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freelancearsonist · 7 months ago

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so scarlet, it was...

➔ post-outbreak Joel Miller x afab!Reader - series masterlist

➔ 1.3k words

➔ “Go ahead, yell your fucking head off. That’ll make everything okay, won’t it?”

➔ Rated MA for dark fic kinda, a/b/o themes (alpha joel, omega reader), established... situationship? i guess, pregnancy/contemplation of termination, contemplation of self harm, reader is not in a good headspace. one instance of vomiting, joel is not very nice, this fic in general is not very nice. takes place three years post outbreak. [please let me know if i missed any warnings so i can add them in :)]

➔ thank you so much to my darling @bitchwitch1981 for the prompt, i'm so sorry this is probably very much not what you wanted 🤣 extra special thank you to @perotovar for making this wonderful joel gif for me, if ur reading this ily <3

You’ve never actually used one of these things before. You’ve only read about them in books or seen them in movies from years ago, and they’ve only ever been an object of abject horror.

You understand why now, looking down at those two little lines on the stick cradled in your hand. You’ve never been quite so terrified in your life.

You never should’ve pocketed this test when you found it in that miraculously untouched drug store. You could’ve stayed blissfully unaware. Better yet, you should’ve been more careful. Three years of living like this has been more than enough to make you firm in your decision to never bring life into this broken world. This isn’t a place for a child, this is barely even a place for you. Every day is a fight, every waking moment is a nightmare. But you’ve been so careless with him and now it’s all crashing down, this blissful bubble where you can pretend that everything might be okay because you have the pack and, more importantly, him.

You won’t have him for much longer when he finds out about this.

You wonder what it’ll take to right this wrong before he finds out about it. It must be pretty early, so maybe it won’t take much to reverse it. Maybe all you’ll have to do is bump into something just right, or trip over the right log.

The thought makes you sick–more stomach bile than anything else coming up because you’ve hardly had more to eat than stale beef jerky and some precarious berries in the past few days. Resources have been so slim; another reason this can’t be happening. You hardly have enough to tide you over, much less a child. And it’ll be even worse once the pack abandons you.

You bury yourself into the haphazard nest of blankets and his worn clothes, letting the heavy, musky scent of him soothe your wracking sobs.

Maybe you should just accept your fate now, sacrifice yourself for the good of the pack. Everyone is going to die eventually, after all–sooner rather than later in this world. You’ve only been postponing the inevitable. They never have to know why you do it, and it’ll be one less mouth to feed. Two, technically, but they’ll never have to know that. He won’t even really miss you, it’ll be one less burden on his hands. On all of their hands.

You don’t hear them return early from scavenging–maybe because the volume of your own sobs drowns out any other noise. Or maybe because he can sense something is wrong as he enters the run-down little shack you’ve been holed up in for the past few weeks, and he softens his approach because of it.

Joel has never been quite as tender as he is when he takes you into his arms, pulling your face out of the pile of fabric to wipe at your tear-streaked cheeks.

“My omega, shhhh, I’m here. It’s okay,” he murmurs, wrapping you into his big, strong, safe arms. He doesn’t know. Maybe he thinks you had a nightmare, or you just missed him, or a million other things except the truth. But he doesn’t know, and you know he doesn’t know because you feel the moment he connects the dots. His eyes drop to the little white stick clutched tightly in your fist and his entire body stiffens like a board. Suddenly there’s no more warmth or comfort to his touch, nothing soothing about the pheromones drifting from him. He pulls away like you’re infected, and maybe you are. Maybe the thing that’s taken root in you is worse than cordyceps could ever hope to be.

You’ve never been terrified of him before. Joel is dark and brooding and imposing, but he’s only ever fought to protect you. His omega, who wormed their way under his skin despite him fighting it every step of the way. His omega, who’s been the only source of anything remotely close to comfort he’s had since outbreak day. His omega, who’s given him purpose in this dark world.

His omega, who’s betrayed him in such an unforgivable way.

“What the fuck.” There’s nothing but venom in his tone–he looks at you with pure disgust and your resolve crumbles.

Maybe there was a little, tiny, miniscule part of you that hoped it would be different. That he would be excited to be a father, or at least be understanding. But that hope dies so suddenly when you look up into his scowling face. He towers over you, dark eyes flashing with anger, and for the first time since you met him two long years ago you’re scared.

“You were supposed to be careful.” His voice rises further and further with each syllable, as if this isn’t partially his fault too. As if he wasn’t the one in such an uncontrollable rut last month that he kept you in bed all week, losing the willpower required to pull out with each powerful thrust of his hips. As if it isn’t his seed blooming in your womb as you speak.

“What do we do now, huh?” He growls, eyes darkening, fists clenching at his sides. “I’ve fucking marked you, I can’t turn you loose! And we barely make it by as we are! How the fuck are we supposed to handle this?”

He rants for what seems like hours and you flinch with every booming word, curling tighter around yourself in a desperate attempt to simply disappear; to not have to deal with this any more because your heart shatters with each irreversible word he throws at you. You shrink and shrink and shrink in hopes of vanishing because this is undoable. No matter what happens, nothing will ever go back to the way it was and that’s the knowledge that crushes you completely.

Your voice is so small when he finally quiets enough for you to speak. “Go ahead, yell your fucking head off. That’ll make everything okay, won’t it?”

Joel stops in his tracks, white knuckles unclenching for the first time in minutes. He sees the fear and regret in your eyes, and he almost lets it soften him. He loathes himself for this look on your face–for making you scared of him.

His omega. So small and fragile, curled in a pile of his clothes because his scent brings you comfort. He’s dedicated two years of his time and effort to keeping you safe and comfortable, if not happy. He’s supposed to protect you, not hurt you. He’s supposed to give you children and raise them with you, be a family with you. That’s what being your alpha means, and he has so sorely failed you.

But he knows he can never do that again. That’s never what this was supposed to be. He didn’t mark you out of anything but necessity–if he had let your uncontrolled scent waft every time you went into heat, every alpha in the country would be targeting your little pack of four. You’re his omega out of biological necessity–a warm hole to fill when his rut threatens to tear already strenuous ties with his brother and Tess. That’s what he tells himself because the alternative is so startlingly incomprehensible that he won’t allow himself to even consider the fact that he might care about you; that the urge to care for you and protect you is more than primal, biological instinct; that you mean more to him than anyone ever has.

Not just his omega now, but his mate. His unborn child is growing and growing and growing with each passing second inside your womb and he’s powerless to stop it.

“We’re thirty-seven miles from the Boston QZ,” he growls from somewhere deep in his chest. “We leave at first light.”

You don’t get a chance to argue or plead your case before the door slams shut behind him.

➔ beta: @beskarandblasters and @fhatbhabie

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics

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#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #alpha!joel miller #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dark fic #the last of us #tlou #joel tlou #cece writes #series: maroon

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so-much-for-the-seashells · 5 months ago

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Being Sick but Dean Winchester’s your BF Headcanons ✨

✨ Dean Winchester x Reader ✨

Minors! Go away! Don’t interact! I don’t have a witty joke but I still don’t want you here! ¡Adios!

A/N: okay now that they’re gone… I’m sick! Some sort of nasty cold shit. Also I have the fucking la la land piano riff stuck in my head. So, more headcanons!!! (As opposed to a “proper” fic. For Dean ofc. It’s okay, it’ll come eventually)

Icons by me, all notes-especially commentary- are extremely appreciated!!

Content Warnings: if you’ve read the others it’s along the same vein, cute but still spicy enough to warrant that 18+ rating. Reader’s GN but AFAB.

Enjoy!

( ˘ ³˘)♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

-okay so first of all, being sick sucks. Whether it’s a runny nose, a headache, throat pain (get your mind out of the gutter), stomach aches, whatever- it fucking sucks.

-but it sucks a little less when you have Dean Winchester taking care of you

-this man knows how to take care of any common virus or cold. Years of taking care of his little brother meant that he could never be sick and that if he was it had to go fast, because he believed he always needed to be able to take care of Sammy first and foremost.

-once he sees you sniffling he’ll bench you from whatever job you guys are working. Immediately. No ifs, ors, ands, buts or coconuts about it.

-once the job is over he’ll come home. If you’re up and moving he’ll sling you over his shoulder or pick you up bridal style, and throw you (in a loving way) down on the couch or bed, depending on where you want to lay.

-he’ll snuggle you a little, and then take a quick shower so as not to get whatever it is you have. He’ll give you whatever blankets and drinks you want, and then head off to the kitchen

-his go-to is to make a vat of chicken noodle soup, extra lemony for vitamin c. He’ll usually either add some chilis to the soup or put some in a salad for you to help clean your system out. And it will always be better than fine dining.

-of course he cooks shirtless, and he’ll come back into the room with a big bowl of soup and your salad ready, cookies still in the oven. He’ll be wearing sweatpants and a ‘kiss the cook’ apron with nothing under it. And if you weren’t sick, you’d definitely do what the apron asked.

-he’ll help you sit up so you can eat it, putting a pillow on your lap so that the bowl doesn’t burn you and wiping your hair out of your face. If your hot he brings a bandana that he dunked in ice water and ties it around your head, if your cold he brings more blankets

-he hates that he can’t touch you or hug you when your miserable like this, but he does his best.

-while you’re eating he’ll talk about the hunt, keeping it as light and funny as possible- probably whatever he and Sam bickered about, the sights he saw, the food, etc

-and he’ll put on whatever you’d like him to. Preferably Gilmore Girls, but he ain’t gonna influence you

-when you’re done he’ll take the empty bowls to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink for Sammy to do them when he gets back to the bunker.

-he’ll grab the cookies, and bring a little plate of them over, and then sit on the sofa in the Dean cave so that your calves are draped over his thighs. If you’re in bed he’ll just lay on the opposite side, occasionally stroking your back comfortingly

-he checks your temperature from time to time, and always adapts according to your sickness. If it’s stomach bug he’s got a trash can beside the bed/couch and is ready to hold your hair. If it’s strep throat he’s gone honey. If it’s literally anything he’s probably got some kind of temporary remedy

-now (you know what time it is 🌶️)

-if you get a little hot n bothered while your sick

-and no I don’t mean hot from the fever

-but like the other kind

-and he can tell

-well, there’s a home remedy for that too 😏

-and you’ll warn him against it, not wanting to get him sick, but he’ll shush you, kissing your belly and pulling your sleep shorts and underwear down in one go

-he’ll kiss all up your legs, making you wish so, so much that you could make out with him

-but he won’t tease. Not when his sweetheart isn’t feeling well.

-so he’ll get as close to your dripping heat as he can, not making you move at all, because he knows you’re comfy on your little bed of pillows and his blankets

-and then he’ll nudge his nose against your clit, the only teasing he’ll do before diving in

-he’s gentle though. Not dissimilar to how he is in the mornings (Shameless plug, sorry not sorry haha)

-he’ll go nice and slow, adding his fingers as he goes, one at a time

-he uses one to gather your wetness and spread it over your poor bud

-and then adds another to scissor into your heat, massaging your spongey walls

-and by the third finger slowly yet deliberately filling you up, along with his mouth on your clit, he’ll have you coming, feeling so much better in one regard

-he’ll lap it all up, careful not to overstimulate you before pressing a sweet kiss to your belly, just as he did before he went down

-he’ll then get up and draw you a bath, helping you pee and then get into the tub

-he’ll dry your hair and then help you into a fresher set of pjs, and lay with you until you fall asleep, then turn off the tv and any lights before getting back in bed.

-and even though he has to sleep a little away from you he can’t help but hold you hand while you sleep, even if it means risking getting sick too

-and if you wake up in the middle of the night, he will too, ready to do whatever you need him to

-he loves you, and it’s he loves knowing that you love him too and would also take care of him if he were in your shoes

-so yeah

-sweet cutie pie caretaker ass with the greener-than-pines eyes gah

-I rest my case

If you have any ideas for headcanons and/or fics my ask box is always open!!

Xx!

#dean winchester loves gilmore girls #dean winchester is a queen in the kitchen #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #supernatural x reader #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester is a munch

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oddballwriter · 6 months ago

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The Sweetest Thing

Summary: Your hobby of baking causes an issue for the boys. Not because of anything with you, it's a matter of control with themselves.

Warnings: Nothing really.

