating. Sure. Just admit you like watching me suffer through your chilli flakes.”

Ahead, the crow took flight from the crossbar, its wings scattering droplets that speckled the frozen turf. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice, the ease in his stride—it was all there, simmering beneath the sleet and sarcasm.

The pitch squatted between a dual carriageway and a Lidl car park, its chain-link fence trembling under the lash of a north-easterly wind. March in London wasn’t spring—it was winter’s spiteful encore. Frost clung to the dead grass in jagged lace, and the penalty area had become a boggy quagmire from last night’s sleet. A deflated football lay stranded near the corner flag, half-submerged in a puddle slicked with rainbow petrol.

You found Will leaning against his car, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood pulled tight against the weather. His breath plumed in the air as he squinted at the pitch. “This is where England’s future dies, then?”

“This is where you learn a new skill,” you corrected, slinging your kit bag over the fence. The metal rattled like a cage. “Pitch is alive. Listen to it.”

He snorted. “Alive? It’s wheezing.”

You let the silence stretch, the wind filling it with the groan of distant traffic. A crisp packet skittered across the centre circle, snagging on a tuft of frost-bitten grass. Finally, he shoved off the car, muttering, “Should’ve stayed at home.”

The first touch was a disaster. Will’s boot sank into the mud, the ball squirting sideways like a bar of soap. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and you bit back a laugh. “Lovely pirouette. Swan Lake at Wembley, yeah?”

“Piss off,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

For twenty minutes, you drilled him on stance—knees bent, weight forward, stop standing like a lamppost. The wind stole his curses as he wobbled, overcorrected, and nearly face-planted. By the time his shadow began to resemble something competent, the sleet returned—needle-sharp, horizontal—and the pitch became a slurry of ice and gluey earth.

You tossed him the ball. “Eyes up.”

He stared at it like it owed him money. “Why?”

“Because”, you said, stepping close enough to see the sleet caught in his lashes, “Harry’s not your nan. He won’t care if you slip. He’ll just take the ball.”

The ball skidded, the wind howled, and the real work began.

“Eyes up, remember?” you said, tapping your temple. “Not on the ball. Not yet.”

He dragged his gaze to your face, shoulders rigid. “Their eyes lie; hips don’t. Got it.”

“Good.” You feinted left, hips closed, and he shuffled sideways—too early. The ball rolled untouched through the gap he’d left. “Trust yourself. Watch mine.”

He groaned, kicking a clump of half-frozen mud. “Thought this was supposed to be simple.”

“It is. And you’re overcomplicating it.” You repositioned him, hands firm on his shoulders. “Feet wider. Knees bent. You’re not posing for a thumbnail.

He sank into a crouch, more gargoyle than athlete. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” You stepped back, dribbling lazily. “Next—eyes on my hips. Ignore the ball. Ignore my feet. Just… react.”

You shifted left, hips snapping open. Will mirrored, a beat too slow, his boots skidding on frost. The ball slipped past, and he cursed, the sound swallowed by the growl of a passing gritter truck.

“Again”, you ordered.

By the fifth attempt, his movements grew less wooden. On the sixth, he anticipated your pivot, cutting off the angle with a grunt of effort. The ball ricocheted off his shin guard, vanishing into a puddle.

“There!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You saw it.”

“Saw your hip do a… thing.” He wiped his nose red from the cold. “Still don’t get how this stops, Harry.”

“It helps you think and predict others’ movements.” You reclaimed the ball, spinning it under your heel. “By Friday, we’ll talk about huddling him toward the sidelines—that’s when you break his ankles.”

Will blinked. “Huddle?”

“Using the pitch like a cage. Force him where you want him.” You gestured to the chain-link fence, its rust bleeding onto the frost. “But that stuff’s for later. Right now…” You feinted right, hoping he’d pick up that your hips were falsely screaming go left, and Will bit hard, lunging. The ball slipped through, kissing the inside netting of the goal.

“Christ,” he muttered, hands braced on his knees. “Feels like learning to walk.”

You tossed him a water bottle, your voice softening. “Day One’s about trust. Trust your mind. Trust the pitch. The rest?” You nodded to the empty stands, where a lone pigeon pecked at a discarded crisp packet. “That’s just noise.”

He straightened, squinting at the goal. “Again.”

This time, when you danced forward, he held his ground—hips square, stance wide—though his fingers flexed at his sides like he was still arguing with himself. You juked left and right, your boots hissing over the frost, but he matched every feint, forcing you toward the touchline until your heel grazed the chain-link fence. The ball died in a slush pile, and his laugh burst free—bright and buoyant, a sound that carried the weight of unspoken relief.

“There you are,” you said, toeing the ball back to centre. It left a ragged brown scar across the ice.

He caught it mid-bounce, mud streaking his gloves. “Where’d I go?”

“Into your head. Again.” You nodded to the sodden turf. “But your feet stayed here. That’s… progress.”

He punted the ball skyward, its arc slicing through the sleet. “Progress? I just channelled prime Maldini.”

“Maldini wept during his first tackle.” You let the ball thud into the muck, untouched. “You’re drier. Marginally.”

He barked a laugh, but his gaze flicked to the goalposts, their nets sagging under the weight of old rain. “What’s tomorrow? You making me cry?”

“Depends.” You lobbed the ball at his chest, softer this time. He caught it, his reflexes sharper now, breath steady. “Tomorrow’s about why you held your ground today. Why you didn’t lunge.”

He rolled the ball under his palm, quiet for once. The wind gnawed at the silence, carrying the distant clatter of a train on the tracks behind Lidl.

“Dinner. My place,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Carbonara. Or the biryani you’ve been whinging about since Tuesday.”

He brightened instantly, the practised sarcasm dissolving. “Finally. I’ve been dreaming about your carbonara since the last time you made it.”

You arched a brow. “Thought you’d beg for the biryani.”

“Carbonara’s your peace offering. Biryani’s for when I actually impress you.” He lobbed the ball into the gear pile, his grin widening. “Don’t pretend you’re not smug I remembered.”

You turned toward the gate, sleet needling your neck. “Keep standing your ground like today, and I’ll even add garlic bread.”

He fell into step beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “Bribery? What happened to ‘discipline’ and ‘professionalism’”?

“You’re the one moaning about my coaching,” you said, nodding to the abandoned ball—still upright, still defiant in the mud. “Discipline’s tomorrow. Tonight’s about… recalibrating.”

He hummed, a low, contented sound you’d only ever heard after he’d nailed a drill. “Recalibrating. Sure. Just admit you like watching me suffer through your chilli flakes.”

Ahead, the crow took flight from the crossbar, its wings scattering droplets that speckled the frozen turf. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice, the ease in his stride—it was all there, simmering beneath the sleet and sarcasm.

The wind had shifted, swapping sleet for a spiteful drizzle that seeped into collars and chewed through seams. The pitch, still a quilt of mud and dead grass, now bristled with training dummies dragged from the clubhouse storage—their sagging vinyl bodies streaked with grime, zip-tied to rusted poles like drunk sentries. Will stood in front of the goal, breath visible in the raw air, hoodie sleeves darkened to sludge-grey with rain. His shadow pooled at his feet, thin and shivering.

"Near post", you called, and fired.

The ball cut through the drizzle, a blurred comet. Will lunged, boots skidding in the same boggy corner where he’d face-planted on Day 1. The impact echoed—a dull thud—as the ball smacked his thigh, then squirted wide, carving a brown scar through the muck.

"Better", you said, "but you hesitated."

"Because last time I committed, you chipped me," he snapped, wiping his nose on a sleeve already stiff with dried mud. A fresh bruise mottled his shin, purple bleeding through the grime, a trophy from yesterday’s failed block.

You rolled another ball forward with your heel, its surface filmy with rainwater. "Exactly. Decide, don’t guess."

For an hour, it was a rhythm of grit and failure: the slap of wet leather against skin, the clatter of poles as Will collided with dummies, their hollow heads sloshing with collected rain. The hiss of breath through teeth when he overreached, his ankle twisting on a buried stone. When he charged like a man chasing a runaway umbrella, you curled the ball around him, it kissed the inside post with a smug clang. When he held back, stiff as that first-day lamppost, you drilled it into the net so hard the crossbar shuddered, rust flaking like snow.

By the end, his hoodie clung to him like a second skin, rain dripping off his jaw in a steady tap-tap-tap against his collarbone. But his eyes stayed locked on your hips even as his teeth chattered.

"Your brain’s the enemy," you said, tossing him a thermos of tea to warm his bones against the weather. "Stop thinking. Move."

He gulped it, the scent of bergamot and honey briefly overpowering the wet earth. Steam fogged his glasses, turning his eyes into smudged watercolours. "Says the person who’s done this since they could walk."

You stepped closer, close enough to see the goosebumps on his neck and the raw split in his chapped lip. "Back home", you said, "I learnt doubt gets you beat faster than any striker." You flicked the ball up, catching it mid-air, your palm stinging with the cold bite of its seams. "You’ve got instinct—trust it."

He stared at the mud caked under his nails, black crescents that no amount of scrubbing would lift. "Instinct got me a 3–0 loss last season."

"That wasn’t instinct," you said, spinning the ball on your finger until the world blurred. "That was fear. There’s a difference."

The dummies sagged under the rain, their hollow heads filling like buckets. Will spat—a sharp, defiant sound—straightened, and nodded at the goal. "Again."

This time, when you fired, he didn’t lunge. Didn’t freeze. He shifted, hips pivoting with the lazy grace of a door on a rusted hinge, and redirected the ball wide with a controlled tap of his instep. It rolled to a stop at the base of a dummy, its grin streaked with algae.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. The drizzle thinned just enough to gild the pitch in a silvered haze, and for a heartbeat, the goalposts didn’t sag. They waited.

"Again," he said, voice rough but steady.

You obliged.

Later, as you wrestled the waterlogged dummies into the storage shed, their vinyl limbs slapping lifelessly against the door frame, Will leaned into the threshold. His arms were crossed tight against the cold, breath curling into the damp air like cigarette smoke. “Dinner,” he said, not a question. “Your place again? Unless you’re sick of my face.”

You flung a damp towel at him, its frayed corner snapping like a whip in the wind. He caught it one-handed, the fabric unfurling with a wet slap against his chest. “Casserole”, you said. “Your pick—chicken or whatever’s in my fridge.”

He dragged the towel over his hair, mussing it into a damp tangle, but his smirk stayed intact. “Chicken, please. Because you’ll spite-season it if I don’t suffer.”

“Suffering’s extra.” You shoved the last dummy inside, its hollow head thunking against the shed wall.

He fell into step beside you, shoulders brushing as you picked through the frozen ruts toward the gate. The cold had turned the mud to jagged teeth, but he matched your pace, steady where he’d once stumbled. Ahead, a crow launched itself from the crossbar, wings battering the air, and the abandoned ball shuddered under the spray of droplets—still upright, still defiant, its scuffed hexagons glinting through the grime like a wink.

“Mud’s got better form than you did on day one,” you said, nodding to it.

He huffed, breath fogging the space between you. “Mud doesn’t have Twitter trolls.”

“Yet.”

His laugh was sharp and fleeting, but his stride never faltered.

Rain sheeted down in relentless curtains, turning the penalty box into a quagmire. The ball, waterlogged and sluggish, clung to your boot like a stubborn barnacle as you squared up to Will. His hood sagged under the weight of the downpour, plastering his hair to his forehead, but his stance was pure defiance—knees bent, fingertips grazing the mud, eyes locked on your hips like they held the secret to salvation.

"1v1," you shouted over the drumbeat of rain on the crossbar. "Stop me, you win. I score, you owe me a spa day—hot stones, cucumber eyes, the full mortification."

He barked a laugh, sharp and brittle. "Deal. But when I win, you admit my slide tackle’s better than Rio’s."

You feinted right, shoulders telegraphing a sprint, then cut left. He shifted with you, boots skidding but holding firm, herding you toward the corner flag. At the last second, you dragged the ball back with the sole of your boot, mud spraying as you slipped past his outstretched leg. The net bulged, then sagged, swallowing the ball whole.

"Again," you ordered, already rolling another ball forward with your toe.

This time, he jockeyed you like a shadow, his breath ragged but his feet alive—no more flat-footed statue, no more panic. When you tapped the ball between your legs, aiming to nutmeg him, he snapped his thighs shut like a bear trap, pinning the ball mid-spin.

"YES!" Your roar tore through the rain, fists punching the air. "That’s the Will I need! The one who bites!"

But when you spun him with a stepover—hips swivelling, boot flicking the ball over an imaginary hurdle—he overcompensated, his shin cracking against the post. The metallic clang shuddered through the goal goalframe. He crumpled, swearing, fingers clawing at his sodden jeans. "I’m useless at this! Christ, just—"

You marched toward him, boots sloshing through ankle-deep slurry. Rain needled your scalp, your shirt clinging like a second skin. Without a word, you hauled him upright, your grip iron on his bicep. "Look at me."

He didn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the mud, jaw working like he was chewing glass.

"Look. At. Me." You waited until his eyes—wild, wounded—met yours. "You’ve blocked half my shots today. Half. Last week, I’d have danced around you like you were a traffic cone. Progress isn’t perfection—it’s persistence. It’s showing up when your knees feel like jelly and your brain's screaming, Quit!"

He wrenched free, but his voice frayed. "What if I crack during the match? What if I—"

"You won’t." You stepped into his space, close enough to see the tremor in his throat and the rainwater caught in his lashes. "I’ve seen you throw yourself in front of every ball I’ve blasted at you. Bruised ribs, skinned knees, that." You jabbed a finger at the fresh welt on his shin, purple blooming beneath the grime. "You think courage is some grand, shiny thing? It’s this. It’s getting up when every cell in your body wants to crawl into a hole. Courage doesn’t crack—it weathers."

For a heartbeat, the rain seemed to still. Then his shoulders dropped, the fight leaching out of him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing mud and rainwater. "You’re a shit poet, you know that?"

"Tragic, isn’t it?" You nudged the ball toward him with your boot. "Now stop sulking. Spa day’s riding on your next tackle."

He huffed, but his stance widened, hips sinking into that feral crouch you’d drilled into him. The ball danced between you, a sodden pendulum, as the rain blurred the world beyond the eighteen-yard box.

The VIP box gleamed amber in the low March sun, its rays slanting through the stadium’s steel ribs to stripe the grass with gold. You leaned against the railing, the chill of late afternoon biting through your sleeves despite the sunlight, and watched the pitch below. Will prowled near the eighteen-yard line, breath visible in the crisp air, his red kit bright in contrast to the grass.

Simon struck first—a curling dagger toward the far post that ricocheted off the crossbar with a clang that reverberated through the murmuring crowd, the near miss hung in the air, sharp.

