#sorry i am a little frustrated

[pathofelation]

im going to start mauling people if they keep trying to ask me about my discourse positions. "what do you think about [x]" ok well first off i don't think about it. at all. secondly the weather is nice today. thirdly i'm going to go play outside. have a good day

[bizarrelittlemew]

i can't wait to be 30+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 40+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 50+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 60+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 70+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 80+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 90+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to look back on my life and know that i loved things deeply and passionately and was inspired to create and was part of communities with incredible people from all over the world brought together by the stories that touched us

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[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.

[seegoat]

HOUSE M.D. 3.11

[lopez-richter-fangirl]

Do you honestly think tcb will reach their goal?

I have to believe that they will but I am fucking stressed and fucking scared

The thing is there’s literally no reason they SHOULDN’T. Yes it’s a bigger goal than they’ve ever had but shipwrecked raised that amount for headless and starkid raised almost double that for returns with a smaller slate of projects. Even in TCB’s own kickstarters they raised 100k for a single staged barebones workshop reading. Yes 200k is a lot of money, but for how much they’re doing with it?? It’s TINY

Two concert screenings, one of them international. A full month international play run. A brand new musical with performances in LA and eventually internationally. A concert performance of a show we’ve never heard live yet. A brand new pilot reading. And multiple performances of a live comedy game show

I do think the niche-ness of the campaign branding means they have to work harder to reach a wider audience, but for people who are already aware of what they’re doing, I don’t understand why it’s not showing in the numbers

Please, if anyone’s on the fence, tell me why and let me convince you why this is worth it

[roosterscockpit]

Stuff Me Like A Turkey | Bradley Bradshaw x reader

click here to see the master list

Cause I reblogged a picture saying I wanted Miles to stuff me like a turkey, so why not write out my frustrations 😈

WARNING: PURE FUCKIN SMUT. MINORS DNI 18+

Enjoy my frustrations, babes. This was so spontaneous. I just thought I would share the frustration with you all because SHARING IS CARING 😂

Happy reading and enjoy! 💕

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All day you had been hot and bothered ever since Bradley teased you all morning just to leave you hanging because he had to go to work. You couldn’t help, but think about him all over your body and him whispering he had a present for you later on tonight.

“I am going to stuff you tonight, baby girl. Just wait for me to get home.”

Later on that afternoon, you were at home making the turkey for the Thanksgiving dinner at Mav’s hangar. Bradley volunteered that you and him would bring the turkey. You washed the turkey and started to remove the contents from inside. You pulled out the bag of guts and then the neck of that turkey. You held the turkey neck in your hand and looked at it with your head cocked.

“What in the world?” You were examining it. You had never cleaned a turkey before. It caught you off guard.

You placed it in the sink and started to think about Bradley. “Am I really getting hot and bothered by a damn dead bird right now?” You rolled your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose.

You continued to prep the turkey and Bradley came through the front door. “Hey, baby. I’m home!” He walked over to you in the kitchen.

You looked up and he was in his flight suit, half way peeled down and tied against his waist. “Hi Bradley.”

He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He gave you kisses on your neck and shoulder. “I missed you today, sweetheart.” He moved your hair and kept kissing your neck.

Your breath stuttered when you felt his mustache trailing against your neck. It gave you goosebumps. “I missed you too.” You voice was soft. You could feel his smile grow on his face. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

He stood up straight and turned you around, “Have you, sweetheart? What did you think about?” His voice was hoarse.

“I think you and I both know what I’ve been thinking about, Bradley.”

He chuckled and placed his thumb on your chin. “Refresh my memory as to what we are thinking.” He licked his lips as he looked at your mouth.

“For starters, you teased me all morning and left me with nothing to go to work. I can’t express to you how frustrated I am with you.” You squinted your eyes at him.

He ducked down and kissed your lips, “And?” He placed his hands on your hips and gripped them gently, bringing you closer to him.

“And you are the worst. How can you do that to me?” Your legs started to tingle.

He nodded slowly and bit his bottom lip, “How can I do what, baby?” His hands slipped under your shirt and up to your waist.

You inhaled sharply and swallowed hard. his touch sent goosebumps all over your body. You were burning under his touch. It was what you were craving all day. It’s what you longed for. “How can you get me riled up and leave me that way?”

He started to lightly scratch at your skin. His eyes lingering on your lips. “Because it gets me right where I wanted you.” He pulled you into him and lifted you up onto the counter. He stood between your thighs. He rubbed his hands up and down your thighs.

He started to kiss you chest. He made his way up to your neck and then to your lips. He bit your lower lip and looked at you as he did it. You gasped, “Bradley…”

“Shhhh, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you.”

