his height kind of predestines him to be the big spoon, which is fine, hester can’t put her cold feet on his back that way...... but he secretly likes to be the little spoon, because he is absolutely whipped and also it makes him feel safe
19. what are they like as a neighbor?
PETTY AS HELL and hyper-competitive. always makes snide remarks about exterior renovations or critiques their choice of lawn decor. once he fully embraces the Dad, his sole desire is to have the best lawn. 100% fuels cutthroat contests over who has the best lighting setup around the holidays. hester tries and fails to hold back the urge to bake apology cookies whenever there is another Incident
44. have they ever had any pregnancy scares?
not in the traditional sense. pregnancy scares are hester’s favorite prank to pull on pierce because he can’t really launch a full retaliation. in the process she also desensitizes him to it so that when she actually does get pregnant, he lives in denial until the first ultrasound and CRIES ON THE SPOT
50. what do they think is the meaning of life?
in addition to hettie’s toffee cheesecake: find some people to care for, and they’ll care for you. do your best, but try to be better. life is wild and weird and unpredictable, but it shouldn’t be taken seriously all the time!!
🎈 alexia/milo (milo's mom forces him to invite alexia to the hallowe'en party he's attending heh)
It was one of the hardest things she’s ever done - but if she was going to do this, she was going to do this right. Alexia Blair never left anything half-assed - even if it had something to do with Milo Butler.
As much as she hated it, she needed him just as much as he (or his mother) needed her. It was why she agreed to this party in the first place and why she reluctantly put on an orange wig and purple go-go boots to transform into the Daphne Blake to his Fred Jones. The epitome of a picture perfect couple - especially if photos were snapped that would eventually make their way onto social media (with, no doubt, the caption #goals and comments such as ‘ugh they are just too cute together!!!’).
“Do we have to dress up in a couple’s costume?” She had asked him when he showed up at her office the week before to show her the outfits. She'd scrunched her nose up and regretted it when she saw his pleased grin. “Wouldn’t being there together be bad enough?”
He had raised an eyebrow and gave her a look when he said, “It’s a Halloween party and I invited you so you wouldn’t feel left out.”
“Your mother forced you to invite me.”
“Same difference. She feels sorry for you.”
Not that Alexia minded parties - she only minded parties where she had to be with him. Yet, this was what the next decade of her life looked like, the ring on her finger reminded her. The thought makes her take another long swig from the drink in her hand.
“It’s not classy to get trashy, Daphne,” Milo saunters over to her, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
Alexia can see why the females at this party - and anywhere else he goes - giggle and bat their lashes at him. Even with the platinum blonde wig on his head, he’s attractive and his confidence radiates. She can see his freckles even more prominently and purses her lips - the most reaction of annoyance she dares to show in public. (Of course annoyance at him, but also at herself and her reaction.)
“Are you afraid I'll make you look bad?” She lifts her chin and raises her eyebrow.
He grins. “On the contrary - if you end up too drunk I'll look like a gentleman for carrying you out. Publicity might be bad for you but it'll ease with me.”
She rolls her eyes as he comes to stand beside her, leaning against the same counter behind them. “You wish. You forget it's my job to make products and people look good. These outfits, however, might be my downfall.”
Milo scoffs and plucks the drink out of her hand. “Speak for yourself. I am rocking this Fred look.” He says, taking a swig of the drink.
“Lucky me. I get to get married to a member of the Scooby gang.”
He looks over at her and grins. “Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”
Pierce closes the door quietly behind himself, only to slam back into it when he turns around. She leans in the doorway, moonbeams catching in her voluminous curls.
“Well-l-l-l, look what the cat dragged in–”“I had one beer. I’m hardly buzzed.”“But you are missing your tie.”
Sure enough, he is. His hand falls from his bare throat and, against his nonexistent better judgment, undoes a scandalous number of buttons. “You’re drunk,” he replies, voice as buttery as ever. He reckons he’s quite good at this Secret Dating thing. Not like there’s any real danger if Vienna were to find out – he can’t imagine her tinged with any sort of jealousy. Her worst affliction would be a brief but unpleasant bout of FOMO.
(At least, this is what he tells himself.)
“I had a… few flutes of champagne.” Vienna draws herself up so much she stands on her tip-toes, then tips her nose towards the ceiling to give off a particularly arrogant aura. “I’m hardly buzzed.”
Pierce merely blinks. “You’re missing a shoe.”
“You’re drunk.”
He doesn’t remember that much after that – honey, jasmine, skin, teeth, skin – and, with his lips tracing her hips, it finally dawns on him that he is an awful, terrible, downright atrocious liar. He also realizes that he won’t remember any of this. The last thing he registers is Vienna’s long fingers threading into his hair.
