#atypical season 2

[editfandom]

Chrissy - Umma, 2022

[notdoneintentionally-blog]

Atypical friendships: Kuina-Kuzuryuu

Notes:  I’m thinking of posting a series of head canons of people in AiB who I think would be friends but the show did us dirty and missed their potential. The first one is Kuina and Kuzuryuu. @kuinaoflight  @diamond-attorney-keiichi tell me how much of these I got right!

- Kuina is literally the only person who takes him seriously, because she knows he's the only person (aside from An, and even then she seems more worried about her corpses than the actual living people of the Beach) who makes sure everything is running smoothly at the Beach. 

- Kuzuryuu knows Kuina is good with people and occasionally asks her about her opinion on how things are being handled, if she thinks the people are happy with the way he's running things, if she has any suggestions as to what to change, etc

- She's also very close to Chishiya and sometimes asks her if she can casually drop a hint here and there to make Chishiya do some work, because mans does absolutely no work as an executive except when Kuina asks him for something. 

- Kuina holds massive respect for Kuzuryuu because she can see how he's trying to make things as good as possible, so every time he asks her for something her response is 'I'm on it, sweetheart'

- Yes, she uses 'sweetheart' a lot with him. Kuzuryuu feels endearing to her, she knows that under his cold exterior is a very caring man.

- In turn, she gets special privileges whenever she asks. If she wants to change rooms, Kuzuryuu makes the change in less than an hour. If she wants to be partnered up with someone specifically in games, he makes it possible. She wants the bartender of the beach's nightclub fired, but not dead; he's on it. Everything she asks for, no questions asked. 

- Kuina mostly calls him Kuzuryuu, sometimes Keiichi, but a few times she’s slipped up and called him ‘Kei’. He doesn’t mind. 

- They did a hearts game together in which they had to figure out which item in the room had killed the person laying in the middle of it. Kuina was the one to solve it because she noticed that the blood and bruises on the body were just makeup (very shitty makeup, Kei, you should see the stuff I have back at the Beach) and the person wasn’t actually dead. She felt so proud of herself (as she should be) that he wanted to congratulate her somehow so he took her off the chore chart for the next day. 

- They recommend books to each other and talk them through after they're done with them. Their perspectives are always very different and that's what makes it so enjoyable to discuss them together, because they bring up different points of view.

- They discuss these books while Kuina does Kuzuryuu's makeup. She's applying eyeliner as he raves about Crime and Punishment and if that's not friendship goals idk what is. They’ve learned that Kuzuryuu looks really pretty with glitter in his eyes and that Kuina does not care much for Raskolnikov.  

- Kuina often tells him that once they get back to the real world she’s going to make him sit through every episode of Pretty Little Liars. She’s so excited every time she mentions this that Kuzuryuu doesn’t have the heart to let her down and always replies ‘Sure. I’m also looking forwards to it.’

[obsessingoverl]

Is Casey fruity???

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very 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). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

───────────────

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.”

[verybidisaster]

i’m ruined 😭

oh... this tweet does it 😔 (x)

[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

[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.

[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 :)

[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)

[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)?

[ladyluscinia]

I know my last experience with a season ending on a note everyone hated and unanimously tore to fucking shreds for destroying the story on every level was... atypical. Lockdown. 6 month mass hysteria at minimum. Conspiracy theories that were, like, real things we had on camera. There was a Twitter wedding. Creative fervor that broke 100k fics on AO3.

Like. I know this is not a rational point of comparison and I'm not going to expect anything in my lifetime to match it 🤣

But.

If that was the highest high of post-season fandom engagement built on a cocktail of tasting everything you ever wanted AND the absolutely lethal levels of spite and swearing to eat showrunners' hearts in the marketplace, then whatever the fuck is going on after OFMD S2 is the opposite of that.

OFMD S1 was a huge fandom explosion. One silly little streaming show that had a gay kiss and then it skyrocketed. Fic numbers were soaring, high activity fic and meta engagement lasted for at least four months, it was constantly trending and flooding the dash... Like, fucking hell, over a year and a half after the immediate finale fervor it beat Stucky in the top ships bracket?!? To the point I was willing to give it what felt like due credit toward its potential as a future juggernaut ship. Not guaranteed, of course, but the potential was there.

