#pls read :c

[reallysaneguy]

So I have a Spider-Noir AU and I think it's pretty swell

so basically. yeah. Uhm. Well. So first off, I would like to mention that I was, in fact, in a manic episode when I got the idea. so you cant be mean to me. Look, I know this sounds crazy guys but PLEASE IT'S MY EVERYTHING

He's always been a really mad character. the first thing he did after getting his powers is go to kill goblin. So I figured, lets amp it up by 100. So now, unintentionally, I made him a mix of Punisher and Jigsaw. But he's cooler and more interesting because... uh... he's him? Yeah.

If you couldn't tell by the beautiful graphic, massive trigger warning. this gets graphic. like, REALLY gorey graphic. I don't know why nor how I got these ideas. but yeah. warning for that. No visuals, though

To start off, SCREW THE 2020 NOIR COMICS. THOSE ARE NOT HIM!!! THOSE ARE SO NOT HIM!!! THOSE ARE FAN SERVICE!!!! I am the fan though. That one panel with his double Ds is, in fact, my lockscreen. BUT THATS NOT THE POINT!!! the point is, it's a continuation of the 2009 comics. actually, it continues after Spider-Geddon. Because 2 can play the back from the dead game. Since it's a continuation, I beg of you to please read his comics. please. please oh my god they're so good. like oh my god. I have made a google slideshow about them. guys they are so full of tiny details I gen can't

So he's back after dying. I figured it can be the same way as the canon one. I'm not that creative. OBVIOUSLY some other canon parts have been changed, too. I'm bringing characters who def could have survived back, hence the ability to eat vulture back. which. is what we're doing. well, what he's doing. uhm.

Anyways, he's back from the dead. He rushes home to Aunt May just wanting a hug from her after everything he just went through. Unfortunately, when she sees him (after the initial disbelief) she looks at him with nothing but disgust for him.

So now he's homeless. But he has a cat. Because adding Ding-Ding was such an amazing move in the 2020 comics. So he basically just lives with this cat. He does, eventually, become a PI with his own little abode. Don't ask for more details. I don't know.

Well. Uhm. GUYS I'M SORRY. I HAD TO DO IT. I COULDN'T THINK OF A BETTER REASON TO LOSE YOUR SANITY. GUYS PLEASE I'M SO SORRY. IF YOU ARE ON TIKTOK, YOU MIGHT HAVE SEEN SOMETHING WITH IT, AND YOU BLAMED IT ON BENNY BOY. I'M SORRY. I'M THE ONE WHO DID IT. HE JUST DREW IT.

I killed the cat. Precious Ding-a-Ling is dead.

So he snaps. He's officially lost everything. Aunt May disowned him, Robbie is Robbie, and as of right now MJ is back to war or something. idk. maybe she can be dead too. yeah. MJ is also dead. THE POINT IS, HE HAS NOTHING NOW.

And now, the only thing that brings him any emotion, is after killing a bad person. So he hunts them down. It's like a drug. He has nothing left, so why not? It's not like he can die. At least he's helping people. But after a while, it's just not enough. These people deserve more than an easy way out. He slowly becomes more and more sadistic.

This is where the Vulture comes back. Who else is still alive? Goblin, Montana, Ox, Doc Ock, Shocker, and Mysterio. And since I was bored, Jonah and Felicia are part of this too. Yeah.

One of my beautiful (really shitty) drawings is based off "an eye for an eye", because that's what this is. Revenge. So here's some outcomes for those guys!

The Vulture: Blood eagle (because he needs wings, duh) and also eaten. He's also! Alive! yeah. Our silly guy knows anatomy. He knows what he can and can't do. (I watched midsommar)

The Goblin: His greatest fear is being locked up in a cage and mocked. So he's kept in a cage. And Since he always had others do his dirty work, it's his turn. He's gotta help clean up and help torture. Also, he's being experimented on. Because once again, Peter Parker is Peter Parker, and he is a nerd

Doc Ock: I originally was going to lobotomize him, but that's BORING!!! So he is now Swiss cheese. yeah. lots of holes drilled into him.

Shocker: Bennett actually came up with this one; electric chair, but he has to power it himself.

Mysterio: White room.

Uhm. I do have more, but this is already long and I don't want to bore you guys if you've read all this for some reason. But thank you if you did! I've actually worked really hard on this entire thing. There's a lot to it. So I hope you enjoyed this???

[rpcrimeboys]

do you ever think about this? Because I do. Constantly.

dandelions are some of my FAVOURITE flowers ever and FUCKIGN HELL I adore the comparison here. Like. FUCK MAN. the idea of at the beginning of everything ctommy was bright, happy, open. during exile and all the other shit, he closed in on himself, isolated.

But again, he grew And he changed. He opened up again. He's different now, but he's still himself. He's still tommy. He's just grown. He's older. And he's got a few more scars. But it's still tommy. He's a bit softer now, not picking fights as much. But he's happy. Yknow?

Even though it seemed Like for a while maybe he was dead. Maybe there wasn't a way out. He got through it . He's alive. Right?

(Ignore how it should be flipped)

IDO YOU SEE THE VISION? ctommy is so dandelion coded. Thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

[anotherlibrocubicularist]

Trials of Apollo AU idea

What if, instead of Meg, he happened to come across Alabaster Torrington, who is hunting down Lamia to get her to lift her curse on the demigods but instead stumbles upon Apollo and intervenes, thinking he's just a regukar kid in trouble?

Al either impulsively/accidentally makes Apollo his servant, since he has more important things to do than getting involved in godly bs or he does so with the intent on taking revenge on Apollo, but doesn't follow through with it as it wouldn't feel right (from what I read in the Demigod Diaries, I feel like Al would love to get rid of the gods, but would have hesitations about defenseless 16-year-olds).