______
The blinding white sunlight blazes through the open window and lights a fire underneath Pierce’s eyelids. He rolls over reflexively – and onto the floor. Somehow, this isn’t any worse.
“One beer,” Vienna tuts, sipping a tall, refreshing glass of ice water. With cucumber. She’s wearing nothing but his shirt from last night, the same number of buttons fastened. Underneath the sheet wrapped around his lower half, he discovers he’s fully clothed, shoes and all – minus that shirt, of course.
Pierce squints at her and, when that immediately pinches every corner of his head, resigns to lying in repose. Perhaps all should come to light of day.
“Wine. A lot.”“Hmm.”“I’m sorry.”“For falling asleep between my legs?”
He had been turning a bit green, but now all pigment drains from his face. After a sufficient amount of time has passed, Vienna sets the glass down on the floor next to her husband only because he is too hungover to throw a fit over not using a coaster on a wood surface.
“I forgive you. On the condition that you drink more wine with me.”
All things considered, Benji is quite the considerate tiny human. There’s a lot of crying, of course, but it’s at semi-regular intervals, even during the night. He sleeps a lot, probably because he’s conserving strength to grow as tall as Dad (“that’s not how puberty works,” Hester’s voice echoes). Perhaps best of all, though, is how he’s able to stomach far more poetry than his mother, despite being only a few weeks old.
“You need to indoctrinate them when they’re young, Hettie,” he says when she stirs from her nap to find the two boys sprawled on the living room floor – rather, Pierce sprawled on the floor with Benji fast asleep on his chest.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Hester surreptitiously fumbling for her phone as she answers, cool as a cucumber, “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re very good at it.”
Eh, he’ll let her have this one. Pierce turns back to the book of poetry, carefully adjusting his glasses so as not to wake the slumbering Benji. He grins when Hettie swears upon realizing that she’s forgotten to turn off her ringer and the shutter sound practically echoes all throughout the house.
Having blown her cover, Hester slouches off into the kitchen before she can break S.N.O.O.P.’s second rule and die of shame. Pierce shifts on the floor and leans against the sofa so he can cradle Benji in the crook of his arm. After casting a quick glance at the doorway to make sure the wife hasn’t lingered, his lips softly brush his son’s forehead. While he’s perfectly fine annoying Hettie to death, he’ll be damned if he kills her with cuteness.
(Then again, it does get her quite flustered.)
Somehow, Benji’s still out like a tiny little light. It’s not like he’d really gain anything out of this poetry other than hearing Dad’s voice – which he gets enough of on the daily. He likes to hear himself talk. Regardless, Pierce sighs quietly and glances back at the book.
“Your Mum really likes this one, even though it’s quite long,” he whispers conspiratorially. Benji doesn’t seem to care. But then again, his opinion doesn’t really matter. He has no concept of object permanence.
“Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughsAbout the lilting house and happy as the grass was green…”
“I cook, you clean. Those are our chores.”“Yes, but there’s more cleaning than there’s cooking.”“Debatable.”“Not really.”
Hester folds her arms in front of her chest and pouts, though she realizes Pierce can’t see the utterly dejected look on her face after a few moments limp by. Her husband stands behind her, boxing her in against the counter. She has no choice but to wash the dishes by hand.
He’s quite the distraction, though. He has no business standing that close to her, his work shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled, glasses on. Maybe it’s a good thing she’s turned her back.
(It’s not.)
“What are you going to do when I’m away on a trip?” he asks, handing Hester his yellow rubber gloves that he has to know will be too big for her. She takes them anyway and shoves them on. They’re a little loose because his big stupid hands have stretched them out, but they’ll be fine.
“I dunno. Pay Desi?”“Hester.”“I’ll let him earn some of his dignity back from the Spanish Jar.”
Pierce already had a rebuttal lined up, but not for such a clever solution. Hettie knows this because all he can get out is a dissenting “mmm” before changing the subject: “Just wash the dishes.”
She smirks to herself, tosses her hair over one shoulder, and dutifully scrubs away at the first few dishes. But Pierce doesn’t move. Hettie can still feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull. When she sneaks a peek over her shoulder, though, it turns out her sixth sense isn’t as good as she previously thought – he’s not even looking at her! He’s watching the clock on the far wall as it ticks away the seconds. No doubt he’s timing her to see how she stacks up against his clearly superior dishwashing skillz.