In that context, new content should be a blow out party. Which it kinda was pulling off as it was airing, but looking back now? Not even quite a month later?

The effect of S2 on the fandom is like... a blip. Possibly over already.

New fic numbers started dropping off the moment the finale aired and have returned to deep hiatus levels. It's dropped off trending and streaming leaderboards... I'm very curious to see the first tumblr Week in Review since the finale, though we're still waiting due to the holiday.

Like, I've even popped on to scroll a few Izzy hater blogs that I know loved the finale out of morbid curiosity what they were up to, and I'm telling you... if I hadn't just watched the new season I'd think they were still over a year into hiatus. Saw some standard bitching about the izcourse / Edward takes (aka the one thing that kept them going all hiatus), they're currently passing around posts mocking one specific long OFMD version of TJLC I'm just hearing of, the same BTS gifsets everyone else is thrilled by... But barely any new meta or discussions. There's like 2 people posting actual analysis of S2 that's getting reblogged and they aren't even names I recognize from the hiatus. Nor is it particularly interesting to read. 🤷‍♀️

In July of 2022 I could pop onto a random OFMD blog and scroll through a dozen enthusiastic Stede or BlackBonnet metas about jacket colors or that moth from 1x07 or lighthouse symbolism or whatever. Now the new stuff has the same energy as posts from June 2023. It's borderline dead. And this is what it's like when there's an active campaign to engage fandom and Renew as a Crew?

(I will say fanartists are bringing some energy and there's some lovely pieces being passed around, which I do think the Renew as a Crew campaign is helping to boost?)

Even the hundreds of people saying it was a beautiful season and they loved it so much don't seem to be finding it a very engaging or inspiring season.

It's such a turn, like, what the fuck.

[notdoneintentionally-blog]

Atypical friendships: Yaba-Mira

Notes:  I’m perfectly aware they didn’t interact a single time in canon and personally I think that’s a crime so I’m here to fix that. I’m tagging @mira-hearts-queen​ and @mister-sane​ as Mira and Yaba so they can tell me how many I got right!

If you want to see the other parts of ‘atypical friendships’, look under this tag in my blog. 

First, a little context on how they met: 

-Mira had already heard about him from the dealers, about a man always dressed in a suit who managed to solve every hearts game with ease

-She was intrigued and designed one for him. True to his reputation, he cleared it without getting a single blood stain on his shirt.

-Needless to say, Mira was impressed. 

-What caught her eye the most was how despite hearts being clearly his strongest suit, he lacked the affinity for bloodlust she’s seen in other players. Games built around deceit tend to attract people who thrive on betraying and stepping on others to come out on top, but not him. It’s not like he avoids lying and manipulation tactics though, he just does it when he deems it a necessity. 

-Her first thought was ‘I bet I could break him,’ so she decides to approach him to recruit him for the Beach. She wants to see how he’d fare in the ten of hearts she’s planning with Kuzuryuu. 

-However, she makes a mistake. She uses her tactic of appearing gullible and charmed by this tall, handsome man and of course, Yaba is a shark and smells blood in the water. He quickly realises there's more to Mira than meets the eye, and since they're not in a game and he doesn't benefit from lying to her, he tells her.

-Again, Mira is impressed.

-Thus begins a series of chance meetings after games. Some of these are coincidences, most of them are not. 

Now, onto the head canons!

-Yaba ends up showing Mira where he lives (the place is absolutely SPOTLESS) and they spend entire nights talking. It starts off with just game talk, considering different strategies they could've followed or bringing up other games they've been in. They bond over an appreciation of the borderlands’ beauty and an interest in human nature without it being sadistic.

-Then they start speaking about their own lives before the borderlands. Mira's eyes light up when Yaba tells her he's an institutional investor, and asks him if she knows what the Keynesian Beauty Contest is. When he tells her he does, she lets out a giggle but refuses to elaborate further. 

-Yaba is really interested in Mira's job as a psychiatrist. He's spent hours (literal hours) listening to some of her anecdotes with patients. 

-Both Yaba and Mira drink tea, but Mira prefers fruity tea and Yaba likes darjeeling, so Mira ends up leaving some of her own tea at Yaba's place. She also gifts him a teaset, which not coincidentally, is the same one she'll use in the Queen of Hearts. 

