Kevin and Jean, after saying they have too much history to ever play together again, when they both make US Court: 🦗🧍
don't think my life will be complete without a scene of Andrew, Kevin, Neil, Jeremy and Jean in the Court locker rooms. Jeremy like "let's have a winning day!" and Andrew throwing a racquet at him and Kevin just like "not again plz dear god"
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wow okay so that last post was made because i had no clue who the person was or what they say. i thought it was a bit of a jab at me personally.
these are just THREE examples of probably hundreds that are made by this person. bashing and being extremely rude to literally everyone who's neurodivergent. i tried to report them but apparently i didn't provide a good enough url or whatever the fuck. tumblr fix this shit jesus christ.
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3:15am, anywhere in the Brownstone, Alex or Henry (or both) follow your bliss. The vibes are “Sleep Please Come To Me” by Matthew Barber — I’m not projecting, you’re projecting. As spicy or not spicy as you feel like. xoxo MJ/kiwiana(-writes)
First of all - thank you for introducing me to Matthew Barber! How does he get his voice to do that?
Second of all - mwah I love you, I wrote you some words about it
want your own ficlet? read more here.
❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙
3:15am, the brownstone
For all it’s the City That Never Sleeps, New York is quiet outside Henry’s window. It’s possible that the bulletproof glass windows are responsible for the unnatural hush, but Henry wouldn’t be surprised if somehow the entire metropolis got together to go to bed early on purpose, just to taunt him. Just to leave him alone with his thoughts. Just to really highlight how bad Henry’s insomnia is—and how much worse his insomnia has gotten even after finally being allowed to leave the palace.
It feels like some sort of cosmic punishment, a cruel joke: Henry gets out from under Gran’s immediate influence, gets to put a bloody ocean between himself and his biggest stressors, gets to choose how he lives for the first time in his life—and he still can’t sodding sleep.
Henry’s been actively trying to sleep since one in the morning, and it's sometime after three now. He’s tried his usual tricks of Bake Off and chamomile, even tried reading Dickens of all people. Normally, something either works by now, or he’s wired enough to realize sleep won’t come at all and he’ll grab his notebook and write until the sun comes up. Tonight, Henry is stuck in this heinous limbo—too awake to sleep, too tired to push through to morning. The real trouble is, Henry knows what would work.
Or who would, rather.
But that someone is clear across Brooklyn, tucked into his own apartment, out of Henry’s reach.
Intellectually, Henry knows it’s a good idea for him and Alex to live alone for a bit before moving in together. It will benefit them both to figure out who they are when they’re alone, away from their families and roommates—who they are as single entities. But it does gall at times like this, when Henry knows that if Alex was spending the night, he’d already be asleep.
If Alex had been here tonight, they would have eaten pasta on the couch, done the dishes side by side, sneaking light, loving touches between bites and passing clean dishes off to be dried with a kiss. If Alex had been here tonight, they would have retreated to the study for a few hours, Alex to his readings and case studies and papers, Henry to his plans for the shelter, his manuscript, his email updates for Bea, and the poetry he wants to surprise Alex with for his birthday.
If Alex had come to the brownstone tonight, Henry would have pulled Alex away from his laptop with a gentle hand in his hair, a tender kiss against his neck, a murmured plan of putting his mouth somewhere distinctly lower. Alex would have tripped in his haste to pull Henry up the stairs, would have thrown Henry’s good jumper clear across the room, desperate to get his hands on the dip of Henry’s waist, would have covered Henry’s body with his own, and met every movement of Henry’s lips with matching passion and love.
If Alex was spending the night, Henry would be curled around his boyfriend right now, soaking up his warmth, pressed so close not even a hair could get between them. If Alex was here, their legs would be tangled together, he’d be able to match his breathing to Alex’s, he’d be able to feel Alex’s heartbeat beneath his hand. If Alex was here, Henry could pull Alex on top of him, could let himself be covered and surrounded by his boyfriend, could drift to sleep with the faint smell of cinnamon in the air.
If Alex was here tonight—
There’s footsteps on the stairs, a creak of the floorboards on the landing, and then his bedroom door eases open. Henry’s brief tension melts away as a shaft of moonlight reflects off a chain necklace he knows better than the back of his own hand — the key and ring strung through it glinting in the pale blue light.
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