Then Apollo doesn't stop talking about Percy and Al's soooo pissed.

And then they're both at Sally's apartment and Al is soooo uncomfortable...like he's a demigod and Percy asks if they met before and Al's like "Nah, but I'm sure you're the bomb." (Sarcastic reference to the Princess Andromeda incident)

And them making their way to camp with Percy as their chauffeur...

Not to forget Claymore's randomly popping up from nowhere and does what he does...

Gosh, I would've loved to read that...

[simarcana]

His feelings were an oil spill; he’d let them overflow and now there wasn’t a damn place in the ocean that wouldn’t catch fire if he dropped a match.

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [5/5]

we made it!!! part 5/5 + a mini epilogue (5.6k words) at long last 🥹 (aka the installment in which i remember that h/c has a c in it in addition to the h, haha.) [part 1] is 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)

—

The world comes back to him in pieces—first the wooden panels of the ceiling, the sloped wooden beams. The coldness of the room, the slight, monotonous whir of the air circulating through one of the vents overhead.

He’s leaned up against the wall, seated on the floor in the hallway, and Vincent is kneeling beside him, his eyebrows furrowed.

It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He had been about to head back to the courtyard, hadn’t he? He doesn’t have much memory of anything that happened after, but judging by Vincent’s reaction, he thinks he can probably guess.

“Hi,” Yves says, for lack of a better thing to say. 

He watches a complicated set of expressions flicker through Vincent’s face—relief, first, before it turns to something distinctly less neutral.

“You’re awake,” Vincent says. He turns away, for a moment. Yves notes the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his grip—his fingers white around Yves’s sleeve.

“Was I out for long?”

“A couple minutes.”

Yves wants to say something. He should say something. Anything to lighten the tension, anything to get the point across that this is all just an unlucky miscalculation, on his part. It really isn’t something Vincent should have to be worried about. 

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he starts. Really, what he means is, I’m sorry for making you worry about me. “I promise I’mb fine.”

The look on Vincent’s face, then, is something that Yves hasn’t seen before. 

“Why do you have to—” he starts, frustration rising in his voice. He sighs, his jaw set. “I don’t understand why you—” He drops his hand from Yves’s sleeve, and it’s then when Yves notices the stiffness to his shoulders, the tension in his posture. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out another short, exasperated breath. “You’re not fine.” 

It’s strange, Yves thinks, to see him like this—Vincent, who usually never wears his emotions on his face, looks clearly displeased, now. 

“Hey,” Yves says, softly. He reaches out to take Vincent’s hand. Vincent goes very still with the contact, but he doesn’t say anything. “I—”

Fuck. His body seems to always pick the worst time for unwanted interjections. He wrenches his hand away just in time to smother a sneeze into his sleeve, though it’s forceful enough to leave him slightly lightheaded. 

“Stay here,” Vincent says, getting to his feet. “Lay down if you get dizzy again.”

Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”

“To tell the others that we’re leaving.”

Yves wants to protest. Dinner is already halfway over. It’s not as if the festivities are particularly strenuous. They’ll probably move inside after dinner, where it’s warmer.

But he thinks better of it. Judging by how exhausted he still feels, how much his head aches, it probably wouldn’t be wise to push it. 

“Don’t tell them about this,” he says.

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Aimee is going to worry if she finds out,” Yves says, dropping his head to his knees. He doesn’t want to look at Vincent, doesn’t want to know what expression is on his face. “Just—let them have this night. It’s—supposed to be perfect.” I really wanted it to be perfect, he almost adds. There’s a strange tightness to his throat as he says it, a strange heaviness to his chest.

He knows what it means. If, after he’s tried so hard to do his part, their evening still ends up ruined on his own accord, he’s not sure if he could live with himself after.

For a moment, Vincent doesn’t say anything at all.

“Okay,” he says, at last. “Just stay here.”

And then he heads down the hallway. The door at the end of the reception hall swings shut behind him. Yves thinks he should be relieved, but he finds that he doesn’t feel much other than exhausted.

—

The ride home on the shuttle is silent. Vincent sits next to him, even though all of the other seats are empty. Yves thinks the proximity is probably inadvisable. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then shuts it.

Vincent sits and stares straight ahead, his posture stiff, and doesn’t say anything for the entirety of the ride. It’s strange. Yves is no stranger to silence—Vincent is, after all, a coworker, and Yves has endured more than a few quiet elevator rides and quiet team lunches at the office, but it’s strange because it’s Vincent.

Vincent, who usually takes care to make conversation with him, whenever it’s just the two of them. Vincent, who stayed up through the lull of antihistamines a couple months ago to talk to Yves, until Yves had given him explicit permission to go to sleep.

Yves tries not to think about it. Through the haze of his fever, everything feels unusually bright—the interior of the shuttle, with its leather seats and metal handrails.

The shuttle stops just outside the main entrance to their hotel. Just before he gets to the doors, he stumbles. Vincent’s hand shoots out, instinctively, to steady him.

“Sorry,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. It’s not that he’s dizzy. The roads are just uneven, and it’s dark. “I can walk.”

But Vincent doesn’t let go—not for the entirety of the walk through the cool, air-conditioned lobby, through the hallways to the hotel elevators. Not when the elevator stops at their floor, not when they pass by the grid of wooden doors leading up to their room. 

Before Yves can manage to reach for his keycard, Vincent has already swiped them in, scarily efficient. He slides the card back into his pocket, pushes the door open. 

“Thadks for walking me back,” Yves says. “Sorry you couldn’t stay longer. You mbust’ve been halfway through dinner.”

“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.