-Mira has tried to convince Yaba to sneak into the Beach so he can see what it's like, but he doesn't see the point, so he's never attempted it. Mira tried riling him up by claiming there's a better hearts player there than he is, called Chishiya. It didn't work (and when Yaba actually met Chishiya he had to stifle a scoff because he realised Mira was just messing with him, as Chishiya seems a diamonds player through and through. Better than him? Absolutely not).

-Mira likes giving him small gifts every now and then. One of them is a copy of the DSM-V with hearts drawn on the margins of every single page. The DSM-V has 947 pages. She was really committed to her hearts.  

-Another gift she gives him is a Walkman, after he mentions he missed listening to music. He asks where she got it from and she just says ‘I stole it, but don’t worry about it.’ As she says this, back at the Beach a white-haired executive is planning revenge on Niragi for a crime he didn’t commit. 

- They've made it a tradition that after spades games, they have to play a game themselves at Yaba's place in which they make up the rules, to push themselves beyond physical tiredness. So they might be playing chess and suddenly Mira says 'if we move our rooks we immediately lose'. Then Yaba adds 'knights can now only occupy black squares'. And keep on adding rules until one of them messes up. 

-Yaba has three hairbrushes he’s used to brush Mira’s hair after a game. The repetitive action feels relaxing for the both of them, and it’s the only physical contact they have.

-Whenever Yaba says he wants to rule the borderlands, Mira says he'd make a fine Queen of Hearts. Yaba would reply that if anything, he'd be the King of Hearts, and Mira would laugh and say 'that's not the compliment you think it is. Trust me, the Queen of Hearts is much better'. Eventually, Yaba stopped saying he'd be the King of Hearts and now instead says Queen.

-Yaba does push ups first thing in the morning to wake his body up. Even if Mira's still there, he will do his push ups, there's no two ways about it, she'll have to wait to talk to him. One time Mira got so annoyed by him ignoring her that she sat on Yaba's back to provoke him, and he simply kept on doing push ups without acknowledging her. For anyone wondering, he did a total of eleven with her on his back. 

-They favour style over practicality. While others ask Mira why on Earth she would attempt a game in heels, Yaba makes a comment on how tasteful her Loubutin are. If Yaba almost doesn’t make it to a game because there was a wrinkle in his shirt he couldn’t get rid of, Mira understands it was a risk he had to take. 

- The night the Beach burned down, Yaba saw it in the distance but didn't feel worried in the slightest about Mira. In fact, he thought she might be the reason behind the fire (and was completely right about it). 

- He wasn't surprised either when she announced the beginning of the second stage of the games with her as the Queen of Hearts. He simply thought that if someone were to be the Queen of Hearts other than himself, it'd be her. He felt a mixture of pride and tenderness when he saw every game get cleared one by one until the only one remaining was hers. Of course she'd be the last one standing. Mira Kano was a force to be reckoned with. 

- Once the games had ended and he accepted citizenship, the Joker gave him a small book Mira had left behind for him, titled 'Manual of Survival: Citizenship in the Borderlands'. When he opens it, curious, he realises it's a very detailed guide as to which one of her dresses to wear for each occasion. There's hearts drawn in the margins of every page, a ten-page epilogue on why fruity tea is the superior choice to darjeeling, and a note at the end which says 'you're going to be an amazing Queen of Hearts, darling. Have fun ❤️.'

[kerubimcrepin]

Wakfu Manga - Tome 1, Part 1

Finally, finally, finally we have arrived to one of my most favorite Wakfu media — the manga that happens between Season 2 and the OVAs, which are controversial among many, and beloved only by me and only for, like, 2-3 scenes.

The reason for my excitement is simple: this is the Krosmoz media that is the most abundant in adult Joris content at this moment.

The princesses got cursed again..., I don't even know what to say, man. They never learn.

[imagines Joris at 3-4yo trying to bite the nearest animal that isn't Pupuce the second Kerubim takes his eyes off him] [smiles]

I'm insane.

He is late. A likely thing for Joris Jurgen to be.

He came here. He saw a baby. He was like "aww. cute baby."

His nails.... This panel is the singular reason why I draw him with painted nails a lot, just so you know. Anyway.