Hettie turns back to the dishes for a moment and pretends to have a hard time scrubbing the gooey whipped cream residue from one of her mugs. This would normally bait Pierce into leaning closer and making some sly remark, but it only proves that he’s more engrossed in counting the seconds than his own wife. So rude. Perhaps he needs a reminder.
Without any prior warning, Hester whirls around and flings herself at her husband. In the precious little time he has to react, all he can do is stand on his tiptoes, which only guarantees the safety of anything above his neck. One arm wraps around his back while her free hand pushes his shirt collar away, allowing her to plant a long kiss on his collarbone.
After a moment’s hesitation, his arms wrap around Hester in turn and pull her into a warm embrace. The kiss only breaks when Pierce rolls back onto his heels again, staring down at her with the same stupidly smitten look he always has when he’s around her. He takes a step forward, pinning her against the counter, and Hettie holds her breath, and he leans close, very close…
Altschmerz (Cole + Eve)Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years.
Caitrin could have been asleep.
Lying, stomach down, on the marble tile, her reddish-blonde hair fanning her shoulders, cheek pressed to the floor. She could have been floating on a surface of water, her thin cotton nightgown rippling slightly in the breeze that stirred through the open bedroom window.
Except there was no steady rise and fall of her chest. Except there was no inhale, and no exhale.
The contents of the counter now littered the bathroom, hairbrush and bobby pins, toothbrushes and toothpastes, soap dish and soap, a broken perfume bottle spreading its cloying scent from a spilled puddle, a capsized pillbox, pills dotted like constellations around her unconscious body.
Their daughter was wailing in her room down the hall.
A tragic accident. Caitrin was so young. So sick.
He never mentioned her after that, unless the topic was forced. Pushed her from his mind. A girl he knew once, twenty something years ago, faded into half-clear and unwanted memories.
The shattered glass skimmed across the kitchen floor, reminding him of that night. The bathroom. Cat, limp and lifeless, her words parroting through his head, I would rather die than stay with you, spoken with such venom and such aversion that he nearly killed her himself.
(Though in a way, he supposed, maybe he had).
“Found someone else, is that it?” his own voice felt foreign, laced with contempt for the implications of his wild accusations. He knew it wasn’t true. He knew that despite his own duplicity, Eve remained faithful. It was a mystery to him why.
He knew what he deserved, and it wasn’t the unyielding, patient look she was armed with now. It wasn’t the tolerance she’s had so far – her attempts to understand what he couldn’t even explain – the mercy she’s treated him with. I’m not a good man, Evelyn – at least he never lied about that. That she was ever capable of forgiving him wound his guilt into self-disdain.
Light glittered off chips of ceramic plates – whatever was left on the table upended with one impetuous swipe, followed by a crash.
He was taking it well.
“Or is this your way of punishing me? With empty fucking threats?” he laughed, a cold laugh, no amusement, no levity. The last thing he expected was to hear the words from her lips, saying the same thing as Cat had, more or less. I think we should get a divorce. What was the difference, really? If he was a monster either way?
“Well you want to know what I think?” he moved towards the door, shoes crunching on broken glass, “I think that’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever bloody had,” in an effort to pinch the conversation off at its nerve, before it could grow another head, become something grotesque. Give her some time to change her mind. Give him some time to cool off. To think.
Morgan’s shrill cries drifted down the hallway, making Cole pause halfway to the door. He turned to glance at Eve over his shoulder, but her blonde curls hid her face – what was she thinking? What was she feeling?
His explosive anger burned through its wick, leaving him spent and empty. If she touched him, she would know, the hurt, the revulsion, but she was too far away.
I love you, he wanted to say, repeat, until it sunk in. No matter what I do, or what I say, that doesn’t change.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Out. Away. To let his anger breathe. To let the pressure in his chest expand. To rip something to shreds. To not take it out on her, like he so often did.
He knew how to be careful. When he came home, it would be with flowers in his hand, with soft, sad eyes and a voice like gravel, with as many ‘pleases’ and ‘I’m sorries’ as it took, as much obliging required to nudge her conviction. He would be contrite. He would earn his second.. third.. fourth chance.
Cole exhaled, suppressing the worry eating away at him. This wasn’t the end. This was different. He would be different. He would try. Like he said he’d try before.
This time …
( … Until the next time )
“For a smoke.”
Leaving her to Morgan’s bawling, to clean up the mess alone.
They’re sitting together on a bench in Regent’s Park, inconspicuous as can be, for a stakeout. Well, it’s more of an impromptu date than actual stakeout, but it’s really quite nice – and even a bit sunny. Pierce doesn’t look up from the S.N.O.O.P. notebook, he merely adjusts his glasses, holds out his hand, and gives a quiet “mmm” of affirmation. It’s probably a bag of snacks or a knife or something. You know, the usual.
