#atypical season 2

[editfandom]

Chrissy - Umma, 2022

[obsessingoverl]

Is Casey fruity???

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[lovedrruunk]

‘Don’t be the one to break my fall

In which Jinx shows up to your doorstep looking like shit… she’s had a long night.

*this was written wayy before season 2 and is supposed to take place after she got resurrected by Singed .·°՞(≧□≦)՞°·.

You shivered a little as your feet landed on the cold floor. Turning to look at your alarm clock you groaned in annoyance. ‘2:00 AM, seriously?…’

You had been sound asleep cuddled up with your pillows just a few seconds ago, but that was before you were woken up by the persistent knocking of your front door. You tried ignoring it the first time… and the second… and maybe the third, but to your despair whoever was at your door was clearly stubborn.

So now here you were, sighing as you dragged your feet across the floor of your small home, making your way towards the door.

Standing on your tip toes to look through the peephole, your brows furrowed as you saw a familiar shade of blue. Hurrying to unlock the door you couldn’t help but groan again wondering what trouble she’d gotten herself into this time. But even the little bit of anger you had felt vanished the second you laid eyes on her.

There outside your front door stood Jinx. It wasn’t atypical for her to drop by at odd hours of the day, looking rough and nagging you to patch her up and kiss all her wounds better, but this? This was different.

Scratches, bruises, dark veins, cuts that seemed to have magically healed overnight, and weirdest of all, her eyes were a bright violet.

She stood still with her arms wrapped around herself. Her braids being blown by the wind, eyes avoiding your gaze. You snapped out of it when you felt your body shiver from the cold.

“So are you gonna let me in or are you just gonna stand and stare?” She asked softly. “I’m freezing out here.”

She spoke with a happy tone, but you couldn’t shake off how defeated she sounded. How exhausted and drained she looked.

Stepping to the side allowing her in, your eyes still fixated on her as she walked past you to lazily flop down on your couch. Usually you'd scold her for it, knowing her tendency to leave cushions and sheets dirtier than she found them, but this time you figured the cushions were the last thing in need of your attention right now…

You watched her let out a shaky sigh, sinking into the couch. Making your way towards her, you sat down slowly not wanting to startle her. Her eyes were shut with her brows furrowed, looking deep in thought.

You sat there for what felt like hours until she broke the silence.

“Sorry… About the couch.”

“You’re all good. Don’t worry about it.” You said brushing her off.

It suddenly hit her that she had been apologizing to you more and more recently. Jinx, jinx, jinx, ever the disenchanting one. It’s not like she liked disappointing you, it just came easy with being who she was. Although she could never figure out why you stuck around, she was sure of one thing, that you deserved better than this.

You were better than this. Better than being her shoulder to cry on, the person she runs to, the one always patching her up, getting her back up on her feet, fixing her. But at the end of the day she was the most selfish person she knew. That’s why she always came back, why she was now dirtying your stupidly expensive couch, why she couldn’t just leave you alone.

You were a saint in her eyes, an angel sent from above specifically tasked with keeping her sane. Well that’s what she liked to think anyway, because deep down she knew the truth. That it wasn't fair to you. You weren’t the one meant to bear her burdens, and she was painfully aware of that every time she ended up at your doorstep. She was a mess of tangled thoughts and somehow you never turned her away.

That thought scared her more than she'd ever admit. She didn’t deserve someone like you. Someone steady and kind, someone who looked at her like she wasn’t broken beyond repair. And yet here she was again, barging into your home and tainting it with all her ‘brokenness’.

She glanced at you, her gaze softer than usual. “You know,” she murmured as her eyes flickered away, “one day you’re gonna get tired of this.”

“Tired of you? Impossible.” You said with a light chuckle hoping to lighten the mood, even if just a little bit.

Sadly it didn't seem to work. Instead, she looked back at you, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips in a slight pout. Her eyes studied yours, almost as if she was trying to read your mind. After what felt like forever she finally looked away. Letting out a disappointed sigh she turned her attention back to the black TV in front of her, sinking deeper into the couch.

“I let you stay because I want to. Not because I have to.” You said softly, deciding to break the silence once you realized she wasn’t going to respond. 

She let out a scoff before chuckling dryly. “You just don’t get it.” She swallowed as her smile disappeared, voice dropping even lower than before. “But it's okay. I don't expect you to.”

You frowned. You were really trying to understand, but she wasn’t making it easy. “Then explain it to me.”

She looked away, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her pants. “It’s not that simple. You’re… good. And me?” She let out a sigh. “I’m just…something else.”

She paused, as if debating how much to say, then looked back at you, her eyes dark and serious. “One day I’ll do something you can’t forgive. And it won’t just be a few bruises or blood on your couch.” She spoke slowly, looking at you cautiously as if she wasn’t allowed to.

The words felt cold. You tried to stay calm, but her tone was making your heart pound. You were beyond worried. Of course she just had to be cryptic when it mattered most. 

You wanted to ask her what the hell she was talking about, what had happened, and why she was suddenly so miserable, but you knew she wasn’t the type to give you details, let alone answer questions. In the end she’d only get defensive and push you away, so you resisted the urge to interrogate her, deciding to instead show her support. 

 “Whatever it is, I don’t mind.” You tried reassuring her, shaking your head in protest.

Her eyes softened for a second, but she quickly looked away again. “For now.” she said quietly. 