Move. MOVE.

Will didn’t celebrate. Didn’t pause. While Sketch was distracted, focus split between the ball and the masses, and Will drifted back, inch by inch, until his heels kissed the six-yard box line, and his shadow pooled inside the six-yard box—exactly where you’d burnt the position into his brain during those frostbitten drills.

George pounced on the rebound.

Time slowed.

The ball rocketed toward the top corner, a comet trailing turf and desperation. The keeper lunged, a split second too slow, but Will—your Will—was already airborne.

His body twisted midair, shoulders hunched, neck muscles taut as bridge cables. The impact was a loud crack—forehead meeting ball—sending the ball spiralling wide, skittering harmlessly toward the corner flag.

Will hit the grass hard, his momentum carrying him into a tight, controlled roll—shoulder to hip, one fluid whirl—before he sprang up in a single explosive motion, dry grass blades flying off his kit.

As he rose, the stadium erupted in a deafening wave of sound that shook the very foundations of Wembley. The crowd was on its feet before he even finished standing. A tidal wave of noise crashed down from the stands. Strangers hugged strangers. Scarves whirled overhead like battle flags. Behind the goal, a sea of supporters pounded the advertising boards in perfect, thunderous rhythm.

Will celebrated, looking to the sky, veins standing out in his neck as he screamed, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. The cameras caught every detail—the wild look in his eyes, the sweat flying from his brow, and the way his chest heaved with adrenaline and triumph.

On the pitch, teammates mobbed him, their celebrations almost violent in their intensity. Someone ruffled his sweat-drenched hair. Another player grabbed his face and screamed something unintelligible right into his ear.

Then pure, unfiltered joy exploded through you.

You were on your feet before you realised it, chair clattering backward as you vaulted up, arms already raised in triumph. A wordless scream tore from your throat—something between a battle cry and pure elation—raw and uncontainable. Your hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as you bounced on your toes, the sheer adrenaline making it impossible to stand still.

On the pitch, Will turned toward the stands, his eyes scanning the crowd. You swore he looked right at you—just for a split second—and you raised both arms higher, screaming his name like a prayer and a promise all at once. The grin that split his face then was worth every drop of sweat, every moment of frustration. It was perfect. He was perfect. And you were going to lose your voice tomorrow, but, God, it was worth it.

This is sort of a different universe from the other Will x Reader fic I made. I hope this was okay, I did it across the week, doing it in chunks, so there may be some inconsistencies. Sorry if there are. Please feel free to point them out, and I can fix them!

[lizpaige]

i love ur ficlets!! for a prompt: adam arrives home exhausted after the work trip from hell and ronan gives him some TLC. thanks 💕

thanks for the prompt, anon! hope you like this one, too! ❤️

After a four hour flight delay and a miserable trip for work that was, in the end, just a waste of time, Adam was home.

Their townhouse in DC was barely lived in. They both traveled so much that they barely got to utilize the space for more than a day or two consecutively. It only bothered Adam when he was home and realized they were missing something basic - hand towels in the bathroom or extra sheets in the bedroom - but quickly forgot about it when they were away again.

Opening the front door, the whole place felt lonely and cold. He toed off his shoes, tossed his keys in the bowl by the door, dropped his messenger bag next to his carry-on luggage, and pulled off his suit jacket. He threw himself on the couch, scrolling through his phone to find somewhere to order food, knowing they had nothing in, when the doorbell rang.

When he answered it, a delivery guy with a paper bag monogrammed with the restaurant name of his favorite Italian place was there.

“I didn’t order anything,” Adam stammered.

“Uh, are you Adam Parrish?” The man read his name off the receipt. “Definitely yours then. Already paid for. Thanks for the tip.” He shoved it into Adam’s arms and walked away.

Adam stood there for a moment dumbfounded before his pocket buzzed with an incoming text from Ronan: bon appetit bitch x

Adam had asked Ronan where he was in the states, hoping he was close by so he wouldn’t have to spend his weekend off alone, but Ronan was with his brothers in Boston so Adam didn’t ask. He didn’t really tell him much about the horrible work trip either, just sort of dodged the question with a lot of sighs and nonanswers.

But Ronan knew him.

An hour after he settled in for the night, after a shower, after demolishing his penne alla vodka, getting into Ronan’s sweats, and collapsing on the couch with a mindless nature documentary to fall asleep to, the front door opened.

And then a loud commotion as the intruder tripped over all of Adam’s belongings he had dumped there at the front door. “Jesus, fuck.”

“Ronan?” Adam jolted off the couch and scrambled to the door. His luggage was on its side and so was Ronan. He helped him up and was immediately pulled into a tight embrace

Adam buried his face in Ronan’s neck and breathed him in, all the tension he’d been carrying for the last month on his ongoing work trip was released.

Ronan laughed, running a soothing hand down his back. “Hey there.”

Adam just groaned and Ronan pressed a kiss to his neck and held him, for as long as he needed, which was apparently a long time.

“That bad, huh?” He said after a while and Adam started to lean all his weight against him. Ronan laughed again. “Can you make it to the couch or are you dead?”

“Not sure,” Adam grumbled into his shoulder. Ronan huffed another laugh and picked Adam up, holding him close against his chest as he brought them to the couch. Selfishly Adam liked this and he knew Ronan liked to show off so it was a win-win.

When they made it to the couch, Adam pulled Ronan down on top of him, hand resting at the base of his skull, pulling him in for a kiss. He lost count of how many days they spent apart this time, but he knew it was too many.

“You’re here,” Adam said eventually when their lungs needed a break.

Ronan hummed in reply and rested his head against Adam’s shoulder, grabbed his hand and threaded their fingers together. Adam let his other hand run along Ronan’s temple, down his cheek, his jaw, along his ear, down his neck. He closed his eyes, both feeling better by Ronan’s proximity and also guilty that he pulled him away from whatever.

Seemingly able to read his mind, Ronan said, “you know, you can just ask me to come home. Or shit, I could, like, meet you somewhere.”

“Hm?”

“You know what I fucking mean,” Ronan punched his side. “You had a shitty month of some yuppie government bullshit, but like… I can drop whatever, hop on a flight, come see you.”

“I don’t know if you have clearance to—”

“I’ll sign whatever NDA you need me to. Fuck knows I don’t understand half the shit you talk about anyway.” Ronan pulled their joined hands to his lips. “Or I see you for a night or something. Doesn’t have to be long if you’re busy.”

This was still difficult for Adam to do. To ask for things he knew Ronan was ready and willing to give. And while sometimes Ronan had a freaky way of reading his mind, it wasn’t always and Adam should be able to ask for what he needs.

“I know you wanted me to come home this weekend, but enough with dropping hints.” Ronan turned his head and kissed his sternum, then up to his lips. “Just ask me.”

Adam pulled him in for a kiss, slow and deep, a promise that words couldn’t adequately express, some gratitude for Ronan coming anyway even though Adam hadn’t asked. Adam had only been working this job for a year and while he was still fiercely independent, sometimes he just wanted to see Ronan. They were still figuring out the distance.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, pulling back. “Or we could meet halfway? If you’re busy and—”

“Sure, Parrish,” Ronan kissed him again and then got up. He outstretched a hand to Adam on the couch expectantly. “Come on, we’re going to bed.”

[absolutebl]

Hi P’ABL, building off an earlier ask you answered, what are your top recommendations if I want to watch a BL where the main focus is the romance between two characters? Something along the lines of Semantic Error for example? Or even Old Fashioned cupcake?

Hum, you mean where there is little to no outside plots, external pressure, or secondary characters? Most KBLs are pretty closed systems but they of have external pressures. Lemme think... there are shorts of course. Okay I did a ratings sort and then just read through my favorites with this in mind... this is pretty darn subjective tho.

BLs that are just simple sweet romances

High School Setting

I Cannot Reach You AKA Kimi ni wa Todokanai (Japan 2023) - a very simple friends to lovers romance.

HIStory 2: Crossing the Line (Taiwan 2018) - classic sports romance

My School President (Thailand 2023) - the high school version of soft boys being soft, there's a side "plot" and a band but who cares?

About Youth (Taiwan 2022)

University Setting

Semantic Error (Korea 2022) - asker chose this as their primary example.

A Breeze of Love (Korea 2023) - reunion romance

A First Love Story (Korea 2021) - 2 part short that is exactly what you want.

Oxygen the series (Thailand 2020) - the university version of soft boys being soft, this one is a hyung with the young rich boy chasing the older orphan

We Best Love (Taiwan 20210 - part one is enemies to lovers, part 2 is office reunion enemies to lovers 2nd chance.

2gether (Thailand 2020) - oh the pining ridiculousness

Star in My Mind Star and Sky (Thailand 2022)

Hidden Agenda (Thailand 2023) - that isn't hidden at all

Love By Chance (Thailand 2018) - watch for AePete and TinCan but don't bother with the other threads

Why R U? (Thai 2020) - I mean it's madness but there is no other plot but the romances

Why R U? (Korean adaptation of Thai original) (Korea 2023)

2 Moons 2 is kinda the same thing, but I don't rate it as high as the Why R U?s. There are many who would call me crazy for this.

I thought about including the Love Class series but both of them have stalking sub plots. And I'm inferring you don't want any darkness or stress at all.

Office Romances

Old Fashion Cupcake (Japan 2022) - asker chose this as a second example, although I would call it a bit more complex given the themes of self discovery and worth.

Our Dating Sim (Korea 2023) - basically a reunion romance (second chance) but there is a bit of work stuff.

Be Loved In House: I Do (Taiwan 2021) - office romance, it's Taiwan so like We Best Love it'll be a little chaotic but I think it's what you're looking for.

Love is Science? BL Cut (Taiwan 2021) - the gays are the side couple there is a noona romance lead and a mature romance side, everything soft romance all day long.

Step By Step (Thailand 2023) - pretty classic office romance, Korea's version is called The New Employee and is also good but there is a lot more about the actual job as part of the plot.

Love Mate (Korea 2023) - aggressive pursuit from the new intern but it's a Kdrama so its ultimately soft...

Roommates of Poongduck 304 (Korea 2022) - cohabitation and office enemies to lovers

Foodie Romances

Bon Appetit (Korea 2023) - reunion romance

The Tasty Florida (Korea 2021) - love at first sight

What Zabb Man! (Thailand 2022) - he knows him by the taste of that one dish!

You Are Ma Boy (Vietnam 2021) - had to throw in something from Vietnam

Countryside Setting

Love Tractor (Korea 2023) - city boy meets country boy, they fall in love, opposites attract

A Tale of Thousand Stars (Thailand 2021) - okay this does have lots of extra characters and some complexity because it's GMMTV and Thailand but it is the most classic "romance" that Thailand has ever done gay. Kissing on cliffs at sunset and parting at airports and everything.

Some More (Korea 2018) - another great short that meets your criteria

Okay I think that's it, if you want to give more restrictions I could tailor the list down more.

[silber-zunge]

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, her desperate cries still echoed through the crumbling halls – faint, mingled with the groaning of the walls and the buzzing of shadows. Then, as if the very air swallowed her whole, she was gone. His hand, once gripping her arm, now clenched at nothing.

And in her place, it appeared. The thing wearing her face, a faded photocopy of the real Harriet. Loki could feel its breath against his skin, a hungry gaze piercing through him as if it wanted to devour him – bones and all. Its words, dripping with malice, were nothing but a dare. A dare that came with a twisted smile, the kind that believed it had already won their little banter.

Loki didn’t flinch as the shadows surged again, creeping along the walls like serpents, testing him, daring him. A flicker of irritation crossed his face – perhaps even fear. But then, his lips curled into the faintest smirk, and his eyes glinted with something else entirely. Something darker. Mischief. Of course.

This wasn’t fear. No, it never had been. It was all part of the game. Because what else could one expect from the God of Mischief? A trickster, a liar. He had been playing his own game from the start, weaving it around the darkness without it even realizing. Perhaps he had wanted this all along – to speak to the demon here, in its nest, where it thought it was strongest, but was almost most vulnerable.

Loki tilted his head, letting the tension between them shift like a blade balanced on the edge of danger. A low chuckle escaped his throat before he finally spoke. One that felt cold and calculated. "Is this not better?", he purred, leaning into the darkness as though he welcomed it in. As though he'd been waiting for it to come to him, to drag him. "Is this not . . . easier?"

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, as though he was coaxing the shadows themselves to wrap tighter around him, daring the darkness to test him. "Oh, I do want you . . . ", he cooed, his voice soft yet laced with menace as he offered this Harriet a smile. "And you want me. But not like this, no." The god's smirk darkened, eyes alight with something dangerously playful, like a wolf toying with prey it had no intention of catching – yet. "You see", Loki continued. "I could give you what you crave . . . Power, beyond even your wildest hunger."

He leaned in, his breath brushing against her skin, and the shadows around them rippled, shifting in response to his words, as if pulled by the force of his presence. His words were like poison and honey, woven with the kind of promise that only he coud make sound both sinister and irresistible. Loki's lips curled with dark amusement.

"That's what you want, isn't it?", Loki purred. "To nurture. To feed. To grow." Another chuckle escaped his lips as his eyes flick across her features. Her wide eyes, staring at him as though the gaze alone could consume him.

Loki straightened, his casual stance a stark contrast to the tension in the air. His gaze wandered down the endless, eerie halls, almost as though he found the situation mildly amusing. "I understand, truly. It is quite dreary in here, isn’t it?" , he muses almost absentmindedly before his cold gaze wanders back to her. To it. Whatever it was that he was truly talking to right now. "You must be so tired of being inside here", he added. "But to devour me now? To make such a rash move when you've barely even scratched the surface of what Harriet could become?"

He let out a soft, amused huff, shaking his head as if chiding a child for being too impatient. "That would be terribly… premature, don’t you think?" He surged forward, his body now a breath away from hers. "Think of all the pain you could feast on. All the torment she has yet to experience. What she could become", his voice was but a deadly murmur, echoing through the groaning mansion. His eyes started to gleam with something dangerous, an undercurrent of command beneath his charm. A soft green shimmer flickered in them as the shadows now twisted into their final form. Silhouettes of him cast on the walls. Stretching. Staring. "Think of what we could achieve together.. unhindered. Unstoppable."

His eyes flick open, staring directly into Harriet's face as his magic still surged through her. Her body still pushed against the wall, hoisted up by only his hand. Even there, his eyes gleamed with a poisonous green. A faint shimmer in the dimly lit room. "You and I," he whispered, the words almost lulling, ". . .together."

The world around them flickered like a failing flame. The mansion, the walls, they were no longer merely a memory, but something living, breathing. A twisted place that had waited, hungry for so long. The dusty air pressed in on all sides, suffocating, but there was something else . . . something more desperate, more fragile. Harriet.