Hester slips her hand into his.
He casts her a look out of the corner of his eye and notices that she’s doing the same, but more mockingly. PDA really isn’t his thing, but then again, it’s not like they’re shagging in plain sight on the pavement. Pierce gives her hand a squeeze.
“You think you’re so smooth, don’t you?”“I don’t think. I know.”
With that said, she boops his nose. He finds himself unable to fight the grin that spreads across his face.
“Ah, so you admit it, now.”“Admit what?”“You don’t think.”
Hettie tries to tear her hand away from him (presumably to punch him in the arm), but he pins it to the bench and leans close enough to her to see her beginning to melt. “Come on,” he says after a while, loosening his hold on her hand so he can draw small circles on her palm with his thumb, “just sit with me, love.”
After a long moment, she tucks her legs underneath herself, nestles her head on his shoulder, and does just that.
“Jerk.”
☁ being caught in the middle of a storm with them
“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella? Aren’t you Mr. Always Be Prepared?”“There’s no point in arguing about this, Hettie. Look at the rain coming down. It’s horizontal.”
Pierce and Hester sit in the backseat of the Mystery Machine, completely drenched head to toe, huddling together For The Warmth. Rain pounds the car unevenly – thanks to the wind blowing, it’s much louder on one side than the other. The car quivers every so often when the breeze really picks up. Pierce would be trembling along with it if he weren’t already locked in a perpetual state of shivers. Together, they watch the storm raging through London with a quiet sort of awe.
Sands snuggles herself closer to his chest; he wants to enjoy the feeling of her so close, but her hair is dripping cold water on his skin and onto his clothes that are having a hard enough time drying as it is. She notices that he’s cold when she’s about to steal a kiss and his teeth are, against his will, chattering.
“You know what we could do to warm up…”“Hettie, I’m barely ever indecent with you in our own home. What makes you think I’d ever want to be indecent in public?”
A look halfway between incredulity and utter dismay crosses Hester’s face. Pierce frowns in response.
“I’m not saying we can’t snog, you know. That’s not exactly illegal. As per the Sexual Offences Act of 2003–”“Know a lot about that, don’t you, Prude Porter?”“I did a story about it, alright? Anyhow. You’re the prude, prude.”
Hester laughs aloud at his plain awful comeback. Instead of calling him out on it, however, she simply smashes her lips against his. Pinned up against the passenger side door, Pierce tastes everything about her – the sundae they were splitting as the storm hit, blueberry banana pancakes from this morning, spearmint toothpaste – and, like always, he melts into her. He loses track of time, but it lasts for a long while until they pull apart, all heaving chests and pink faces.
“This wasn’t a very good plan.”“Why’s that? It was your idea…”“I know… but… I’m not getting any drier.”“SANDS!”
▤ falling asleep on them
Making a baby is hard work.
Making a baby and working in a professional kitchen is even harder work.
Making a baby, working in a professional kitchen, and having to deal with Pierce Porter upon coming home? Well, that’s probably a lost Herculean labor.
Fortunately for Hester, Pierce has enough basic human decency to take it easy on her when she staggers in through the door. She hasn’t even started showing yet, so he finds himself resenting the fact that some cluster of cells the size of the fingernail on his little finger has already caused such a marked change in his wife. Although they had both agreed that they wanted this, it’s technically Pierce’s fault that all this is happening, so it’s only right that he help alleviate the suffering.
He holds her hair back when she hugs the toilet every morning, pours her alternating glasses of water and ginger ale, massages her feet despite her protestations that they aren’t going to hurt until months from now, Porter, lets her hog all the covers at night with only mild complaining, and gives her access to his secret snack stash, piled high with HobNobs, Frazzles, and Jelly Babies, even though most everything ends up in the toilet. True love.
If there’s one thing he’s exceptionally good at, however, it’s being a pillow for whenever her fatigue overtakes her – which is more often than one would think. Right now, it’s in the middle of supper on the couch. Two plates of scrambled eggs for the both of them, courtesy of Pierce himself. She nearly faceplanted into her dinner a few minutes ago; luckily Pierce caught her and set her head in his lap.
“No, she’s fine, just a bit of a stomach bug, is all,” he says into the receiver, glancing down at Hester and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Stomach bug, indeed. One that makes her fall asleep in the middle of a phone call with her father, forcing her husband to finish the conversation. “Mmm. I’ll tell her, don’t worry, Mist– um, Eli.” Facepalm. He can hear a slight chuckle from the other end – or maybe Hettie is just faking being asleep, and she’s the one laughing at him. “It was good to hear from you, but– I’ve a lot of work to catch up– I know. Yes. Right. I’m sure she’ll Skype you soon, once she’s better. I’ll nag her, yeah. We’ll call if we need anything. You too… bye.”