Author’s Snip: I bake as a hobby and while making brownies earlier I thought this up.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word Count: 816

Taglist: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction (you can join the taglist, just ask)

It was a problem. Not for you. You were just acting out your hobby of baking and there was nothing wrong with that at all. The problem was with the boys and the fact that they couldn’t resist eating whatever you baked. Whether it be brownies, cookies, cupcakes, bonbons, pies, anything.

You wouldn’t call yourself a top baker, but the boys always sang your praises and wanted the first taste every time. But you seem to always have something freshly baked and fresh out the oven.

Steven was the least likely to tell you no when you offered him a piece of what you’ve made, always having the subconscious intuition to start baking so that when it was all ready it could be pair with his tea. And it would be nice to have something with his tea. And you always go through the trouble of using a vegan recipe.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” Steven says to himself as you offer him a few cookies you just finished, “I can’t be eating so much sugar all the time.” he warns himself. “Just one won’t hurt.” Steven excuses.

But one turns into two, and then an extra third that he didn't realize he was eating until he was just about done with it.

"So much for 'just one'." Steven scolds himself.

"At least I know that they were good," you remark.

"Thank you for letting me try them though, love. They were delicious. But next time I'll just grab one and leave the rest of the container alone." Steven says.

It's worse when Marc just got done working out. Gained some muscle, shed a good amount of calories. But then he walks in and the flat smells like a damn bakery. Out of all of the days and times that you could have baked, you chose the day that Marc goes to the gym and the time he comes home. And you're there smiling at him.

"What's for dessert this time?" Marc asks as he walks over to you and kisses you on the cheek. "You giggle, "Cinnamon rolls, I found an easy-to-follow recipe a few days ago and wanted to give it a try." you explain.

Marc sighs, "Why do you always have to make something to make me regain all the calories I just lost?" he questions. "You don't have to eat them today if you don't want to." you say, "Plus, they aren't done yet. They need to be done baking and I need to make the frosting." you add.

"You can have one once they're complete and cooled down." you offer him. "That's the issue. If you're the one who made them then I'll get up eating more than one." Marc explains.

"Sometimes having a little bit of a little snack pouch is okay as long as you're healthy." you half-joke.

Jake hardly does anything about it though. He couldn't care less if he gained a pound or two if it meant getting to enjoy your baking. Matter of fact he's right there when you bake. Arms wrapped around your body while you measure and mix, but he hardly really helps in your opinion.

"Are you just going to hold me the whole time or are you going to do something?" you question playfully. "I help by licking the spoons and bowls." Jake replies.

You huff in amusement before picking up the teaspoon that you used a second ago, "Then do me a favor and 'clean' this for me." you request as you hand it to him. Jake takes it and gives it one lick before trying to spit in an immediate reaction. "What the hell was that?" Jake exclaims. "I used that for the vanilla extract." you say simply.

"That was mean." Jake says with a fake pout. "You saw me use it a second ago, I don't know how you fell for that." you laugh.

"I just like watching you work, I don't pay attention to what exactly you're putting in. You could poison it right in front of me and I probably won't catch it at first." Jake says before he slightly changes the subject.

"Speaking of watching you bake. I would love to help you open up a little bakery and have a little section where I can watch you make everything." Jake mentions as he holds you closer and kisses your neck. "I don't think I'm that much of a baker that I could have a business." you comment.

"I'd disagree. I think once someone gets a taste of what you make then they'd be flocking for a single piece." Jake says.

"Jake I use recipes I find online and then write down if I like them." you mention.

"Well then maybe it's time that you experiment with making your own." Jake fires back, "I can taste test for you while you try to nail it." he suggests.

#moon knight #moonknight #moon knight x reader #moonknight x reader #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader

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mysaintkitten · 1 year ago

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Mile High | Robert Fischer x fem!reader

prompt: you’re the stewardess on robert fischer’s private jet, and he’s not too fond of your attitude. (NSFW, no minors)

WARNINGS: robert’s a cunt, plane sex, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex (p in v), degradation and praise, slight age gap, power imbalance

word count: 2.1k

today was your first day working with mr. fischer, you had been a regular stewardess for a few years now but due to good word of mouth you were able to become a private jet stewardess. it was a more intimate environment, the pay was better, you had less people to tend to, it was overall quite the win for you.

the jet was set to leave in a few minutes, so you found your way to the bathroom and quickly dolled yourself up a bit before mr. fischer came onto the plane. you’re expecting a man, at least in his 60s, rich as hell and eager to pounce on a young woman such as your self. you could use it to your advantage, maybe leave the jet with some extra money in your pocket.

while in the bathroom, you overheard some small talk happening within the jet.

“good afternoon, robert! right this way” you hear, “robert?” you think to yourself. you wait until the minor chaos of dealing with the baggage is dealt with before you take one last look in the mirror, feeling satisfied with what you see staring back at you. with a deep breath, you walk out the bathroom. what was once lively a few moments ago has fallen silent. you see a lone man sitting in his seat, hands clasped in front of him while gazing out the window. is that mr. fischer? or, robert, as you had just overheard.

you were expecting some grandpa. oxygen tank on standby if need be. you could tell from afar he was older than you, but not by very much. a decade at the most.

you quickly dismiss those thoughts, and bring a semi-artificial smile to your face. as you begin to approach him and his face becomes clearer, you can tell he’s quite an attractive man. sharp suit, nice watch, clean shave, he looks good to say the least. as you stand beside his seat, you start to say the introduction you were told to say by the jet company.

“good afternoon, mr. fischer, my nam-“

“i don’t want any handouts.” he says sharply, not even attempting to shift his gaze from the window.

oh. so he’s like that.

you brush past his blatant arrogance and continue with your introduction, “oh, no, i’m not here to offer anything at the moment. just introducing myself, my names y/n and i’ll be taking care of you for this flight.” you say, forcing that smile back to your face. it’s at this point that he actually looks at you and you’re met with his striking blue eyes, he really looks like the embodiment of if looks could kill. “throughout the flight, anything you need, just let me know.” he scans you up and down before returning to your face, muttering a small “mhm” before looking back out the window again.

once your backs to him, you roll your eyes, heading to your lounging area to wait around until robert to wants something.

around a half an hour has passed and you’ve resorted to reading a book, you’ve read it multiple times before, but it’s an old reliable. and you also had absolutely nothing else to do. that is until you hear him call out for you, “ma’am?” you hear robert say, you place your book down and stand up, walking over to him.

he’s watching you this time, actually looking at you like a person.

“could you get me a scotch on the rocks?” he asks, leaning his head back slightly, “of course, i’ll be back shortly.” you reply before heading to the opposite side of the jet to make his drink. after a few moments, you return, drink in hand.

“here you go, mr. fisc-“

“could you get me a cigarette, too?” he adds, fully cutting you off without care.

“i’m sorry, sir, smoking isn’t allowed on the jet.” you reply, obviously you can’t smoke on the goddamn jet, but this would probably come as a surprise to him. arrogant little pricks probably never been told no in his life.

he brings the drink up to his lips, taking a swig before placing it down in the cup holder.

“i could buy you, and this jet company. get me the cigarette.” he spat, you’re rendered speechless, as you begin to leave to try and find cigarettes you feel a tight grip on your wrist.

“for future reference, doll, when i want something, i get it. i’m not asking you, i’m telling you.” he grumbled before letting go of your wrist. as you kept walking you couldn’t help but be absolutely appalled at his behaviour.

somehow, you were able to find the cigarettes and a lighter.

you remind yourself, suck it up, he’s filthy rich, the pay will be good. the thought of taking money from him gave you an authentic smile that you held on your face as you approached him, cigarettes and lighter in hand.

“here you go, sir.” you say, he grabs them without acknowledging you at all and quickly brings a cigarette up to his lips, lighting it before inhaling the smoke sharply. you watch as his shoulders drop as he exhales.

you turn your back to him to leave, “wait.” you hear him say, you turn to face him.

“sit.” he adds, using his head to signal towards the seat sitting across from his. you feel your anxiety begin to peak, but you oblige. “how’d you get this job?” he pries, taking a sip from his drink and then a drag from the cigarette. “uh..” you start, mind racing. you’re about to lose your job, you think to yourself. “i worked as a regular stewardess for a few years, but someone put a good word in about me, so now i’m here.” you say, as sweetly as you can.

“good word? about what? did you fuck someone to get them to say that?” he asks, his words are jarring. you can’t believe he’d speak to you like this, “excuse me?” you question.

“because the behaviour you’ve shown is less than satisfactory to say the least. so i’m just wondering if you fucked your way to get here.” he shrugs, “i’m disgusted with how you’ve acted. and if you wanna keep your job, you’re going to have to prove yourself worthy.”

you don’t know what to say, “mr. fischer i’m afraid i don’t know what you’re-“

“call me robert, hun.” he says, his tone still cold as he puts out the cigarette.

“robert. i’m not sure what you’re implying here.” you repeat, feeling yourself become flushed.

“you said you’d be taking care of me for this flight, didn’t you? and right now, i’m having some needs that i’m sure you could meet. after all, the other favours i’ve asked of you have been a disappointment.” he says, beginning to unbuckle his belt, your eyes go wide,

“robert, i’m not sure-“ you squeak, being thrown off by how quickly everything is progressing.

“sh, do one thing right and keep yourself quiet.” he says, now unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. “matter of fact, get on your knees.” he growls, blatantly palming himself in front of you. this entire situation is a huge mind-fuck. roberts been nothing but a petty little cunt the entire time, but he’s still rather handsome, and, his most dominating quality, rich. you don’t wanna lose your job, and you’re willing to do whatever he’d ask to prevent it. so you fall to your knees in front of him.

“you’re gonna suck me off, and then i’ll consider forgetting about your bad hospitality.” he remarked, scooting his hips forward slightly. you nod, not saying a word before tugging his waistbands down, watching his hard cock spring against his stomach. you hesitantly give him a few pumps. after building up the courage, you bring his tip into your mouth, sucking and swirly around it gently, watching his body begin to go limp as a low groan came from within him.

slowly, you start to take more, pumping whatever isn’t fitting in your mouth, he’s moaning now. not very loud, but enough for you to be able to hear him. you feel a palm being placed on top of your head, forcing you down lower on his cock.

“take more, and don’t be shy, sweetheart, you wanna keep your job, don’t you?” he purrs, you view that as a sign for you to play with his balls as well while sucking him off. at this point you’re basically deep throating him, twisting your hand to act as if a continuation of your mouth.

“ah fuck..” he grunts, “do you only follow instructions when they involve you being a whore?” he growls through gritted teeth, you hum around him, unable to give him any other response. he swats your hands away and locks his fingers into your hair, fucking your mouth at a rough and unexpected pace.

you can barely breathe, your eyes are watering, and worst of all- you can feel yourself becoming wet. you hope to god that he doesn’t know that he’s turning you on, he’d never let you forget it.

“god..” he moans, “such a good girl. is that all it takes to get you to behave? a cock down your throat?” he teases, brushing your hair back to watch himself fuck your mouth. you whine around him, and glance at him through half lidded eyes, continuing to let him have his way with you.

he starts to huff quietly before roughly tugging you off his cock, making you gasp loudly at the ability to breathe clearly again.

“don’t wanna come just yet, wanna use that pussy first.” he grunts, pumping himself slowly. almost as if in a daze, you stand to your feet and shimmy your stockings and panties off, leaving you still nearly fully clothed. you place your hands on his shoulders and climb onto his lap, lining him up with your entrance before slowly sliding yourself down. wincing slightly at the stretch.

he moans lowly and his head dips back, “fuck.. you’re so wet.. gripping me so good.. shame you’re such a disrespectful slut. maybe you just need a good fucking, huh?” he groans in your ear, running his tongue along its outer shell. chills spread across your body as you raise your hips and slowly begin to ride him, “y-yeah.. i think i do..” you reply, hiding your face in his neck,

“mhm.. i think so too..” he purrs before placing his hands on your hips, guiding you to pick up a faster and rougher pace. you can’t help but moan while gripping his shoulders, “s-ir!” you whine, “feels so good!”.

he lets out a breathy laugh, “such a good girl when she’s got a cock inside her.” he nudges your head up to expose your neck and plants wet kisses, occasionally sucking gently. he sneaks his hands down and rides your skirt up so it’s sitting around your waist, fully exposing your bare bottom half. he grips your ass roughly before placing a firm smack against it, making you gasp loudly. you feel yourself becoming wetter, almost embarrassingly so. he noticed this.