Nobody expected him to come. And it makes no sense that he came, because he kind of barely knows these people. He is so fond of Yugo it's crazy.

He looks a bit taken aback by the fact he was seen being cute with a baby + that someone noticed that he is there (atypical) and happy that he came.

I think Joris has a very parasocial friendship with Yugo where he says nothing and just fucking stands there silently and menacingly, but is insanely fond of Yugo internally (I think he Projects onto Yugo. Yugo is just like him fr).

The casual way he just stands as Grougal sets him on fire. The way Yugo stares in horror. The way Joris just stands there, on fire, afterwards. I am going to cry from laughing.

Also, Amalia cares about him... I'm insane.

Adamai saying this combination of words to, out of all the people in the world that he could have said this to, Joris Crepin-Jurgen. Because he's scared that Grougal could have offended him...

Once again, this entire scene is so funny I'm actually going to fucking die.

He's so sweet... He really is like an awkward uncle who has no idea how to interact with kids when he visits them once in a while, but is happy to see them nevertheless.

Also, once again, his asocial nature and avoidance of close social bonds is called out. He's insane about Yugo and Adamai. They're just like him fr, y'know? (I bet he seldom visited Amalia's birthdays, and never came to Eva's... I'm insane about this man.)

Also, a small note: pay attention to the bag he is looking through. Here's why:

The fact that he kept an entire fishing pole in that bag makes me believe that Joris owns a haven bag.

Yes, literally nobody except for me cares about details like this, but let me have this.,

Also, I wish we could see his face as he gives this to Yugo. He's probably feeling shy about this. This is probably taking physical effort.

I blame this manga for making me care about the friendship between Khan and Joris even a little. fgsgsdfgsdfgsdfg

Clown-to-clown communication, clown-to-clown conversation.

As cute as it could have been, I really doubt Joris contributed to this gift.

It seems that nobody who was involved in the planning of the party was sure he would come, and when he did, he gave a singular gift to Yugo seperately from other people.

Joris went together with Alibert to get people to safety. Cute. Also the amount of hope and trust he has in Jiva is also cute.

Bontarian war criminal solidarity?

Awooga hummina hummina hummina weewoooweeewooo.

He's so cute.... Also, "Joris runs up towers" counter is up at 3. Yes, I count this as a tower.

[you can see my commentary actively degenerating due to my insanity] He is so handsome and so cute...

IM INSANE. IM CRAZEEEH. INSANE. ASYLUM.

Here are two panels that have the prettiest man in the world in them. The cute little fist clench...

[fatalism-and-villainy]

Expanding more on this -

I can’t say for sure, but I do wonder how much of the idea that Alana was out of character in season 2 - specifically in her distrusting Will and defending Hannibal - stems from the idea of season 1 Alana as the voice of reason, the Only Sane Woman, etc. And so when she starts making errors in judgment that are very obviously wrong from the viewer’s perspective, it’s a massive swerve from her behaviour in season 1?

But I think that idea of her is oversimplified at best, because season 1 actually features Alana being wrong about some significant stuff. She recognizes that Abigail is hiding something, but is skeptical of the possibility of Abigail being involved in her father’s murders and outright refuses the possibility that she killed Nick Boyle - and the latter, of course, is wrapped up in Alana’s misplaced trust in Hannibal. But on top of that, she’s also wrong about Will. She recognizes that her desire to save him would be unwelcome, but fails to recognize the extent to which Will doesn’t need saving.

Because the season finale features Alana shouting at Jack and then melting down in her car as the culmination of a season’s worth of frustration, I think that contributes to the idea that she was the voice of truth who was being suppressed, and now we’re seeing the consequences. Except her perception of what’s happened at that point isn’t actually the correct one. She’s angry at Jack because she thinks he’s pushed Will too far and he’s gone off the deep end and started murdering people. Which is of course not what happened - Hannibal planted evidence to frame Will - but it also underestimates Will’s resilience. He not only doesn’t kill anyone, he’s able to claw his way back to sanity and gain clarity about who, exactly, was manipulating him.