“Even dessert?” Yves says. “I think Aimee got everyone creme brulee from one of the local bakeries. I was excited to try it. Maybe Leon can save us some.” he muffles a yawn into his hand. It’s too early to be sleeping, but his pull out bed looks very inviting right now.

“Take the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

“The bed’s warmer.”

There’s absolutely no way he’s going to let Vincent take the pull-out bed in his place, Yves thinks blearily. He’s spent the past couple nights muffling sneezes into the covers—if there’s anything he’s certain of, it’s that he really, really doesn’t want Vincent to catch this.

“I dod’t think we should switch,” he says, sniffling. “I’ve been sleeping here ever sidce I started coming down with this. I’mb— hHeh-!” He veers away, raising an elbow to his face. “hh—HHEh’IIDZschH’-iEEW! Ugh, I’mb pretty sure I contaminated it.”

“We can both take the bed, if you’d prefer,” Vincent says. As if it’s that simple.

Yves opens his mouth to protest—is Vincent really okay with sharing a bed with him?—but then he thinks about Vincent finding him in the hallway—the stricken expression on his face, then, his eyes wide, his jaw clenched—and thinks better of himself. 

Instead, he lets Vincent lead him to the bedroom. The bed is neatly made—the covers drawn, the pillows propped up against the headboard.

“Lay down,” Vincent says, pushing lightly down on his shoulders. Yves sits. He peels off his suit jacket, folds it, and sets it aside on the nightstand.

“Hey, I kdow that was sudden,” he says, in reference to earlier. “I’mb sorry you had to witness it. I… probably shouldn’t have pushed it.”

Vincent says nothing, to that.

Yves lays down, shuts his eyes. “You didn’t have to accompady me home, you know.”

Silence. He exhales, burrowing deeper into the covers. “It’s not as bad as it looks, seriously.”

He opens his mouth to say more. He has to say something, he thinks, to convince Vincent that it’s really not that big of a deal. Anything, to assuage that look on Vincent’s face.

But he’s so tired. He can feel the exhaustion now that he’s finally let himself lay down. The bed is traitorously comfortable, with its soft feather pillows and its fluffy layers of blankets, and Vincent was right—it really is warmer.

He feels the press of a hand on his forehead, feels the cold, unyielding pressure. Feels gentle, calloused fingers brush the hair out of his face.

“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly. 

And Yves—

Yves, already half gone, is powerless, when Vincent says it like that.

—

When he wakes, it’s just barely bright outside. He takes it in—the first few rays of sunlight, streaking through the curtains. The bed, a little more well-cushioned than the pullout bed he’d spent the past few nights on—higher up and decisively sturdier. He blinks.

Beside him, seated on a chair he recognizes as belonging to the desk at the opposite end of the room, is Vincent.

Vincent, awake. Yves isn’t sure if he’s slept at all. He certainly doesn’t look tired, at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a little more. It’s evident in the way he holds his shoulders, stiff, and perhaps a little tired, as if there’s been tension sitting in them all night. 

He’s reading a book. Whether he bought it at the convenience store downstairs, or on one of the other days when Yves was busy running errands for the wedding and Vincent was elsewhere, or whether it’d been sitting in his suitcase since the start of the vacation, Yves doesn’t know.

“How’s the book?” Yves says.

His throat is dry, he realizes, for the way it makes him cough, afterwards. Vincent’s eyes meet his, unerringly. He shuts the book, sets it down on the bedside table.

“It’s a little boring,” Vincent says. “How’s the fever?”

Before Yves can answer, Vincent leans forward and presses the back of his hand to Yves’s forehead. His touch is unerringly gentle, and Yves allows himself to look. 

Vincent’s eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, and Yves wonders, suddenly, if he’s been this worried for awhile, now. If he’s been this worried ever since he’d walked them both back into the hotel room last night.

“I’m fine,” Yves says. 

It has the opposite effect he intends it to.

Vincent’s expression shutters. “The last time you said that, you passed out in front of me,” he says, withdrawing his hand with a frown. “So forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you.”

Yves sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s a fair point. “I’m usually more reliable whed it comes to these things.”

“What things?”

“Kdowing my limits.”

Vincent says, “I think you knew your limits. I think you just didn’t want to honor them, because you decided the wedding took precedence.”

He’s… frustrated, Yves realizes. Still. He’s sure he can guess why. Their fake relationship does not extend to Vincent having to look after him, to Vincent having to drop everything in the middle of a wedding, of all things, to take him home. To Vincent having to worry about all this—the fever Yves knows he has, now, and the bed he’s currently taking up—on top of everything else. As if being in a foreign country, surrounded by people he knows almost exclusively through Yves, who, for the most part, converse in a language he barely speaks, wasn’t already enough work on its own.

And Yves gets it. He hadn’t wanted this to happen, either. He’d told himself that if this—this pretend relationship, this pretense—is contingent upon both of them playing their part, the least he can do is be self-sufficient outside of it.

But now—because Vincent is here with him, and because they share a hotel room—all of this is now Vincent’s problem, too, by extension.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks.

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly, as if the answer is evident. 

“You gave up your bed just for me to steal it,” Yves says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s really comfortable, and all, but I’mb pretty sure they make these kinds of beds for two.”

“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.

“Maybe.” Yves thinks it through. “Realistically, probably ndot, until I have a chance to shower.” He’s still dressed in his dress shirt and slacks from yesterday, a little embarrassingly—he should probably get changed. “Speaking of which, I should do that soon, so you don’t feel the need to stay up all night reading—” Yves leans forward, squints at the book cover on the nightstand. “—Hemingway? Somehow, I didn’t expect you to be the type.”

“I’m not,” Vincent says. “Victoire lent it to me.”