The younger version of her, trapped in her own mind, stood ahead of Loki. She glanced back at him with wide, hollow eyes, her voice barely a whisper above the pulse of shadows closing in.

          "Please… " The whisper trembled, raspy. "Help me."

She wasn’t speaking to the god who held her arm, wasn’t pleading with the chaos swallowing her whole. She was begging for escape. Begging for him to reach deeper, to wrench her from the prison she could never escape alone. Her eyes held nothing but desperation, the flicker of something innocent, something untouched by the darkness that curled around her like a twisted serpent. Every step she took was slower now, reluctant. Like she knew it wouldn’t let her go.

          "Please," she whispered again, her voice breaking now. "I don’t want to be here anymore."

But even as she spoke, the shadows that lurked in the corners of the mansion thickened. That other presence, the one that had been waiting all along, stirred. And it was hungry. Its pull was undeniable, dragging Loki deeper into its web. It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, eager to swallow them both whole.

The darkness had waited so long for someone like him. It prowled, silent and watching, licking at the edges of his mind with a quiet, malevolent promise. Feed me, it seemed to say. Give me what I crave, and I will give you what you desire. Let me devour you whole.

Loki's grip was tight around her arm. “I can’t do it for you.” The words cut like a knife.

But the darkness laughed, a sound that echoed through the mansion, shaking the very walls. It mocked him. It dared him. And in that moment, the younger Harriet vanished, replaced by something else. It was still her, but also not her. The fragility was gone. In its place was something older, hungrier. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous allure as her lips curled into a slow, twisted smile.

          “You think you can save her?” she whispered, her voice now a dangerous purr. “You think she wants to be saved?”

Her hand reached up, tracing lightly over his arm as though testing the limits of his resolve. “You are strong,” she murmured, her voice almost sweet, but tainted with something far darker. “Stronger than anyone who has ever tried to help her before. Maybe . . . oh, maybe you are just what she needs. What we both need.”

The shadows surged around them, the walls groaning as if alive. The presence within Harriet tugged at Loki’s power, craving it, feeding off of it. It wanted him, wanted to devour him whole, to consume everything he was and use it to fuel itself. He could feel it now, clawing at him, wrapping tendrils of darkness around his mind, pulling him closer. Closer to her.

But beneath it all, buried deep within the layers of twisted shadows, was the girl. She was still there, still fighting, still desperately calling out for him.

"Please," the voice came again, faint this time, barely a whisper. Her younger self, hidden somewhere in the endless halls, crying out. "Don’t leave me here. Please … don’t let me be lost."

Her presence flickered like a candle, almost blown out, fading, nearly drowned out by the darkness trying to trap him. And yet, somewhere deep within her, there was still hope. Still the faintest glimmer of defiance against the thing that sought to consume her whole.

But the other Harriet, the one standing before him, her smile sharpened like a blade. She leaned in closer, her breath ghosting across his skin.

"She’ll never be free," she whispered, almost playfully. "Not without me." 

The darkness surged once more, wrapping tighter, pulling Loki further into its depths.

          “Come for me. I know you want to. Y o u w a n t m e . "

[ummmlife]

Miserable Salaryman!Nanami ( pt. 2 )

part 1

Warnings!: pure nsfw (mdni) ; needy Nanami ; headcanon ; miserable Nanami (i love him) ; afab reader ; pussydrunk Nanami ; overstimulation ; cunnilingus ; he's just so cute :(.

Your poor boyfriend has been edging himself since the morning. This was his fault, he accidentally looked at his album of nudes that you have sent to him, poor man has been dealing with a painful boner all his way to work and in the office. But now he's at home.

— "I can't hold it anymore, dear… please… please let me fuck you". His day wasn't the best either, he made a mistake with some documents and his boss scolded him to the point where he was simply holding his tears back, he's so stressed and needy. Kento doesn't waste more time and hugs you tightly as he kisses you, basically sliding his tongue to your throat.

On the bed, on the couch, on the floor even. Nanami simply gets on top of you, eagerly removing your clothes with his shaking hands. He wants to do it so badly and he knows you won't complain, but he feels guilty, guilty of using you like this. He simply doesn't deserve you.

— "You… You're so gorgeous, my love". Kento can't help but keep making out with you as you also help him to remove his clothes. Once you're completely naked, just like him, he starts leaving a thread of kisses from your neck to your pelvis, kissing also your inner thighs. — "All this for me? My… I don't deserve you, you're way too precious to have this pathetic man eating you out…". Nanami moves his nose closer to your clit, pressing it gently with the tip of his nose to then start sniffing the scent of your minge. — "So, bon appetit".

Kento is a foodie and his favorite food is your own wet pussy. He eats you as if you were a continental breakfast, sucking your clit softly as the tip of tongue moves up and down to stimulate you.

His big hands are pressed on your hips to keep you stay still as he moves his tongue to your hole, drinking your juices like a thirsty dog. — "So wet, so good. Oh god, babe". His eyebrows frown in delight as he keeps eating you with devotion. No whines or moans from you could stop him, not even when you reach your climax and he keeps leeching his mouth to your pussy to keep tasting your cum.

His mouth is all dirty with your cream but he looks at you with devotion, adoring you as his goddess. — "I love you…". You could lie if you don't find him just so damn adorable like this.

But my god, he's not done yet. Kento wipes your cum from his mouth with his arm and moves up to kiss you, now you should be more than ready for his big dick. He slowly slides inside your dripping cunt as he hugs you tightly. — "I'm sorry… I'm sorry, hah. You're so tight". He's ashamed of enjoying how your walls squeeze his length in a welcoming warm hug. — "I'm sorry, dear, I'm so sorry". You don't know why he apologizes so much, but he sounds so needy when he says that.

Nanami thrusts into you hard and sloppy, putting all his weight on you, kissing you nonstop. — "Hmm, love. Oh, my dear, you feel so good…". All the stimulation makes him squirm of pleasure as he fucks you even faster.

His thick cock is stretching your hole so damn good that he's turning you into a dumb plaything. — "Too much, babe… Ah, I'm sorry, can't help it. You're so wet". With each forceful thrust, Nanami reaches a new whole level of delight. — "Darling, oh darling… Mhm, taking me s'well, hah".

Yes, Kento whimpers, but he whimpers even more when he's about to cum. — "Honey, honey, please… Hah, take me, let me fill you, please". You could hear his balls slapping against your ass repeatedly in an erratic rhythm while jack-hammered into your warm and sticky cunt. — "... Gonna cum, honey. I'm gonna fill you. Ngh!"

Even if he just came and fills your cunt with his warm and soft jizz, he won't stop thrusting into you until you cum as well. — "S'good, darling… fuck, too much". He's getting overstimulated and his whole body is squirming and shaking, but he keeps going, hitting your sweet spot until you cum with his cock.

Poor man is crying and fucking your hole all overstimulated, you already came but he keeps torturing himself like this — "Please… babe… so good". He lets out a big sob and collapses on your chest, sniveling softly. — "I'm sorry, I'm a mess, I didn't mean to… Ugh, you're so good, my love".

Please hug him and tell him that you don't mind all the mess nor all him cum leaking from your pussy. — "Thank you… I love you".

*ugly sobs* I WANT HIM!!! A big tough man crying for me after we [REDACTED]

[grntre23]

modern day things jsmn characters would love:

segundus: excruciatingly detailed tea ceremonies, wearing his pjs till they have holes in the sleeve hems, afternoon baking television specials, subscribing to science magazine periodicals, indoor plant gardening, trader joe’s, (being a teacher) and decorating his classroom, weekly (gossipy) neighborhood book clubs, keeping a physical journal on him at all times, independent booksellers

childermass: not being on social media, niche tarot draw youtube videos, the concept of irish goodbyes, using the oldest working phone model possible, bed on the floor no frame, wearing sunglasses indoors, depressing british rock, guessing jeopardy/who’s going to be a millionaire answers before anyone else can, never picking up phone calls, being a horse girl, having a masochistically loud alarm, being a political centrist, being a coffee purist

vinculus: drink vouchers marketing people hand out on the street, public transport, tinder, watching a game at the pub, rentable public scooters, selling fake fortunes/conducting seances online for believing middle-aged clientele, mobile gambling apps, action movies, spending inordinate amounts of money on his tattoos

norrell: instacart grocery delivery, obsessively stalking subreddits, ebay, sending whatsapp threads of fake infographics, eating a whole foods diet with no seasoning, directing people to his PA (lascelles), obscure netflix documentaries he quotes for two weeks after watching, keeping up with the british royal family, vitamins, remote work policies, twitter conspiracy theorists

strange: starting a podcast, apple pay, getting really into running, getting really into bitcoin, being a ‘wife guy’, using his veteran’s discount for overconsumption, truth or dare and he only ever picks dare, backpacking in xyz european country, picking up his work phone during date night, making ‘am i the asshole’ reddit posts which norrell secretly and unknowingly follows, eating ‘superfoods’, ensemble cast movies

gentleman: tiktok trends, shitty reality television, amazon prime next day delivery, owning a motorcycle, going on resort vacations 6x/year, brand name clothing with ostentatious logos, biweekly hair appointments, sliding into DMs, caffeinated energy drinks you can overdose on, orange theory classes, having a miniature designer dog, acting ‘woke’, getting scammed by phishing, dentist appointments

stephen: interior design, considering veganism, high thread count bedsheets, having a cat, going to therapy and actually improving, high quality european butter, 10 step self-care routine, homemade laminated pastries, sustainability, notion

emma pole: advanced embroidery kits, spiked morning drinks, doc martens, girls’ night, having a private instagram, clubbing, cat instagram reels, 9-5 work hours, racket sports, going with bell to expensive dessert cafes, classical music

arabella: pinterest boarding, girls’ night, knowing wine pairings, being really into running (influenced by strange, she keeps going after he quits), jellycats, diverse milk options at coffee shops, watching ootds, bon appetite recipes, meal prepping, having a well-loved dog whose lifestyle needs she researches with academic detail, expensive dessert cafes, radio pop playlist

drawlight: excessive instagram posting, watching tiktok fashion critiques, weekend brunch, ‘i know a guy’, bespoke clothing, 34 hour screentime, influencer events, house parties, half off convenience store wine, being employee of the month, forgetting his wallet at group dinners/not paying back venmo requests, keeping up with celebrity drama

lascelles: group projects he can monopolize, stock market trading, expensive branded clothes without logos, being a coffee purist, driving a ridiculously loud sports car, not caring about politics, getting valet service, searching his own name up on google, winning employee of the month over drawlight, scrolling his linkedin feed

[be-events]

— COMMUNITY TALENT SHOW!

It starts out as rumours at first. A large building in Seongsu is suddenly covered up with scaffolding, and the words "AXIS LABEL CAFE" are bright and clear at the top. It isn’t until news articles begin to make waves, are the rumours confirmed. Axis Labels has decided to open up a POP-UP CAFE in SEONGSU - the trendiest neighbourhood in Seoul.

Axis Labels has rented out a building in Seongsu, and will be holding a grand opening celebration on 26TH MAY! It is a multi-storey cafe, with a small stage for performances on the first floor, along with some drinks, and a larger variety of pastries on the second along with pastries named after each member of an Axis Label boy group! On the third floor, a rooftop garden is set up to enjoy the view, and the nice spring-like weather!

For our current in-character idol group VYBE the pastries available are: 

Hershey Brownie Haneul

Strawberry Muffin Seojun

Jasmine Tea Cake Jihyun

Watermelon Cupcake Wook

Sour Cherry Muffin Siwoo

Kiwi Cake Kian

Unlike other grand openings, Axis Labels have decided to go all-out this time by holding a COMMUNITY TALENT SHOW! This isn’t your typical community talent show, where the prize is simply a certificate or trophy. No! Axis Labels have announced that the winners of this talent show, stand a chance to have a PRIVATE AUDITION with one of their subsidiary labels (Studio Delta, SR Media and Lime Entertainment)! Netizens speculate that this community talent show is a ruse to garner more trainees in the ever-growing label.

Muses are allowed to perform the following at the talent show, be it in pairs or solo:

Solo/Duet song to sing (self-composed songs are fine)

Solo/Duet dance performance

Playing an instrument (Only the keyboard and guitar will be available. If muses wish to play any other instrument, they will need to prepare and bring it on their own).

A monologue from a k-drama

A scene from a k-drama in pairs

If muses wish to work in pairs, they may both have a chance at winning the talent show.

WOOK and SEOJUN (@noelxbe and @beseojun) have also been announced to be SPECIAL JUDGES for this community talent show, along with a few other Axis Label staff! So make sure to give it your best!

Wannabes that are not interested in participating in the talent show, are also free to drop by the cafe at any time to try out the food as well as to support their friends!

Bon Appetit!

[OOC]

this event is for WANNABES only and will run until may 28 at 11:59pm EST. any threads or solos posted after the deadline will not count toward points. please send in your points submission before this deadline.

VYBE members NOEL AND SEOJUN, will receive more information regarding their requirements for the event in the next VYBE mission post.

please use the hashtag #BE:COMMUNITYTALENT2025 for all posts relating to this event.

FOR +10 PERFORMANCE SKILLS OR ANCILLARY POINTS TO DISTRIBUTE AS YOU WISH please write a 4-post thread visiting the cafe. this can be during a performance, or simply visiting the cafe with a friend.

FOR +10 PERFORMANCE SKILLS AND +5 ANCILLARY POINTS TO DISTRIBUTE AS YOU WISH please write a 200+ words solo about your performance during the community talent show.

FOR +10 PERFORMANCE SKILLS OR ANCILLARY POINTS TO DISTRIBUTE AS YOU WISH please create a moodboard about your performance during the community talent show. the moodboard can consist of an ‘outfit’ moodboard, or the ‘theme’ of the drama your muse is performing!

muses participating in the community talent show, may stand a better chance at winning if they complete both performance (solo & moodboard) requirements! 

when you’ve completed all options that you’d like to participate in, please sent the following form to our points submission blog:

SUBMISSION TITLE: MUSE NAME - COMMUNITY TALENT SHOW 2025

cafe visit: +10 points to distribute to any skills [ link to thread ]

performance solo: +10 points to distribute to performance skills and +5 points to distribute to ancillary skills [ link to solo]

moodboard: +10 points to distribute to any skills [ link to moodboard ]

[duskofendflame]

Corrin does his best to cleave through the ruffians with a startling speed, and soon enough their numbers are thinned and those remaining are fleeing into the surrounding forest. Corrin can only breathe a sigh of relief once the last of them has turned tail, and his knees give out in pity for the poor villagers and his own exhaustion.