Will trying to have Hannibal killed in season 2 is a demonstration of how drastically wrong Alana was about Will, but not for the reasons she assumes. She has her convictions about Will’s innocence shattered, and she was ignorant of the extent of his violent potential. But she’s mistaken in her assumptions about his maliciousness at that point. What Will lashing out against Hannibal actually demonstrates re: Alana is that she underestimated Will’s agency and capacity for self-preservation. She admits before this that she’s still motivated by saving him, but Will doesn’t need saving. He will stubbornly try to find a way to save himself (as he himself declares he will do).

And the reasons she’s wrong stem from her self-avowed personal flaws, particularly her saviour complex. But that’s are also wrapped up in her clash with the broader philosophy of the show. Alana is established as someone who’s inclined to see the best in people, as demonstrated in her response to Abigail and to Will’s arrest, and which Will accuses her of doing with Hannibal. Even when confronted with demonstrably and unrepentantly violent people, she’s inclined to find an understanding or explanation behind their behaviour - when Gideon is loose and a direct threat to her, her response is still to point out that that he can’t be held fully accountable for his actions because of what Chilton did to him.

(Which is interesting, because the concept of reduced capacity doesn’t come up much in the show - the only killer we see who truly doesn’t know what they’re doing and can’t be held accountable is Georgia Madchen, and she’s pretty atypical in a lot of ways. The other killers operate based on sensibility or aesthetic ideology, in one way or another.)

And this isn’t really a narrative setting in which Alana’s initial worldview is borne out. It’s a narrative setting and framework that constantly bends towards exploring and drawing out the darker side of humanity, the inherent capacity for violence that lies in all of us (as per Will Graham’s first episode narration, “we’ve all thought about killing someone”), and the beauty in embracing that. It’s not a narrative invested in redemption, or the kind of rehabilitation that Alana wants for Abigail. It’s telling that her conventional brand of psychiatry is juxtaposed with Hannibal’s murder-seduction therapy and investment in making people the worst versions of themselves. (Note that she scrupulously keeps her distance from Will because she fears that her urge to study him would clash with her personal relationship with him - something Hannibal certainly doesn’t care about.) The show may bandy about psychiatric terminology from time to time, but it’s not at all interested in diagnosis - it’s a show concerned with the aesthetic drives behind human violence, and with constructing amorality as a sign of sophistication of taste.

And I’d argue that Alana’s role in season 1 and parts of season 2 is to provide a narrative counterpoint to those themes - and thus a sense of pathos, because how can she not be wrong, in this setting? One thing that’s compelling about Alana’s character to me is the way she eludes a lot of the character archetypes that she could have been slotted into. She doesn’t have the bearing or personality of your traditional naive optimist - she’s too serious and mature and driven and professionally minded. And she has an emotional guardedness and neuroticism that goes against what you’d expect from a character’s who the designated emotional heart of a story. Nonetheless, Bryan Fuller called her the “heart of the show” in one of the episode commentaries, and I honestly agree - she has a well of compassion in those early seasons, and a genuine belief in rehabilitation, that’s at odds not only with the evil that Hannibal represents, but also with Jack’s ruthless benevolence or Will’s grim cynicism.

For those reasons, Alana’s arc is actually pretty tragic to me. It’s a corruption arc, like Will’s. But Will’s arc involves leaning into latent but repressed impulses, and being guided through cultivating an aesthetic framework through which to understand those impulses. Will’s experiences with Hannibal are profoundly destabilizing to him, in a lot of ways, but not exactly in the sense that he has his entire worldview and understanding of other people shattered. But Alana does. She develops into a darker version of herself through being confronted with a kind of evil that can’t be understood in the way she’s used to, and can’t be saved. This is exemplified in the scene in Digestivo when she confronts Hannibal and asks if she could ever have understood him, and he simply says “no.” And she knows the answer already at this point, but still can’t stop herself from asking. Just to know for sure.

(I see people sometimes claim that her characterization is too drastically different from what came before in season 3, but what we see of her there feels very consistent to me with the Alana we know - it’s just a version of Alana who’s undergone a significant trauma and had her trust in someone close to her broken - and broken in a way that destabilizes everything about how she’s used to thinking and relating to people. It’s no wonder to me that she’s much more emotionally closed off, more ruthless, and more cynically willing to exploit amoral characters like Mason Verger for her own gain - and even then, she’s not without reservations about that.)