“Oh,” Yves says, trying to think of when Vincent would’ve had time to ask her for a recommendation. “Yeah. She’s—” He twists aside, ducking into his elbow. “hHEH’IIDzschh-EEW! snf-! She’s quite the literary reader. Is it really that boring?”

“I can see why people think the transparency of his prose is appealing,” Vincent says. “But I’m fifty pages in, and nothing has happened.”

“Isd’t that the sort of thing Hemingway can get away with, since he’s straightforward about it?”

“In a short story, maybe,” Vincent says. Then: “You are trying to make me feel better.”

Ah.

Yves laughs. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”

Vincent just sighs. “I would be exceptionally unobservant not to notice when I’ve seen you do the same thing all this week.”

“What?”

“Telling people that you’re fine,” Vincent says. “And distracting them when they don’t believe you.”

Yves doesn’t think that’s entirely accurate. It’s not like he was trying to be dishonest. It’s just that it was never the most important thing to address.

“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”

“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, with a frown. “You’re so insistent on putting yourself last, even when you were obviously—” He sighs. There it is—that expression again, the one that makes itself evident through the furrowed eyebrows, the tense set of his jaw—frustration, and maybe something else. “You’re surrounded by people who care about you, so why not just—”

“There are plenty of things more important than how I’mb feeling,” Yves says.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

But of course it is, Yves thinks. A wedding is a once in a lifetime occurrence. An illness is nothing, in the face of that.

“I promised I’d be there,” he says, because when it really comes down to it, it’s true. He had no intention of going back on his word. “I didn’t want to be the one to let them down. Is that so hard to believe?” He reaches up with a hand to massage his temples. His head aches, even though he’s slept for long enough that he feels like it ought to feel a little better, by now. “It’s already bad enough that I had to drag you into this.” 

“You didn’t drag me into this,” Vincent says. “I came on my own volition.”

Yves tries a laugh, but it’s humorless. “I made you leave halfway through the wedding dinner.”

“I’d already finished eating.”

“Ndot to mention, you practically had to carry me upstairs.”

“Because you’re ill.”

“That’s no excuse.” Yves wants to say more, but he finds himself beholden to a tickle in the back of his throat—irritatingly present, until he concedes to it by ducking into his elbow to cough, and cough.

When he looks up, blinking tears out of his vision, Vincent isn’t looking at him.

“You should get some rest,” he says, simply.

Yves can tell—just by the way he says it—that there is no argument to him, anymore. Just like that, Vincent is back to being closed off—poised and perfectly, infuriatingly unreadable, just like he is at work, his face so carefully a mask of indifference, even in the most stressful presentations, the most frustrating disagreements. Yves wants none of it.

 “Hey,” he says. A part of him itches to crack a joke, to change the subject—anything to take away this air of seriousness. A part of him wants to reach out, again—to take Vincent’s hand, entwine their fingers; to reassure him, again, that he’s really fine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead. Maybe it’s the fever that loosens his tongue. Maybe it’s just a combination of everything.

He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him, still. Vincent has always held a sort of intensity to him, a quiet sort of perceptiveness. “I’m not sure I follow,” Vincent says.

“This visit was supposed to be fun for you,” he says. “And now you’re here, stuck in the hotel room because of me, even though today was supposed to be for sightseeing.”

It doesn’t feel like enough. What can he say to make it enough? There’s a strange ache in his chest, a strange, crushing pressure. Yves is horrified to find his eyes stinging. He’s held it together for so long, he thinks. Why now? Why, when Vincent is right here?

But a part of him knows, too. Of course traveling to a different country would be more involved than going to a party, or spending an evening at a stranger’s house. But there was a time when he thought this could really just be a fun excursion for the both of them—half a week in his family’s home country, with someone who he thoroughly enjoys spending time with. 

And now, because of this untimely illness—or because of his own short-sightedness in managing it—it isn’t. He didn’t get to stay through dinner, didn’t get to wish Aimee and Genevieve a good rest of their night, like he’d planned to. He has no idea if things went smoothly in his absence. To make matters worse, Vincent is here, having endured a sleepless night, instead of anywhere else.

And really, when he thinks about it, who does have to blame for all of this, except himself?

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” he says. “So I’m sorry.” He resists the urge to swipe a hand over his eyes—surely, he thinks, that would give him away.

He turns away. It’s convenient, he thinks, that the embarrassing sniffle that follows could be attributed to something else. 

“You’ve been nothing but accommodating to me, this whole visit,” Vincent says. “If anything, I should’ve insisted that you take the bed earlier. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”

He says it with such certainty. Yves opens his mouth to protest this—or to apologize, for all the times he must’ve kept Vincent up, including but not limited to last night—but Vincent presses on.

“You spent all of yesterday morning helping everyone get ready, and when I got back, you apologized for not being around—as if the reason why you weren’t around wasn’t that you were so busy making sure everything was fine for everyone else.” Vincent pauses, takes in a slow, measured breath. Yves is surprised to hear that he sounds… distinctly angry, in a way that Yves is not used to hearing.

“And then you showed up to the rehearsal and the wedding, even though you weren’t feeling well. And you still think you have something to apologize for? Are you even hearing yourself?” Yves hears the creak of the chair as he stands, the sound of quiet footsteps. Feels the dip of the bed as Vincent takes a seat at the edge of it. 

“You know, after you left the dinner table, Genevieve was talking about how much she liked your speech? Do you know that yesterday morning, Solaine told me how grateful she was that you helped her with fixing her dress? Do you know that when I got lunch with Leon and Victoire, they told me how much time you spent preparing for everything—the speech, and the wedding, both?”

Oh. Yves hadn’t known any of those things, and he knows Vincent isn’t the kind of person who would lie about this sort of thing.

“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, sounding distinctly pained to say it. “How could you possibly think that you haven’t done enough?”