“oh, did you like that, sweet thing? god, you really are a slut..” he laughs lowly before shifting his hips up to meet your trusts. the cabin is only filled with the sounds of heavy breath and moans, skin on skin, a slight squelching sounds which are making you blush harder.

you’re a moaning mess, shaking slightly, gasping and whining. he grabs one of your wrists and moves it between your legs,

“rub your clit, get yourself off on my cock, sweetheart.” he groans in the sweetest tone he’s had the entire flight. and you do just that, rub your clit while he fucks up into you. you’re close, very close, and judging by that gesture he just pulled you assume he is too.

“i’m close, robert!” you whine, screwing your eyes shut tightly, “come for me.” he growls before smacking your ass again, the sting of the smack pushed you over the edge. your orgasm rippling through you as he continued to thrust himself inside you.

“oh, shit, hun..” he mumbles, “squeezing my cock so nicely.. like you’re begging me to come inside..”

before you can fully process what he’s said, hes coming inside you, biting down on your shoulder to stifle his own moans. after riding out his orgasm, he begins to lift you off. but instead of guiding you to the seat in front of him, he moves you to the seat beside him, then proceeding to lean forward and pick up your stockings and panties for you.

“if you clean up your act, i’ll have you on my flights more often. i’ll treat you good, sweetheart, real good.”

#cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #inception #robert fischer #robert fischer x reader #hope you guys enjoy #:))

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starsurface · 4 months ago

Note

Can you do a sad little space reader who is being comforted by a care giver Liu Kang? (Mk1) just a smol bb having a rough day and needing some special attention.

Hi! Omg yes of course I'm so sorry for how late this is!!!

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

CG Liu Kang MK1 w/ Sad Regressor Hcs

🌟 Liu Kang is very observant, even with his busy duties as God

🌟 He notices your demeter slowly change throughout the day, and how every little action irritating you

🌟 If your training, he takes notice of all the fights your loosing (All rigged, you claimed)

🌟 Or how you dropped your bowl during lunch and got lectured at for ‘wasting’ food

🌟 Or falling into that puddle he told you to lookout for and getting all muddy >:(

🌟 Or sometimes, you just have a bad day

🌟 Everything feels off and icky sand there’s no real reason, it just is, and it sucks

🌟 And even worse no matter the senerio, he can’t get to you!!! The monks need him for this, and Johnny and Kenshi got into another fight, and he had to stop Kung lao from a bet, and he still has some paperwork he needs to do-

🌟 It makes him upset as well, being unable to reach you

🌟 He’ll send someone to check up on you throughout the day, just to make sure your okay or provide you company

🌟 If you feel little before he gets there, he'll send one of his Earthrealmer Warriors (probably Raiden or Kung Lao)

🌟 However if you just want some alone time, his room is always open

🌟 Don’t you worry, he’s RUNNING once all his paperwork is done (Geras can do the rest!! :D)

🌟 If you slip on spot by seeing him, or when your trying to angirly rant about your bad day, he'll pick you up and place you on his lap

🌟 Whether it's so sob into his chest or cross your arms and huff, he's very patient with you

🌟 If words are too hard, he'll let you angrily babble to him about anything you want!!

🌟 Nodding along, agreeing with everything you say, because of course your right

🌟 Crying or angry, he'll kiss your forehead and tell you that everythings okay now

🌟 He’s very soft with you, carrying you on his hip and giving you soft kisses whenever he can

🌟 Cuddles and comfort are in session after such a silly day! >:(

🌟 He'll even give you a bubble bath to help you feel less icky!! With as many bath toys (and maybe some of Johnny's) that he can find!! And he miiiight just add in some extra bubbles

🌟 Rest day equals comfy outfits, so he'll let you wear whatever you want!! (Even his own headband! . . . Do please give it back later though)

🌟 He's very kind of you start randomly crying or getting fussy quickly

🌟 A little bit of little time might not cure the full day, but he'll do what he can to make sure his baby's okay now

🌟 He'll even spoon feed you dinner!! Airplane and all!! Anything to make his baby laugh again

🌟 . . . He'll even give you extra dessert or extended bedtime

🌟 ^ And of course a bunch of cuddles and affection

🌟 . . . The extra paperwork Geras refused to do is worth every moment making sure your okay <3

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Sorry again for ghosting y'all!! I got really into Resident Evil (still haven't completed the 1st game, smh), and then I got super into DC!! But I'm working on Hcs I swear!!!

#age regression #sfw age regression #agere #sfw agere #mortal kombat agere #mk agere #age regression headcanons #mk1 #mk1 headcanons #mortal kombat 1 headcanons #mortal kombat #mk1 liu kang #mk liu kang #liu kang #lord liu kang #liu kang x reader #cg liu kang #caregiver liu kang

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goosewriting · 9 months ago

Text

Dinner Disaster

summary: after some flirting, reth finally asks reader out for dinner, but it doesn’t go as planned (follows the dinner disaster quest)

relationship: Reth x gn!reader

warnings: spoilers for Reth’s backstory and interactions, smooching

word count: 5.1k

A/N: literally no one asked for this but this game is consuming my very being to a molecular level, and this man is a big reason i’m obsessed. btw if any of you play palia or are interested in playing, hmu and we can add each other lol this is set some time after the flirting starts, after reader gets involved in his uh, side business. this is more or less how the quest played out in my head so, yeah, enjoy~

Navigation: Part 1 (you're here) | Part 2

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

Since you developed a real green thumb, to the delight and pride of Badruu, you have some extra apples from your tree that you don’t know what to do with. So, as with most of your garden surplus, you decide to bring them to Reth, who will surely find a good use for the produce.

You spot the freckled Majiri behind the bar when you enter the Inn, thinking that he’d probably make an apple pie with the fruit, and that you’d surely get a slice. Your mouth waters at the thought. You wonder when the cook will teach you the recipe; maybe you should ask him.

Reth’s working the register, finishing some transaction with another human customer, when you place the wooden crate of apples on the bar, and proceed to take a seat on the stool you usually occupy when you visit him at the Inn. Reth gives the apples a curious glance, and talks to you over his shoulder as he hands the customer some change.

“Thanks, babe,” he says without thinking, and you both freeze at his words, as does the human who just paid for a recipe. They shoot you a quick look with raised brows, then silently turn on their heels and walk out of the Inn. Reth slowly turns to you.

“Sorry, that kinda slipped out,” he says sheepishly, unable to meet your eyes. “Are we at the babe status yet?”

To be honest, if he had asked you first, you probably would have said no. It’s not your favourite pet name, and he could surely come up with something better. He often calls you sweet tooth, which you’ve actually come to like a lot. But hearing him call you ‘babe’ so matter-of-factly out of nowhere… You’re surprised to realise that you actually like how it sounded, how it sounds coming from him.

“I mean… If you want to be,” you answer after a moment, deciding to tease him a little. “Sure thing, babe.”

Except that it backfires and it ends with both of your faces burning up, which he tries to play off by clearing his throat.

“Yeah, I’ll still have to get used to it, too,” you chuckle, bringing a hand to your face in an attempt to cover up how flustered you got. “But I like it when you say it.”

“Noted,” he replies, then looks around the Inn to see if someone else will approach the register. As there’s no one else, he fully faces you, leaning slightly over the bar. “Say, what are you up to today?”

“Oh you know, the usual,” you reply, starting to count on your fingers. “Hunting, fishing, foraging. Then tending to the vegetable garden. I also need to craft a new chair. Why?”

“A-are you busy later tonight?”

You prop yourself up on your elbow and give him a lopsided smile.

“I’m never too busy for you,” you offer, and he smiles amusedly at your answer. “You have anything in mind?”

“I was thinking we could have dinner. At your place, maybe?” he asks. “I’ll take care of the food and everything. You just have to show up.”

Up until now, no one has actually visited your house. Sure, you upgraded from your first precarious tent to a proper building, and the Majiri came by every so often to say hi or bring you something, but no one has actually gone into your house. And for some reason the thought of Reth not only being at your place but also being the first one to do so, it makes you a bit nervous… but in a good way.

You realise that he’s still looking at you waiting for an answer, fidgeting with a loose nail on the wooden crate still on the bar.

“I’d love that, actually,” you reply.

“Great!” He looks actually relieved. As if I would have said no to you asking me out, you think, smiling to yourself. He’s so innocent sometimes. Reth takes the crate and shoves it under the bar somewhere.

“Then let’s say around 6pm?” he proposes.

“Sounds good,” you agree with a nod.

Ashura enters the Inn, giving you a warm smile and a wave from afar as he spots you. Given that it’s his boss and you shouldn’t be distracting Reth from work, you take it as your cue to leave.

“See you later then,” you say in a low voice so Ashura can’t hear you.

“Don’t miss me too much,” Reth gives you his usual goodbye. He winks at you and you merely roll your eyes as you turn to exit the place. And just in time, so he can’t see your flustered face. You can’t remember when exactly the winking started, but it never fails to make you weak in the knees.

Once down at the plaza, you refocus on your tasks for the day, mentally making a list of the things to buy, resources to mine and places to go. Then you head for your first stop with a spring in your step. Tonight can’t come quickly enough.

— — —

You come home with a backpack full to the brim of crabs, plants, stones and other goodies. As you set down your things on the grass with a grunt from the weight, you see your palcat coming out of the house to greet you.

“Hey there,” you say, crouching down to scratch her head. She purrs and meows happily. You recently got this companion, and it’s been nice having someone at home to come back to. She often accompanies you when you go out as well, but this morning she was feeling especially lazy and cosy so she stayed in bed. You walk to your storage crate, starting to put everything away, and your cat looks at you with a light tilt to the head as you tell her about your day.

“Oh and actually,” you finish your retelling with the big news. “We’re having a visitor today.”

“Mreow?”

“Yeah, him… So you have to be on your best behaviour, you hear me?” you tell your cat with an accusing finger pointing at her. “We have to make a good impression. If you’re good, you can have lots of treats later, okay?”

She meows again, and you like to think she just agreed; bribes with food always work, after all.

There’s still some time until six, so you tend to your garden, clean yourself and change into a new set of clothes, the nicer one. It’s the only one you own, and it was a gift from Jel. In fact, all the clothing you have was given to you by him in some way or another. You make a mental note to prepare a gift for him for helping you out so much.

Next to your house there’s a nice spot among the trees, near the pond, where you can hear the trickling of water. You grab a big blanket and a lantern, and set everything up for a picnic corner. Even if whatever Reth brought was more of a “plates and cutlery at the table” kind of meal, you could still come out here after and look at the stars a bit. Then, maybe you’ll find the courage to make a proper move on him… You imagine the both of you sitting on the blanket, illuminated only by the warm glow of a candle and the gentle moonlight, you take his hand, he leans in, and…

You mentally slap yourself to get rid of those thoughts, cheeks ablaze. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, you reprimand yourself. He may be a bit of a flirt at times, but Reth doesn’t strike you as the type of person to take such feelings lightly. So you have to make sure that he even is into you in the first place. Like actually into you. Suddenly your whole mental scenario shifts, and as you take his hand, he pulls away, disgusted. But wait. Dinner was his idea. He even called you ‘babe’. Surely he must have some interest, right? You’re not just… a side piece?

Before you can spiral down further, you hear your name being called, although it’s not the voice you were expecting; this one is higher and has a slight lisp. You turn around to find Auni by the gate to your yard. You jog up to where he stands, smiling curiously. Sure, he delivers the mail twice a day, but usually you just find the letters in your mailbox as if they magically appeared; you never saw him actually deliver anything. You wonder if he has a new cool bug to show you.

“Hey Auni!” you greet the boy as you approach him.

“Hi, I have a delivery for you,” he announces, holding out something for you to take.

“Oh, what is it?”

“Reth paid me in cakes to have this brought to you asap, said it was really important.”

“Oh?”

You take the letter from him with a thanks, and he says his goodbyes. Why would Reth send a letter when he’s supposed to show up himself? Maybe it’s a treasure hunt kinda thing?

You open the folded piece of paper, which isn’t even in an envelope, recognising Reth’s handwriting, but it’s even messier and more hurried than usual. The curious smile on your face disappears, your brows furrowing as you read.

Hey, I feel like a HUGE jerk for doing this, but I have to cancel our plans tonight. Something came up that I can’t ignore. Next time we see each other I promise I’ll explain.

- Reth

It feels like your whole body suddenly runs cold, and your hands drop to your sides, your eyes looking ahead at nothing in particular.