Anyway, my point is that season 2 marks an important turning point in Alana’s development and the shift in the (relatively) idealistic worldview she begins with. The seeds of the disruption of that worldview are planted with her initial response to Will’s attempt on Hannibal’s life and its upending of her view of him, and then they fully take root in her steady realization of how much Hannibal has deceived her. What’s done with her character in that season feels to me like a natural progression of where she started in season 1 and a natural precursor to where she ends up in season 3.

[person4924]

hi !! i’m sam !! and uhhh that’s all u need to know but there’s more under the cut !!

(also im trying to make this aesthetic and cute but idrk how so if u have any tips pls pls pls !!)

yes i’m sad (secretly a dinosaur)

basic info

i’m sapphic of some sort and ace!!

i go pretty much by any pronouns atp but she and they are usually the best!! proud genderfuck ✊

i’m a minor. so please don’t be fucking weird.

i’m american (even worse, the midwest 😨) unfortunately but literally as soon as i fucking can im booting it and moving to norway

i’m neurodivergent of some some sort

i play soccer (defense usually but i like offense more) and lacrosse (i just started so idek) currently but i also usually play volleyball but i missed the season sooo

i have a sideblog that is currently a confessions blog but it might change cus no one actually does it!! but if u would like to do a (general) confession then it is @just-a-little-lad4924

i have another sideblog that is for analysis’ !! i mostly do characters and songs but i’ll do pretty much anything (send me a request please please please please please) it’s @person-speaks

just general facts about me !

my personality type is INFP-T

i have 3 cats!! one at my dads, her name is graci (after gracie abrams ofc) and she’s about a year and a half, and 2 at my moms: regulus (guess who named him!! 😱) and libby and their siblings and are currently abt 3 months !! i could yap abt them forever i love them sm

my favorite color is dark green, fav season is fall, fav holiday is christmas or halloween, fav animal is cats or sharks or moths or jellyfish

i appreciate tone tags and try to use them as much as possible

im always bored so asks and everything are super duper cool !

i love love love making ananlysis' of basically anythng sooo if theres like a song or ship or something i could totallly write an essay abt it or smth !

uhhh idrk what else !!

fandoms AKA past hyperfixations that i’m still attached to but im not necessarily still in the fandom: harry potter (fuck jkr !!), MCU, KOTLC, marauders, boy meets world, it, osemanverse, paper girls, teen wolf, owl house, shameless, glee, stranger things, andi mack, tlou, riordanverse, brooklyn nine nine, new girl, hamilton, grishaverse, community, dawsons creek, bojack horseman, criminal minds, ted lasso, scooby doo, everything sucks!, the sun bearer trials, atypical, octonauts, dead boy detectives, will and grace, how i met your mother, the maze runner, descendants, arcane

uhhh can u tell i don’t have many friends.

fav movies (not counting fandoms): tick tick boom, my girl, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, little rascals, empire records, bottoms, nimona, little women, 500 days of summer, benny & joon, beautiful boy, call me by your name, lady bird, stand by me, RWRB, addams family values, the breakfast club, spiderman ITSV/ATSV, the outsiders, luca, the perks of being a wallflower, dead poets society, big daddy, the edge of seventeen

once again. i have very little friends. and very many issues.

fav music people (not always up to date i like new artists every day): gracie abrams, taylor swift, noah kahan, mitski, boygenuis, julien baker, phoebe bridgers, lucy dacus, hozier, the head and the heart, conan gray, RKS, queen. harry styles, the fray, olivia rodrigo, coldplay, billie eilish, maya hawke, bo burnham, chappell roan, the smiths, the revivalists, addriane lenker, lorde, fiona apple, alex g, ani defranca, radiohead, montell fish, lizzy mcalpine

just general interests: poetry, art, writing, sitcoms, stand up comedy, greek mythology, the sky (like the stars, moon, sun, etc. astronomy metaphors are my everything), moths, jelly fish, ocean animals in general (first special interest 💪💪), pretty much just animals in general, 90's movies, cinematography, bo burnham (i didnt know where eles to put him), annotating, musicals, actors, spider man

fav books (also not including fandoms): the perks of being a wallflower, the outsiders, i fell in love with hope, ill give you the sun, and more but i dont remember the names atm !