The last words hung in the air as the room got quiet again. She sat back lost in thought, and you could feel the walls going up again, shutting you out.

You swallowed down the worry gnawing at you and let out a small sigh, deciding that maybe words weren’t what she needed right now. Instead, you reached over and took her hand in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. Her eyes flickered down to your hand in surprise, and you felt her fingers tense up.

She looked up at you curiously, studying your face. She opened her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to say something self-deprecating, but then she just… stopped. Instead, she let out a long tired sigh as her fingers relaxed.

After a pause she suddenly turned her body towards yours, quickly leaning in to wrap her arms around your shoulders, hugging you tightly. Her head resting against the crook of your neck as her breathing slowed, and her shoulders loosened.

“You’re an idiot for sticking around.” she mumbled softly as she leaned her head in closer, but there was no bite to her words. In fact, you could almost hear a faint hint of relief.

You chuckled softly, your grip on her tightening. “I’m fine with that... Now let's get you cleaned up.”

. . .

HI :3333 this was rlly fast paced but its been in my drafts for awhile now so bleugh whatever VI FIC COMING SOON i gotta stop writing abt her ong i dont even like that girl

[thebrightsessions]

10 YEARS OF THE BRIGHT SESSIONS

The Bright Sessions first premiered in November 2015. To celebrate a decade since the show came out, we’ll be revisiting each season with livestream discussions and Q&As with members of the cast and crew. Specific dates are yet to be determined, but the rough schedule is as follows:

April - Season 1

May - Season 2

June - Season 3

July - Season 4

August - Season 5

September - Season 6

October - Season 7

Listen along to each season in your own time and join us for the livestreams. Each month there will also be a special surprise - new merch, blooper reels, and more! Subscribe now to Atypical’s YouTube channel!

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[psychicreadsgirl]

Pick A Coffee Reading: How will you meet your next S/O?

Pick the coffee that draws you most. Remember if you are drawn to 2, then you can feel free to look at both readings. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't behind. This is a general reading so not everything will apply to you!

#1

You will likely meet your next S/O at some event or party. You will probably be introduced by someone or know each other from a mutual friend. You will likely meet in a more crowded/public area, so unlikely somewhere that's at home or familiar to you. This will feel more like an unexpected event as you probably had no plans to meet someone new that day.

#2

You will probably meet on a colder day, perhaps not the winter but perhaps on a day that's oddly cold for the season. It could be windy as well, but it's definitely not the typical day for that month/season. The weather could also be rather bad like rainy or storm or thunder or tornado or hurricane. It's probably not the most ideal setting/time for the meeting.

You'll likely look not your best on that day. Perhaps you also had a bad day too. This will likely be one of those random encounters, possibly at a school event/field trip/work related event like a conference. It could also be like even at a grocery store/convenience store where you're just running errands. It seems to be a "typical" day but then the meeting is rather atypical.

It's possible that after the meeting you won't even get connected to them properly until later on. You might even forget about this meeting and think they are annoying. It seems like this meeting's first impression is not so good.

#3

You will likely meet virtually/online. You will probably get connected through some interest or some activity online like they DM you on IG or you DM them on Twitter or something. You're also likely to befriend each other due to some common interest/goal like you might be wanting to study English or some other language so you become pen pals with them. You might be gaming and meet a fellow gamer friend who later becomes your S/O. You could also be introduced from a mutual online friend.

It's more likely that you will be friends with them first. The romance may also be slow burn, so even if you were to meet them online at first you might not even feel attracted to them at first. However after being friends for a while, you'll realize that they would be a good s/o.

#4

You're likely to meet them while travelling abroad or going out somewhere in the city. You're likely to meet them while having fun abroad so it could be a club or maybe a restaurant or a mall even. You could even meet them at a hotel/hostel/cruise. It seems like you're on some adventure when you meet them.

This may feel like a whirlwind romance as you feel instantly drawn to them. They may even show you around their hometown or place or they could be travelling abroad too so you guys explore the area together.

This romance could perhaps end as quickly as it starts though. However, for some it may even lead to marriage and your love story would be quite interesting to others. You might even start an IG/Youtube or something that features your romance abroad.

#5

You're likely to meet them at some place you often frequent. It could be a library where you often study or some coffee shop you often go to. The setting will be rather familiar to you.

The meeting could be either from an older person introducing you to them or from some mutual colleague/friend. It might even be like a blind date set up by your friends/family/parents. There seems to be some sort of "forced" situation here, and you likely already know you'd be meeting someone that day. There's some reluctance on your part to go this meeting and you will be pushed to go. You might even already have heard stories about this person and already made judgments about them before meeting them in person. It's sort of a situation where you already know the person's name but you don't know them personally.

This meeting will feel rather awkward at first. You will also probably be with someone else during this meeting so like a friend/family member will be there. It doesn't seem like a one-on-one meeting. It's unlikely that sparks will fly during this first meeting but I would say to give this person a chance and don't disregard them completely. While for some it is possible that this may not even turn into romance in the end, this person will be very beneficial to you somehow like could help you open doors for careers/give you a lot of advice/help you in some way/be very close to you.

#6

You will likely meet them while you are attending a concert, theatre, movie, ballet, etc - some sort of arts-related event. You might also have a bad impression of them when you first meet like they cut in front of you or they talk really loudly during the performance or block your view. You're likely going to either be by yourself at this attendance or with a group of friends. If you're with a group of friends then you're likely to join their group of friends. If you're by yourself, you could confront them or someone in their group somehow. They, on the other hand, will likely attend this event with a group of friends.