Yves finds himself taken aback—by the frustration in his voice, by the fact that Vincent has noticed these things in the first place, by the fact that he’s deemed them important enough to take stock of. He makes it sound so simple. 

“I don’t know,” Yves says, at last. He shuts his eyes. “If it was enough.”

“I’m telling you that it was,” Vincent says.

But Yves knows that he could have done more, if the circumstances were different. If he hadn’t been so out of it during the wedding. If he’d taken the necessary precautions to avoid coming down with this in the first place. If he’d been able to stay through dinner, at least; if he hadn’t needed Vincent to accompany him home. 

“You don’t believe me,” Vincent says, with a sigh.

Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Vincent says. There’s the slight rustling of the covers as he shifts, rearranging one of the pillows at the headboard. “But I had fun.”

Yves’s heart twists.

It’s sweet, unexpectedly. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better,” Yves says.

“When have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?” Vincent says, with a short laugh. When Yves chances a look at him, he’s smiling down at himself. “I mean it. Meeting your family has been a lot of fun. It’s not often that I get the chance to be a part of something like this.”

Whether he’s referring to France, or the wedding and the festivities, or being surrounded by Yves’s large extended family, Yves isn’t sure. But if Vincent is trying to cheer him up, it’s working.

“I can see why you like France so much,” he says, turning his gaze out the window, though the view outside is filtered through the semi-translucent curtains. “It’s beautiful.”

“Today was supposed to be the last day for sightseeing,” Yves says, a little regretful. “But you’re stuck here.”

“In a sunny, luxurious hotel room, with a view of the pool and the garden?” Vincent says, with a scoff. “I could think of worse places to be.”

Staying up all night, just to check up on Yves, more accurately. Vincent must be tired, too—yesterday was already tiring enough. And now it’s morning already, and he hasn’t gotten any sleep. 

“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.

Vincent looks a little surprised. Then he laughs. “Yes. I guess you’re right. Perhaps it’s an agonizing experience after all.”

The yawn he stifles into his hand, after that isn’t half as subtle as he tries to make it.

Yves feels his eyebrows creep up. “Are you sure you don’t want to get some sleep? There’s plenty of room.” He scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed, just to make a point.

Vincent peers down at the space beside him, a little hesitant. “At 10am?”

“It’d be, what, 4am, back in Eastern time?” Yves says. “By Ndew York standards, you’re supposed to already be asleep.”

“That’s not how it works,” Vincent says, but he dutifully moves a little closer to Yves anyways. He’s changed out of yesterday’s wedding attire, more sensibly, but now he’s wearing a knitted cardigan which Yves thinks looks unfairly, terribly good on him. Yves finds himself marveling at the unfairness of it all. How can someone look so good wearing something so casual?

Vincent smells good, up close. When he lays down next to Yves, pulling the covers gingerly over himself—leaving a careful amount of room between them, but still dangerously, intoxicatingly close—Yves feels his breath catch in his throat.

Vincent is right there, less than an arm’s length away from him, closer than he’s ever been, and Yves—Yves is—

“See,” Yves says, as evenly as he can manage to, in his current state, as if his heart isn’t practically beating out of his chest. He swallows. His throat feels dry. “This bed definitely fits two.”

“I suppose it does,” Vincent says. “Now you can tell me if I’m a terrible person to share a bed with.”

“After everything I’ve put you through,” Yves says, “I think I’d honestly feel reassured if you were.”

Vincent smiles, again, as if he finds this humorous. “Are you sure you’re going to be fine?”

“Positive,” Yves says. “You should sleep. I’ll wake you if I ndeed anything.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Vincent shuts his eyes.

It’s not long before his breathing evens out, not long before he goes perfectly still. He must really be tired, Yves thinks, with a pang.

Yves, for some reason, finds that he can’t get to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes on end, shuts his eyes, all to no avail. Maybe it’s because he’s already slept far more than his usual share. Maybe it’s the jetlag. Maybe it’s merely Vincent’s unusual presence—the strangeness of having him so close, in an environment so intimate.

But when he allows himself to look, he sees—

Vincent, his eyes shut, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks. From the window, the filtered light gleams unevenly across the crown of dark hair on his head. There’s almost no movement to him at all, aside from the even rise and fall of his shoulders.

And Yves knows what the feeling in his chest is. He’s regrettably, intimately familiar with it.

He just isn’t sure he likes what it means.

—

Vincent—despite falling asleep so quickly—is up before him. When Yves wakes, next, it’s to a hand to his forehead.

“Hey,” Vincent is saying, softly. “Yves. You have a visitor.”

Yves opens his eyes.

He’s feeling—a little better, remarkably. Still feverish, still a little unsteady, but leagues better as compared to yesterday. When he looks over, he sees—

He doesn’t jolt upright, but it’s a close thing. “Aimee!”

He barely has a chance to ask before she’s crashing into him, encircling him in a tight hug. “Yves!” she exclaims, pulling back from him. “How are you feeling? Oh my gosh, when I heard you left early because you were unwell, I was so worried…”

Yves grimaces, turning away. “Sorry, I had every idtention of staying until the end—”

“You came all the way out with the flu!” she says. “I honestly can’t believe you. The fact that you still took the trouble to attend with a fever—”

“It—” Yves starts, but he finds himself twisting away, lifting an arm to his face. “hhEH-! HEEhD’TTSCHH-iiiEEw! Snf-! It’s fide, snf-! I’mb practically recovered already.”

“I should’ve told you not to push yourself when you told me you were coming down with something,” Aimee says, shaking her head. “And you stayed and gave such a lovely speech, even though you weren’t feeling well? When I was talking to Victoire after, she mentioned that you’ve been sick for days and Genevieve—you should’ve said something.”