"That's that I suppose..." He huffs out, practically clinging to the ground beneath him as if it was able to provide him any support beyond remaining under his body.

Ruby eyes scan around the village, and the wreckage that remained after the attack. It had surely already been in shambles, but it looked even worse now. Corrin's heart aches, for those that lived here, and for those that may have been wrongly killed. He does not dare look for any bodies, because then his heart would only break further.

"We should help clean up. It is only right, and just."

𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘶𝘴𝘦.

[RECOVERY] - Axe+1 w/Corrin

[typingatlightspeed]

TF2 Big Bang 2024 - A Proper Proposal

Demoman is sure Sniper is everything he could want in this world, so he's decided to propose to him. The problem is, he can't think of a proposal grand and impressive enough to properly express just how he feels, and how much Sniper means to him. Luckily, he has seven other teammates ready and willing to help him make this proposal something Sniper will never forget.

Part of the 2024 @tf2bigbang! <3 Ao3 Link!

I'm honoured to have been asked by the wonderful @boimann to team up for this event, my first big bang, and I'm over the moon at how lovely their piece (also included in the body of this fic) is! I had a lot of fun brainstorming this story, and when I asked boimann if there's anything they wanted to be sure I included, they said "mercs covered in blood". :D Not sure they meant chunky salsa gibs, but what can I say? The spirit moved me lmao. Canon-typical violence herein, nothing graphically described or anything. Bon appetit!

---------

One thing Demoman found himself forever grateful for was the fact that in spite of their overall shoddy accommodations, the base had central air conditioning. Otherwise, he'd have sweat to death by now.

As Demoman nuzzled into the fluff at the middle of Sniper's chest, a soft laugh puffed out of his nose, the Scot's muttonchops tickling at him. The man was wrapped around him, arms and legs encircling his body and holding him close in a death grip of a snuggle from which there was no escape. There was little cause for Sniper to make the attempt, of course. He lifted a hand to Demoman's chin and tilted his face up so that he could look into his bright brown eye, worry crossing his brow when he saw that it shined with unshed tears welling over its surface. "You okay?"

"Aye," Demoman said, his voice soft, like if he spoke too loud he'd shatter their moment of peace. "Just love ye so bloody much."

What a sap. An absolute softie. A complete and utter gooey romantic.

God, he was amazing.

"Get up here," Sniper teased, pulling Demoman up for a kiss, laughing against his lips. "Love you too, pup."

Demoman's grip only tightened as their lips met, one hand sneaking up to the back of Sniper's head to thread through his hair and scritch him gently. Their kisses were lazy and slow, tasting terrible with morning breath, but neither could bring himself to care as their tongues met and caressed one another. It was soft, gentle, so unlike every other aspect of their lives. Here, they could be sweet, and quiet, and warm, unlike the explosions and bloodshed and heat that awaited them in their workday.

They wouldn't give that part for the world, either. It was that balance that thrilled Demoman. That Sniper would take the bombast and the bomb blasts just as readily as the gentle touches and sweet nothings with equal amounts of enthusiasm, murmured words of adoration as natural as the report of a rifle for the rangy assassin. It set Demoman's heart aflutter, this perfect man, this mirror presenting an equal and opposite view of a life lived, so different yet loving him so much the same.

Demoman kissed a line from Sniper's lips to his cheek, then across his nose to the other, then craned up to peck one kiss to his forehead for good measure. He sighed, utterly smitten with the handsome bushman wrapped in him and the sheets they were tangled in.

Resting at the back of one of the drawers of his work desk, strewn with bomb-making materials, empty beer bottles, and full ashtrays, sat a receipt for a jeweler's shop in Teufort, for a ring. Demoman had the owner holding onto the thing for him, a custom creation that came at a pretty penny and couldn't afford to be found by clever eyes.

It had been agony, letting the ring sit unattended, unused, unpresented to the man it had been created specifically for. But as much as Demoman wanted to bring it home, to simply slot himself against Sniper's back one morning, spooning him with gentle kisses to the nape of his neck, and set the box down on his pillow in front of his face with the question unspoken but obvious, he knew Sniper deserved better. Sure, it was a sweet thought, but if there was one thing he knew about Sniper, it was that even though he'd come from a loving home, it was a decidedly lowkey one. Never had a big deal been made about him, a thorough to-do, a full-on fuss and hullabaloo, and if there were ever anyone who deserved such a splore, it was Mick Mundy.

Either way, Demoman had long since decided that these mornings, sleepy and cuddly and perfect in his man's arms, were how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. And God willing, Sniper felt the same.

Bells rang, breaking the quiet with their piercing shriek, and Demoman growled as he half-leaned away and flailed at the night stand, trying to find the damned alarm clock and murder the bloody thing.

He succeeded in knocking it to the floor where it continued to ring, now slowly vibrating in a loose circle from the force of its hammer hitting the bells atop it. Deflated, he flopped to the bed in misery. For once they'd gotten up before the alarm and had some time for themselves in the morning, and this is how the universe rewards him for such diligence? A long-suffering sigh left him as Sniper began to untangle himself.

"Right, it was lovely while it lasted," the bushman grunted, pulling himself into a half-seated position. "Contract calls."

Swatting around blindly, Demoman eventually gave up trying to find the clock on the floor without rolling over and harrumphed, wrapping his arms back around Sniper. "Nae."

"Look at you, Mr. Work Ethic 'imself fightin' the alarm. You've gotten too cozy, looks like," Sniper teased, scritching at his lover's scalp through his short curls.

"Cannae help it. I've got ye in me arms. How's a lad supposed tae let go o' that?"

"For a big fat paycheck," Sniper teased. "Come on, love. That bloody alarm's not going to shut up anyway." Demoman pouted. "Fine," he grumbled, finally letting Sniper go to roll over and snatch the clock from the floor and shut off its ringing bells. The room seemed deafeningly quiet in its sudden absence.

"There, much better—wagh!" Sniper squawked as he was tugged back down onto the bed by Demoman's strong arms, crushing him to his chest. "Oi! We've gotta be on the field in an hour! Tav! Come on, let me up! Tav! Let go! Tav you cunt!"

Demoman merely closed his eye and held on tight, a faked snore leaving his nose as Sniper struggled and cursed.

*

"So have you asked him yet?" Soldier asked, digging some residual moisture from his shower out of his ear with his pinky finger.

Demoman sighed, scrubbing a hand through his still-damp hair, a little annoyed that he still couldn't comfortably put a hat on yet. The dry desert air always made water evaporate off of skin quickly once the team had their post-work showers and filtered through the base for their afternoon business, but his hair always took forever to dry out. And he just knew if he put his hat on before it was fully, completely dry it would end up squished down against his head like he'd pomaded it there, and Sniper would tease him mercilessly about it the moment his hat came back off.

As much as he loved the man he was not about to give him craic ammunition. Handsome bastard would have to do that legwork for himself.

"Nae yet," Demoman said finally, earning a look of surprise from his friend.

"You paid for that ring last week! Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, Cyclops!"

"Never! I want tae spend the rest o' me life with Mickey!" A heavy sigh left Demoman's nose as he gathered his thoughts. "I just... I want tae make it right. Perfect, ye ken? I want it tae be big, meaningful, a real monumental sort o' proposal. Mickey's family loves him, but they're quiet, reserved folk. No one's ever made a big to-do about him, and he deserves that. Somethin' grand and special! A proper DeGroot proposal!"

"You're going to blind him?"

Demoman leveled a withering look at his friend, who smiled broadly in reply, fully aware of how much of a little shit he was being. "Nae, ye cheeky wee cunt! Look, when me da proposed tae me mum? Was on a job. They were the demolitions team contracted for an operation. Standard sort o' job, but Da always had a flair for the dramatic. They set up the buildin' the rest o' the team was heistin' tae blow, and while he was at it, Da added an extra little touch. He set the timin' in a specific pattern. So once the team's out and they're at distance, Mum hits the detonator, and instead o' it all goin' up at once, they blow up in a pattern, tae the rhythm o' the first song they ever danced tae. When she realized, he was already takin' her hand and slippin' a ring on her finger as he knelt and asked her tae marry him." With a wistful sigh, Demoman shook his head. "Bloody romantic."

"How'd she react?"

"She tore him a new arsehole for spendin' money on a ring!" Demoman laughed. "Then she said yes. That's Mum for ye."

"So you wanna give Sniper the same kind of proposal?"

"Nae the same, but somethin' with that sort o' spirit, aye. Just need tae figure out what is the problem. Once I've got the What, the When'll fall intae place."

"And you haven't come up with anything?"

"Nothin' seems grand enough. He deserves the bloody world."

Soldier shook his head, smiling all the same. His friend was so smitten it was almost pathetic, but what red-blooded American wouldn't want to show the one he loves how much they matter using explosives? It was what they did every July fourth, after all. "I'm going to help you. If you can't come up with an idea on your own, that ring's going to sit at the jeweler's and the receipt in your desk until Sniper stumbles on it someday and you'll look like a coward. I know you are not a coward, son! So we're going to assemble the greatest team in America to conduct this operation, and make it a crushing success!"

"The team? Ye think they'd help?"

"Why wouldn't they? We're a team, Tavish! And what's a marriage if not the most powerful kind of team there is? If marriage is sure to result in happiness, then you must marry!" Soldier nodded sagely. "Sun Tzu said that."

Demoman couldn't help but grin at Soldier's enthusiasm. And who knew? Maybe the team would be able to help him figure something out. A good group brainstorming session might be just the trick! "Couldn't hurt, I suppose. Mickey and Scout are on a beer run tae town on account o' Engie's doin' a software update on the teleporters today, so that gives us plenty o' time tae ask around."

Soldier nodded, the straps of his helmet wobbling with the motion. "So who do we talk to first?"

"Who else but the one bloke on this team that loves gettin' a crew together tae pull some barmy stunt only we can pull off?"

*

"A proposal?" Spy hummed, watching the whiskey in his rocks glass swirl, a light coating clinging to the glass and slowly breaking away as its surface tension was dispelled by gravity. He smiled warmly. "Possibly the most noble task I've been approached for in a long time."

"So will ye help me?" Demoman asked, crossing his arms, fidgeting with nervous energy. It drove him mad how Spy played so coy about every damned thing.

The smoking room was quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment, carefully calculated to provide the pause with proper pregnancy before Spy finally met Demoman's eye and nodded. "But of course. Far be it for me to deny romance, mon ami! While I don't particularly understand what you see in the bushman, it's abundantly clear how utterly smitten you are with him." Spy took a sip. "And he with you, muted as his reactions can be."

"I assure ye, nothin' about the lad's muted behind closed doors," Demoman said with a wag of his eyebrows.

"I am, tragically, also very aware of that, as well. These walls aren't soundproofed."

Soldier chuckled and elbowed Demoman who couldn't exactly deny it, his cheeks reddening a bit.

Spy smirked, then set his glass down atop his minibar. He cleared his throat, and tapped a bright red button on the top of his bar cabinet, a microphone popping out of a hidden compartment. The public address system across the base squealed gently with the slightest ring of feedback before clearing, and resounding with Spy's voice as he spoke.

"Attention, gentlemen. Report to the briefing room in thirty minutes for an emergency meeting. Thank you."

A second tap of the button pulled the microphone back into its compartment, and Spy lifted his glass once again and took a sip. "I will meet you there, gentlemen. If there are any preparations you need to make before that, now is your time."

"Half an hour? Why not now?" Soldier asked.

"Because I have my own preparations to attend to as well," Spy hummed. He downed the last of his drink and gestured to the door. "The clock is ticking, gentlemen."

Getting the hint, Demoman tossed Spy a salute and grabbed Soldier by the elbow. "Aye, thanks, Spy. See ye then."

Once the door had shut, Spy lifted the receiver of his phone, and dialed a number on its rotary. A moment of ringing later, a voice answered on the other end of the line, flanked by the popping of gunfire, "Pauling here!"

"Good afternoon, Miss Pauling. I hope I'm not interrupting anything..."

*

When at last every mercenary on base had filed into the briefing room, Spy shut the door gently, its soft click seeming portentous in the curious hush of the room. The fact that Soldier wasn't making a racket was already making everyone else a little nervous.

"Gentlemen," Spy said warmly, beatific and genteel as he stepped the the centre of their gaze across the table, his arms folded behind his back and a smile playing at his lips. His eyes fairly sparkled.

Everyone realized at once that Spy was about to launch into a speech. Engineer trundled over to the coffee maker and set about doling out cups.

"I bring you here today for a mission of great importance. We men of murder and malevolence are not often called upon to serve the more noble motivations of mankind. Rarely are soldiers of fortune such as we tasked with more than violence, destruction, skulduggery, and far more sinister things, living weapons to be wielded against our neighbour, to accomplish whatever dark deeds our benefactors demand." Spy withdrew a cigarette from his case and held it between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it for a moment before turning his eyes back to the team. "Today, if only for a fleeting moment, we break the chains of servitude to the almighty dollar that we have willingly wrapped around our necks, cast off the yoke of deception and cruelty, and emerge as men, with clear eyes and open hearts, our hands, stained though they may be, ready to serve the greatest, most worthy cause that exists in this world." He snapped his cigarette case shut and tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Love, gentlemen."

Spy lit his cigarette and took a drag. "It is no secret that we here at BLU have seen love bloom on our battlefield. Our Demoman," he gestured to the man in question, "and Sniper have found comfort in one another's arms, romance blossoming between the bullets and bombs, taking root so deep, that our dear DeGroot seeks to formalize their bond as matrimony."

Medic gasped, grinning giddily as he turned to look at Demoman, lightly clapping his gloved hands together in delight. Pyro mirrored the action on his other side, and Demoman quickly found the entire team's eyes on him instead of the man speaking. He shrank in his seat, a little embarrassed.

"But what proposal could possibly suffice for the prince of the Highland Demomen? What proposal could ever truly illustrate just how impossibly important Mick Mundy is in this man's heart? That, gentlemen, is why we are here today."

Taking another puff from his cigarette, Spy began to pace slowly, the motion catching the team's attention and bringing it back to him. "We are men of violence, yes, but we are also men of action." He gestured to Soldier. "Men of science." His hand swept to Medic, Engineer, and Demoman in turn. "Men of art." Heavy and Pyro. "And men of passion!" He spread both arms wide, to present the team to themselves, his cigarette tucked between two fingers and making an arc with its smoke. "We, gentlemen, are a team, and as a team, we can accomplish anything. And on this day, we will devise a proposal so grand, so powerful, so explosive, that it will shake the very foundations of romance itself, and leave it forever changed in its wake!"

Silence fell over the room. Softly, Pyro clapped his gloved fingertips together, to which Spy nodded appreciatively.