It's even possible that you will have attended the same event but don't realize until much later.

You're unlikely to keep contact with them after this attendance or even realize they existed then, but then you will somehow bump into them later. It could be like days later, months later, or even a year to a couple of years later. Somehow they will be in your life later like they could become a new employee at the firm you work in or a new student at your school or your new boss or somehow work at a place you often frequent.

[werezmastarbucks]

dating filip telford headcanons

● drives you everywhere, because

● "you don't need to do it, that's why you got me. let me help"

● calls you darling, bonnie, and mo chridhe in private, as he holds this particular term too intimate and affectionate. Generally he prefers a shorter form of your name

● after some time you find with surprise that he can recite Irish poetry and likes doing that. The softer side of Chibs is generally not demonstrated in the club, and you discover it to be even softer than you would imagine

● so loyal

● likes to grumble. He grumbles so much, like an old man

● adheres to more or less traditional role in relationship, considering himself the protector, the earner, and the boss

● but Chibs is insightful and intelligent; he respects you the way that shows he sees you as a human first. You quickly relax and rely on him and spare yourself of the need to be constantly strong and decisive. There's no danger of being belittled, commanded around or neglected with Chibs

● he never leaves his roots behind, and is a big difference to the Americans around him. You experience his Scottish philosophy and hear the special expressions all the time

● boomer humor. 'Scottish people are temperamental: 50% temper, and 50% mental 🤪'

● will break someone's face at your whim without even thinking. Will deal with consequences later. It's atypical of him as he's more of a mediator, so you try not to exploit him

● likes to praise you verbally, he is very generous at that

● in turn, Chibs doesn't expect any compliments and just accepts love quietly and with hidden gratitude. It's important to him to maintain the stone facade because he believes it to be safer for both of you. But you suspect it's just a deeper lying desire to stay unknown.

● because Chibs manages to live like he didn't have all these very heavy past experiences, but they lurk into the present nevertheless

● needless to say, the one thing he will never forgive is betrayal. And he would never betray, either. His loyalty to the club and to you sometimes even gets in the way

● he always means to kiss you quickly, but the kiss always grows into full French

● forehead kisses

● when Chibs feels dangerous, he only opens his eyes half-way, and you strangely feel the safest

● there's a stark and attractive contrast between his two personalities: the soft old man, and the merciless IRA enforcer

● when he's in his killing mode, he starts looking younger

● listening to music when he drives you in the car

● he can drive you in circles if you really want to just ride the city and listen to music

● at least once, before you started dating, he said to you 'I'm too old/bad/stupid/rough for you'

● Chibs is good at dancing and hides it better than his softest features

● likes discussing 'the boys' with you

● with him, you have an insight unique and very universal at the same time, that a person like Chibs really only needs just love, and nothing else

● likes your legs

● sex is rough more often than not

● won't let the guys call you his old lady, if you don't like this term

● he has this gallant trick where he kisses your hand in a knightly fashion

● he doesn't see himself as pretty and acts accordingly. He says, Scottish people aren't pretty, it's an unnecessary distraction for us

● relationship with him starts at 1. sex, 2. dates, not the other way around. He's not really good at courting someone from the get go, but he is a good boyfriend

● bringing food and flowers without you having to ask

● a lot of things he does are very mature, for example, sitting out the tantrums and arguments, he just allows you to express it all and then continues his day. Chibs doesn't like talking about his feelings too much, preferring to express them through actions. It takes time to get used to. He's not the type to engage in the 'which season do you think I am' type of convos.

● ready to take a bullet for you, no questions asked

● he is generally guarded and respectful with women and impresses all your friends with his seeming indifference

● Chibs' most attractive feature is how unbothered and uninterested he is. But once you have him, he's glued to you for life

● not needy, will be able to go on without even a hug for a long time if he feels you don't want it

● generally Chibs is irritatingly mature and independent, and he teaches you maturity, too

● that's where the real commitment and love are

● zero bullshit guy; he's finely tuned, has high emotional intelligence and doesn't try to seem what he's not

● he openly admits that you can manipulate him and he will obey, because all he has is you, and he enjoys every moment of it. But when it becomes toxic, he draws a very certain limit

● will fight for this relationship but won't humiliate himself

● he's a Scorpio: mysterious, emotional, secretive and complicated.

● sorry the list is big. Like Chibs' dick

[mademoiselle-red]

Somehow, Vein and Xia Fei still feel less “real” to me compared to the cast of Season 2, and I have some theories as to why.

The primary reason for this is that their stories are being saved for Season 3, so we didn’t get any in the Yingdu Chapter. In Link Click, characters transform from visual snapshots to real people over the course of their episodic stories in season 1 and in the intertwined stories of broken families in season 2 (Qian Jin, Li Twins, Liu Min & Liu Xiao, and Officer Chen). The new characters we meet in season 1 and 2 are compelling because they come with very human stories that are grounded in the social dynamics of modern day China. In contrast, the Yingdu Chapter is supposed to be a “fanwai 番外 (side story / spin-off) prequel” and I think the foreign setting is supposed to be more of an exotic place of adventures and dangers that are out of CXS and LG’s world than a more grounded social place.