“I’ll say somethidg next time,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. “Did the wedding go okay?”

Aimee visibly brightens, at this. “It was more than okay,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “It blew every expectation that I had out of the water.”

Aimee fills him in on everything that happened after he left, last night—dessert, the first dance, the cake-cutting; her favorites out of the photos they’d taken after the ceremony (a shot of Genevieve braiding her hair during the cocktail hour; a shot of them leaning in close, for the dance, tired but smiling; a shot of the cake with its multiple tiers, the frosting strung like banners across it; another where both of them are holding onto the cutting knife together and Genevieve looks like she is trying not to laugh; a shot of the bouquet toss, the flowers suspended in mid-air). She tells him about the conversations she and Genevieve had with others about marriage and their futures and their plans for their honeymoon.

Then she lectures him on how he should worry about his health first, next time. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she’s fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind the next time he tries to pull something like this. She insists that his health is more important than anything. Vincent stands off to the side the entire time, his arms crossed, passively listening in, but when Yves looks over helplessly, mid-lecture, he definitely looks a little smug. 

All in all, she doesn’t seem disappointed in him at all. And, more importantly, she seems happy. Yves finds himself relieved, at this.

Genevieve stops by, too, a little later, to thank him for the advice he’d given her the day before the wedding. She hugs him too, and she leaves him a bag of tea that she promises “is practically a cure to anything—I hope it makes your flight home tomorrow a little more tolerable.” Victoire stops by, with Leon, and Yves resigns himself to more lecturing from the both of them. It’s humbling, a little, to be lectured by his younger sister and his younger brother, though he concedes that perhaps this time, it might be at least partially warranted.

Then Leon opens their hotel fridge to show him the two creme brulees he and Vincent had missed out on, packaged nicely in small paper containers. (“Vincent told me you were interested in these,” he says, and Yves finds himself slightly mortified—but perhaps also a little endeared—that whatever it was that he’d said last night, offhandedly, Vincent had deemed it important enough to text Leon about.)

Later, after Yves showers and gets changed—when he and Vincent eat the creme brulees at the table in the living room, and Vincent tells him that he’s finished the book, perhaps a little masochistically (“it doesn’t get any better,” he says, sounding a little spiteful)—Yves finds himself smiling.

He’s happy, he realizes, despite everything that’s happened. Even with the slight headache, and the lingering congestion, the fever that hasn’t quite gone away entirely. The revelation comes as a surprise to him, at first. But when he thinks about the people he’s surrounded with, he thinks perhaps it isn’t all that surprising.

—

EPILOGUE

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Vincent asks.

“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.

This time, he’s seated right next to the window, and Vincent is in the middle seat. Yves had offered to take the middle seat instead, but Vincent had insisted(“If you wanted to sleep, you could lean against the window,” he’d said, and Yves had accepted only because it would be better to fall asleep against the window than do something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Vincent’s shoulder).

“It’s just the annoyidg residual symptoms, now,” he says. “I—”

God. He always has the worst timing. He veers away, muffling a tightly contained sneeze into his shoulder.

“hHEH-’IIDDZschH-yyEW! Snf-! I’mb — hHhEHh’DjjsSHH-iEW! Ugh, I’m fine. I feel better thad I sound.”

“Bless you,” Vincent says, leaning over to press his hand against Yves’s forehead. “No fever,” he says. “That’s good. But you should take another day off when we get back.”

Yves doesn’t think taking another day off is necessary. “I spedt the entirety of yesterday sleeping,” he says. “I think I’ve rested enough.”

Vincent just raises an eyebrow at him. “Need I remind you that someone very wise told you to take it easy?”

“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”

“She made a lot of good points,” Vincent says, deceptively unassuming. “I think you should consider taking notes.”

Yves looks at him for a moment. “You’re laughing at me.”

This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”

Yves leans back in his seat, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. The changing cabin pressure is not exactly comfortable—his head still hurts a little, but he’s flown enough times to know that it won’t be as much of a problem once they finish their ascent. 

“Thadks again for coming,” he says, unwrapping one of the small, packaged pillows the airline has left on their seats. 

“You invited me,” Vincent says, blinking. “All I did was show up.”

But that isn’t true at all, Yves thinks. Vincent is the one who spent time learning basic French, who met Yves’s family and who spoke with everyone with genuine interest, who bought Yves medicine and water, all while being careful to not be overbearing. Vincent is the one who left the wedding early to walk Yves back to the hotel, who stayed with him the entire day afterwards.

“That’s such a huge understatement I don’t even kdow where to get started,” Yves says. “Thanks for meetidg my family—they love you, by the way. They’re going to be askidg about you every summer from now on, I just know it.”

He can already picture it—June, this year, after busy season is over, if their fake relationship lasts that long. Another flight where they’re next to each other. Another dozen conversations about how they’d met, about what it’s like dating a coworker, about what their plans for the future are.

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement in the first place. But something about this—about being here with Vincent—just feels so unthinkingly easy.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says. “The feeling is mutual. I’m glad I got to meet them.”

“Thanks for looking after me, too,” Yves says, with another apologetic smile. “I’mb sure being stuck in a hotel room all day wasn’t how you were planning on spending your last day of vacation.”

“I don’t mind,” Vincent says, sounding strangely like he means it. “I like spending time with you.”

Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding. 

When he looks back at Vincent, Vincent looks faintly amused. “Is that so surprising? I think I’d be a terrible fake boyfriend if I didn’t.”

“You make a really good one, as it stands,” Yves tells him, sincerely, and Vincent smiles.

Yves looks out the window—where the city beneath them begins to resolve itself into miniature, where the sky stretches where he can see Vincent reflected faintly back at him, from the glass—and finds that he feels impossibly light.

