#terry canonically has a knack for pretending to be weaker than he actually is when need be

[terrence-silver]

could we get more terry with clingy beloved? My fav duo Love your blog♥️

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He did the unthinkable. He just did it.

He pretended to have sprained his ankle, mid-training.

Of course, the very notion Terry Silver would have combat mishap during his strenuous, routinely exercises, least of all, that he'd be hindered by it, slowed down by it, limited by pain in any sense was preposterous and entirely laughable, but you didn't need to know that. You really didn't. Or if you did, it was simply better that you were occasionally led to forget what his body could really endure. The same way you didn't need to know the fact that his injury was entirely made up. Invented. Just for you. Because of you. For this occasion. He supposed he enjoyed it. The way you instinctually jumped around him when you perceived him down. When you thought he needed it. When you thought him, and the word sat like a living wound on his tongue --- weak. Was this was what weak was? Being doted on? You giving his sparring partners the wry looks because you were convinced they carelessly injured him during their allotted training hours even though he went around injuring them several times mid-session instead of it being the other way around and they were simply paid to take it like professionals should? Touching him, carefully, as if fearing to break him? Cooing him? Helping him to a nearby seat like he was some sort of martyr having just gone through penance even though there was literally nothing wrong with him and he didn't even need to put in too much acting to convince you of the opposite? A mere 'Ow' was often enough to send you spiraling like an expertly programmed robot. If this is what collapse meant, Terry rather relished his time down there, trying very hard not to show his satisfaction anywhere on his face and finding it even harder to control it manifesting on his body when your expression furrows in worry and he feels himself harden.

-"I'm not leaving your side until I'm certain you're okay."-

You say, with conviction, cradling his whole foot after practically shouting for the staff to call a doctor. Oh. That felt good. It felt good to see you catastrophically overreact.

It felt warm.

His chest filling with tingles. He imagines himself a giddy school girl with a scraped knee, being lifted up and carried by the brave class jock. How was it that you didn't notice his foot was absolutely alright --- in prime condition, same as always --- and that the surface of his skin didn't even do as much as grow red from the pressure of whatever impact it supposedly suffered? How did you not notice? It was great that you didn't --- infinitely amusing, a testament to his skills, in fact --- but were you wrapped around his finger to the degree that he could tell you anything, just about anything, and you'd believe it? Staunchly? That the sky was made from dogshit and ice cones? That a Blackbelt and a former Black Ops Veteran just goes around, tripping and falling over himself randomly, like some sort of klutz? Terry supposed that was the case, deciding to amp up the pressure and play the role of the martyr just a bit more, acting hard to get and unnecessarily humble. Just to reap a bit more of what you had to offer. -"Huh? No. That's fine. I'll walk it off. Karate's all about walking it off. Walked off worse."- He clicks his tongue, ever the good sport, shaking his head, pretending to be in pain and acting courageous about it, waving his hand, putting in an Oscar-worthy performance in the department of fake limping. It takes every bit of willpower in him not to laugh when he spots Margaret from the other end of the lobby giving him a speculative, unimpressed gaze. -"Out of the question, Terry!"- You're adamant, holding him by his hand and easing him back into his seat. And that point, it was hard not to burst. -"You've been pushing yourself too hard and now look what happened!"- You stare down at his completely healthy foot like it was about to be amputated or some bullshit, pointing at it with your nose, outraged and oh so sweetly delusional.

-"Now you're in pain."-

You add, with the sort of grieved, whiny voice that could melt an iceberg.

-"Pain's a part of training."-

He pretends to nobly relent all while entirely pain-free, never confessing to there being any ache in the first place even if only for the purposes of the lie itself, not wanting to appear too much of a mush even while going out of his way to appear as just that, maintaining a careful balance between the two, tip toeing the line between artificial victimhood and a knightly sort of deliberate Zen detachment to keep you titillated further, feeling the warmth in his chest grown even hotter at the attention you provided, never taking his eyes off of you, concocting plans of what he can act like he hurt tomorrow next, finding that he rather liked this game.