Another reason Xia Fei and Vein feel less real to me is their highly stylized aesthetics and lifestyles. For example, Vivian from Yingdu Ep1 and Xia Fei are both “pretty faces for rent” working for mob bosses. Both of them are in fact really poor, exploited, and bullied at work. But the depiction of Vivian’s story feels like a true crime drama while the depiction of Xia Fei’s life feels like an idol drama. Vivian’s relationship with her mob boss feels grounded in reality while Xia Fei’s relationship with his mob boss is very atypical and has not yet been explained.

Vein also feels less real than Qian Jin, his closest counterpart in this series so far. Qian Jin is an ex-cop turned shady corporate lawyer who is also the head of a small criminal mob on the side. He commands the Li Twins and a bunch of henchmen who murder people on his and his clients’ behalf. Vein is a mob boss who owns a few other businesses, like Xia Fei’s modeling agency, on the side. We see how Qian Jin manages his henchmen, how his criminal activity leads to financial gain, and how his very realistic career path led him to his position now. Meanwhile, what are Vein’s qualifications for heading up the biggest mob in Chinatown? How does he actually make money? Again, Qian Jin feels like the kind of criminal you’d read about in the papers and Vein feels like one out of an idol drama.

Additionally, Xia Fei and Vein have an aura of glam around their character designs that Vivian and Qian Jin don’t have. And strangely enough, Xia Fei, who only has highlights in his hair and wears normal clothes, technically has a more realistic design than Li Tianchen with his pink hair + colorful outfit and Liu Xiao with his purple hair + goth outfit. But Xia Fei still feels less “real” to me whenever he comes on screen. So I can’t really pinpoint precisely what is it about Vein and Xia Fei’s aesthetics, animation, or character design that makes them feel less real to me.

[absolutebl]

Could you recommend me 1-2 good "standard" bl from each of the main bl producing countries (China, Japan, Taiwan, Thailand and South Korea)? I'm interested in the differences in tropes and execution between bl from different countries, especially Taiwan and Thailand. I'm looking for bl that's highly rated because it's well-executed but doesn't stray from the expected formula for its region.

Great BLs that ALSO rep for their country's style

I really took the "represent" part seriously. Here are my (end of 2024) quick pulls, explanations etc in the linked posts at the bottom.

Japan

Seven Days (or I Cannot Reach You)

Old Fashion Cupcake

For the darker stuff: Tokyo in April is

Korea

Semantic Error

To My Star

For their new style of darker stuff: The 8th Sense or Love for Love's Sake

Thailand

These were absolutely the hardest to pick, so I couldn't stick to 2. There's just so much Thai BL.

My School President - best high school rep (heritage = Love of Siam, Love Sick, the true Thai BL beginnings)

Bad Buddy - best uni BL rep (heritage = 2gether, SOTUS, the beginning of Thai BL global dominance) alternative = Oxygen which is possibly the most classic Thai uni BL we have ever gotten (but Bad Buddy is better acted)

We Are - best GMMTV ensemble piece, heritage is actually also Love Sick, but in 2024 everyone is gay.

Lovely Writer - best meta

My Ride - best pulp

The Sign - best wild what-the-actual-fuck? ride (KinnPorshe also an option)

For an example of the few times Thailand got elevated: I Feel You Linger in the Air or A Tale of Thousand Stars. But these are atypical, we only get a few of them a year from Thailand.

Taiwan

These were the easiest to pick.

We Best Love

Be Loved In House: I Do

But actually: History 4: Make Our Day's Count will tell you everything you ever needed to know about Taiwanese BL in one mess of a show. It's just... not that great.

China

Addicted

Word of Honor

The Philippines

Gameboys

My Day

Vietnam

Mr Cinderella

My Lascivious Boss

But by most standards neither of these are actually very good.

Here's a 2022 post where I talk about the differences between country's styles and approaches.

If you want representative samples from a historical perspective than I do that here:

In that post, you'll need to decide what kind of representation you want to consume though, because some are very old, and others newer, since this is set up to learn about the evolution of the genre.

I also wrote a whole series on the history of the genre along with my top 10 picks at the time (2022). It's old now but still holds up for what you want. I would say pick any two from the top ten of each list, but please understand my personal taste leans toward the lighter fluffier fare. (Which means my top ten from places like Japan is very skewed. Also several countries have added new top 10, for me personally, in 2023 & 2024).

Here's a fun one on the tropes people love in the different countries

And a personal favorite, very silly and not helpful at all.

(source)

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to France to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did I—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the occasional car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[noahsresources]

SLEEP-RELATED HEADCANONS !

