Can I have HCs on Kenpachi and Unohana having feelings for the same person? :D Good luck on the blog btw! <3 Glad to meet you!
This was a fun challenge~ Thank you for the ask, I hope you enjoy it!
–So, Kenpachi really respects Unohana. She’s the person he’s been striving to beat for forever, one of the main reasons he gains strength and fights–aside from the fact that he loves the thrill, of course–but that doesn’t mean shit when it comes to you. Really all it means is that he acknowledges her as an opponent on equal footing, and nothing more. The battle for your affections is yet another battle he refuses to lose. Period.
–He’d be more aggressive in his pursuance of you than she would, and while he might try to play the gentleman, it doesn’t work. He thinks a walk would be nice, but when you run out of things to say (because he didn’t think too much on what to converse about), he just gets irritated. It’s a lot harder than he thought.
–If he was sure you had feelings only for him, or at least stronger feelings for him, he’d be more confident. While he generally has confidence in spades, love and romance are strange, uncharted waters. He would also shamelessly try and steal you away from Unohana if you two were talking by grabbing your arm, insisting that you train, or spar, or anything to get to away from his love rival.
–Retsu is very similar to Kenpachi in that she likes the slight competition that’s going on between them. He’s a formidable opponent, which brings out the best/worst in her, and she’ll turn up the charm. Like, all the way up. What she lacks in manly physique, she more than makes up for with grace and charisma. Her gentle approach is not something to be taken lightly, and that eerie smile of hers would put Kenpachi in a bind.
–Since they’re both very serious about you, she would take the classic wining-and-dining approach. She’d get you sweets from her favorite confectionery shop,–warning you to eat in moderation, so you don’t get sick–plan little lunch dates, the whole nine yards. A master at conversation, you’d never run out of things to talk about while she was around–which would amuse her because it gets a rise out of Kenpachi.
–She would also play the role of the bigger person. If you wanted to have a “date” with Kenpachi, she would encourage it, and say something like “we can have dinner when you’re finished for the evening,” or invite you over for some tea. She’s a classy lady, and her pursuit of love is no less graceful.
First Tea Thought is about the teas I got a week or so ago. When I tried making simple black tea with what we already had, I was rather underwhelmed. Who knows if that was because of the variety, its format, how old it might’ve been, or how I brewed it. I was sure there must be something better.
Nice to know I was right. I got some Assam Banaspaty and it is very nice. Not like I’m drinking it as proper tea in the first place - I’m having it iced with juice added - but it gives the proper tea taste. Or at least the one I was looking for. It was kind of strange and exciting to have tea two days in a row.
This is still all in the pursuit of bubble tea. The pursuit of bubbles is stalled until I make the hike to the store but the pursuit of tea is important too.
Haven’t tried the other one yet but I plan to soon.
Sherlock Holmes goes up to the counter, accompanied by an aged doctor. Holmes orders two grande Earl Grey teas with room for cream and sugar. He makes eye contact with the barista and says, “Yes, my dear, I know it was you.” The barista flees the scene, with Holmes in hot pursuit. Dogs howl in the distance. Holmes continues drinking his tea.
We hold these booths to be self-evident, that all men are created sweet n’ low, that they are endowed by their Diner with certain unalienable bites, that among these are fries, herbal tea and the pursuit of pancakes.
A soft knock came on the door of Miles Edgeworth’s office.
“Come in” He called, able to let his guard down and not question whoever was outside within his own home. "Daddy asked Trucy to ask Papa if he was able to take a break from his work and join us for a game night?“ Trucy Wright entered the office, magician’s cape fluttering behind her as she skipped through the door.
A soft, warm smile spread across the lips of the prosecutor as he placed his paperwork into a pile that was already turning into more of a mountain. "Well, I am incredibly busy, Trucy, but by fault of you and your father I have seen the benefit in taking breaks.” Miles replied before Trucy reached his chair, holding her arms above her head in a demand for Miles to lift her onto his lap. Unable to say no to her, he obliged as she giggled happily, nuzzling her head into his cravat.
"Papa?“ Trucy asked earning an inquisitive "Mm?” in return.
“Trucy was wondering if she could try some of Papa’s tea… seeing as he likes it so much?”
He gently stroked her hair
“Well, I was hoping to have some if I was coming to join you all so I do not see why not, however I will ask you to please take extra care when using my tea cups. The tea sets I own are priceless.”
Trucy nodded “Trucy promises!”
Miles lifted Trucy off his lap and placed her back onto the floor. “So… you said something about a game night?”
“Yes! Follow Trucy!”