End call. Pierce sets Hester’s phone down on the coffee table and closes his eyes in exasperation.
“Doesn’t your dad have any friends? Why does he call you all the time? We have our own lives!”
No response. Sometimes, he really prefers talking to Hester when she’s out like a light. Less argumentative. Pierce grins and continues to smooth out her hair, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest with great interest. He gently props her head up with a throw pillow, then lays a blanket on top of her.
“He still makes me nervous, you know. Do you feel the same way with Mum? I’d hope not. She’s very nice, I feel like you’d warmed up to her immediately. Ah. I suppose we ought to tell the parents about… us… soon–”“Porter. Shut up.”
Hester shoves the pillow onto the floor and scooches closer to her husband, languidly wrapping an arm around his waist while the other droops toward the floor. The way she’s positioned hardly looks comfortable, and Pierce opens his mouth to make note of it… and then he realizes that she’s nodded off again. There’s something else he wants to say – and should say, since she’s completely clocked out and therefore won’t remember it at all. It’s better if she doesn’t hear, actually.
“Cute.”
NADIA/ZUKI
❃ dancing with them
She wasn’t drunk until she stood up. Then she was very, very drunk. Probably the textbook definition of tipsy, actually. Nadia would take her Louboutins off if they weren’t Louboutins. Some things are worth breaking an ankle over.
But Zuki has asked her to dance. Or, to put it properly, he’s currently hauling her onto the dancefloor, navigating the vast ocean of sweating, squirming bodies like one of her father’s cutters off the coast of Santorini. She trails behind him, stumbling over her own feet more than anyone else’s shuffling ones, until they find a very small, very cramped spot front and center.
Nadia frowns down at him.
We couldn’t just stick to the edges?Never in a million years.
It’s not exactly his style. It’s not her style, either. She can complain and be as dramatic as she likes, but there is no denying that Nadia loves to be in the middle of everything. The bass thrums through her chest and rattles everything right down to her bones. With her heels and her big dark brown cloud of hair billowing around her head, she’s probably the tallest person in the crowd, towering higher and higher above the masses—
“NADIATHATISMYFOOT–”
Zuki tears his foot out from underneath hers and they both come toppling down. The crowd parts around them. Nadia is vaguely aware that she’s currently straddling him; it’s probably a good thing they’re in the middle of the dance floor right now, where the rest of their friends can’t see them.
“Voici les espace!”“Fuck youuuuuuuu.”
He tries to pull her in for a kiss, but all he can land is a sloppy one on her cheek before she pulls him up off the floor and back to the music.
29. One headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart
porter has to spend so much time dithering about important life things that life often just passes him by, and then he notices this and feels extra bad because he’s making hettie wait too. and hester tries her best to be understanding bc pierce does have some Issues and although she has the patience of a SAINT it is still very hard not to press him about things when he wants space ;_;
30. One headcanon about this OTP that mends it
for all his dithering, pierce only has to learn to hold a baby properly before his Dad Senses kick into overdrive and he ends up being unexpectedly amazing with kids. they’re both already the Mom and Dad Friends so it makes perfect sense that they would and will be excellent parents. even though they have no idea what they’re doing but it appears to be working and at least they are clueless together ♥︎♥︎♥︎
bonus garbage: pierce makes a point to kiss hester goodbye every day before leaving work. if he somehow manages to forget to kiss her, he has to drive to her restaurant, force his way into the kitchen and past her army of sous-chefs, and kiss her before actually getting to work (late). this uses up the fuel though so he tries his hardest to kiss her before they both leave home!! sometimes he forgets on purpose, especially if he didn’t like how one of the busboys was looking at hester the other day!!!! u wanna go m8 (ง •̀_•́)ง
SANDY
12. Who initiates kisses?
sara!!!!!!!!! she is so tiny she has to get a running start before she can kiss him. andy still feels ill when he stands around her. probably because he has war flashbacks to the day he met her and he fell down a flight of stairs at the castle lmao
CONNIE/MAJ
1. Who is the most affectionate?
connie, 100%. he is a literal golden retriever u can’t tell him NOT to be affectionate. also he’s like never affectionate with anyone since he is simultaneously a ball of blazing-hot rage 8 days a week so seeing that side of him is……… interesting. also maj never knows what to do with her hands and connie is totally that Fake Smooth kind of person to be like ‘can u hold something’ and then slips his hand into hers rip