1.what size bed does your muse typically prefer to sleep on? (ex. twin, full, queen, etc) 2. does your muse find it easier to sleep in a warmer room or a cooler room? 3. is your muse typical about where they sleep or can they fall asleep just about anywhere? 4. what position does your muse usually sleep in? 5. does your muse tend to prefer firmer mattresses or plushier ones? 6. does your muse snore? do they sleep talk or make any other sounds in their sleep? 7. is your muse a still or active sleeper? do they move around a lot in their sleep? 8. does your muse typically prefer sleeping by themselves or do they prefer the comfort of having another person in the room with them? 9. does your muse like sharing a bed, or do they prefer to have their own space? 10. how many pillows does your muse sleep with? are they comfortable with just one or do they like to be cozy? 11. what type of blanket does your muse prefer (standard blanket, quilt, comforter, weighted blanket, etc)? 12. how long does it typically take for your muse to fall asleep? 13. how often does your muse dream? are they mostly pleasant or is their sleep more likely to be filled with nightmares? 14. does your muse take any sleeping aids (ex. pills, melatonin supplements, etc)? 15. how many hours of sleep does your muse typically get? 16. does your muse wake up in the middle of the night often or can they sleep through the night? 17. does your muse like to take naps during the day? how often and for how long? 18. does your muse have insomnia? have they ever experienced insomnia? to what degree of severity? 19. has your muse ever been diagnosed with any sleep disorders? 20. does your muse have any pre-bedtime rituals or routines (like facial care, meditation, shower, medications, etc)? do they have any pre-bedtime activities like reading, playing video games, going on their phone, etc? 21. does your muse wear a sleep mask? 22. is your muse sensitive to light while they sleep, or do they not mind it? 23. does your muse prefer to sleep in complete silence or hear some kind of background noise? 24. does your muse listen to music while falling asleep? 25. are their any conditions in where your muse absolutely cannot fall asleep (ex. bug in the room, temperature, smell, etc)? 26. does your muse have any odd or atypical sleeping habits? 27. what does your muse typically like to wear to bed? does it depend on the season/weather outside? 28. does your muse tend to wake up with bedhead? 29. does your muse have any routines they follow when they wake up (like makeup, facial care, stretching, shower, medications, etc)? do they have any activities they like to do immediately after waking up? 30. how long does it typically take your muse to wake up in the morning? can they make it by without coffee or do they need caffeine? 31. does your muse wake up hungry or do they need some time to feel hungry? 32. what is your muse's mood like when they wake up? are they grumpy, cheerful, confused, etc? 33. when sharing a bed with someone else, is your muse a cuddler? 34. has your muse ever cried themselves to sleep? 35. where was the weirdest place your muse has fallen asleep? 36. has your muse ever fallen asleep or been extremely tired in a situation where it isn't safe to be (ex. while driving)?

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

If you needed any more reasons to mask... I can confirm that RSV is no walk in the park.

by Katherine Kahn

In the years before the introduction of respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) vaccines, the virus was linked with substantial hospitalizations, intensive care unit (ICU) admissions, and in-hospital deaths among adults, according to a cross-sectional analysis of CDC data.

Adjusted analysis showed estimated RSV-associated hospitalization rates ranging from 48.9 per 100,000 adults during the 2016-2017 respiratory season to 76.2 per 100,000 in 2017-2018, reported researchers led by Fiona Havers, MD, MHS, of CDC's National Center for Immunizations and Respiratory Diseases in Atlanta.

Estimated hospitalization rates were highest among adults ages 75 and older, ranging from 244.7 per 100,000 in 2022-2023 to 411.4 per 100,000 in 2017-2018, findings in JAMA Network Openopens in a new tab or window indicated.

In addition, annual estimates of RSV-associated ICU admissions ranged from 24,400 to 34,900 for the 2016-2017 and 2017-2018 seasons, respectively, while estimated annual in-hospital deaths ranged from 4,680 in 2018-2019 to 8,620 in 2017-2018.

"These findings validated RSV as a substantial contributor to respiratory illness and hospitalization among adults, especially older adults," Havers and colleagues wrote, noting that up to 136,000 estimated annual hospitalizations occurred among those 65 years or older.

Researchers used data from the CDC's RSV Hospitalization Surveillance Network (RSV-NET)opens in a new tab or window to arrive at their estimates. From the database, they identified a total of 16,575 laboratory-confirmed RSV-associated hospitalizations from the 2016-2017 to the 2022-2023 respiratory virus seasons. To estimate RSV burden, Havers and colleagues used adjustment multipliers to correct for the relatively low proportion of adults who were actually tested for RSV while hospitalized, as well as test sensitivity.

Of note, RSV severity "appeared to be comparable to or possibly more than the severity of influenza and SARS-CoV-2" in hospitalized adults. In the study, about 19% of adults hospitalized with RSV required ICU care and 4.3% died in the hospital. In comparison, CDC data from the 2021-2022 season found that 15.5% of hospitalized adults with COVID-19 required ICU admission and 4.6% died, and 13.3% of patients hospitalized for the flu were admitted to the ICU and 4.6% died, they explained.

Also, estimates of RSV-associated hospitalizations in older adults were comparable to the burden of influenza-associated hospitalizations during milder influenza seasons.

Hospital deaths associated with RSV were highest among those ages 75 or older, at 5.8%. From the 2016-2017 respiratory season through the 2022-2023 seasons, adults 75 and older accounted for 45.6% of the hospitalizations, 38.6% of the ICU admissions, and 58.7% of the in-hospital deaths associated with RSV.

Deaths due to RSV were probably underestimated because the analysis did not include deaths after hospital discharge, Havers and colleagues noted.

The first-ever RSV vaccineopens in a new tab or window (Arexvy) received FDA approval in May 2023, followed by approval of a second vaccineopens in a new tab or window (Abrysvo) in June 2023. An mRNA RSV vaccineopens in a new tab or window (mResvia) was approved earlier this year as well. CDC recommendationsopens in a new tab or window now say that all adults ages 75 and older should receive a single dose of an RSV vaccine, as should those ages 60 to 74 years who are at increased risk of severe RSV disease.