"Er, right. So, I wannae propose tae Mickey," Demoman said, fingers digging under his knit cap to scratch at the back of his head. Spy always had to make things so bloody dramatic. "And I want it tae be big, meaningful, ye ken? He deserves tae feel special with it, made a big deal 'o."

"Ach, that is so sweet, Demo! Do you have a ring?"

"It's been ordered, but it's still at the jeweler's in town. He's holdin' it so Mickey disnae find it."

"When you plannin' on poppin' the question?"

"Soon, but I dinnae have a specific date."

"You have location?"

"Nae."

"That is precisely why we've assembled a brain trust of sorts, to work out the best possible proposal," Spy said, taking a seat at the table.

Pyro hopped to his feet and trundled over to the blackboard, snatching up a piece of chalk. "You said you wanted it to be explosive, right?"

"Aye. Ye thinkin' fireworks?"

"Better." Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Pyro drew a vague approximation of the RED base on the board, as seen from BLU's battlements. "What does Sniper love more than anything in the world?"

"Demoman!" Soldier announced, looking to his teammates proudly for having gotten the answer right.

"After Demo," Pyro corrected with a laugh.

"Work," Heavy said simply. "Sniper never shut up about job."

"His professional standards, the merits of his work's flexibility," Medic added.

"Get too close to the feller you realize he talks an awful lot 'o' shit 'bout poppin' heads when he's lookin' down the scope, too," Engineer chuckled. "Real joy in what he does."

"He loves shooting people from far away," Soldier agreed.

"Exactly!" Pyro turned to the board and drew a few dead stick figures around the base, with head wounds. "So how about surprising him at work?"

"What do you recommend?" Spy asked, intrigued.

"He's always going to be looking at the RED base, so let's give him something to look at. Write it out across the REDs' walls for him to see."

"In blood!" Soldier said, slamming his fist into his palm.

"With bombs!" Pyro corrected. "Blood won't show up; the base is red."

"How? And when? Nae like I can sneak out there at the start o' the match," Demoman hummed, thoughtfully.

"What about settin' up those bombs on remote, like a sticky trap meant to deliver a message?" Engineer asked. "Maybe a bunch o' real careful shaped charges?"

"Hard to make letters with just shrapnel and burn marks," Heavy countered.

"What about paint?" Pyro asked. "You'd need a lot more than just your usual sticky setup, but a bunch of specially-made miniature stickies filled with paint? You know the geometry and physics on this better than anyone, but I bet Engie could help with it, too! Set 'em all up and when they're in place, let 'em rip and splash Marry Me Mundy over the front of the RED base where everyone—especially Sniper—can see!" He turned the chalk sideways to write the letters in broad strokes on his drawing of the base.

"That could work!" Demoman said, perking up with excitement. "But how am I tae set this up? Durin' a match?"

"Perhaps not," Spy hummed, stubbing his cigarette out in the ash tray. "Before coming to this meeting, I placed a call. Miss Pauling owes me a large favour from some very important, very last-minute contract work I did for her recently. I informed her that I was calling it in. I have arranged for her to establish a sudden ceasefire day in three days' time, with a falsified cover story about emergency respawn maintenance, and find a contract for Sniper that can fill his time that day to keep him away from base. Then, we will be free to place the explosives properly and at our leisure, to prepare for the next day. Then, when the shutters open and we take the field, you can detonate the paint bombs for a proper proposal."

"Then once the match is over, I can greet him in the locker room with the ring."

"What if we lose match? Will ruin mood," Heavy hummed.

"Then we must make sure we win! We will be fighting not just for victory, but for love!" Soldier demanded, slamming a fist on the table. "We cannot lose, men!"

"No pressure, right fellas?" Engineer chuckled.

"You said the ring is still with your jeweler?" Spy asked.

"Aye. Didnae trust meself tae hide it well enough."

"Fair. Sniper is observant by trade, after all. Then it will have to be fetched. Is it at Enrique's, perchance?"

"Spy, there's only one jeweler in Teufort. 'Course it's at Enrique's."

"Then allow me to fetch it for you. One less activity for you to hide from your fiance-to-be. I will be joining Miss Pauling and Sniper on their contract, and will keep in communication with you regarding our estimated times of arrival. I can easily slink away for the ring during such."

"Thank ye, Spy."

"Any time," Spy hummed, lighting another cigarette. "So, we have myself and Miss Pauling on jewelry and distraction team. Pyro, I assume you can help with the paints."

"Sure, I've got a bunch we can test to make sure it can stand up to explosives and get good coverage. And show up against RED's wall."

"I can help as well," Medic chirped. "Viscosity is going to be a concern as well as pigment when it comes to coverage, and I have quite a bit of knowledge in comparative viscosity of fluids in relation to their aerodynamic properties!"

Everyone's faces soured a moment, imagining what horrors that knowledge entailed.

Spy shook it off. "Demoman, you and Engineer can manufacture the bombs, yes?"

"Aye, should be nae danger. Construction and placement."

"It'll be fun figurin' out the angles on this, if I'm honest," Engineer chuckled. "Plus who don't love blowin' things all to hell?"

"Heavy—"

"I will handle Scout," Heavy announced, preemptively weary.

That gave Spy pause. "Yes, he will be a concern. The sooner he finds out about this plan the longer we have to be concerned he will let the information slip and spoil the surprise." "He does not keep secrets well," Heavy agreed. "Strange," he added, giving Spy a long, knowing look. The corner of his lip twitched upward just barely, and the rogue gave him a hard, unamused stare in reply.

"So you running interference with him is a good idea, thank you, Heavy," Spy continued brusquely.

Medic elbowed Heavy, who cracked into a full smirk in spite of himself. "Schatz. Don't antagonize him, he's doing a sweet thing." "Yes, Doktor." Heavy looked away from Spy, trying to tamp down his own amusement.

"When we do let Scout in on it though, he could be good for setting up a few bombs if we need to put any in weird spots that might need hand-placement," Pyro said, turning his darkened lenses at Heavy as a threat. "Since he can jump and climb better than any of us."

"And I will make sure we win this match, come hell or high water! We will not let a loss ruin this, as God is my witness!" Soldier barked. He clapped a hand on Demoman's shoulder. "You have my word as an American that your man is gonna get the best proposal in the history of our great country! You're gonna propose the pants right off him!"

A wobbly smile crept across the Scot's lips as he looked at the helmet that covered where his friend's eyes were. "Aye, thank ye, Soldier. Thank ye all. Ye dinnae ken what it means tae me—"

Everyone shifted uneasily. They could hear the telltale quaver in their teammate's voice.

"We do, mon ami. Now, please, let us adjourn so that we can begin preparations," Spy interrupted hurriedly, trying to derail the emotional outpouring followed by likely crying jag that was mounting already, earnest though it may be. "Save your tears for when you are holding you new fiance."

Demoman sniffled, a deep breath following it at he forced back tears. "Aye, let's get tae it, lads. We've a plan, now let's put it intae action." "Ready?" Soldier asked, hopping from his seat. "Ready!" Demoman echoed, grinning as he rose in turn.

"CHARGE!"

*

Three days of preparation felt like no time at all, but as paints were mixed and loaded into custom-machined sticky bombs and tested in a small blast chamber in Engineer's workshop, Demoman found himself growing more and more impatient for the day to arrive.

"This is takin' forever," he grumbled, going over his notes with a frown.

"Wish we had a little more time to test and iterate," Engineer grumbled. He scratched at his chin. "We ain't gettin' the kind 'o' power we need to cover the distance between the bridge and the buildin'. At this rate it ain't gonna say nothin' on the side 'o' RED's base, let alone 'Marry Me Mundy'."

Demoman pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at it. "Aye, but there's only so much power we can put in these we bastards with a shaped charge inside, let alone nae just vaporizin' the paint on detonation, nae matter how thick the stuff is. Tae keep it goin' in a direction with the power we need, we either need bigger bombs, which means it'll be harder tae get the angles we need tae spell anythin'."

"Maybe we're comin' at this all wrong. What about if we put the bombs on the buildin' itself, make 'em splatter in place."

"We'd only need squibs for that," Demoman hummed. "Would be a right pain settin' em up, but we wouldn't need tae bring protractors out there tae get everythin' in place the right way."

Engineer chuckled at that. "I dunno about squibs, though. After all, we still want a nice big kaboom to get Sniper's attention, after all."

"Aye, yer nae wrong there. Right now we've got enough bloody kaboom tae turn the REDs tae paste if they stumbled intae the blast zone!" Demoman grinned at that. "Alright, we'll focus on the power behind 'em later. Now we've a better plan, we should focus on designin' a better housin' for the bombs, first. Since we're puttin' 'em on the buildin' now, we could build a launcher tae speed up the process."

"No monotaskers," Engineer said firmly, a knife-hand gesture emphasizing his point. "We're already on a time crunch; I ain't about to start R&D on a mini-sticky launcher you're gonna use once."

"Aye, aye, nae danger," Demoman hummed, disappointed. "Right, let's get back tae the drawin' board on these hand-set stickies, then."

Engineer grabbed a new sheet of blueprint paper and a compass. "Sounds like a plan. You see my pencil anywhere?" he asked, forgetting for the third time in an hour that he'd tucked it behind his ear.

Medic giggled excitedly as Pyro pried the lid off of one of the paint cans he'd hauled back from the hardware store. Inside, the paint was a cool, saturated azure that almost matched Sniper's uniform shirt. "Oh, this colour is perfect!" he cooed, dipping a stir-stick into the goop and withdrawing it, watching the paint run off of it in thick rivulets.

"I went for an exterior paint made with latex," Pyro said. "They said it could thicken a little if we left it open so the water inside evaporates."

"Ah, that's true, but with latex, I know of an additive we can use to further increase its viscosity!" Medic declared, thrusting a finger into the air. "I should still have some hydroxyethyl cellulose somewhere in my lab, and that can thicken anything water-soluble!"

Pyro clapped his hands together. "That's perfect! We need to make sure this paint is nice and goopy so the guys can really launch it!"

"I'll go dig around for it. I'll get my Zahn cups too, so we can get actual measurements for Demo and Engie's purposes. They're going to want the math on this, I'm sure."

"Good thing you know how to calculate that kind of stuff. When I build it's usually based on feel alone," Pyro chuckled.

Medic merely replied with an impish grin in lieu of admitting that he operated much the same.

Heavy wasn't nearly as excited or feeling as industrious with his assigned task: distracting Scout. Keeping Sniper out of the loop was easy. After all, the man was generally easygoing and content to hang out with Scout outside or do some light hunting and let people have their space. Sometimes projects came up, and he was rarely involved in his teammates' R&D, so it wasn't anything terribly out of the ordinary for him.

Scout, on the other hand was nosy. And dogged in his determination to find out when something was being kept from him. His little brother instincts were honed to a razor's edge, which none of the team wanted turned on them. Heavy, having suffered the slings and arrows of helping raise three little sisters, had the best chance to weather the storm.

"Surprised you wanted me to work out with you," Scout said, hands splayed on the gym wall as he leaned in and stretched his hamstrings. "Doc finally get on you about your cardio?"

"No," Heavy grunted, then half-shrugged. "Yes. But is not reason. Doktor is working on something with Pyro this week, and I am waiting for new book to come in mail. I want to do something... eh," he rolled his hand in the air, trying to find the right word, "useful? Producing?"

"Productive?"

"This," Heavy said, nodding gratefully. "Something productive to do with time until then." He tugged his hooded sweatshirt off and set it aside, taking a seat on the workout bench. The fluffy hair on his shoulders, chest, and belly danced lightly in the breeze of the box fan that sat at one edge of the gym.

"So workin' out with me is productive?"

"Tiny Scout flex often, but no muscles show. You are not weak man, but you are lean. Want to show you how to lift to build muscle that is visible."

Scout's eyebrow lifted, and he turned to face Heavy, his fists coming to rest on his narrow hips. "Yeah? Why you feelin' so charitable all of a sudden?" Suspicion had his nostrils flaring, like he could sniff out some kind of misdirection.

"Boredom." With a tilt of his head to the side, Heavy sighed and worked Scout's ego with an offer of exchange, "And maybe then you help Heavy with cardio so Doktor give me less trouble. Mega baboon hearts are expensive, he always tell me."

Scout snorted a laugh at that. "Fuckin' a! If the guy's costs weren't covered by 'is contract, 'e'd give us a freakin' invoice after every match!"

Heavy barked a laugh at that, slapping his thigh.

In three days' time, Miss Pauling arrived on base with a clipboard, a few manila folders, and a knowing glance to Spy before gathering the team in the briefing room and informing them of a ceasefire being abruptly called because of emergency respawn maintenance. She handed one to Engineer, and he grumbled that he'd get right on it and left to go get a drink, thumbing through the Mann Co catalog she'd tucked inside to give it believable bulk.

"The rest of you are on liberty for the rest of the day," she said, shuffling through her papers. "Except Sniper, and you, Spy. You two stay here."

Everyone else filed out, leaving her with the two mercenaries. She closed the door with a light click, and tossed two manila folders onto the table. "I have work for you two."

*

Scout skidded to a halt in front of the rec-room door, snatching hold of the jamb to stabilize himself. "Miss P's truck just pulled out. We're go, guys!"

"Lookout says we're go, so let's go, ladies! Up and at 'em! Move out! Go! Go! Go!" Soldier whooped, hopping to his feet and ushering the others out.

The mercenaries rushed out, Demoman and Engineer grabbing the bombs and plans from the workshop, the rest of the team mustering at the gate to the battlefield. Once everyone arrived, they threw the gate open and spilled onto the field, making a bee-line for the end of the covered bridge that separated BLU from RED, and would make their staging point.

"So, where will we be placing these bombs to get the paint on the building?" Medic asked. "Is the bridge enough surface area for them all?"

"Naw, we ran the numbers and did some control tests, and the amount of propulsion we'd need to get the paint from here to there'd end up just splatterin' it everywhere. Instead, we cut out the middle man. Bombs get planted on the wall itself, and explode outward in all directions. We just gotta make sure we ain't in the line 'o' fire when they go off, since they're still gonna fire off spikes, shrapnel, and a whole hell of a lot 'o' kinetic energy."

"Shouldnae be too bad, since we dialed down the explosives inside tae compensate."

Engineer froze in place, thinking for a moment. "...Did we?"

"O' course we did, we talked about it."

"...but did we actually do it? I remember talkin' about doin' it, but did we actually change the measurements when we loaded these puppies?" Engineer asked, biting at his lip as he realized a sudden massive hiccup in their process.