[deus-ex-mona]

real talk: lxl should continue to explore romance fantasy concepts in their songs. it’s clearly working for them~

[softerhaze]

*giggles and tee hees*

[cocksley-and-catapult]

if u had to assign every Named c&c character to an eog character, who would be who

[wyhoysuniverse]

Hi hard launching. Sorry. I just really liked this idea and nobody had written is so here is the start to it!!! Based off characters not creators. Superhero au + college au where both Tommy and Wilbur have DID and don’t know it.

Will possibly be alternating POV depends on how creative and my energy levels

[andy-clutterbuck]

Andy being an adorable little shit Bts of TWD 8x13

[aromistic]

regarding my last post's tags (dungeon meshi spoiler screaming)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

WHAT IF I LOVED YOU SO MUCH I BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM THE DEAD BY SHEER FORCE OF WILL!!!!!!!!

Until that point I thought "wow, marcille sure is intense abt falin. gay." but I thought it was Yuri Goggles just from seeing fanart.

And then. Marcille whips out "oh by the way I'm kind of a little freak and learned forbidden magic for fun." "Oh and also I'm going to revive my best friend and probable Obsession"

I love the dogged yuri devotion. I love you so much I'll never leave you. I love you so much nothing could keep me apart from you. Not even distance, not even death. fuck me UPPPPP

and I know this is a farcille post but when Laios comes up to her and holds her. I bawled. Siblings who love each other are so dear to me. And then Marcille wakes up and is immediately desperate to see Falin, and can't get to her fast enough. I bawled more. I LOVE THEMMMM

I wish I hadn't been spoiled for a couple of things beyond this point (already I knew they'd eventually reunited, and while I'd been spoiled for the necromancy I completely forgot until it started happening)

Yuri Necromancy is basically my brand at this point.... Show me a doomed pair and I'll give you a forbidden spellbook

[ardentpoop]

sorry but dabb is such a hack lmfao finale script reads like he pulled it out of his ass in one sitting

[akkivee]

Penny for your thoughts, but I'm wondering if the upcoming Kuko angst is going to be related to him getting true mic'd. Like one of the first things he establishes way at the beginning the importance of making your own choices, and how he wonders if coming back to Nagoya when he did was right or not, but is the choice he made. But he didn't. And like immediately finding out he complains of being shrouded in doubt during "when six colors combine" drama track.

i like where your head’s at!!!!!! love it actually lmao!!!!!!

idk how to try and support your ideas without breaking down each and every verse lol, but i’ll try to keep it short. i think in this song preview, we listened to kuukou question everything he believes in, but as the song further and further progresses, we see him reassert his beliefs and give them focus, quite literally saying to never waver again. what set that off is the big question and i do think it’s linked to that very verse

the only time he’s ever mentioned such a sentiment is towards ichiro actually; ichiro always wavered in his heart and it’s the one thing kuukou could not stand about ichiro, so there’s potential it could be about ichiro

but this is a bat track lol and besides, ichiro and kuukou are very similar people. what he hates in ichiro could be actually reflective of something he hates in himself for a past choice we aren’t privy to, or even that very ‘choice’ to have left ikebukuro

as for it being bc of true hypnosis mic thought, i don’t see why it couldn’t be!!!! esp since kuukou himself didn’t sound very happy with the way he was called strong for breaking free out of the true hypnosis mic in the six colours track. if he needs maybe we’ll get some insight as to how kuukou broke out of the true hypnosis mic???

something that caught my eye while looking over the lyrics was that both he and hitoya have a similar verse about ‘illusions,’ hitoya plans to unravel its lies and kuukou’s is about how those illusions became reality. idk lol!!!!! that kinda sounds like a nod to the true hypnosis mic to me!!!! plus!!!! we had hitoya accompany ichiro, jakurai and gentaro’s block party mission to find out about the hypnosis mics, so that gives bat another connection to the hypnosis mic lore, as small as it is rn lol

on kuukou’s end, he true hypnosis mic had the power to strip away the value of choice. kuukou’s talked about how the hypnosis mic can change your fate in glory or dust and fate for kuukou is directly linked to choice. choice affects karma and depending on the karma you accumulated in life would affect how kuukou faces the buddha at the end of his life. so where does a choice like his actions the true hypnosis mic made him do fall under??? what’s that karma???? maybe it’s why kuukou’s thinking at some point in this song that his heart’s conviction isn’t enough, as evidenced by that verse ‘even when closed, with unwavering resolve in our hearts / this belief itself extinguishes like a flame,’ if his will had been strong enough in the first place, maybe he wouldn’t have succumbed to it is his thought process and that’s very harsh for kuukou to put onto himself lol

and lastly lol, about hirono-san uncharacteristically tweeting about kuukou it was def a hint lol 🤭 our first hint was hayama-san’s post and pic with bimi in may, the second was hirono-san’s kuukou bday tweet and the third was the fact kuukou’s sukajan was falling off the exact same way hirono-san liked to strip tease and then, hirono-san posting that very pic himself after the drop lol

[gingerpeachtea]

🦀🦀🦀

15 sentences!!!!