"Given the large numbers of potentially vaccine-preventable hospitalizations and deaths associated with RSV, increasing vaccine coverage among adults at highest risk could reduce associated hospitalizations and severe clinical outcomes," the authors wrote.

Atypical patterns of RSV circulation occurred during the COVID pandemic. Lower hospitalization rates were observed during 2020-2021 and 2021-2022, whereas increased circulation and an earlier peak occurred during 2022-2023.

On average, only 43.5% of the hospitalized adults with acute respiratory illness whose data was included in the RSV-NET catchment were tested for RSV. During 2016-2017, RSV testing was performed in 30.4% of adults ages 18-49 years with acute respiratory illness, 33.1% in those ages 50-64 years, 31.5% for those ages 65-74 years, and just 27.7% of those ages 75 and older. During the 2022-2023 season, these proportions increased to 56.1%, 61.2%, and 61.6% for those age groups, respectively.

Clinicians frequently don't test for RSV in hospitalized adults with respiratory illness because of limited awareness of RSV as an important pathogen and because results do not generally change disease management, the study authors noted. Importantly, standard tests for RSV are now recognized to have lower sensitivity than previously thought.

The analysis had several limitations, including that RSV-NET data may not be generalizable to the entire country. Also, assumptions used in the adjustment analysis may have overestimated or underestimated the burden of RSV disease.

Study link: jamanetwork.com/journals/jamanetworkopen/fullarticle/2826104

[steddieunderdogfics]

It's an incomplete series that hasn't posted in a long time, but Improvised Restraint by StrivingArtist is inspired by The World Won’t End if We Rest by NotEvenCloseToStraight Both of them are about Steve not doing so great post Vecna, and Eddie helping him by domming him into calming down. two totally different approaches though.

Improvised (Restraint) by StrivingArtist

Rating: M

17,997 words, 5/5 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Eddie Munson Lives, Post-Vecna (Stranger Things), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hyperarousal - PTSD, BDSM as therapy, Bad BDSM Etiquette, No good options, Dom Eddie Munson, very horny, almost no sex, Angst, Trauma, Steve and Eddie are not friends, Realistic depictions of mental health, Realistic depictions of BDSM by novices, Unreliable Narrator, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, atypical self harm, not-quite-dub-con

Summary:

Eddie was always good at watching. The kids loved Harrington for having their backs, for always answering if they called, for driving them around, and for making sure all of them were safe. Eddie heard enough whispers between them to know that it didn’t matter when they woke up from a nightmare, Harrington always answered within a few seconds. They loved Steve Harrington, and they’d seen some shit, but they were still just kids. Whatever the fuck was up with Harrington, it was starting to fuck with the kids, and that wasn’t okay. After that night, Eddie was watching on purpose.

The World Won’t End if We Rest by  NotEvenCloseToStraight

@not-close-to-straight

Rating: M

123,161 words, 14/14 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: steddie, Post-Stranger Things 4 Vol. 2, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Lives, Light Dom/sub, Soft!Dom Eddie Munson, Submissive Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic attacks and nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Subspace, The Party Friendship (Stranger Things), Protective Eddie Munson, Shared Trauma, Healing, Mild Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, The Upside Down, Vecna's Curse (Stranger Things), Love Confessions

Summary:

Post Season 4, Volume 2: The world hasn't ended yet. Life isn't normal but it's not quite terrible either and everyone is just sort of... waiting. Steve obsessively patrols the edges of Hawkins always wary for Vecna's return, always looking for monsters, always letting his path circle round the tiny trailer in the woods where Eddie Munson is alive and hiding, never daring to let himself stop and linger. Eddie wants wants wants Steve to stop and linger, wants to bring Steve in and bring Steve *down* and show Steve just how gentle Eddie would treat if if only Steve would settle and submit a tiny bit. In the tentative, tense days after the world doesn't quite end but before life is normal again, Steve learns what it means to be taken care of and Eddie learns what it means to be *needed*. But when the Upside Down surges again, nightmares and shadows and terror, is the fragile peace they've found together enough to keep them safe?

Thanks for the recs!

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Thanks for the rec!

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks!

[quibbs126]

So I don’t really know why I made this, but I did. I think I was just thinking about doing practice sketches of random characters, and g1 Megatron just so happened to be who I choose. Not sure why

Also featuring the Procreate pencil for lining and shading, for no real reason, I just felt like experimenting with it. It was fun, even if I admit the shading’s a bit strange and inconsistent (smudged in some places, not in others)

I think he looks better than my previous attempt, even though I know his colors might be too saturated as is? But you know, whatever

Not sure if I have much else to say, other than maybe rambling about g1 Megatron

So g1 Megs, am I right? He’s fun, he’s weird, he’s surprisingly competent at building stuff, he’s usually the one making the Decepticon devices

I actually meant to say in another post but my brain keeps thinking about the scene in Five Faces of Darkness that shows us Megatron was seemingly built by the Constructicons, which funnily enough isn’t a thing they tend to do, they aren’t usually the ones making new Decepticons. Also there’s the inconsistency of the lore, but to be honest the Decepticon backstory in this episode felt inconsistent with what we saw in Season 2 anyways, so oh well. The point I wanted to bring up is that it gives me this idea of Megatron having been raised by the Constructicons or something, which you could maybe retroactively use as another explanation as to why he wanted them for the Decepticons, but it also could be tied into Megatron’s engineering prowess. They seem more architecture focused and him more machine focused, but I think both are capable of the other and it weirdly fits. I kind of need to see this idea explored more