Your cat, who had poked her head out the door when she heard Auni, seems to sense the shift in you and approaches, meowing softly, as if asking if everything is okay. You look down at her, and give a light shrug.

“Looks like we won’t have visits after all…” you explain, reading over the letter one more time, then letting out a deep sigh. “Let’s get you something to eat, c’mon.”

She seems to know those words, as she immediately stands up and circles around your legs. Following you inside, she waits for you to get the bowl ready, and once you set it on the ground, she happily digs in.

“Well, at least one of us got a nice dinner.”

You stroke once from her head to her long bushy tail, to which she comically lifts her behind, then you decide to turn in for the night and head to bed, not really feeling hungry despite the eventful day.

— — —

The next morning you wake up to the sunlight shining through your window and fully hitting your face; you forgot to close the blinds the night before. With a squint, you look down at the weight you feel on yourself and find your cat curled up on your lap, which gets a sleepy half smile out of you.

Picking her up in your arms, you go to close one of the blinds, then make your bed and head to the kitchen for breakfast. You start your routine like normal, having breakfast, taking care of the garden, going through your inventory to check what you need and what you can sell. You take your time, though, not really wanting to head into the village just yet.

By the time you’re ready to go, it’s almost noon. Usually you’d be at the inn in the morning to say hi to Reth and chat a bit before starting your day. And while you really don’t feel like talking to him after leaving you hanging yesterday, you also know that he’s probably beating himself up about it, even more so if you haven’t been seen all morning. So after heaving a deep sigh, in hopes of letting all anger and frustration exit your body, you walk through the gate down into the village. To your surprise and delight, your cat follows this time.

You make your way towards the central plaza, exchanging greetings with those who walk by you, stopping to have a short chat with Chayne, whom you probably don’t talk to enough. You make a mental note to remedy that.

Somewhere in your mind though, you know you’re just stalling; you should just get it over with. Reth probably has a good explanation. Besides, you don’t want to be mad at him or give him the silent treatment or anything. You miss him, and you do want to see him. You’re just… disappointed.

Taking one last deep breath as you stand before the Inn, you look down at your palcat and give her a nod. She meows encouragingly. You walk in through the open door, relieved to find it mostly empty. There’s very few people sitting at the tables in the corner, and Ashura isn’t at the reception desk.

Your eyes find Reth’s behind the bar, and he freezes for a moment. You approach him like you normally would, about to take a seat on your usual stool.

“Wait,” he says before you’re able to fully sit down. You merely shoot him a questioning look. He lowers his voice, shooting a quick glance at the people eating at the tables. “Let’s talk in the back.”

Reth scribbles something on a piece of paper and places it next to the till, indicating for you to follow him with a nod of his head. You pat the seat you meant to take while commanding your cat to hop onto it, and she does, so you tell her to stay there and wait. Then as you walk to where he said, you take a quick look at the paper; it reads “back in 5”.

You follow Reth into the back room, and you both come to stand in the farthest corner; since there are two archways but only one has a door, this will have to do to stay away from prying ears and curious eyes. You both talk in hushed voices.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says with a sigh, scratching his neck. He drags his eyes up to meet yours, scared of what he might find. “Please don’t be mad. Are you mad? You can be a little mad. I’m such a jerk–”

“Hey, no need don’t say that,” you interrupt him, and you just look at each other in silence for a second. “I mean, I’m upset, but not in a ‘mad at you’ way. More in a… ‘I was really looking forward to it and was bummed that you had to cancel at the last minute’ way.

“I was really looking forward to it too, it’s just…” Reth runs his hand over his face with a groan. “Yesterday was kind of a mess.”

“What happened?”

“Ashura caught me sneaking into the back rooms after hours. I panicked, so I lied and said I was actually planning a party for him, as a thank you. He liked that idea, so he got off my back, but now I actually have to throw him a dinner party with other people.”

You look to the side, unable to stop the scoff that escapes you. But it isn’t a mocking or offended scoff, it’s more of an amused sharp exhale.

For a moment, you think back to how you kind of ended up roped into his side hustle of smuggling illicit goods (especially Flow and ancient artifacts, which are very illegal), which is why he was sneaking around in the first place. You’ve been covering for him with Ashura and many others for a while now, and while at first it was more of a personal favour, now you're in too deep. Not that you mind, though. If you’re being honest with yourself, it adds a bit of an exhilarating factor to everyday life. You’re not entirely sure yet about the actual power and meaning of Flow in this society, but it seems to be connected to humans in some way, so you’re at least a little bit interested in it. If you have to investigate and interact with it in secret, then so be it; you also want answers as to what happened to humanity and how you landed here. Besides, it’s one more thing you two can bond over. Literally partners in crime. The thought makes you smile to yourself.

“You’re kind of bad at this whole criminal thing, you know?” you tell him with a playful grin. “Getting strangers involved, almost being caught by your boss.”

He doesn’t seem too amused.

“I know, I’m…” his demeanour shifts from annoyed at and with himself to almost shy, and he looks down as he bites the inside of his cheek. “I guess I’ve been distracted lately, is all.”

You hum in response, somewhat intrigued. When his gaze comes back up to meet yours though, eyes filled with yearning, the look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’re all too aware of how close you’re standing to each other. You need to wrap this up.

“So is there anything I can do to help you out?” you ask him.

“What? No, you really don’t need to. You’ve already saved my hide so many times,” he’s quick to dismiss your question. “Besides, cooking is one of the few things I’m actually good at, so I got that covered.”

Suddenly he looks like he just thought of something that you could in fact help out with, but he doesn’t want to say. You give his upper arm a soft push with your fist.

“C’mon, out with it,” you encourage him with a playful smile.

“Well…” His eyes linger for a second where you touched him. “I need to prepare everything, so I can’t be out and about actually inviting everyone to the dinner party.”

He takes out a paper from his pocket and hands it to you. You skim over it, seeing a list of names.

“If you could invite everyone and let me know how many guests will come, I can make sure to cook the right amout.”

“Got it,” you reply with a nod. “I’ll ask around and probably send Auni back to let you know. He told me you’re paying him in cakes for special deliveries. Think you can sneak another baking session in today on top of dinner? On my tab.”

“Sure thing,” he chuckles, then gets serious again. “And hey, I really am sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Reth, it’s okay, really,” you say, and he’s so close and he looks so sad, you want to hold his face so badly. In fact, your hand is already going up, but you pull back midway, fidgeting with the collar of your shirt instead. “Just… be more careful next time, okay?”

“Yeah…” he sighs. “And thank you, for the invites. I owe you. Again.”

“Yes, you do,” you chuckle. “Maybe I should start charging you with interest.”

He starts patting down his pockets.

“I don’t have any cash on me at the moment,” he says with a smile, playing along.

Your answer comes quicker than you can anticipate and you’re unable to stop your words.

“I was thinking more along the lines of kisses maybe…”

Both of you look at each other a bit shocked.

“Oh. O-oh,” is all he stammers.

Whatever confidence came over you for you to say that, immediately dissipates as Reth turns several shades of pink darker. The tips of his ears look like they might actually catch fire any moment.

“But we can talk about payment later,” you’re quick to add, and clear your throat. “I’ll uhm, get your invites out. You better start on that food.”

“Right. Yes,” he says stiffly, and you both put some space between each other. “Thanks again. And sorry too. And–”

“Reth,” you cut him short again, giving him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. See you later.”

“B-bye.”

You exit the backroom, calling for your cat, who walks around the bar to find you, and you make a hasty exit through the back, walking down the stairs to your left. As you pass the river, you consider for a moment jumping into the water to cool down. Maybe that would get your heart to slow down again. You fist your shirt over your chest where you can feel the pounding against your ribs.

An inquisitive meow from the side gets your attention back, and you look down at your companion, who’s looking up at you confusedly.

“Right. We have a job to do,” you say and go to take out the paper with the list from your pocket, except that it’s been in your hand the whole time, and it’s now crumpled and slightly damp because of how clammy your hands were. You cringe a bit at that, commanding yourself to calm down at once. Geez, get a grip on yourself, you think.

It takes a while to track Auni down after everyone else, given that he’s always out on his mail route or out and about exploring, probably trying to catch some bugs. When you finally find him, you give him the list of people who plan to atttend Ashura’s dinner, and send him to Reth to deliver the news with the promise of getting his sticky hands on more cake. This seems to do the trick, and he happily jogs off with the new list stuffed into a side pocket of his gigantic backpack. You look after him as his figure gets smaller and smaller, wondering how he’s even able to carry all that. His equipment is bigger than himself.

With a shake of your head, you bring your attention back to your own equipment, and get your bow and arrows ready. Today you’re hunting chapaas; Hassian asked for some meat and fur earlier this week and you haven’t been able to deliver yet.

— — —

You get back home relatively late, and when you do, the flag on your mailbox is up. Setting down your haul next to it, you get out several letters, looking for a message from Reth. And lo and behold, there’s one from him, this time properly written and folded into an envelope.

He says that in the end everything worked out, to which you sigh in relief. Ashura doesn’t suspect a thing apparently, and everyone had a great time. He tells you to meet him at your “private spot” tonight, he has something to give you.

You look at the time, then down at yourself; you’re looking pretty shabby after hunting for hours on end, kneeling down in mud and such. So you quickly change into clean clothes, wash your face and prepare food for your loyal cat. As she happily munches away, you grab your jacket and leave again. Nights can get pretty chilly here, you’ve learned.

It doesn’t take long for you to make your way to the inn, given that you’re essentially bee lining for it. Checking that no one’s following you or sees you enter the inn from the back, you quickly take a left and go down the stairs towards the storage room. Reth gave you the key to it, so you unlock the door and enter, quickly closing it behind you.

When you turn around, you’re met with the cook on the other side of the room, stopping whatever he was doing on the table, and he stands up to come and meet you.

“Hey sweet tooth, thanks for coming,” he greets you.

“Hey,” you smile up to him but he looks tense. “Is everything okay? I thought you said the dinner party worked out? “

“No, it did. It’s- It’s not that,” he curses under his breath at himself.

“What is it then?”

Reth sighs, and you can tell he’s trying to find the right words. So you give him a moment to gather his thoughts, waiting patiently.

“You know… I’m not used to asking for help,” he starts explaining. “Even as a kid, I wouldn't, and I didn't expect others to help, either. It was always just me and Tish against the world. And now there’s you.”

His cheeks flush ever so slightly, and you can start to feel yours mirroring his.

“Here you come, busting into my life,” he says with a soft smile, but it quickly vanishes. “And even though I keep messing up… somehow you’re still here. You’re not sick of me yet.”

You want to interject, as that “yet” doesn’t sit well with you, but he doesn’t let you.

“And more than that, you've put yourself on the line for me, more than once. I honestly don't understand why you keep putting up with me but… I really do appreciate everything you've done and how much you've helped me out, and Tish as well. But the cartel… I- I don’t want you to get hurt because of me. And I don’t want to scare you off either.” He lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever is going on between us, I don’t want to lose this. So let me make it up to you.”

He steps aside to show you what’s on the table: a container with your favourite food.

“And I know this is barely enough for everything–”

“Reth, please stop,” you interrupt him before he can spiral further, your voice soft. “I’ll take the food, thank you. It looks delicious. But you really don’t have to try to make up for any of the, uh, side business stuff. Sure, the dinner didn’t work out, but if you say we just have dinner another day, then that is enough for me.”

You step a little closer, your hand tentatively reaching out for his.

“And you don’t have to worry about scaring me off.” Your voice is nothing more than a whisper now. “I also don’t want to lose what we have. I’m not going anywhere.”

Reth looks down at your hands as he shyly intertwines his fingers with yours, and when his eyes come back up to meet yours, they’re full of something… new. His gaze flickers down to your lips for a second and back up, and you wonder if he can hear your erratic heartbeat. You’re standing so close to each other right now, it wouldn’t take a lot to close the gap.

“That said, though, about that payment I mentioned…” you trail off.

His jaw clenches, and he looks to the side, pulling back away from you ever so slightly.

“Are you sure about this?” he questions rather bitterly. “About me?”

“What do you mean?” you ask. He sighs, eyes cast down at the floor.

“People will talk. They probably already are. With my reputation and all… I strayed from my Path. Most days I’m convinced people don’t even like my soup. I’m nothing more than a scoundrel.”

Your free hand comes up to gingerly hold his chin and turn his face to make him look at you.