Miles stood up from his chair behind his desk and began to follow her to the living room where his husband had got a selection of games for them to choose from out of the cupboard. "Hey Miles" He said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Didn’t overwork yourself, did you?” Looking down and feeling his cheeks flush pink he replied with a typical “well at least I actually work on my cases unlike some other people” “Hey! I just don’t have any cases right now!” He protested, pouting over dramatically. “Oh, don’t give me that, Wright.” “You give in to Trucy when she pulls that face.”
“She is our daughter, Wright. Of course I do.”
After they had compromised and decided to play both cluedo and trivial pursuit, Miles went to make himself some tea, as per usual for their game nights though making sure to get an extra cup for Trucy.
After brewing his tea (the proper way, with leaves of an exquisite quality left to steep in boiling water, using a strainer not a cheap tea bag of course. Basically anything but what Wright thinks constitutes a ‘proper cup of tea’.)
He brought the tray through, earning a teasing eye roll from Phoenix and giving an icy glare in return. "Is that Trucy’s tea, Papa?“ She asked, her eyes lighting up.
"Our tea, Trucy. I thought I would brew chamomile for us, it is rather light compared to some that I like but I believed we would give it a try anyway. If you do not like it and you still wish to I have many other completely different blends that you can try.” Trucy nodded as his words noticeably went straight over her head.
“Don’t try converting her to your fancy ways, Edgeworth. First the tea… next you’ll get her wearing those ruffly things!” "It’s a jabot, Wright. I do not know how many times I have told you…“
"Everyone else calls it a cravat.” "Everyone else is wrong.“ Trucy giggled, finding it highly amusing that her fathers would argue over such trivial matters.
Miles sighed, pouring tea into both his and Trucy’s cups.
"Perhaps you should try some on its own before deciding whether to add milk and sugar or not.” "Okay!“ Trucy nodded, carefully picking it up and sticking her pinky out over dramatically. "Look! Trucy is holding it just like Papa!” Phoenix stifled a laugh “I’ve gotta say, Truce, that’s scarily accurate. Just put some tissues down your neck and you have him down to a T!” Miles remained unimpressed “That is indeed the proper way to hold a teacup, Trucy.” “Yes, but, Trucy wonders why Papa sticks his pinky out like that?” “It is a sign of elegance and class and you wish to be a person who possesses those qualities, do you not?” “See, like I said, you’re trying to make her fancy like you!”
“I am doing no such thing, Wright.” “Are we gonna actually play a game or are we gonna listen to you talk about tea all night? I know, next you’ll be asking us to play chess instead.” “I would not object to that, however chess is not a three person game and I can see it boring Trucy to no end.”
Phoenix huffed, moving over to his husband and sitting beside him on the sofa.
“You know I love you, I knew what a pompous ass you were before I married you and that didn’t change my answer, did it?” “A pompous ass, really?” “Oh Edgey-poo, you don’t know the half of it.”
With a quick wink and a kiss planted on his forehead, Phoenix moved away before he truly felt the thorns to Edgeworth’s rose.
The thought makes Sherlock feel giddy and anxious and impatient and raw all at once, and he can’t stop smiling. He’s going to ask John to marry him. He’s going to ask John.
He needs a plan. The logistics are overwhelming; there are a dozen different details to account for and every single one of them creates a million exciting and beautiful and nerve-wracking combinations and possibilities.
Sherlock doesn’t know much about doing this. John does; he’s done this before. Planned this sort of thing. Sherlock tries not to think about that. He had heard most of John’s proposal, years ago, and it had been awkward and resigned and horrible and he had wanted to save John from it. He had thought he was, actually, by interrupting just at the pivotal moment, but John is nothing if not bullheaded.
God, Sherlock doesn’t want a repeat of that. Nothing like that. The exact opposite of that.
They should be at home, he thinks. Being together here has been the hallmark of everything good in Sherlock’s life, and he thinks in John’s, too, and they should be here. 221B is the foundation of the life they’ve built these last few months: their phoenix rising from the ashes of the past.
Sherlock stops pacing around the sitting room and looks over the flat, taking in the details and deducing a shared life in all of them, a casual chaos of this-goes-here and these-go-there that they both know and navigate easily.
He’s got an experiment spread out over the kitchen table, half a dozen petri dishes filled with gravel samples, and there’s a picture of Sherlock smiling like he’s just eaten a lemon cut from the newspaper taped to the back of the microscope. “So I can actually look at you when you’re talking to me,” John had teased, and Sherlock had been a grump about it but he hasn’t taken it down because it makes John smile over breakfast.
Behind him, the desk is cluttered with old newspapers and papers and receipts, and there’s a stack of books on the floor by the door which is almost half as tall as John now and still growing. On the bookshelf John’s collection of old British Medical Journals are mixed up with Sherlock’s copies of Biomaterial Science, and there is a jumper of hotly debated ownership with a stretched out neck tossed over the arm of the sofa.