Also, his bucket head is a complete lie once you see the toy and I need a design to actually acknowledge that his weird brow thing is actually supposed to be the front of his helmet and it is not a weird eyebrow thing. Acknowledge it at least, I don’t want it as just his eyebrows, make it a battle mask or something

Another thing related to g1 Megs, I watched a video about him in g1 and it pointed out that Frank Welker chose an atypical voice for the main villain, with him sounding very old and aged, and this is also something other characters mention in the show, that he’s generally old (though then there’s the Constructicons but whatever, Season 3 retcon). But also then they talked about how when Frank Welker comes back as Galvatron, he has a much younger sounding voice, and while it might just be the purple, he looks a bit younger too? Which is strange to me, because he is Megatron, just reformatted into Galvatron. What caused him to become younger? I know his personality changed too, but that can probably be attributed to his year long soak in plasma, I think that was the intention. There’s not much explanation for this, I think because it’s not addressed in the show, it’s just a design detail (but I don’t know for sure since I haven’t finished Season 3)

And there also is the question of Megatron when it comes to Galvatron. Because he feels like a completely different character, even though they’re supposed to be the same person. Is Galvatron an entirely different personality, and the original Megatron is still in there somewhere? I doubt this show ever goes into it, but I’d like other shows to acknowledge the Megatron/Galvatron situation. I think in other series they either make Galvatron entirely Megatron, just with a new name, or they’re separate characters in IDW, but I don’t think I like that. I want them to be intrinsically the same person, or similar-ish, like Galvatron was originally a clone of Megatron so they can both be here, but different in personality so that there’s this contrast between the two of them and who they are in relation to one another. Does that make sense? I’m not sure it does, but I want an in-between because I think it’d be interesting to explore. Maybe another version could be that Megatron and Galvatron are two personalities inhabiting the same body, possibly Galvatron forming after a certain story event, and the two fighting for control

And I can’t really think of much else to say on g1 Megatron, at least that I haven’t said already somewhere else. He’s fun, and probably has more things you can explore with him from here than what usually is. If that also makes sense

Oh yeah and I drew a thing. Forgot about that, I kind of ended up using it as a reason to ramble about him in this show. But I mean, attaching an art piece usually seems to get more people to see my stuff, and I didn’t ramble on the sketching for too long, so maybe this means more people see my thoughts on him? I don’t know

[bekaterrier]

Happy Audio Drama Sunday! This one's a bit of a long one, as I listened to whole seasons of a few different shows. Blame my new commute time!

@victoriocity S1-3 Re-listen: After my Wooden Overcoats re-listen the other week, I was craving more silly British audio drama and also more Tom Crowley. Victoriocity satisfies both those criteria so well. The pacing, the world building, the humour, the acting, the sound design...all absolutely fantastic. Time for me to continue my time in Even Greater London by re-listening to their audiobook High Vaultage.⚡

@thefringespod S2: I had so many feelings this season! First, surprise Alasdair Stuart playing Alasdair! Which is funny because everytime I heard the name Alasdair in S1 I thought of Mr. Stuart. Tampering with heartlines?! I'm not surprised Marigold is upset! I was very curious about Whim's background, and was glad to finally hear about their life and how they ended up on the Fringes. Whim rewinding the recording multiple times to hear Sil say, "Whim is very dear to me," just about broke my heart open! Minerva has wreaked so much havock! I'm very curious to hear how they're going to deal with her in S3. 🎻

@hauntnowpod S2: I understand Parker's concern, but a few weeks isn't enough to recover from that kind of trauma! The apartment being obsessed with terrible cooking shows had me giggling so much throughout the whole season! I was immediately invested in them though, not gonna lie. Turning Mary's narration into a running joke is hilarious. The verbalisation of emojis in the ghost hunters' chat was great. Why so many new ghosts? "The humans don't really know it yet, but there's a massive pandemic going on." Ohhhhhhhhhhh :((( Aaron and Henry are so sweet! Surprise Hughes and Mincks!! "But she did find the strength to forgive, the tenacity to imagine a different future, and the generosity to teach it to someone else." That is really lovely, and going to stick with me. I am ready to dive into S3! 👻

@monkeymanproductions' MTO Phases Story 2 - Cas and Pol: Time to see what our goodest girls are up to on the moon! Through them, we got to hear a bit more about what everyone else has been up to too. Cass's narration continues to be fantastic, especially when he does all the different character voices! He's really making those characters come to life again. 🌘

@hinaypod Chapter 50 - Pagpapasiya (Decision): It feels like forever since we had the whole gang back together in one episode! I was very excited to hear how everyone reacted to the new developments, and I was not disappointed. [Redacted] Donner name reveal (?!!), Murphy and Laura going straight for the hot goss, Ashvin being doubtful of the Benefactor's motives (I'm right there with you pal)...it felt a bit like coming home. ✨

Greenhouse: A one-season completed show by Atypical Artists and it was adorable. I love an epistolary love story. You slowly learn about the characters, their qualities and their flaws, as they learn about each other. It's also a wonderful way to do worldbuilding. Their literary and movie/tv show discussions were great. And the Tamora Pierce mention? It's like this show was made for me. 💐