Demoman shrugged. "Too late tae double-guess it now. Important thing is it'll still write the words, which is all that matters." He set down the toolbox full of bombs, flipping it open to reveal a pile of small, palm-sized blue bombs bearing long, thin spikes designed to wedge deep into the wood and hold the bombs in place overnight. "Right, time we get tae work, lads. Plenty 'o bombs, and it's all by hand. Take a few, pick a spot, and get tae work. Scout, ye and Heavy're on the high spots."

"Aye aye!"

*

"What the hell?"

The RED Spy narrowed his eye as he looked down the rifle scope, watching the amassment of BLUs at their battlefield doorstep. He lowered the rifle and looked to the RED Sniper beside him, who nodded, satisfied that he'd seen the same thing. "It looks as though they're attaching something to the wall. It is hard to tell from this angle."

"Saw 'em totin' out a toolbox filled with little miniature stickies with longer spikes on 'em, and some sort of schematic. Got me wonderin' if they're usin' this little respawn outage as an excuse to do some impromptu demolitions on our base."

"But that would be madness," Spy said, handing Sniper back his rifle. "Surely their contracts are as ironclad as ours are. Base offensives during downtime aren't just a breach of contract, it forfeits one's life!"

"Grounds for termination," Sniper echoed with a dark laugh. "Right, but then if it's not that, then what the hell is it? A nasty little surprise for the start of the work day tomorrow? Not bloody sportin', is it?"

"I suppose it's a clever way to gain a short-term advantage," Spy conceded.

"Underhanded way, more like it. Fair dinkum clever but there's a difference between bein' a bunch of mad cunts and bein' a bunch of dog cunts."

Spy stared at Sniper for a long moment. "Your people have such an elegant way with the English language."

"Oh piss off."

"Regardless, we should alert the rest of the team. This cannot go unchallenged. I suspect if nothing else, coming running to our front porch like a horde of irritated pensioners, threatening them to get off of our lawns, may suffice to spoil their fun."

"If you can get Soldier to not go full-on offensive. Or worse, Demo. After all, they're plantin' stickies, and 'is ex is out there."

*

"I have completed the letter M!" Soldier barked, stepping back from what—thankfully—actually was a fully-set letter M on the wall of the RED base.

"Grand, lad," Demoman replied, jamming another sticky into the wood. "Yer all doin' grand!"

"Yeah, we gotchu, Demo," Scout said, eyeing up a jump. "Can't have Snipes gettin' a normal borin' ol' proposal." He grabbed a sticky and took a few steps back. "Still can't believe you guys didn't tell me til this mornin', though."

"Couldnae risk it, lad. Ye two are mates. Could've let it slip."

"Psh, yeah sure. Like I'd ruin somethin' this important." Scout ran and leapt, slapping the sticky onto the wall and kicking off to land in the gravel with a crunch.

"Like you ruin Doktor's surprise party last month?" Heavy asked, wedging another bomb into the wall.

"It was not that big a deal," Medic sighed, trying to defuse things.

"Man, you ain't never gonna let me forget about—hey wait is that why you had me in the gym all week? Were you runnin' interference to keep me in the dark? Ohh pally, you slimy—man I thought we were bondin' an' shit! I thought oh hey maybe the big guy forgives me for the party thing finally an' wants to just go back to bein' buddies an' all along you were just keepin' me busy so I didn't find out about all the paint mixin' an' bomb makin' an' proposal plannin'?" Scout threw his arms wide. "What the hell?!"

"Lay off him, son," Engineer chastised, clapping a hand on Scout's shoulder. "We assigned him the job. Last thing any one of us wanted was this gettin' out too soon, and as you showed with Doc's birthday, when you get excited, sometimes this," he pointed to Scout's mouth, "moves faster'n this," he tapped Scout's head. "Don't mean you ain't tryin', or that you don't care. We just all know how hyped up you get, so we wanted to keep the anticipation to a dull roar, is all."

Scout's scowl slowly morphed into a pout, and he turned his eyes back to Heavy, who was staring at him evenly, waiting to see his response. "Yeah, okay. I guess. Whatever. Let's get this done before Miss P gets back with Spy an' Snipes." It was as good a result as they could have hoped for, and Heavy and Engineer shared a look as they went back to work, knowing full well that within ten minutes Scout would be over it and chattering merrily again.

"How are you so good at that?" Medic leaned in to ask as Engineer trotted past him.

"Just gotta know how to massage a fella's ego the right way so it don't bruise too much, is all," Engineer replied with a chuckle. "Same as negotiatin' a contract."

Medic nodded, understanding that all too well. "Ah, a fair point!"

"How much longer do you think we have, anyway?" Pyro asked, one arm full of stickies as he worked at the bottom of the Y in 'Mundy'.

Demoman checked his watch. "Nae as long as I'd like. We need tae get on it, lads. They should be on their way back already."

"Awright, time to knock this into high gear! Hey, Heavy, boost me up! If I climb up the battlement I can get on the awnin' an' put the 'marry' up there!"

"That's a lot for one person," Engineer said.

"Soldier, you wanna grab the Rocket Jumper from resupply real quick? You land like a freakin' cat off those jumps. Between the two of us we should be able to get it done."

"Roger!" Soldier hollered, charging back across the bridge into the BLU base.

"It does deviate from the plan," Engineer hummed, scratching at his chin, "but it does increase visibility."

"Aye, good idea! Nae way it disnae catch his eye now." Demoman grinned broadly as he watched Soldier hustling back with his launcher, Scout already climbing onto Heavy's shoulders and beginning to scale the building proper. He imagined Sniper's voice crackling through the radio when the bombs went off, disbelief and excitement all blended together as he choked out his answer amid a hail of paint and shrapnel.

*

The drive to and from the job site probably doubled the time of the actual job itself, possibly including the stopover in Teufort for Spy to gather additional recon. All the same, it had been an easy job, a nice paycheck, and Sniper couldn't complain about that. It had almost been too easy.

"Surprised you didn't just do this one yourself," Sniper mused, catching his hat as an errant breeze through the open window of Miss Pauling's beater of a truck threatened to steal it. "Was a piece of piss, really."

"It was the range, if I'm honest," Miss Pauling lied, her eyes never leaving the empty, open road. "I'm better up-close, and this guy has a habit of keeping his perimeter pretty secure, hence the need to strike from outside of it."

"S'pose you do work mostly in pistols and shotguns," Sniper conceded.

"I own a few rifles, but I've got an astigmatism so scopes are kind of weird for my eyes. Plus if I'm doing the wetwork it's generally because nobody can find out. Full blackout kind of stuff, and sniping's pretty public." She chuckled a little, thinking of the screams and sudden scramble of everyone around when Sniper had taken the shot.

"Yes, they cannot all be week-long stakeouts or risky shots taken in the middle of firefights," Spy said with a sigh, trying his hardest to narrow his body to avoid physical contact as he sat between Miss Pauling and Sniper. He was aching for a cigarette, but in spite of the open windows (thanks to a very broken AC unit), Miss Pauling had made it clear that he would have to ride in the truck bed if he wanted to smoke.

He almost wished he'd taken her up on that, now.

"Either way, a short day's not so bad. Strewth, might turn in early and get a good night's sleep for once," Sniper chuckled. "Get dinner, skull a couple of tinnies with the lads, grab Demo and drag 'im to bed."

"Sniper!" Miss Pauling teased, playing at being scandalized.

"For a lie down!" Sniper drawled, glaring at her in mock-defensiveness. "Dunno what you've got on your mind, but I was just thinkin' of how much of a bloody cuddle-monster Demo is. Coziest night's sleep you can imagine, 'long as you like sleepin' with a bloke wrapped around you like a koala." He chuckled at that.

Spy made a show of rolling his eyes. "Yes, that is all you two do."

"Never said that."

Miss Pauling snorted a little laugh as Sniper turned his attention out the window and the passing desert, a smile playing at his lips as he thought back to their mornings, Demoman pulling him back into bed for just a few more minutes, just another snuggle, just another kiss, just a little bit longer in the quiet of morning, wrapped in one another's arms.

It made his chest feel full, his heart feel light as he reflected on the memory of that gentle moment of giddy love, and how lucky he was to have it.

If you'd told him when he'd taken this contract that the guy chugging cider and shooting bombs at people would turn out to be the love of his life, he'd have called you an outright galah, talking complete nonsense just to hear your own voice. He and Demoman couldn't have been more different!

Demoman was everything Sniper wasn't. He was loud, excitable, unpredictable, and from a home that told him his occupation was worth more than he was as a person.

Sniper was everything Demoman wasn't. He was quiet, patient, stable, and from a loving home with parents who only wanted safety and prosperity for their son.

And yet, there was so much about them that matched. A mirror image, opposite but the same. Both of them were passionate about their work. Both of them stuck out like sore thumbs among their countrymen, in spite of their own immense national pride. Demoman was a Highlander through and through, and you'd not find a more true blue Aussie than Sniper. Both of them knew what it was like to never be enough, to be an outsider in their own homes, to doubt themselves because of it. Both of them wanted someone to just accept them for who they were, all of it, and more than that, love them for it.

For all of Demoman's grins and laughter. For all of Sniper's smirks and stories.

For all of Demoman's tears and tragedies. For all of Sniper's doubts and isolation.

He'd have called you an outright galah, and he couldn't have been more wrong if he'd tried. God help him he'd never been happier to be proven wrong.

Demoman made him feel wanted. Appreciated. Adored. He made him feel like he fit in ways he hadn't since he first left his parents' arms as a child. He made him happy in ways he wasn't sure he'd ever felt or could even conceive of. Demoman felt like part of him, not a missing piece or something so cliche, but like vines that had grown into the brick of an ancient building, so intertwined that they may as well be one whole structure. He never felt more peace than when he could feel his weight on his chest, his muttonchops gently tickling his skin, his strong arms wrapped tightly around his narrow middle; when Demoman could hear his heartbeat and would smile against him as the sound lulled him to sleep, fingers twitching lightly in his dreams. Even when he snored.

A soft laugh left Sniper's nose. He fancied he'd be fine with it if he heard that snore every night for the rest of his life.

*

"They're climbin' the freakin' base?" RED Scout asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked out onto the field. The RED team had assembled atop one of their gravel silos.

"See? Plantin' bloody explosives. Fuckin' oath, just like I said."

RED Demoman sneered at the sight of Soldier rocket jumping onto the metal awning beside Scout, nimbly landing and motioning for Heavy to throw the toolbox filled with the remaining bombs. "Plantin' bombs in the off hours. Just like that soulless bloody monster tae set traps like the coward he is."

"This aggression cannot stand, boys!" RED Soldier barked, stomping his foot. "We are not about to let those maggots dance up to our doorstep and take a big fat crap on the welcome mat! They are not welcome at all!"

"To arms!" Demoman declared, storming into the base.

*

"Thanks again, guys," Miss Pauling called as the passenger door shut, Sniper and Spy stretching in the evening sun after the long drive. "Money should be in your accounts by tomorrow. And I'll try to get that new hat you were after, Sniper."

"Aces. Have a good one, Miss Paulin'."

The truck roared to life, and with a final wave, Miss Pauling sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust in her wake as she pulled out of the lot and onto the dirt road that led from the base.

"Now that that's done and over with, let's get back inside where the air conditioning actually works," Spy grumbled, fussing with his jacket. "I wish she would take Engineer up on his offers to fix that rolling heap she calls a truck."

"She's gonna run that thing until it stops rolling before she actually lets 'im look at it," Sniper chuckled, slinging his rifle across his back and heading for the base. "Means she'd 'ave to plan for downtime otherwise, and Miss Paulin' don't rightly know the meanin' of downtime."

"In spite of having one job she's managed to be an even bigger workaholic than your dear partner," Spy snorted, falling in step beside him.

The jaunt from the end of the lot to the base wasn't a particularly long one, but it did afford a view of the battlefield between buildings. Spy caught himself craning a bit to see if the team had finished, eyes widening as he saw Scout and Soldier at work, standing precariously atop the shoddy metal awning that sat over the RED base's central sniper's nest. All of that time, and they still weren't finished, and being super obvious about it. What's worse, they were going to get the attention of—

"Holy dooley!" Sniper tipped his sunglasses down as he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide as he looked through the gap between buildings out at the field. "Is that the team? The bloody 'ell are they doin' out there?" His eye was drawn by a blur of red, and he choked on his breath. The RED team were atop one of the silos, and their Demoman was leading a charge inside, likely to get weapons. "REDs! We've gotta warn 'em; they're gonna get killed!"

"What—"

"Respawn's off, Spy! The maintenance! They're gonna get killed! Tav's out there!" Terror choked Sniper's voice as panic rose in his gut and seized his heart. He took off at a sprint for the base, gravel crunching like the churning of a runaway train with each step.

"Mundy!" Spy called, giving chase. Merde, this could not have possibly taken a worse turn.

"There, that's the last one," Scout announced, wedging the final sticky into place and clapping his hands. "Comin' down!" he called, and began to slowly hop from ledge to ledge to reach the ground. Soldier followed less elegantly, landing with a grunt beside him.

Demoman checked his watch. "Just in bloody time, too. Let's get off this field before they get back and catch us—"

"TAV!" Sniper's voice ripped across the battlefield, making the BLUs turn as he tore out of the entrance to the base, sprinting for the bridge, Spy hot on his heels. "REDs INCOMING! RESPAWN'S OFF, TAV!"

"Mickey?!"

"Catch you doin' what, ye prancin' dandies? Sneakin' ontae the field durin' a ceasefire tae set a trap like a bunch o' bloody cowards?!" From the woodwork, RED mercenaries emerged in force, weapons at the ready, their Demoman coming into view at the battlement window.

Demoman froze. None of them were armed, and if the REDs killed them, it would reveal that Respawn was still live, which would make Sniper start asking a lot of questions. And the bombs being discovered already meant they wouldn't remain until morning anyway. Everything was going tits up and panic began to simmer in his brain as Sniper crossed the bridge.

Before he could say a word, he felt a weight at his belt. He turned to see Soldier yank the detonator from his pouch with a broad grin, eyes glinting as he beheld his mortal enemy at the middle of the battlement. "See you in hell, traitor," he growled.

"CHARGE!"

"GET DOWN!"

As the REDs leapt to action, the BLUs leapt to the ground, and Soldier flipped the switch on Demoman's detonator, stopping Sniper in his tracks in the middle of the bridge, a scream ripping from his throat. Spy skidded to a stop at his side, jaw dropping open.

The bombs exploded in a deafening cacophony, rocketing paint, shrapnel, and concussive force in every direction, covering the RED base in a mixture of azure and bright crimson. Heat passed as a wave that sliced through the air with a breeze in its wake, and Sniper fell to his knees in horror.