“First of all, I don’t care what people say,” you start refuting his arguments. “Maybe I still don’t understand Majiri tradition, but I think you should be free to choose your own path with no expectations, and change it if you find it doesn’t suit you. And I like your soup. Also, I think being a scoundrel is part of your charm. Is that a bad thing?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, and when he does, his voice is so small you almost miss it.

“You’re too good for me.”

You pull back slightly to fully look at him, and it breaks your heart a little how earnestly he means that. So you let go of his hand and hug his torso instead, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

“I don’t know what happened that makes you think that, but I will try my best to show you how wrong you are. You deserve good things, Reth. Whatever it is you want, you’re allowed to pursue it.”

He hugs you back, tightly, so you place a kiss to the only place you can reach, which is his jawline just below his ear. You feel him tremble, but if it’s from relief, anticipation or something else, you can’t tell.

“Right now what I want is you,” he says after a moment.

“Then what are you waiting for.”

Reth lets go only enough for you to come back face to face with him, and he doesn’t waste a second to capture your lips with his. At first it’s shy, new, a sequence of soft pecks, testing the waters. When your hands travel up his chest to cup his face, he relaxes a bit more, kissing you more confidently. His hands slip underneath your open jacket, holding onto your waist and pulling you to him.

His kisses grow more intense, hungrier, and his tongue finds its way to yours. You can’t help the low moan that escapes you when he presses you further into him, and he practically swallows it.

As he takes a step forward, you take one backwards, then another and another, until your back hits the door, and you’re being squished between the rough wooden surface and Reth’s body trying to get impossibly close to yours. The impact makes you grunt, and he responds with something between a sigh and a growl, moving away from your lips to attack your neck. You welcome the break to take a breather, panting, and you remember something.

“Wait,” you say between breaths, and immediately Reth stops his soft bites and licks on your throat, also out of breath, and worry starts spreading on his face.

“W-what? Is this okay? I–”

Your hand on his face gently covers his mouth to stop him from talking, while with the other you turn the key below the doorknob to lock the door, which you had forgotten to do when you arrived.

“Just don’t want to risk getting interrupted, is all.”

You take a moment to admire his slightly dishevelled form: the bandana is a bit askew, his pupils are blown out, his cheeks and ears a deep pink. You probably don’t look much different, to be honest. He looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to give him permission to continue.

“Let’s move away from the door, maybe–” you start, and within an instant, strong arms are picking you up under your thighs, carrying you over to the other side of the room and setting you down on the table.

“Better?” he asks, placing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Better,” you reply with a smile.

“You said you’re charging me with lots of interest,” he mumbles into your skin as he starts again where he left off earlier. You can only hum in response. “And I plan on paying back what I owe.”

You pull back a little to look at him, and the newfound confidence and assertiveness in his eyes and voice send a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“I’m very much looking forward to it.”

— — —

A/N 2: what? goose being attacked by brainrot over a freckled red-head who seems confident on the outside but is actually riddled with insecurities and does some illegal stuff to keep his family safe? huh, bet no one saw that one coming 🙄 guess i have ONE TYPE, smh.

A/N 3: if this is something you'd like to see more of, feel free to let me know and i'll add palia to my taglist fandoms for you to sign up :D palia has now been added to my taglist! link in my pinned post~

#goose feathers #palia x reader #palia reth x reader #reth x reader #i don't even have a masterlist ready for this one #i have to make a new header lol #and yes i am planning on making this a series because i am delulu and 3 parters is my sweet spot apparently

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cripplecharacters · 8 months ago

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hello! do you have any advice on writing disabled characters in historical setting? specifically characters, whose diagnosis hadn't been discovered yet (for example I have a character with pots but they live before 1982)

Hi,

I love historical fiction, and know this can be a little tricky, because of course disability of various kinds has always existed and conditions are real before they’re named.

But you have options!

The most important thing, I would say, is describing the aspects of the condition and your character’s feelings and behavior around it (how they manage it, what they notice about it). You can also describe other people’s responses to how they feel and act.

You should definitely describe how your character feels about their condition. Do they wish there were others like them to talk to, do they actually already have a community of people similar to them, or do they wish no one else has what they have? Do they wonder if anyone they know is like them, or think they must be alone? Maybe they feel like their condition not a big deal at all and just an inconvenience, or maybe they feel really hindered by it and it greatly upsets them, or maybe they’re somewhere in between and sometimes get really frustrated and sometimes they feel it’s just a thing that happens.

And of course the answers to all of these will be different depending on your time period—someone with POTS in 1795 will manage their symptoms differently than someone with POTS in 1968, and the same goes for all conditions. But for POTS specifically, without naming it:

For the symptoms you can describe your character noticing that whenever they stand or sit up they feel their heart race and they feel dizzy or faint. They might not know why, but they’ll know how their body reacts.

You can describe what they avoid doing because they’ve noticed it makes them feel worse—maybe they take showers that are less hot, or go out as little as possible when it’s very hot/humid out, or maybe they don’t drink alcohol or coffee. Maybe it’s bad enough they can’t do some sort of work that is expected of them at their home, or their job, or school.

You can describe what they do because it makes them feel better—maybe they drink a lot of water, maybe they buy socks a size smaller because they noticed it makes them feel a little better, maybe they always give themselves an extra half hour to get anything done so they can stand or sit up more slowly. Maybe they take over someone else’s specific work because they can manage that better and trade with them.

As to other character’s reactions, some characters may be positive and always offer your character their arm when they’re standing so they can worry less about fainting. Some might be pretty neutral and just ask them why they never go grab a beer with them. Some might be negative and roll their eyes whenever your character needs extra time or to sit down for a bit.

People with POTS and similar conditions will recognize themselves in your character’s actions and reactions, and it’s very possible that people who have friends or family or people they know with POTS or anything similar will think “oh that’s kind of like what John Doe has.” And even if they don’t, they’ll still have read a realistic and respectful story about someone with a disability.

This goes for any disability, not just POTS. Just swap out the symptoms and ways to manage it and characters’ reactions accordingly.

Something you can choose to do, but you don’t have to do, is add a note at some point (but probably either at the end or the beginning of the story) that your character has what today we would know as POTS.

For an example I’ve seen in real life (not POTS related but about disability in general), I read a book set in the early 20th century in an institution, The Degenerates by J. Albert Mann. Since it’s a different time period, characters are referred to by terms we don’t use anymore at all or not in the same way, and many characters have conditions that we know about today but were not known at all at that time. What the author did was describe the characters’ actions (and thoughts, if they were the POV character), as well as how others reacted to them. At the end there was an appendix describing what each character might have been diagnosed with today, if anything at all (since not all people ended up at asylums because of an actual condition and some were just poor or Othered in some other way).

Thank you for your thoughtful question! I feel like I rarely see characters in historical fiction who have basically any disabilities, but thank you for wanting to create some :)

Good luck!

— Mod Sparrow

#mod sparrow #historical fiction #POTS representation

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acrobattack · 8 months ago

Text

bliss redesign based off one I made in my teens

thought process + various other bits and bobs under the cut

I was 15 and annoyed by everything that moved when this character first came out, so in my own head I was very much making a Point with this redesign. Hence, I made very minimal changes. I wanted to work with what was already there and basically just make the existing design more thought-through. Little breakdown ahead (keeping in mind i myself am very much An Amateur who doesn’t know shit and am just ranting about my opinions and i also haven’t seen a single second of the 2016 reboot so i don’t know much about Bliss to begin with)

1. one of my Biggest pet peeves with Bliss is that the powerpuff girls each have bangs that are simple, memorable, and iconic while also being unique from each other and being reminiscent of irl little girls hairstyles. It’s very neat and clever and I like it a lot

and then Bliss has this confusing jumble of shapes that looks like it changes in style halfway across her forehead

i have absolutely no idea what the intent is here. My only guess is maybe it’s meant to look weird on purpose like she was trying to cut it herself or something (I suspect it’s something like that since she seems to have normal looking bangs as a little kid from what I can see) but it doesn’t really come off that way if that’s the case. It just looks like baby’s first PPG OC where you Understand that it’s meant to be hair and that it is made out of shapes but have 0 understanding of hairstyle or character design in general. Heck I might have put this exact hairline on a character in the past at the age of like 8

So in my redesign she’s got 5 even notches across her bangs, not thee most exciting change but it does the job I think. It is pretty reminiscent of Blossom but they look different enough from each other that I wasn’t too worried about it

2. low-hanging fruit time, Bliss’s hair color is horrible on the eyes. I’m bewildered at the decision to do this, especially since there is just so much of it, I struggle to think of how she could exist in any scene without hogging all the viewer’s attention constantly. That said, I understand they wanted her to have an unnatural hair color to really signal that she is a Fresh new Teen character from the late 2010’s, which is. Whatever, that’s fine, so she gets purple hair now. I kept the streak for the same reason, especially since she’s got a lot of hair, so no harm in a little extra interest in there.

I also learned recently that her hair glows sometimes? which i did Not know when first drawing her but well i think the darker color helps anyway. It adds some contrast for when she’s normal vs when she’s glowing and makes the latter appear more,, idk threatening or powerful or whatever the mood generally is when she’s doing that.

I did re-add that toothpaste blue to her eyelids though. I like to think it’s also the color of her lasers. It’s a cute color, just not as like 70% of this character’s palette

3. real talk I was drawing this from memory and didn’t mean to change the way her hair flares out from her head. realistically I think the original is fine, maybe just a little boring but fine, so that part of the redesign was an accident. Only thing is, it’s in the exact same position in every screenshot I’ve seen? It doesn’t seem to whip around when she’s flying or anything which looks weird and probably looks weirder in motion, especially since it takes up so much space onscreen. Idk it’s a strange decision, esp since the original show liked to use the ppg’s hair to emphasize their movement, so I’d just bring more movement into her hair. I mean if nothing else it’d make her look cooler.

very very rough little visual of what I mean

I also ended up making it shorter in my redesign—again, not really intentional, but I think it’s better that it eats up a little less of her silhouette

4. Her headband is largely the same, I didn’t hate the idea of her having an accessory, so I just toned down the colors. I’m not personally a fan of the powder blue and that pink heart is very bright and just doesn’t go with the rest of her (once again the color of her hair is doing it no favors). I also moved the heart over. Not necessarily needed I think, but I feel like it reads quicker as a headband and not a weird crown that way+introduces some asymmetry into her design that I think is nice.

5. my biggest gripe other than her bangs are her hips. I’m not against adding anatomy to this character design to make her read visually as older than the girls, but it’s so awkwardly done and distracting. I feel like it even interferes with her line of action more often than not (which is not helped by her unmoving hair).

Part of the issue is she still has the teeny tiny torso, just… with those square-ish hips slapped on, which makes her legs look all gangly and stretched out. I tried to balance out the proportions more in my redesign, as well as change the hips to a flared skirt. I think it helps differentiate her from the girls and still implies hips underneath, it just also functions as a less clunky transition from her torso to her legs.

Lengthening her torso also allows the stripe to look more like a belt above the skirt, which I think helps to sell her as “similar, but not the same” from the ppg

6. Her leggings(? Idk Im not a fashion person) aren’t a bad idea I think. like a more mature version of the girls’ stockings, but I think the white makes them look really distracting. It would help to make them a darker color I think, but since I wanted to keep them reminiscent of the girls’ socks I kept them white and just shortened them.

7. Not really sure what Bliss is wearing on her feet. I think they’re Mary Janes, but they’re drawn a bit different from the girls’ and I honestly think it’s too babyish a shoe for her to wear. I’m not sure what she’s actually wearing in my redesign either honestly, but the goal was just to make them look like the girls’ Mary Janes while clearly being something different.

8. Uh her signature color is something I’ve contemplated changing a lot but to be real I think it’s fine. I feel it was a very bad idea from a marketing standpoint because people were hype about Bunny and would obviously be mad they didn’t get her once the character actually dropped (and in the long-run she would just end up being overshadowed by the character everyone has already assigned that color to) but I’m personally not bugged by her being purple beyond that. If I were to draw them together though I think Bunny would have a more pinky shade of purple and Bliss leans more blue.