@forgedbondspod Chapter 8: All of these conversations were very sweet. I forgot Leon Egan (of Tell No Tales) had been cast in this, so it was a fun surprise to hear them as Appollo. I need me some more Dite and Phae time though! 💍

[silvermeww]

for your Kalosian Woods AU, I have two questions! (1) what’s the direction you’re gonna take Amourshipping/Ash and Serena’s dynamic in? Their friendship along with the romantic subtext felt like it had a lot of potential in XYZ-proper but never really got utilized. And (2) how’re you gonna tackle Showcases? I’ve been meaning to work on a Showcase restructure but I’d love to hear your ideas :D

Hey there!!!!! For the first question, I 100% acknowledge the force of Serena’s crush on Ash in the XY series— even if I did tweak it so that she would fall after meeting him for the first time, watching him train for the Gym and having seen him fall off Prism Tower inspiring her to see him through tinted lens (and how it evolved from the admiration she had for him when they were kids so long ago). While XY anime itself had the weird notion of making everyone down for Ash (a terrifying scene after coming out of the professional haters of BW and literally every series before it) (ngl though I am a believer of the polycule + Bonnie idea lol, it exists in my heart), I can’t deny that side of Amourshipping even if I’m not a shipper myself or even much of a good writer for romantic relationships imo. In my AU I want to show how that love for him grows and eddies throughout the series: from their first meeting to taking up her own dream of showcases to seeing Ash lose himself in his endless hunt for strength— how she puts him on a pedestal because he was the first Trainer she knew, the strongest one she knew, and back then how she didn’t know better, relying on him instead of taking the risks herself and working with other people for a change. You’re absolutely right in the potential their relationship have in XYZ especially; with Serena coming to the tail end of her first Showcase season, ending up in the same place as before but with a totally changed perspective, and Ash fixating more than ever on being the best of the best, distancing himself from everyone else… and of course, all of that feelings and realisations coming to a head in Snowbelle, the Crisis, and the aftermaths. And also having both of them face each other at the end of it all and realising how much changed. I’m not really sure if I’m wording any of this right or if what I’ve said even makes sense heh, especially since I’m not too far ahead in this AU, but their friendship and that romantic subtext is definitely going to play a part in this series, and even if the plot details changes like the weather I’m going to do my best in keeping it as true to its potential as it should be (because a girl can be in love and also grow as a person, in spite and despite and even with it— you’ve just got to find the right angle).

(Also I’m going to have fun with that crush, so it might meet some light-hearted banter and miscommunications and all of that stuff. I mean, hey, these are kids on a journey lol. There are going to be awkward moments for everyone at some point, but they’ll grow past it as with everything else. Also fun memories. :P)

For the second question, wow, I’ve been giving it so much thought lol. I’m nowhere near the Showcases right now (although it is closer than what canon gave us in my AU) and yet it’s all I can do to plan for how it works. I have spitballed a few ideas with friends but for me (so far) I honestly want more of it to be outdoors. Showcases as a whole has this pesky problem of being a one-to-one copy of Contests but ‘declawed’ by having no battles, and it really gets me because if we’re discarding battles then we have to actually redefine Showcases as a whole— because the battle portion is the ultimate showing of precision and control with your Pokémon and their moves, which is what Contests are all about. Especially with AG and DP, we see examples of atypical Appeal rounds with Harley going for a more terrifying show of power, while Kenny (as :/ as a character as he was) goes for showings of strength— even though they are not ‘beautiful’ they still get to pass, because it really is about how your bond can perfectly translate to moves that can command the audience and grab their attention, naturally highlighting the Pokémon. With Showcases though, to me, they are more about creativity— about how a Performer can work with their Pokémon to get past certain obstacles which are based off a certain characteristic the Kalos Queen should have (the Theme round or whatever it was called lol) and then the Freestyle showing off what they uniquely bring to the table, their own brand, what they want to be remembered by (in which I thought that they could bring props to that originally but eh, that’s what my AU is for!). Sheesh, I went through such a big rant and I still feel fired up heh, but ig this is to say that since Showcases are about creativity, the outdoors location would be a great way to show how they deal with everything. On a sunny day, would they use Grass or Fire Types? Would they call out a Rain Dance and form a rainbow? Of course they wouldn’t actually have an open venue if it’s raining or snowing, but in different terrains can you see the characters stand out, I feel like. Also giving all sorts of Pokémon room like Flying or Ground. I have a bunch more ideas of course, about it being connected to PokéVision (still mad about how that concept got dumped) and having small events where people can get to know the up and coming Performers, getting hints for the Theme section so we don’t get the most unbalanced group of people and have a real competition (that always bothered me ngl), as well as other tweaks to that whole system. Showcases can be good in their own light, it’s just the rep of it being baby ‘only girls’ Contest (still thinking about the girls bit ngl) along with the stupid popularity bit of it (not that the concept is bad in and of itself, just that it should have a place and not be the be all end all of passing to the next stage) (it’s only good for the Freestyle, can I say that?) that makes it flop. Also because it came in so late and left so early. And the rivals kind of sucked because they weren’t given any time to grow. And the way Serena wasn’t challenged enough through them. So basically, I’ve got A Lot of thoughts about it and it’s going to be a headache to go through because it desperately needs a redesign to be viable in any way. But that’s the fun bit about an AU, isn’t it heh. Tell me about your ideas, I’d love to hear about them and thank you so so much for the ask!!! :D <33