my fav ships (buckle in! i apologize.): wolfstar, jegulus, jily sometimes, pandalily, dorlene, rosekiller, drarry, jeric (bmw), reddie, charlie/nick, tara/darcy, tao/elle, lister/jimmy, pip/rooney, kajemac, sterek, isaac/stiles, malia/stiles, lumity, gallavich, ronance, solangelo, valdangelo, kinda percico, dianetti, wesper, kanej, trobed, joey/pacey, ralvez, spencer/ethan, kindaaa moreid, painland, newtmas, jaylos, harry/carlos (idk the ship name), robin/barney, caitvi

i might have missed a few but these are My Guys. /gn

links!

spotify!! - my character playlists are my pride and joy and reason for living, i could write essays about how each song could specifically fit the character and situation. anyways!!

discord

airbuds - idk if anyone uses this but if u do add me!!

ao3 - i have 1 fic that is my fav thing ever (a camp halfblood group chat) and the other two... are there

pinterest

tiktok - this is my alt that i blocked all my friends on and i have like my fandom shit but i don’t post that much and im barely on tt to begin with but yeah !!

pronouns page

spotify stats - idk if anyone uses this but also yeah !!

i have a super duper cool discord server that u should totally join too… link

i have a tagging system

sam shut the fuck up - og posts

asks!!! - asks

crazy? i was crazy once - big lists and essay things

sam sings :O - lyric/music posts

it’s so hard to be a lizard… - any jokes i make because im literally bo burnham

art i need in my veins - self explanatory mostly for myself but everyone else should also see this

and i think thats it!! if anyone has any ideas of things to add then yeah !! or how to make it look prettier cusss uhhhh yeah.

oh yeah and this is an official @i-luv-multiple-ppl fan account so !!

and creds to @cafekitsune for the dividers!!

[thoughtportal]

COVID-19 makes a worrying comeback, WHO warns amid summertime surge

COVID-19 infections are surging globally, including at the Paris Olympics, and are unlikely to decline anytime soon, the World Health Organization (WHO) says. The UN health agency is also warning that more severe variants of the coronavirus may soon be on the horizon.

“COVID-19 is still very much with us,” and circulating in all countries, Dr. Maria Van Kerkhove of WHO told journalists in Geneva.

“Data from our sentinel-based surveillance system across 84 countries reports that the percent of positive tests for SARS-CoV-2 has been rising over several weeks,” she said. “Overall, test positivity is above 10 per cent, but this fluctuates per region. In Europe, percent positivity is above 20 per cent,” Dr. Van Kerkhove added.

New waves of infection have been registered in the Americas, Europe and Western Pacific. Wastewater surveillance suggests that the circulation of SARS-CoV-2 is two to 20 times higher than what is currently being reported. Such high infection circulation rates in the northern hemisphere’s summer months are atypical for respiratory viruses, which tend to spread mostly in cold temperatures.

“In recent months, regardless of the season, many countries have experienced surges of COVID-19, including at the Olympics where at least 40 athletes have tested positive,” Dr. Van Kerkhove said.

As the virus continues to evolve and spread, there is a growing risk of a more severe strain of the virus that could potentially evade detection systems and be unresponsive to medical intervention. While COVID-19 hospital admissions, including for Intensive Care Units (ICUs), are still much lower than they were during the peak of the pandemic, WHO is urging governments to strengthen their vaccination campaigns, making sure that the highest risk groups get vaccinated once every 12 months.

“As individuals it is important to take measures to reduce risk of infection and severe disease, including ensuring that you have had a COVID-19 vaccination dose in the last 12 months, especially, if you are in an at-risk group,” stressed Dr. Van Kerkhove.

Vaccines availability has declined substantially over the last 12-18 months, WHO admits, because the number of producers of COVID-19 vaccines has recently decreased.“It is very difficult for them to maintain the pace,” Dr. Van Kerkhove explained. “And certainly, they don't need to maintain the pace that they had in 2021 and 2022. But let's be very clear, there is a market for COVID-19 vaccines that are out there.”

Nasal vaccines are still under development but could potentially address transmission, thereby reducing the risk of further variants, infection and severe disease.

“I am concerned, “ Dr. Van Kerkhove said. “With such low coverage and with such large circulation, if we were to have a variant that would be more severe, then the susceptibility of the at-risk populations to develop severe disease is huge,” Dr. Van Kerkhove warned.