Loosely on the same topic, because of Bliss I’ve had a running headcanon that “only child” types of powerpuffs tend to come out purple. Kind of like how trios tend to have a red, blue, and green. It’s a fun little piece of fake lore to rotate around in my brain

Anyway with all that out of the way, here’s some redesigns I decided to have some fun with. Wasn’t being too precious about recognizability or simplicity or anything like that, but I did run out of steam partway through. There’s also one based off Whoopass Bell bc idk, why not

Finally, here’s some OCs I only ever drew once before out of a desire to give Bliss her own teen girl archetypes to form a team with. This is Bee and Beetle, who I’ll probably definitely forget about again immediately after posting this

#ppg Bliss #the powerpuff girls #my art #powerpuff oc #under the cut anyway #trying to do an interesting background #i got bit by a drawing bug and felt the strong need to finish this post today #i’ve been meaning to put together some art and a little ramble about bliss for a while #largely because idk if or when i’ll ever actually talk about her again #i also skimmed through this post once or twice so sorry if it’s incoherent #anyway this took a long ass time i need to take a nap or something

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itsabouttimex2 · 7 months ago

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE YOUR AU!!!!! IT'S SO GOOD!!! op, your ideas are fantastic, you're really creative and an awesome writer!! 💫🌟

The monkiefam dynamic is so fun to read about — and pretty sad in MK's case, the poor guy.

Hopefully it's not too dark of a question, but how brutal does MK get during the primal moon? If he gets too violent with reader, does Wukong or Mac try stopping him or would they just let the natural pecking order happen?

I feel so bad for him, he's is gonna have a hell of a time acknowleding all the stuff he did during the primal moon week :/

Thank you so much, that means a lot to me! I’m glad people like my silly little things! (UPDATED to add a few extra characters!)

Thankfully for Y/N, MK isn’t too brutal- I don’t think they’ll come out with anything worse than a sprained wrist or ankle. The trauma will persist far beyond their injuries, however. When the last green moon of the week fades, he’s positively distraught.

Lining his hand curiously up to a slap mark on Y/N’s cheek to check it, tears brimming in his eyes when it lines up too perfectly to be a coincidence.

I don’t know whether he heartbrokenly distances himself or tries to make up for it with extreme smothering. The poor kid just wanted to spend what was supposed to “just another green moon” with one of his best friends.

And as for Macaque, though he’d really like to help Y/N… he just doesn’t have the ranking. MK is above him in the hierarchy, so he genuinely can’t do anything to upset or piss him off. This only that accomplishes is him getting smacked around right beside Y/N. All he can really do for them is apply herbal balm and bandages after the fact. If he hasn’t had a seal applied to his powers yet, Macaque might think about trying his shadow portals, but… it’s probably better not to risk having two angry monkeys on his tail, demanding to know where he’s hidden their beloved cub/rookie.

Sun Wukong is crazy delusional under the moon’s influence- to him, Y/N getting thrown and tosses all around is just “playfighting”, so he won’t interfere until after things get genuinely harmful. The moment he hears his little “cub” scream and start to cry, Old Sun is there in a second, bringing them into his arms and cooing softly. If they come to him begging for protection and use a “Bàba” to sweeten the deal, they’ll have his shelter for a number of hours, so it’s not impossible to get away from MK… just very hard.

And even after learning that something as severe as a broken wrist has occurred, Wukong coddles MK and forgives him on your behalf, writing the whole thing off as an accident. Not that you get any less smothering then him- you’re now stuck in bed with stiff bandages and surrounded by young mountain monkeys and sweet fruit. In a way, it saves you from any further rough play.

All three of them are dangerous in their own ways, of course. None are outright above “disciplining” you, with slaps or bites or shoves. There’s no (intentional) bone-shattering or flesh-tearing, but they make you afraid that there will be.

———————————————————————

After the Primal Moon ends, there’s a lot of patching-up to do afterwards. For example…

Pigsy has to come down from the constant self-drugging, taking more than a few hours to compose himself and make the rounds with his friends, calling them all up in short order. Once he’s gotten through everyone- Tang, Sandy, Mei, even her parents… then he spends a few minutes making sure he hasn’t gored any holes into his restaurant. Unlocks the windows and doors, but doesn’t flip the open sign.

He’s not up to deal with customers right now. All he wants is to check on his kids.

He’ll take MK and you out to eat today, he thinks. You’ve both earned it, after a week of isolation up in your shared room, under strict instructions to stay inside and come down for no one and nothing.

Red Son is always horribly humiliated when everything is said and done, a groaning and red-faced mess of shame. Another week of essentially devolving into a child, desperate for love and attention. Another, slow, grudging week of constant begging for skinship and words of praise. Needless to say, he’s pissed off and looking for an outlet, and beating on the numerous Bull Clones just doesn’t seem all too enticing… when he’s got a much squishier target who’ll actually squirm and yelp?

Sure, he’s not going to outright mangle you. No permanent burns. No shattered spine. And he’ll take pity on you eventually and stop with the torment. After a few months, he might even start to like you.

Let’s hope you get there mostly unscathed.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Primal Moon #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere MK #Yandere Macaque #Yandere Pigsy #Yandere Red Son #Monkiefam

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suddencolds · 11 months ago

Text

The Worst Timing | [2/?]

happy (late) new year :') after a month (and a lot of editing and dissatisfaction), i am back with part 2 of the 'yves has had too easy of a time' series (6.4k words). you can read [part 1] here!

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

When they get to the hotel Aimee’s booked for them, it’s already late enough to be dark out. Yves helps unload their suitcases from the back, while Leon loads them up onto a luggage cart.

It’s an exceptionally nice hotel—picturesque brick walls, glossy windows all in a row, slanted red rooftops rising up into the sky. He’d looked at it briefly when Aimee consulted him about the bookings, but it looks even more like a castle in person, like something straight out of a storybook. Yves will have to remember to thank Aimee and Genevieve again for picking such a nice place for them to stay at.

They check in at the lobby. Yves makes sure the suitcases make their way up to Leon and Victoire’s room, which is on his and Vincent’s floor, but at the other end of the hallway. (“Don’t be late to breakfast tomorrow,” he tells them, sternly, and Leon—who has slept through his alarms for as long as Yves has lived with him—laughs. “I’m especially talking to you,” Yves adds, looking straight at him).

Then he wheels the luggage cart down the hallway. “I’m so ready to crash,” he says, to Vincent. “It’s been a long day. Are you tired?”

“I’ll be tired once I lay down,” Vincent says. He carefully extricates one of the key cards and holds it out to the door card reader.

The interior of the hotel room is a little colder than the hallway is. Vincent flicks on the light, slips the key card back into its designated slot, and leaves his shoes in a neat line at the door. Yves follows him in.

Their room is a standard suite—there’s a small sitting area just next to the entrance, a bathroom off to the side, and a door frame—though not a proper door—which leads to the bedroom. On the far end, translucent white curtains give way to a sliding door which opens up to the balcony. It’s a nice room, Yves thinks, with a nice view of the rest of the hotel, its pool and gardens, the circular sun umbrellas stretching out floors below them. It’s only when Vincent hesitates, standing in the bedroom, that Yves realizes what’s wrong.

The bedroom has a singular queen-sized bed, and nothing else.

Of course. It makes sense for this to be the living arrangement, if they’re really dating.

“I can take the couch,” Yves says, clearing his throat, which doesn’t feel any better than it did earlier.

Vincent turns to look at him.

“I mean, this whole pretend-relationship thing doesn’t have to extend to us sharing a bed.”

Mentally, he kicks himself for not having the foresight to predict this. Just because Vincent is fine with putting on a show in front of his friends—and in this case, family—doesn’t mean that Vincent will be fine sharing a bed with him when they’re in private.

“You can have the bed,” Vincent says. “The bed will probably be warmer.”

Whether that’s a comment about how Yves has been too cold all day, or whether it’s just an offhanded appraisal which has nothing to do with him, Yves doesn’t know.

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I don’t mind the sofa. Besides, hotels usually have extra blankets. I’m sure they’re just hidden in some drawer somewhere.”

He rummages through a few of the cabinets and looks through the closet until he finds what he’s looking for—a feather comforter, folded neatly on the top shelf. He takes it down, keeping it folded under his arm.

“See,” he says, flashing Vincent a smile. “I’ll be perfectly warm, like this.” Vincent still looks a little unconvinced. “You should wake me if you’re not,” he says. “I don’t mind switching.”

“Duly noted,” Yves says, even though he has no intention of waking Vincent for any reason.

“The couch probably extends into a pull-out bed,” Vincent says, already heading back into the living room. “It should be more comfortable. I can help you set it up.”

“I can do it,” Yves says. All this talking is not helping with his throat. Worse, somewhere over the course of the past couple hours, there’s a faint tickle that’s managed to settle into his sinuses.

“It’s the least I can do, if I’m taking the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves is about to say more, but he finds that he really needs to sneeze. He lifts his arm to his face, his eyes watering, his breath hitching—

“Hh-! hHehh’IIZSCHh-IIEW!”

“Bless you,” Vincent calls, from the next room over.

“Thanks,” Yves says, turning into his shoulder with a small cough. His breath hitches again, irritatingly. “hHeh-! HEHH’IiITSHHiEW! snf-!”

When he heads into the living room, Vincent is already almost done setting up the pull-out bed. Yves helps him lock down the legs of the frame.

“Thanks,” Yves says, fluffing out the blanket he’s holding so that he can lay it out over the mattress. “All set up.”

He looks the bed over. It looks inviting enough—a little smaller than the bed in the bedroom, the mattress thinner, but fluffy and clean regardless. Vincent steps past him to duck into the bedroom and emerges a moment later, carrying two pillows.

“Are these your pillows?” Yves says.

“They’re yours now.”

“I can sleep without pillows.”

“They gave me two sets, anyways,” Vincent says. “I wouldn’t have made use of these ones.”

“Okay.” Tentatively, Yves takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. From the doorway, he gets a limited view of the bedroom—he can see the curtains at the far end, the desk pushed up against the wall, and the very foot of the bed. “Do you think this is what couples do when they’re traveling and they get in a fight?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Vincent asks.

“It might as well be,” Yves says.

“If your family walks in and sees that I’ve banished you to the sofa, I don’t think I’ll ever be forgiven,” Vincent says, so seriously that it almost doesn’t register as a joke. Yves laughs.

“You can just say I snore,” he says. “Or, worse. Maybe I kick you in my sleep.”

“Do you?”

Yves doesn’t—at least, he’s been told he doesn’t—but it’s of no consequence. They’re not going to be sharing a bed. “Luckily for you, you won’t have to find out.”

He gets settled—sets his suitcase out on one of the side tables, sets out all his toiletries in the bathroom, puts the clothes he’s planning to wear for tomorrow in a neat stack, and hangs up the suit he’s going to wear for the wedding in the closet. He’d been careful folding it, but he’ll probably have to give it another good iron before the wedding date. By the time he has everything accounted for, the bathroom door is closed, and the shower’s running.

The hotel has left them a couple bottles of water on the nightstand but he heads downstairs to buy a couple more from the on-site convenience store on the first floor. Victoire had them exchange dollars for euros at the airport, which Yves thinks he might have forgotten to do in their haste. Even though she’s the youngest of the three of them, sometimes he thinks she is the one with the most common sense.

He strikes up a brief conversation with the cashier, in French that he thinks is fairly fluent but probably accented—it’s been awhile since he’s gotten any practice with it. His speaking is good, but there are some colloquialisms and some idioms that he’s not familiar with and ends up having to ask about.

By the time he gets back up to the bedroom, bottled waters in hand, Vincent is done showering, his hair still a little damp.

“I got us extra waters,” Yves says. “There’s a convenience store down on the first floor.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.” He looks nice, even with his hair damp, even though he’s wearing just a t-shirt and shorts to sleep, Yves thinks, and then immediately tables that thought.

“It was nice to stretch my legs,” Yves says. “And nice to have a chance to practice my French. My relatives are going to be disappointed in me if I sound worse than I did last year.”

“Are you fluent?”

“Fluent enough to hold a proper conversation. Not fluent enough to not sound like a foreigner. I grew up speaking French and English, but obviously in the states, there aren’t as many opportunities to practice French.”

“I don’t think you would have lost much of it,” Vincent says, as if from experience.

Yves laughs. “For my own sake, let’s hope not.”

When he steps into the bathroom, the mirror is still fogged up from the steam. He swipes a hand over the glass to clear enough of it so that he can see.

He looks fine, still, at least outwardly—a little tired, maybe, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by. There’s a faint flush to his complexion, too, which is strange, because he doesn’t feel like he has a fever. He’s just a little colder than usual, is all.