There was blood everywhere. There was gore everywhere. Body parts, bare giblets left of what they once were, showered to the ground and splattered every surface, which dripped just as thickly with blue paint. A hopeless wail forced itself from Sniper's throat as tears flooded his eyes, his body buckling forward to support himself on his hands. Gone. They were gone. Respawn was off, there was no way that—

"Mundy," Spy murmured, laying a hand on his teammate's shoulder. "Mundy, it's fine."

"What the fuck do you mean it's fi—"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Scout groaned, dragging himself to his hands and knees, covered head to toe in a mixture of paint and viscera.

"Maybe make bombs too strong," Heavy groaned.

"Just a little," Medic grunted, almost colliding with Heavy's chin as he lifted his head, the giant having thrown himself mostly atop him to shield him. All the same, his glasses were a complete loss, one lens fully blue, one lens smeared red.

"I was right; we forgot to change the formula after all. Too much mustard on those babies," Engineer grumbled, shoving what was likely half of the RED Scout's torso off of himself and sitting up. "Everybody alright?"

A thumbs-up surged out of a heap of gore, and Pyro's muffled, "I'm okay!" sounded from beneath it.

Soldier shot to his feet, laughing. "Hell of a show, Cyclops!" he cheered, bending over to dig through some rubble and meat and tugging Demoman out of it, helping him up.

"Tavish!" Sniper gasped, scrambling to his feet. He fairly dove out of the bridge onto him, wrapping his arms around the man as he nearly tackled him right back to the ground, squeezing him hard enough to hurt. "You're okay! I thought I'd lost you! I thought—" his voice choked out, and he buried his face in the mess of blood and paint on his lover's chest, holding back a sob. "God, I thought I'd lost you."

"Takes more'n that tae be rid o' me," Demoman soothed him, rubbing circles on his back, his heart breaking for the agony he'd put Sniper through.

Sniper responded by clinging all the harder, and kissing him until they were both out of breath, unable to summon any words but a desperate, terrified, relieved whimper.

Pyro burrowed his way out of the mess of body parts he'd been buried in, wiping the lenses of his mask clean enough to see. Catching sight of his teammates' embrace, he hummed out a soft little, "Aww."

Heavy climbed to his feet and helped Medic up, giving his hand a squeeze as they looked over as well. Medic squeezed back, a fond little sound leaving him.

When at last they parted, Sniper caressed Demoman's cheek, his hand shaking, his whole body quaking with residual adrenaline. "Well. We're out of a bloody job now, aren't we though?"

"Nae danger, they'll be back soon enough," Demoman chuckled, leaning into the touch.

"No they won't. Respawn maintenance, remember? We've just killed the other team!"

Engineer let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, y'see, about that, Stretch..."

Sniper looked to Engineer in confusion. "Wait, Truckie? Aren't you supposed to be—"

"Pff, and you guys thought I was gonna ruin the surprise," Scout scoffed, getting up and casting about to find his hat.

"Surprise?" Sniper sighed. "Tav, what the hell is goin' on?"

"Er, well, y'see... we sort 'o... set this all up. The ceasefire, the alleged respawn maintenance, Miss Pauling takin' ye out for a contract..."

Sniper looked back to Spy, who simply smiled and shrugged, then slunk past them to hand Demoman a small, black box.

"Was plannin' tae paint it on the RED base so ye'd see it first thing when we started the match tomorrow. Even built special paint bombs for it so I could do it with a bang, ye ken. But I guess it didnae turn out."

"Paint what? Tav..."

Demoman took a breath and straightened up, looking Sniper in the eye with purpose, the sudden change in his bearing taking the assassin aback. "I guess this'll have tae be as explosive as it gets." He dropped to one knee and opened the box, holding it out to Sniper. Inside of it rested a gold ring inset with a sapphire surrounded by small diamond chips in the shape of a crosshairs. "Mickey, I've made a right mess o' everythin', and I never meant tae scare ye like that. If ye can forgive me, I promise tae do everythin' in me power tae never make ye fear, or cry, or hurt again. I promise tae fill yer life with nae but joy and love, like ye deserve. I'd give ye everythin', anythin', the whole bloody world if ye wanted. Ye deserve it all and more. And I hope I'm worth deservin' ye." He took the ring from the box, and slipped it onto Sniper's finger. "Michael Mundy, will ye marry me?"

A relieved sound left Sniper, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and for a second time, he crashed into Demoman, bowling him over into the sodden muck of blue and red gravel. He kissed him giddily, gleeful laughter bubbling in his throat, and when he could finally bring himself to stop kissing him long enough to speak, he pressed his forehead to Demoman's, looking into his eye. "Yes. Of course I will you beautiful idiot!"

Demoman crushed Sniper to his chest with a kiss, tears beginning to run from his eye.

"HE SAID YES!" Soldier whooped, and the team let out a cheer.

[setmeatopthepyre]

Bucktommy breakup (arc) mix

I started making this playlist pretty much right after 8x06 in order to cope with all the feelings, first just throwing together some songs, later structuring them into their own little emotional arc. Prepare for all the stages of grief but with a generous sprinkle of love, more than a few winks, nods and references, and a dash of hope for reconciliation at the end. Song list with lyric highlights below. Bon appetit!

(There's a couple of references and half-jokes hidden here and there, so let me know if you catch those. Also if you're curious at all about any of my choices or why a certain song is included, please ask me. I love yapping about this shit and have 100% overthought this playlist a million times.)

--

Built to Break (Glitterfox) - Every thread is bound to fray / I can't outrun the ending

if this was a movie.. (Kacey Musgraves) - If this was a movie / You'd run up the stairs / You'd hold my face / Say we're being stupid / And we'd fall back into place

Plain Sailing Weather (Frank Turner) - This was supposed to be easy / I found the one damn person to help me fall asleep in the night

Smalltown Boy [Bronski Beat cover] (Orville Peck) - But the answers you seek will never be found at home / The love that you need will never be found at home / Run away, turn away, run away, turn away

Scared (Joywave) - I wanna touch you but I'm scared / I really love you though, I swear / I had another nightmare / Covered in sweat and unprepared / I woke and you weren't there

La da da (Glitterfox) - I don't know what to say / My head gets in the way / I don't know what to feel / Only learned to conceal

Let Me Drown (Orville Peck) - I swear there's good things that are coming your way / And I can't be the one left here, dragging you down

Stick Season (Noah Kahan) - I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad / That I could cancel out the darkness I inherited from dad / Now I'm no longer funny 'cause I miss the way you laugh / You once called me forever, now you still can't call me back

Why Would You Be Loved (Hozier) - It's only said to be kind, the time that you have with love / You're never told, but you're loaned it // Why would you play it all on something as hollow as trust? / What if you gave it all to find that it wasn't enough?

San Andreas (Louise Burns) - The San Andreas fault line tells me stories from below / California misery in this angel town of gold

Feels Like a Lie (Joywave) - It'd be human to let it go someday / But I've got it stored above my rib cage

camera roll (Kacey Musgraves) - Chronological order and nothing but torture / Scroll too far back, that's what you get / I don't wanna see 'em but I can't delete 'em / It just doesn't feel right yet

How Far Will We Take It? (Orville Peck & Noah Cyrus) - I tried to love you, just couldn't break through / No getting used to living without you / 'Cause I've been waiting, don't wanna waste it / We're all alone now, how far will we take it?

Black Treacle (Arctic Monkeys) - And I tried last night to pack away your laugh / Like a key under the mat / But it never seems to be there when you want it

Recovery (Frank Turner) - I know you are a cynic, but I think I can convince you / Broken people can get better if they really want to / Or at least that's what I have to tell myself if I am hoping to survive

We Are All We Need (Joywave) - I was a boy who kept a list of everybody who wouldn't let me in / Sense of humor now about it / But there's a jadedness where love should have been

No Such Thing (Sara Bareilles) - Thin air, you're out there in it somewhere / If I could only get there / I could breathe again // I've tried to get over you / But I think there's no such thing

First Time (Hozier) - Before I heard it from your mouth / My name would always hit my ears as such an awful sound

Ever You're Gone (Orville Peck & Teddy Swims) - This anxious heart of mine / Gets me in and out of trouble so many times / And I keep losing pieces each time I try / I burned enough bridges to light my way home

Wanna Be Loved (The Red Clay Strays) - I just wanna be loved / I've been afraid and I've been alone / Sometimes I need someone to pick up the phone / I'm tired of leaving / I need a home

Timefighter (Lucy Dacus) - And I fought time / It won in a landslide

No Witnesses (Keaton Henson) - So I wrote down a list of all the things / We've never spoken of / And I wrote "Man, I hate Los Angeles" / And I've never been in love

Love is a Laserquest (Arctic Monkeys) - When I'm hanging on by the rings around my eyes / And I convince myself I need another / For a minute, it gets easier to pretend that you were just some lover

Haven't Been Doing So Well (Frank Turner) - And if self-loathing was a sport I'd be Muhammad Ali / 'Cause I can sting like a butterfly and sink like a bee / But they don't hand out medals to monsters like me

787 Dreamliner (Joywave) - I'm feeling dizzy just from the view / Got another six lives to lose / Before my final descent is through / Before I find my way back to you

Hot & Heavy (Lucy Dacus) - When I went away, it was the only option / Couldn't trust myself to proceed with caution / The most that I could give to you is nothing at all / The best that I could offer was to miss your calls

Burning House (Cam) - I had a dream about a burning house / You were stuck inside / I couldn't get you out / Laid beside you and pulled you close / And the two of us went up in smoke

Don't Keep Driving (The Paper Kites) The distance between us is half of this city / Don't keep on driving, let me say something / There's nothing wrong with a little space / But not right now, don't leave / Don't push me away

On Board (Alana Henderson & Joshua Burnside) - And if you came on board / I know you'd scan for the safety of a lighthouse blink / Any port in a storm, love / You promise you won't falter / But I know I've seen men sink

I Know (King Princess & Fiona Apple) - You can use my skin / To bury secrets in / And I will settle you down

Canyon (JOSEPH) - Take me to your darkest corner / Show me what you're trying to hide / I've got a little fear / But it's the reverent kind

Back At Your Door (Orville Peck & Debbii Dawson) - I'm sure the deadbolt's turned / But baby, if it weren't / I'd come quiet up the staircase / Slip into your arms / Like I was never gone

Watchman (Gregory Alan Isakov) - So take me however I seem to be / Haunted, I know

Francesca (Hozier) - My life was a storm since I was born / How could I fear any hurricane?

Noise in My Head (spookyghostboy) - Sit in the dark for a while / Look for your name on my phone / My thumb hovers over the button / It rings and you say, "Hello"

Orpheus (Sara Bareilles) - Don't stop trying to find me here amidst the chaos / Though I know it's blinding, there's a way out

Late To You (Keaton Henson) - All these years of running / Of running away / I've been looking for something / For something to feel this way

The Way I Tend To Be (Frank Turner) - But then I remember you / And the way you shine like truth in all you do

Saint Honesty (Sara Bareilles) - We're collecting evidence / Of one remarkable storm / How wild it was to find it, finally feel the climate / Instead of only staying dry and warm

[rosesnink]

Red Threads of Fate (That Bind Us Together), Arc I- Black Thorne, White Rose (Pt. 1)

Author's Notes

Je suis back!! After months of not touching this series due to rl craziness, I'm back with COP stuff babey!! This arc will be an interesting one, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. That being said, read the warnings and bon appetit!

English isn't my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammar mistakes

Some parts of the fic will look like they're highlighted. This is an editing errors due to my Word doc crashing many times, losing excerpts because my computer crashed. I know it's annoying, but please try to ignore it and enjoy the read

If you want to be tagged in my COP writing, let me know!

If you want to read more of my ILITW, TRR & D&D stuff, check out my masterlist!!

Summary: Nerea has been in Drakovia for a while, yet she feels very lonely. Meeting a certain Thorne will be eventful... to say the least

Word Count: 2.9k

Category: Romance, coming of age

Pairing: Vasili Thorne x F!OC, Sebastyan Thorne x F!OC (eventually) Marguerite Thorne x F!OC (Nerea Rose) (eventually), mentions of F!Trystan Thorne x F!MC (Neera Rose)

Rating: T

TW: There is a suggestive scene at the end, as well as mentions of discriminations against Romani people, reader's discretion is advised

Book: Crimes of Passion

Two months, six days, a hundred and two minutes and seven hundred minutes.

That’s how long Nerea Rose had been in Drakovia, and not one friend she had made. Sure, there were groups and people she had things in common, but she didn’t seem to have her crowd.

If one didn’t count Juliana Georgescu, but everybody got along fine with the countess. What a life she must lead, Nerea thought. Nevertheless, it seemed that power and wealth had a price, for her mothers had found her a suitor. The Crown Princess, no less. Absorbed in her own thoughts, she bumped into someone, dumping coffee and books all over the place. A small curse in Drakovian was spit, and Nerea did her best to apologize in an accentuated Drakovian “My apologies, I did not see you at all! Please, let me help you—,” She froze in place when she caught sight of the brown skin, dark eyes and glasses “Y-Your Royal Highness! Do forgive me—,”

A thread of apologies began between them both “It’s alright,” he answered in perfect English “I was quite absorbed myself. I did not hurt you, did I?”

“I could ask you that myself! Good heavens, your jacket is ruined! Here, let me…” He put his hand on hers and smiled reassuringly.

“I wanted to get rid of it eventually. I should’ve seen you—,”

As she collected her last book, when she saw the face of the poor man she trampled, recognition and shame came upon her “Oh my, I’m so sorry, Prince Vasili, I should’ve known—,”

He chuckled “Do not fret, I should’ve seen where I was going as well. I suppose we were both distracted.”

She shook her head “No, I should’ve seen where I was going, and now my latte is all over your surely expensive coat!”

He helped her up “Nothing a good rub won’t fix. Please, allow me to walk you to class and buy you a new latte. My treat.” He smiled, and my, what a beautiful smile that was.

“I can’t ask you that—,”

“I’m offering. Besides, I’m afraid my espresso is all over your beautiful dress too. My lady mother would be mortified if I maimed such a beauty. You are…? A beauty like yourself must have a name.” He extended his hand.

“Nerea. Nerea Rose.”

His grip was firm, yet gentle and warm, welcoming even. His eyes swept her before they too widened in recognition “Ah, I’ve heard about you! The American genius who has been travelling throughout Europe’s best universities. Your thesis on the advantages and abuses of AI was formidable. Truly a work of art. My siblings got tired of my gushing about your nuances and the way you expressed it. Not even professionals ten years ahead of you could’ve explained it as well and as richly as you.”

She blushed deeply and bit her lip “I’m glad someone appreciated it. I’m afraid my father didn’t understand much ‘technological mumbo jumbo’ and my sister couldn’t even finish it because the language was too complex.”

He smiled “Shame. It’s a true work of art. Do tell me, what brings you to Drakovia?”