In front of the fireplace, their two chairs are pushed closer together than normal; Sherlock had scooted his forward the other night so he could prop his feet up on John’s lap and sneak them under his blanket. John’s book sits on the side table, with a tissue being used for a bookmark shoved just a little under halfway through, along with a half a cup of old tea John had abandoned in pursuit of discovering just how sensitive Sherlock’s feet really were, and what exactly Sherlock could do with his impossibly long toes.
The skull on the mantel is wearing a Santa hat, and taped to the mirror above it are a handful of Christmas cards they’ve gotten in the post. John saves the ones that are addressed to both of them and hangs them up like a proud parent, like having John & Sherlock written inside them is something they have accomplished.
Sherlock wants to ask John to marry him in front of them. He wants these cards, with their John & Sherlocks and Sherlock & Johns, to stand witness along with the messes of their everyday lives when he asks John if he might commit to a lifetime of unambiguous ampersands.
He’ll stand right here and wait by the window for John to come over to him, maybe playing something on the violin. At night, it has to be at night–maybe Christmas eve, maybe Christmas night itself, with the room lit by just the lamp in the corner and a fire, hushed ambers and reds, and John brilliant in the gold light and a cardigan. Sherlock will play something soft and romantic, and eventually John will come over and trail fingertips along Sherlock’s waist in the way that means it’s unbearable to not to be touching anymore, and then Sherlock will take both of John’s hands in his, and kiss him as gently as Sherlock can possibly manage, and he won’t get down on one knee, no. They’re equals in this. He’ll have the ring out of the box already and tucked into a pocket, and he’ll just slide it into John’s hand, and he’ll say–
“Sherlock? You home?”
The flat jolts abruptly back into mid-morning sunlight. Sherlock clears his throat and tries not to blush furiously, the vision of proposing to John still lingering at the edges of his mind. In the kitchen, the real John tosses his keys onto the table and sets a couple of grocery bags down, then he looks around and spots Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and the grin that splits his face looks like it almost hurts it’s so big.
“You look cosy,” John says, curious and perhaps a bit suggestive, but Sherlock can hardly hear him over the noise of his heart beating so so fast from where it’s fluttering in his throat–John is here and flesh and blood and real and Sherlock is going to ask John to marry him, and suddenly the reality of it is hammering against his ribs and he can barely stop himself from blurting out the words right then.
John comes over and pecks his cheek, dipping one hand under his t-shirt and stroking at the delicate skin between Sherlock’s hip and ribs. “All right?” he asks when Sherlock doesn’t respond, just stands there staring at him like a fool as John’s grin starts to fade with concern, and then Sherlock comes back into himself.
“Yes, fine, I just–bit of an odd morning,” Sherlock says, and he gives a quick kiss to John’s mouth. John’s grin returns full force, and they trade one more kiss before John leaves off and goes to put the shop away, scolding Sherlock for the bowl of calf brains in the fridge because Sherlock didn’t put a proper lid on it, and Sherlock wants to smile and scream and laugh, because this is their life, this is their mess, this is the mish-mash sum of all their parts, and he’s going to ask John to marry him right in the middle of it.
He’s going to need a ring.
Day Four: Christmas Cards
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ON BEHALF OF QUEEN, COUNTRY…AND THE PERFECT POT OF TEA.
When Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama (Rue to her friends) is given an unexpected dirigible, she does what any sensible female would under similar circumstances – names it the Spotted Custard and floats to India in pursuit of the perfect cup of tea. But India has more than just tea on offer. Rue stumbles upon a plot involving local dissidents, a kidnapped brigadier’s wife, and some awfully familiar Scottish werewolves. Faced with a dire crisis and an embarrassing lack of bloomers, what else is a young lady of good breeding to do but turn metanatural and find out everyone’s secrets, even thousand-year-old fuzzy ones?
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Twelve works in the coffee shop Clara likes to go into every day, and she tries to figure out how to ask him out for a date.
Note: A lot longer than what I originally planned but I hope you still enjoy it. :)
“One large chai tea latte please,” Clara recited her order automatically before reaching into her bag for her wallet. She went through the same routine every morning; starting every brand new day with a nice cup of chai tea latte. Espresso Time was a café she frequented, it helped that it was only a few blocks down from the school. So she got the chance to grab a tea –or a coffee if she was desperate- before classes began for the day.
Recite her order, pay, receive her tea, thank the barista and walk to an empty seat to enjoy her tea and read over her lesson plans for the day.
Except it didn’t seem like the universe wanted her to keep to her normal, regular routine.