All in all, he still looks passable. At first glance, it doesn’t seem very evident that anything is wrong at all.

He takes a shower, cranks the water up until it’s almost scalding, and stands under the hot water, shutting his eyes. The warmth is a welcome change. It’s the first time today that he’s been really, properly warm—if only because he’s turned the water up a couple degrees higher than he usually has it at.

The water splashes over his shoulders. He leans his head back, taking in a deep breath of the steam.

It’s fine. It will be fine. He’ll drink tons of water, take all the vitamin C he can find, and sleep this off tonight. He’ll be good as new tomorrow.

—

When Yves blinks awake, it’s still dark out.

The first thing that registers to him is that he’s cold.

What started off as a slight headache has turned into something much worse—his head is throbbing, and even with the blanket, he’s freezing. The air conditioning in the room is on—he can hear the low hum of it through the vents—and everything feels unbearably frigid. Even the bedsheets, which are at the very least warm from his body heat, seem to always be losing heat, unpleasantly, when he shifts.

When he checks his phone, the time onscreen is 3:45 am. Too late to call the front desk and ask them to send up more blankets, probably—even if they are technically in operation, he doesn’t want to be that one asshole to ask for a favor at this time of day.

He’ll ask tomorrow, he thinks, at a more reasonable hour. It’s almost morning, anyways. Maybe if he manages to get back to sleep, he won’t feel the cold as much.

There’s a dull pressure to his sinuses, a slight tickle that seems only to sharpen as he rubs his nose. His breath catches, too quickly for him to do anything to attend to the subsequent—

“Hheh—! hHEHH’iISHHhi-iEw!”

Fuck. The sneeze is loud enough to echo a little within the confines of the living room. Vincent is in the next room over. Vincent is asleep, presumably, like Yves should be.

And Yves’s nose is starting to tickle again.

He raises the blankets to his face, presses his nose to them to muffle the next—

“hhEH— hehh’IZschhH-IIEW! snf-!”

The sound is marginally quieter this time, muffled into the cotton, but it’s far from silent. He hopes, desperately, that it’s quiet enough, or that Vincent is a heavy enough sleeper for it not to matter. There isn’t even a proper door between them.

He reaches up to swipe a hand over his eyes. How did this get so bad so quickly? His head feels heavy, and every sneeze that tears through him is harsh enough to scrape at his already-raw throat—whatever hope he’d had for sleeping it off seems to be diminishing with every passing minute.

He listens, for a moment, for anything: any shifting from the room over, any motion, any footsteps. But to his relief, there’s nothing.

His head is swimming. Worse, he still has to sneeze. The tissue box is on the nightstand in the bedroom Vincent is in, but Yves thinks that it would be too unwise to make a trip right now and risk waking Vincent up a good three hours before sunrise.

“hHh-! hhH-!...”

Fuck. He stays frozen like that, for a moment, one hand hovering over his nose and mouth. His nose tickles, badly, kept just narrowly on edge. It feels like one wrong breath would be enough to set off a sneeze, but sometimes it seems to evade him at the last second—he can’t seem to get his body to settle on something decisive. “hhHEh-!”

The sneeze is unexpected, when it comes, at last—loud and forceful and vicious.

“hehH’NGKT’shhH’EEW!”

A short burst of pain shoots through his temples. Yves can’t claim he’s ever been good at stifling, and this attempt is no exception. It’s not much quieter than the others, even muffled into his pillow, and the attempt to stifle has only made the pressure in his head feel worse.

“Hheh… hh-!” He sniffles. His eyes are watering so much he thinks they might spill over. “hHeh… hh-hHih-HEHh’DJJSHh’iEEW!”

This one he muffles into his hands, ducking forward into his chest. The relief he feels from letting out the sneeze is unfortunately short-lived. He’s nowhere close to done. He can feel it, in the tickle in his nose which refuses to let up, in the pressure to his sinuses which only seems to worsen with each sneeze.

For a moment, Yves contemplates spending the rest of the night just outside their room, out in the hallway. It will almost certainly be colder, he would be quieter there, at the very least—there would be a proper door and a wall between him and Vincent, and that’s something, isn’t it?

Before he can seriously consider it, he’s snapping forward at the waist, muffling another loud sneeze into the covers.

“hhHeh-iIDDSHHhh’YyiiEW!”

He finds himself coughing, after, muffling the coughs tightly into the feather blanket in an attempt to cough more quietly. He shivers, huddling deeper into the covers. His head is pounding. Every time he swallows, sharp, hot pain lances his throat.

He hears nothing from the room over, even when he listens carefully. This much is a relief—truthfully, he would feel awful if he were keeping Vincent up because of this. Yves has survived on less sleep—back in university, 6am crew practice meant waking up early even when he’d been up late to finish projects or coursework, or otherwise out late with friends—but the thought of keeping Vincent up makes something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. Vincent hadn’t slept at all during the flight. He must be tired, now. The last thing he needs—after the stress of being surrounded by strangers in a foreign country, after traveling for almost 10 hours straight, after being assigned to room with his coworker, of all people—is to be woken up at an ungodly hour just because Yves can’t keep this damn cold under wraps.

Yves thinks he should try to sleep too, if only because it means he won’t be awake to succumb to the next sneeze that threatens to tear through him.

But if he’s entirely honest with himself, he’s not sure if sleep is going to come to him anytime soon.

—

Yves doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to his 7:30am alarm so tired that he feels like he hasn’t slept at all

“Morning,” Vincent says, emerging in the doorway. He’s fully dressed already, his shirt crisply ironed, the collar upright, his hair neatly styled.

“You’re fast,” Yves says. His voice sounds a little hoarse—all the sneezing last night probably hasn’t done it any favors. But if Vincent can tell that it sounds off, he doesn’t say. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not really,” Vincent says. “We have time.”

“Give me a few minutes to get ready,” Yves says, hauling himself out of bed. “I’ll be out in five.”

He changes in record speed, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and stuffs everything he can see himself needing into a backpack to take down to breakfast.

When he emerges, Vincent is waiting for him in the hallway.

“How did you sleep?” Yves asks.

“Fine,” Vincent says. “You?”

“I slept well enough,” Yves says, before muffling a yawn into his hand. At Vincent’s pointed glance at him, he adds, “I’m just a little tired. It’s probably jetlag. It’s what, like, 2am over in New York?”

“1:42,” Vincent says, checking his watch. “Is your whole family going to be at breakfast?”

“I’m not sure if everyone’s up,” Yves says. “But Leon and Victoire will be. I told them to be downstairs by 8, so obviously they’ll kill me if I’m not there first.”

The breakfast lounge is on the first floor, a few hallways down from the reception desk. Yves saves a table for them.

He isn’t very hungry, for some reason. Still, he fills his plate with breakfast pastries and scrambled eggs and grabs a cup of hot tea while he’s at it. He really doesn’t want to lose his voice entirely before the ceremony. Even with his jacket on—which is probably even excessive, considering the temperature of the lobby—he isn’t as warm as he’d like to be.

Victoire joins them next. She waves to Vincent as she passes. “Hope you guys got some sleep,” she says innocently.

Yves says, “We got perfectly good sleep, thank you.”

“Morning,” Leon says, appearing in the doorway at 7:59.

“You’re really cutting it close,” Yves says, sniffling.

“It’s 7:59,” Leon says. “Whether I’m on time is a binary, not a sliding scale. I’m entirely on time.”

The table Yves picked can fit more than four, so they spread themselves out through the seats. “Mom and dad said they’re having breakfast at one of the cafes nearby,” Victoire says, shrugging her sweater off and leaving it perched on the back of her seat. “They said they’d report back if it’s anything life changing.”

“There’s a welcome party tonight,” Yves says to Vincent, “For everyone who’s flown in. You’ll get to meet them then.”

“Is there anything your parents hate in a partner?” Vincent asks.

“Don’t worry too much. I don’t think— hEHh…” Yves scoots back from the table turning away as he reaches blindly for one of the cocktail napkins he’d taken. “HEHh’DDJJSHh-iiEW! Ugh, sorry.” His nose has been running all morning—he’d made sure to take a generous stack, and stuff some of them into his pockets for later, but it’s been all of fifteen minutes and he’s already nervous that he might run out. “I don’t you could get them to hate you even if you tried.”

“Mom and dad met in college, at a bar,” Leon says. Yves, who has heard this story many times before, busies himself with eating, and tries hard not to visibly shiver. In a way, he’s grateful to the two of them for filling in the space for him—the less he strains his voice today, the better. “Mom was super drunk, and for some reason when she started talking to dad the conversation topic turned to, like, something super specific and not at all romantic.”

“It was whether or not it’s ethical to clone extinct species,” Victoire says, idly folding her napkin into a pinwheel. “Though this was before it had ever been done.”

“Apparently she was drunk enough to ask his hand in marriage mid argument, and he was drunk enough to say yes, because he thought it was a joke,” Leon says. “And it was a joke. But he proposed to her seriously a year later, and all she said was ‘at least you kept your promise.’”

“But now they’re happily married,” Vincent says.

Leon nods. “They’ve been happily married for almost thirty years now. Anyways, my point is that whatever relationship you have with Yves, you don’t have to try and impress them. There’s no need to overthink it.”

“I understand,” Vincent says. “My parents got married because my dad did well in a business competition at the time, and my mom thought he was going to make a lot of money.”

“And how did that turn out?” Victoire says, interested, propping her head up on one hand.

Yves watches Vincent cut a pastry into four even pieces. “Better than you might expect,” Vincent says.

—-

The welcome dinner is held at a local restaurant—Aimee and Genevieve have rented out the outdoor space for seating. The table—a long table that seats thirty, or so—is set with tall, elegant white candles, all in a row; wine glasses with delicate stems; vases spilling over with flowers—lilacs, pink and white roses, orchids.

Above them, string lights are strung up in neat lines. When Yves sees Aimee, he doesn’t drop all of his things to run over and hug her, but it’s a close thing.

“Yves! You made it,” she says.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he tells her, in French. “God. Did you plan out all of this? It looks gorgeous.” “Genevieve did a lot of it,” she says. “She has a good eye for decorations.”

Genevieve is off to the side, talking to someone who Yves recognizes as her sister—Yves follows Aimee’s gaze over to where she’s standing. When he looks back, Aimee is smiling in a way Yves has never seen her smile before—the sort of fond, private smile that he feels like he isn’t sure he’s supposed to be seeing.

Yves is stricken, for a moment. It’s so clear that she’s in love. It shows all over her face, plainly, the kind of love that’s uncontestable; the kind of love that makes love, of all things, look simple. Has he ever looked like that, to someone else?

“How have you been?” he asks. “I imagine preparations have been hectic.”

“Never better,” she says, turning back to face him at last. “You’re right—it’s been exhausting. But I feel like the adrenaline is carrying me through, you know? Like I’m so happy this is happening.”

“You two deserve a perfect wedding,” Yves says, and means it. He clears his throat, sniffling. It’s a little cold out, even though the sun hasn’t gone down yet; he really hopes his nose doesn’t start to run visibly. “If you ever need any help—with last minute preparations, or if anything comes up, or if you need someone on transportation or moving things—let me know. Even if it’s like, 3am or something. My hands are completely free.”

She laughs. “Thank you, that’s so kind of you to offer! It has been hectic, but I haven’t been up at 3am this week, thank God.”

“I hope to keep it that way.” Yves turns away from her, raising an arm to muffle a fit of coughs into his sleeve.

Aimee takes a step forward, her eyebrows furrowing. “Are you okay? You sound a little off. And you’re coughing.”

And Yves thinks: she can’t know. He has his toasts to give at her wedding. He has the wedding rehearsal tomorrow and the wedding ceremony on Saturday to attend. If Aimee finds out he’s coming down with something, she’ll probably tell him to sit things out—to get some proper rest, to disregard virtually everything she has planned, and to not leave the hotel room until he’s feeling a hundred percent better—even if it’s at her own expense.

Worse, she’ll be worried for the entirety of his illness, he’s sure. As if she doesn’t have enough on her plate already, between the setup and all the accommodations and the last minute changes.

Aimee deserves a perfect wedding.

That’s the bottom line in all of this. This is a once in a lifetime thing for someone he cares and cares deeply about. Yves is not going to ruin it. He’ll get through the next few days, even if it means pushing himself a little past his limits. He can crash afterwards, on the plane ride home, after all the festivities are over and everyone bids farewell.