“Well, since I’ve dipped my toes in technology and martial arts, I was thinking of getting a masters on Classical Languages: Latin, Greek, Ancient Egyptian, the works.”

Vasili looked at her, delighted “I am a humanist myself. Not many scientific minds appreciate the arts and humanities. Science may give us answers and make us advance as humanity, but it is art that nurtures the soul.”

Nerea smiled fondly “That’s what my mother used to say.”

Vasili frowned “’Used’?”

Nerea fidgeted with her fingers “She disappeared. Police assumed since she was a Romani—despite her ID clearly stating she was Andalusian—she just escaped with a lover, which she would never do.”

Vasili made a face “To hear the injustice in America is one thing, but that is too far.”

“Not to mention blatantly racist. But it was long before I could even have a conscience, so there isn’t much to do save do her proud, wherever she is.”

“You already have.”

She looked at Vasili, touched by his words, but before she could say something, the professor called “Ah, Miss Rose! Do come in, we have been waiting for you.”

“Your Highness—,”

“Please, just Vasili.”

“Very well, ‘just’ Vasili. I’ll see you around.”

During the small recess, as she walked around the campus, enjoying the small sandwich she made and the unusual sunny weather in the cold Drakkos, she spotted a little boy with gorgeous green eyes towards her. She smiled at him “Hello, sweetie! Are you lost?”

She noticed he held a bonbon, and made a gesture to give it to her. She chuckled “That’s sweet, darling, but I can’t. It’s yours.”

The boy insisted, his eyes making that face that made her melt. She sighed, defeated “All right, all right. I’ll take it. May I give you a thank you huggie?”

Wordlessly, he hugged her and she smiled, and a minute later, he took off to his bewildered mother. She gave her a smile. Just because this wasn’t the first time that a child smiled at her or even went as far to go to her didn’t mean it was strange. A good strange, but strange nevertheless.

“Nerea!” Juliana called.

She turned around and strid to the countess, who seemed to hold court with a few of her classmates. Many of them observed her curiously “What was all of that about?”

Nerea shrugged “I don’t know. It’s not the first time, but it’s still… odd.”

While Vasili did not have many friends, the ones he did were genuine and quite interesting. It was nice, hanging out with people who were as smart or nearly smart as her, not feeling for once like she once set the room quiet with a scientific joke.

As she observed her new group, her eyes stopped on Juliana, and as she talked and interacted, something in her body woke. For a moment, she lost her breath and one voice in her head told her that something terrible would happen to her. Then, it was gone.

When she opened her eyes, Vasili had steadied her and looked at her concerned “Are you alright, Nerea?”

“I… It’s nothing. Silly stuff of mine.”

“It didn’t seem like nothing.” He insisted.

“I just… I got a gut feeling that said that something terrible would happen to Juli. Stupid, right?” She chuckled, brushing it off.

They all looked at one another, obviously creeped out. She excused herself, going to the bathroom. After taking a few deep breaths, she washed her face, and that’s when she observed that Juliana had followed her.

She turned around, and observed that the countess observed her closely “How often do you get these gut feelings, Nerea?”

“Not very often. Only when a tragedy is bound to strike.”

Instead of looking at her like a madwoman, she leaned close, intrigued “Such as?”

“Before my mother disappeared or my Uncle Jimmy died, I got the same gut feeling. I suppose I also know when someone’s trouble.”

She nodded “And you got a feeling that I may be in trouble?”

She shrugged, “I suppose. I know it sounds ominous, but it’s yet to fail me.”

She placed a hand on her shoulder “I will keep it in mind. Thank you, Nerea. You’re a good girl.” 

As they came back, they had begun a debate about what prompted the child’s behavior. “…That was amazing! Children are a great judge of character. Has it always happened?”

“Since I turned sixteen, yes. I suppose I’ve always had a wide maternal side and connected well with children. Many stared at me when I’m out, for some reason.”

Vasili added to her surprise “That is a scientific proof that you are beautiful. I’m afraid I’m not children’s favorite prince.” He shrugged, “Trystan and Bas are.”

One of their friends clapped the prince’s shoulder, remarking that he was the group’s favorite by default. Nerea shyly said “Just because children don’t tend to look at you doesn’t mean that you aren’t handsome. It’s… what, one fact among many? I’ve seen gorgeous people who were awful to children.”

Vasili looked at her with interest before smiling “You have a point. You’ll fit well amongst us, Nerea.”

Christmas finally came around the corner, and Nerea had packed everything when she decided to look outside the window… to find it all covered in snow, even some cars! She turned on the news as the weather guy kept talking about how it’d be snowing like this throughout most of the winter, making it impossible to get out of the country. Her phone ringed, and of course, her flight had cancelled due to said weather. Sighing, she sat down and put her head in her palms, letting out a grunt of frustration.

Just then, Vasili called her. He rarely called, preferring text over call. She picked up, intrigued “Hello?”

“Nerea! I suppose you’re on the plane back to New York?”

“Nope. My flight got cancelled due to the weather, and I have nothing but yoghurt and ramen on the fridge. Why do you ask?”

He cleared his throat “Well, I was on the way home when the snow trapped my car, and your house is just above it. Perhaps I could… crash in there? Until they clear out the road, that is.”

She flushed. For months now, she had developed a complicated crush with Vasili, and the idea made her flustered “O-Of course! I’ll open the door for you. It’s—,”

“Portal 26, second floor, door 3B. I remember, Nerea.”

She smiled “Good. See you then. Hope you like cheap ramen.”

She hung up, looking at herself in the mirror, fixing her hair and spraying the special ‘Amor Amor’ perfume by Cacharel and putting on some lip oil before going to the kitchen, pretending to be preparing dinner.

The door closed behind her, and a snow-covered Vasili stepped into her view, his glasses foggy and covered in specks of snow, as well as his coat and boots. She beamed for a minute before giving him her usual friendly smile “Please, take off your shoes and coat! The heater is right there,” she pointed “and the guest room is next by mine. It’s not a palace, but it’s comfy. Can you tell me if there’s warm bedsheets there?”

Vasili obeyed the host, leaving the damp shoes by the door and hanging the coat and craned his head to the small but cozy guest room. He called out “All clear! Thank you, Nerea. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You’re my friend. I’m happy to help. Please, sit.”

It was then when she took off her eyes from his face and noticed the large bag. She raised her eyebrows “What is that?”

“Ah, well, Marguerite had asked for Thai takeout, but I suppose that is no longer an option…”

She smiled “I love Thai. Here, let me plate it.”

“May I help?”

“Sure! Cutlery is in there.”

They both plated the Thai food and went to her desk, which was a gateway to the kitchen, and chatted animatedly about what they had been looking forward these holidays. Soon, they exchanged holiday-themed childhood stories “…Poor Nina. Swallowing snow sounds unhygienic.”

Nerea laughed “Curiosity killed the cat indeed. Despite my warnings, she didn’t listen, and we had to hospitalize her. Ever since, she listened to me more often. Well, as often as an eleven-year-old could.

They chuckled “Your sister sounds like quite the character. You must miss her.”

A pang of sadness washed over her “Very much. I’m bummed I can’t see her now. It’s… my first Christmas outside the US.”

Compassion could be read all over Vasili’s face “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Is there any way I may be able to make it amenable while I’m here?”

She shrugged “It’ll be weird, to not cook an entire feast for the family. We always spent time with my father, sister and the Ginovesis. I’d make my special dish of huevos rotos, followed by migas and my stellar homemade turrón. I do have the ingredients here, but not an audience.”

Vasili gave her an amused look “What am I, Nerea, chopped liver? I’d be happy to be your audience.”

She shook her head “I can’t ask you that.”

“You’re not. I’m offering.”

She smiled widely “All right. But you’re helping, mister! Number one rule of the Rose Christmas; you want to eat; you have to earn it!”

He teasingly made a military salute “Aye aye, Captain!”

For two hours, they cooked, an intimate synchrony between them that neither could explain as the food was made, a certain unaddressed intimacy between stolen glances, the occasional hand brush, and how each looked at the other’s body. Especially the lips.

At last, the food was made, and they dug in, and Vasili seemed to hold back a moan of delight when he tried the huevos rotos. “Mm. The richness of the egg, the meat and the softness of the egg yolk is simply divine, and the spices really give it a kick. You truly are a talent at everything you do.”

She blushed “Thank you. I was nervous that it wouldn’t be to your tastes…”

He chuckled “I may be a royal, but I am capable of appreciating the simple things in life. And this is too delicious to ignore because the ‘commoners’ eat it as well.”

Nerea smirked “It has been a while since we’ve considered royalty some sort of demigods.”

“Thankfully so.”

They clinked their glasses, Riojan wine sparkling red “To family.”

“And those close to your heart.”

Smiling wide, they drank and kept talking and exchanging tales “You’re telling me that Patryk dared Kaspar to put on the prime minister’s underwear and streak across the building in it? No offence, but gross.”

“Not as gross as mudpies. That poor guy.”

“Hey! In my defense, he cheated on me!”

Vasili looked at her intensely “A crime indeed. Such a shame that beauties like yourself don’t get appreciated. If you were mine—,” His eyes shoot wide, and he cleared his throat “Apologies. It seems like the wine made me overstep.”

Nerea must’ve been affected by the wine, for she surprised herself when she blurted out “If I were yours, what would you do?”

He took her hands in his, an intense look on his face making her gasp “I’d worship you day and night. I’d give you the world. Every other woman would cease to exist.”

“Vasili, that is—,”

The strong wind slamming open the window interrupted the moment. Bolting up, the both rushed towards the window, where both forced it closed and panted, the effort being visible, as well as the tension of the moment.

“Whew! I need another glass after that.”

“I’ve had enough alcohol. I could use the turrón, though.”

She let out a breath “Coming right up.”

The morning after, Nerea had overslept due to the many glasses she ended up drinking. She remembers Vasili taking her to her bed, taking off her make-up and pulling the covers so she wouldn’t be cold.

She woke up and, remembering she had a guest, quickly brushed her hair with her fingers and checked her breath. Smelled like wine, of course. Taking a mentos from her drawer, she looked for something cute yet discreet. Ignoring her headache, she lifted her head and tried to have a pleasant smile on her face.

Coming out of her bedroom, the sight before her gave her heart flutters: Vasili had his shirt half-open, his hair was messy, and he was making breakfast. It smelled delicious. He seemed to notice her presence and smiled widely “Nerea! Please, do sit. I’ve made the liberty to make, ah… what do you call it? Pankays?”

Nerea chuckled “Pancakes, and it smells divine.”

He gave her a wry smile “I’ve decided to give it a Drakovian twist. It’s not as good as yours, but I believe it is how it’s done.”

He gave her the plate, and their hands brushed again. He cleared his throat “Look, about last night, I didn’t want to overstep, but… I like you, Nerea. Very much. You draw my eye like no other, and of course, you don’t have to return my feelings, but—,”

“I do return them,” she interrupted.

His gaze lifted, what it seemed like hope “Truly?”

Armoring herself with valor, she struts towards him and gave him a small peck. For a moment, he was surprised, and next thing she knew, he was kissing her passionately, a throaty moan escaping him. Next, her hands were on his hair and shirt, completely forgetting about breakfast. She chuckled “I probably reek of alcohol.”

“I rather like the taste of cherries and wine. A very sophisticated mix,”

He lifted her up with surprising strength, and she chuckled as he kissed her neck, gently dropping her to her bed. He looked at her like he was a hungry man and she was his last meal on earth. Taking off his shirt, he climbed towards her and whispered “Do you want this?”

She nodded frantically “Yes,” her voice was hoarse with desire.

He smiled devilishly “It is a good thing we haven’t eaten yet. What am I about to do is not fit for a full stomach.”

Their lips locked again, and as the sun came up, only them and their rampant tension seemed to exist for a few hours.

As in that day, Nerea didn’t feel so alone in Drakovia.

[heavenstocharlee]

Winterbreak // m.lee

Characters: Mark Lee x gender neutral!reader Category: angst / fluff if you squint Word count: 500+ (first poetic blurb!) Song inspiration: Winterbreak by MUNA

Writer’s notes: I am coming out of retirement and posting this blurb I wrote solely because the song reignited my love for writing. It was exciting to write in a more poetic style than usual, and I hope you appreciate it! More life updates soon, but for now bon appetit!

Just as the snow on your windowsill slowly melts, you observe time fracture through bits of fleeting moments. The cold never struck you in such a way as it did. More so than ever before, you felt the winter breeze emanating from the drywalls of your apartment into the warm comfort of your epidermis. The break was not supposed to be this long, you thought. The tugging exchanges between you and Mark lasted for eons, and now numbness fills the spaces between each thread of tension.

You always knew you'd find your way back to him. "One more try." But the winter winds convince you otherwise. 

You and Mark were well aware of the reparations for parting ways. The consequences, however, outweighed the benefits. The break was transparent, and every day it was a struggle to stay still. You desperately depend on the ice beneath your feet to keep you afloat.

You haven't seen Mark since last winter break. A little over a year of hearts moving farther, albeit your love growing fonder. The last memory you shared with Mark consisted of you picking up clothes scattered across the floor and slowly making your way onto the freezing front porch. He wants to walk you home, but you refuse. Tears then started to trickle down his face, indicating that it was over this time. Despite all the bones in your body wanting to wipe all his tears away, you left his residence. His warmth. 

You broke Mark's heart. 

This love was just not fitting at the moment; the love the both of you won't get right. No matter how hard you try.

Habits were hard to break. Your soul respond to each other like the ebb and flow of glacier lakes. Turquoise in color—organic, bright, and untouchable. Ethereally calm in some days, raging in others. But every time his lips parted and his eyes were filled with painful aches, it was all just covering up what was lying underneath. Despite knowing every single thing, it was not going to fix anything. It was not going to repair the cracks or turn back the clock of what was once more. 

"One more try." You often muttered when even a hint of longingness prevailed on your mind. Constantly, until you were sick of it and had to truly just let go. From days to weeks, and now a year. The calendar has turned a new leaf, and all of the frost reminds you of the warmth you once had. 

Would it be different this time? 

You both know you won't get it right. 

Will the winter winds carry you into a change of mind? 

You both know that the trial season is over. 

Magnetic, isn't it? 

Like a force dragging you to greener pastures, as the thin ice resurfaces the underlying intentions.

One text message you send to Mark responds in tentative ellipses. To continue.  To hope. 

You make your way onto the bridge that you once held your memories on. As the vapor out of your mouth comes into existence on that coldest day of the year, you admire winter in its full glory. This time up close and personal, far from childish admiration.

With light and warm footsteps, you hear Mark making his way over to you.

Still, you both know.  This time, alas, it is right.