Satine was lying on Christian’s bed, seated up against tattered pillows thin with use; she might have minded, if the smell of his shampoo and her perfume weren’t lingering so sweetly. She could recall their early days, before Christian had gotten properly settled, when all that clung was dust. Or, the bitter stench of absinthe, when the same could be said of his breath—when the green-cheapened poetry of his mouth swallowed the copper twinge in her own. A small mercy she'd held tight in her bloodstained fist. Paris backstreets shone among the red L’amour sign beyond Christian’s apartment, a mere glimmer peeking through the reflections cast on the window: Christian’s backside, lit warm by the bedside lamp while he excitedly leafed through the pieces he’d workshopped with Toulouse. He was always working on something new, jumping from project to project, passion to passion; a constant balancing act of his overactive imagination atop the cusp of fresh creation. He came home from each session with Toulouse more than eager to share his day’s musings with Satine. After all, try as he might, Toulouse was never too successful in pacing Christian, keeping him stoking one creative flame at a time instead of just dousing every concept in gasoline and tossing in a reckless match. No, it seemed Santiago and Satine were the lucky few capable of reining him in from careening wildly between ideas at the drop of a hat. (Nini had successfully shot down an idea of his once, though, after being forced to overhear him describe it to Satine in their dressing room between acts. She’d been a bit harsh about it, but he appreciated her honesty.)

i think this is more than 15 whatevs tho ily

(make me write!!!)

[sincerely-sofie]

Is this why Ark won't straight up confess?

Oh my WORD I'd forgotten I made a meme of that. Long story short, yeah! Pretty much!

There's a cut (but still canonical) scene this is based on early in The Present is a Gift where Ark, sans memories, basically says he's very fond of Twig and he's happy he met her and is able to call her a friend. Twig doesn't straight up tell him she'll slide him a fifty if he never says that again in the original scene, but she gets VERY noticeably uncomfortable and he permanently backs off on the Words of Affirmation front.

After that, he has this lingering fear that she'll react the same way if he were ever to propose a romantic relationship, and so his ex-villain brain constantly comes up with elaborate schemes that minimize emotional risks and have Twig make the first move in response to actions he takes that may or may not be interpreted as platonic or perhaps something more, therefore shifting all risks off of himself in the process.

TL;DR--- Man's scared of rejection and has masterminded a situation in which Twig is the only one to risk direct rejection, therefore guaranteeing success... If she wasn't an idiot and would pick up on his hints.

[ahli-stuff]

Crying thinking about fyodor at 5 am vibes

i don’t know what it is about him that initially made me love his character so much but if i were to put a finger on it it would be his sickly god-savior complex rooted in isolation and narcissistic self hatred

Why did he turn out that way?

Headcannon time:

Haven’t you heard? The Dostoyevsky family was cursed by a demon. Vanished without a trace. First it was the mother, the father, then the son.

- fyodor’s mother tried to kill him as a child—ability users were even less understood back then and she saw him as a devil spawn

- the first time fyodor uses his ability is when his mother kills him. He is reborn as her. (Still a child, though)

- since he inherits his previous incarnation’s memories and desires, he inherits the strongest emotion his mother felt when she tried to kill him: hatred for ability users.

- fyodor, traumatized from that experience forgets what his mother had done when he was a child, forgets his mother’s memories, believing she had left him with her ring and swaddled in her clothes before disappearing into the night.

- even though he has forgotten, he still has an unexplainable intense hatred towards ability users.

- his father was a kind and meek man; believing that she had simply disappeared and left the two of them he raised fyodor the best he can as a normal boy.

- though fyodor does dearly love his father, and his father loves him, his father notices that fyodor acts uncannily similar to his mother.

- contrary to his wife, fyodor’s father is not extremely religious, which is why he finds it strange that fyodor is.

- it comes to a head when fyodor is 17, and his father is deathly ill from tuberculosis. They do not have any money to spare, and fyodor does his best to work but there is not enough money.

- !fyodor remembers there is a nasty, old, pawnbroker whom he had to sell his mother’s silver ring to to afford his fathers medicine. (You know where this is going…)

- carrying a hatchet in his hands, he corners the pawnbroker when she arrives back to her flat, drunk.

- he tries his goddamned best to kill her, but he is malnourished, small, and weak. He trips, and the axe falls out of his hands.

- in an panicked attempt to defend herself, the pawnbroker picks up the axe and kills fyodor(for the second time.)

- he is reborn again—except memories from when his mother killed him in his youth begin flooding back. The pawnbroker’s, his mother’s, and his own memories melt and form a horrifying amalgamation in his mind.

- he takes what he can from the pawnbrokers house, and runs. He takes his mother’s ring back. He sells everything but the ring the next day.

- when he presents the medicine to his father—his father, enraged and feverish, sits up in bed and asks him where he got the money to buy it from. He must’ve stolen. But from where? Reading the newspaper earlier that day shows that the pawnbroker has gone missing, with all of her belongings and money.

- when he looks a fyodor and looks into his eyes glossy white eyes and dead-empty expression… he knows. Feverish, he wonders, if fyodor had been the reason his wife had vanished too.

- fyodor—having been killed and having “killed” two people watches his father’s rage in a dissociative manic calm.

in him, resentment for his nature builds. This is what ability users can do, huh? This is the pain they can cause. He knows his father will die if he spends another day without medicine. He knows that he father will not accept the medicine from him.

And so—he lets his father wrap his hands around his throat. This is fyodor’s mercy.

He leaves his home after that, his father and mother’s burning desires still fresh in his mind: kill all ability users.

Footnotes:

*this also fits asagiri’s style of writing: he often switches the personalities and/or circumstances of his characters in bsd. Akutagawa being dazai’s apprentice in bsd vs dazai vying for the akutagawa award in real life. Dazai mocking chuuya in bsd vs chuuya mocking dazai in real life.

*In this hc, fyodor’s mother is the one who is heavily religious, whereas in real life it is his father. In this hc, his father is ill instead of his mother who was in real life.

*And my favorite switch of all: the pawnbroker from crime and punishment killing raskolnikov (fyodor) instead of the other way around in the the actual Crime and Punishment.

*QUESTION. What intense desire did the fyodor get from the pawn broker? This one’s fun. The desire not to die—it makes the next time he kills an ability user using his ability that much more excruciating.