“I’m fine,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I’m—” This is really the worst possible timing. He takes a few steps back, craning his neck over his shoulder. “hH-! hHhh’kKTSSH-IEEW! snf-! Ugh. I’mb just getting over a slight cold.” Getting over might be a bit of a stretch, and a slight cold might be even more of one, but other than that, it’s not entirely dishonest.

Aimee frowns at him. “Bless you. Does your throat hurt? There are cocktails on the side table, if you want anything to drink. Wine, too. I can get something for you if you’d like.”

“Nice try, but there’s no way I’m letting the bride go and get things for me,” Yves says, grinning. “Do you want any cocktails?”

“I need to be sober until I’ve officially said hi to everyone,” she says. “Can’t make a fool of myself just yet. Speaking of which, where’s your boyfriend?”

Yves waves Vincent over. “Come say hi!” he says, in English.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Vincent says, in slightly accented French, which is a surprise. He seems to hesitate, thinking hard. “Congratulations on your wedding.”

“Oh my gosh!” Aimee says in English, pulling him close for a hug. Vincent hugs her back. “It’s good to meet you too, Vincent. Thanks for always looking after Yves. I’m glad to have someone keeping him out of trouble overseas.”

“Thank you for having me here,” Vincent says, hugging her back. “I know it was really last minute with the flight and everything. I hope it wasn’t too stressful for you.”

“It was no trouble at all!” Aimee says. “Yves is like a younger brother to me. Last summer was pretty rough for him, I think.” she doesn’t mention Erika, but Yves is sure Vincent knows what she’s referring to, regardless. Aimee smiles, a little wistfully. “I’m just so grateful that he met you. I’m glad to see him happy again.”

“I don’t think I can take credit for that,” Vincent says, blinking.

Aimee smiles warmly at him. “He’s the happiest he’s been in months,” she says. “I think you are selling yourself short.”

After Aimee asks Vincent how his stay has been (good, Vincent says, it’s actually my first time in France, to which Aimee excitedly lists off places he absolutely has to see while he’s here) and Vincent asks Aimee how the wedding preparations are going (nothing’s gone terribly wrong yet, Aimee laughs, which I suppose is all I can ask for), they find their way to their seats at the table. Someone has set out little name cards with all of their names written in calligraphy. Yves realizes, faintly, that the handwriting isn’t Aimee’s. Maybe it’s Genevieve’s, then.

“I didn’t know you knew any French,” Yves tells Vincent, in English.

Vincent looks away, a little sheepish. “I took a crash course into it when you mentioned the wedding would be in France,” he says, which Yves finds somehow disproportionately endearing. “I know maybe five sentences total, plus a few common terms.”

“Five sentences is impressive given that you had, what, just a few weeks to learn them?”

“I’m not sure if they are very coherent,” Vincent says. “The vowels are different from English. I’m still trying to get the hang of saying them.”

Yves is about to respond, but he’s cut off with a sharp, unexpected gasp. He pitches forward, raising his elbow up to his face just in time to muffle a—

“Hh… HhEHH-!’IihH’DZSCHh-IIEW!”

He’s glad, for once, that he’s not wearing the suit he’s planning on wearing for the wedding. His nose is running again, which is embarrassing, especially because he can still feel Vincent’s eyes on him.

“À tes souhaits,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs, rummaging through his jacket pockets for one of the napkins he’d taken at breakfast to blow his nose into. “Merci. Is that one of the common terms you learned?”

“No,” Vincent says. “I looked it up last night.”

“Last night?” Yves asks.

For a moment, he’s afraid that Vincent might reveal to him that Yves had kept him up last night, after all, despite all of his efforts to keep quiet.

“On the car,” Vincent clarifies. “During the trip to the hotel. I was just curious.”

“Oh,” Yves says, relieved. He blows his nose into the napkin he’s holding, which he’s sure he has reused at least a couple times already—but with his nose running so much, he doesn’t exactly have the luxury to be picky. “Well, you’ll be an expert at saying that phrase by the end of this trip, at the very least.”

It’s easy to lose himself in the throes of conversation, after that. Aimee and Genevieve have arranged it so that he and Vincent are sitting directly across from his parents. Leon is right—his parents have never really been the type to subject the partners he’s brought home, over the years, to any sort of interrogation. It’s a fun night, especially after everyone’s a couple drinks in.

“I think it’s a good thing that you guys are in the same line of work,” Yves’s dad says, conversationally. “Yves won’t have to explain why he’s always working overtime.”

Yves’s mom says, “Isn’t that a bad thing? We shouldn’t be encouraging their workaholic tendencies.”

Yves neglects to mention that he’s pretty sure Vincent (who worked the entire flight here)’s workaholic tendencies will persist, even without any encouragement.

Vincent tells them how they’d met—it’s the same story as he’d told the first time they’d done this, during Margot’s new year party a few months back, but Yves’s parents seem to find it extremely entertaining.

Yves’s mom says, “I told you Yves was the one who asked him out.”

Yves’s dad says, “I didn’t know if he had it in him.”

Yves’s mom says, “I remember hearing him say something about having an attractive coworker. It wasn’t that much of a logical stretch to assume he’d make a move at some point.”

(Yves thinks he sees them exchange a twenty dollar bill under the table, but he can’t be sure.)

Vincent practices his French with Yves’s parents—Yves fills in for him when he stumbles on a word, or when he hesitates, wracking his memory for a term he can’t quite translate.

“A fantastic attempt,” his dad says, when Vincent is done talking. “I can’t believe you learned so much in just a few weeks. I can only hope you’ll keep learning..”

“I will,” Vincent says. “Maybe next time we can have this conversation entirely in French.” There’s no uncertainty to the way he says it. Yves doesn’t mention that there’s a real chance Vincent won’t see them again, after this. It’s not a thought he particularly wants to confront.

At some point, Leon rises to his feet and shouts, in French, “Let’s toast to Aimee and Genevieve, everyone’s favorite couple!”

They all stand and raise their glasses. Yves finds he feels a little unsteady on his feet—maybe he’s had too much to drink. He feels warm, through the flush of alcohol in his cheeks, despite the evening chill.

He’s marginally worse at covering when he’s tipsy—and worse, too, at anticipating that he’s going to sneeze in the first place. At some point during the night, someone—maybe Vincent, or maybe one of Aimee’s friends from work that are seated nearby—sets down a stack of cocktail napkins in front of him.

Yves just hopes whoever’s put it there knows how grateful he is. The night is getting colder, even though he can’t quite feel it, and his nose is running so much that he finds himself grabbing a new napkin every couple minutes to blow his nose. It’s strange, he thinks, how such a small thing can be so comforting.

At some point, too, Vincent takes the glass of wine out of his hands and switches it out with a different glass. Yves thinks it might be a cocktail, at first, but when he takes a sip, he finds it’s just orange juice.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Vincent says.

“I haved’t had that much,” Yves says. But come to think of it, his head feels hazy in a way that suggests he’s just a little drunk. “Just a couple— glasses— hh-! hHhEH’IIZSCHh’iIEw! snf-!” He barely manages to cover that sneeze in time.

“Bless you,” Vincent says.

“Ugh.” Yves reaches for another napkin from the stack. He feels a little dizzy, now that he’s paying attention. “I swear, my toleradce - snf-! - used to be a lot better before I graduated.”

Vincent hides a laugh behind one hand. Yves is too tipsy to pretend he doesn’t find that a little endearing.

“What?” he asks, faux-affronted.

“Nothing,” Vincent says. “I should’ve known that you went to parties and drank irresponsibly.”

Yves laughs. “Along with every other college student in the world.” He turns aside to muffle a cough into his sleeve. Perhaps he hasn’t been especially conscientious about saving his voice this evening—with all the talking he’s been doing, it will probably sound even worse tomorrow. “What, don’t tell me you’ve ndever gotten irresponsibly drunk!”

“Once or twice,” Vincent says, which is a bit of a surprise—he can’t imagine Vincent being drunk enough to lose the air of… well, composure isn’t the right word, perhaps. Professionalism? Self-assuredness? But maybe even drunk Vincent is professional and self-assured, all the same. Yves wonders, faintly, if he’ll ever have the chance to find out.

—

Dinner winds down slowly. Yves helps Genevieve collect all the name cards, gathers everyone’s plates to set them in a couple neat stacks at the end of the table, says hello to the relatives he’s closer to, and strikes up a conversation with some of Genevieve’s friends, who look to be just a few years older than he is. They talk first about the planning she’d kept them in the loop about, and then about the planning that she’d pulled off behind the scenes. Yves tells them about the many aesthetic and managerial decisions Aimee had consulted him for early on over text. The common consensus seems to be that Aimee and Genevieve are vastly overqualified when it comes to making sure that everything is logistically sound.

“Do you want to head out soon?” Vincent says, after some time, when Yves returns to his seat and some of the other guests have begun to filter out.

“That might be a good idea,” Yves says.

He says his goodbyes—to his parents, to Leon and Victoire, to Aimee and Genevieve, whom he’ll see tomorrow. Then he follows Vincent out. The hotel is a fifteen minute walk from where they are—some of their relatives have cars, but they’d walked here, and Yves thinks it’d be more work to try to coordinate a ride with someone.

Everything feels bright, Yves thinks, blinking.

“You’re cold,” Vincent says. It isn’t a question.

Yves realizes, faintly, that he’s shivering. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t feel it that much.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

“I’m ndot drunk.”

“Tipsy, then.”

Yves can’t argue with that. “Just a bit. I’ll probably— hhEh-!” He turns aside to direct the sneeze over his shoulder, away from Vincent. HH-! hHEHh’iIITSHh-IIEw! Snf-! —sober up soon.” The end of the sentence catches wrong on his throat and suddenly he’s coughing, a little harshly, into his wrist. The coughing fit is harsh enough to leave him faintly lightheaded, which is a surprise to him.

He thinks it shouldn’t be visible, but Vincent reaches out and grabs his shoulder to steady him. For a moment, Yves contemplates how nice it would be to lean into his touch.

Then he catches himself. He’s tired, but not so tired that he can’t sustain a short walk from the dinner venue to the hotel. It’s dark, but they don’t have any early obligations tomorrow, and it’s not late enough that he won’t have time to shower, get changed, and get a good night’s sleep, with time to spare.

Yves shifts out of Vincent’s touch. “Sorry about that,” he says, with the most convincing smile he can muster. He’s sure Vincent would be understanding if he brought it up, but truthfully, it feels like a waste of time to say anything at all.

Vincent doesn’t reach for him again, but his eyebrows furrow. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“You almost fell,” Vincent says.

“I just tripped. The roads aren’t very even, and it’s dark.” They’re standing in the middle of a small, winding cobblestone street. None of the roads around here are very flat for very long.

“Are you saying that because you believe it?” Vincent says. “Or are you saying that so that I stop worrying about this?”

Yves stares at him for a moment too long. He’s sobering up a little.

For a moment, he contemplates telling Vincent everything—about how tired he’s been, all day. About how much it’s taken out of him to keep up this front, the whole day; about how he feels worse than he did waking up this morning—tired and cold and congested, a little unsteady on his feet. If he’s not mistaken, he thinks he might be running a slight fever; it’s hard to tell through the jacket, through the brisk evening air.

Maybe Vincent would understand. Maybe Vincent would insist that he get some rest, tomorrow, before the wedding. Maybe Vincent would tell him that this is all going to be fine—that this wedding that Yves’s been looking forward to for months, that he desperately doesn’t want to mess up, is going to be perfect, just as Aimee and Genevieve has planned it, even if he isn’t feeling his best.

But this is not Vincent’s problem to solve. Yves’s bad timing and his unfortunate circumstances are not Vincent’s responsibility, and Yves extended the invitation because he wanted Vincent to have fun on this trip, and no part of that entails having to look after Yves. Vincent has always been reliable, but Yves can’t start to expect things out of him—to take his kindness as a given, to take more than Vincent is willing to give.

He already asks more than enough of Vincent, as it stands.

“I’m fine,” Yves says, a lie, as easily as any other lie he’s ever told. The smile that follows comes easily, too, though he’s not sure if Vincent can see it in the dark, can’t tell if it’s more to fool Vincent or more to fool himself. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

[ Part 3 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #snz kink #snz #i edited this for a week straight #and now i have given up officially #i hope this doesn't feel too much like a filler/otherwise uneventful 😭#next chapter i promise yves is in for a bad time #yvverse #my fic

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