He pushed his hands back into your shirt and up into your bra. He started to massage your nipples in his fingers. you squeezed your eyes shut and bit your lip. He started to kiss and suck on your neck. Your fingers tangled in his curls as he rolled your nipples in his fingers a little harder.

“I told you I’ll have a present for you, baby.”

He swiftly lifted your bra and shirt over your head. He quickly took his off. He sucked on your nipples and gripped onto your hips. You tilted your head back and let out a loud groan. “Fuck Bradley.”

He trailed kisses up to your lips. He kissed you hard as he started to shimmy out of his flight suit. He was frantically trying to untie the knot of the sleeves. “God I want to gobble you up, sweetheart.” He breathed in between the hot exchange of kisses. He got the knot undone and pulled the flight suit down to his ankles. He kicked his flight suit off grabbed your thighs.

He pulled you closer into him and his hands roamed your body. He was being rough with his touching. He was scratching you all over. He broke the kiss and pushed everything off of the counter.

“Oh my gosh, Bradley. Here??”

“Shut up, sweetheart.” He laid you back on the cold marble countertop. He slowly removed your leggings and threw them over with his flight suit. He ducked his head down in between your thighs and gave your warm core a kiss.

“Oh my god.” Your legs twitched.

He started to massage your thighs as he lightly sucked on your inner thighs. “You’re already so wet for me, baby. I felt it on my lips.” He slowly pulled your panties down to your ankles and admired your glistening core. “Is this for me, baby?” He ran two fingers up and down your folds.

Your breathing became heavy. You gulped and looked up at Bradley. He was licking his lips as he ran his fingers up and down you. He looked up at you and raised his brows. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.” He plunged his fingers into you and you gasped. He started to pump his finger in and out of your wet folds. “Baby?”

You bit down on your arm and closed your eyes. He added another finger into you. “God you are so tight for me, sweetheart.” He removed his fingers and you whimpered from the emptiness he left you. He brought his mouth to your dripping core and lapped his tongue over you. He pushed your thighs apart. He started to rub your clit as he licked you.

Your back lifted off of the counter as you grabbed onto his hair. “Bradley, please.” He shook his head. He groaned into you. The vibrations felt good against you. You pulled him deeper into you. You felt the sensation start to build in your stomach. You were getting close.

Bradley moved his hand from your clit and removed his boxers. He slowly rubbed his pre cum all over the head of himself and started to pump his hand on his erection. He was groaning into your wet core as he did. Hearing him moan and feeling him moan brought you the utmost pleasure. You pulled him away from you.

He looked at you with hungry eyes, “I want you to stuff me like a turkey, Bradley.” He smiled and stood tall.

He pulled you onto his long erected cock. He filled you in one fluid motion. You yelped as he hit your cervix. “Holy shit.”

He grabbed onto your hips and started pumping in and out of you slowly. You legs dropped and hung off of the counter top. You were melting at every thrust. Your calves started to twitch.

Bradley started to thrust harder and faster. He was smashing his hips into you. You were definitely going to have bruises. You placed your hands onto his arms and dug your nails into him.

“Fuck, baby! You feel so good around me.” Bradley tilted his head back as he thrusted faster into you. “You’re taking my cock so good, baby girl.” He looked at you. Your face had pleasure written all over it.

Your eyes were closed, your mouth slightly opened, your head tilted back, and your back slightly lifting off of the counter. “Look at me, sweetheart. I wanna see your fucking face.” He pulled on your hands to pull you up. He picked you up off of the counter and held you as he thrusted his hips into you. He held you close to him.

You moaned into his ear as he hit every wall inside of you. Your eyes started to roll back in ecstasy. He gripped his hand into your lower back as the other pulled your hair to tilt your head back. He started to suck on your neck as you both came closer to your climax.

You dug your nails into Bradley’s back as you hit your high. “I’m going to cum, Brad.”

“Come all over my cock, baby. I’m going to fill you up, sweetheart.”

Bradley started to thrusted harder into you. His thrusted became faster and there was no more rhythm. He was relentlessly thrusting into you faster and faster.

“Oh fuck. Oh shit. Fuck!” He slammed his hips into you one more time. His hips stuttered and his body went stuff. He was holding his breath. You could feel his thick ropes filling you. His cock twitched inside of you as he let you down. You were both catching your breaths as he slid out of you.

He leaned over the counter catching his breath. You pushed your hair out of your face and leaned back against the counter top. Bradley’s gaze looked at the sink and his brows furrowed. He looked at you and chuckled. He picked up the turkey neck from the sink.

“Is this what made you hot and bothered, sweetheart?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was such a spontaneous post. I saw a post of Miles and just thought about him filling me like a turkey 😂 I thought I would share my frustration with you all. I hope you enjoyed this little present. 😅❤️

[bookinit02]

thinking about this post i saw the other week where this person was saying how badly they wanted to be able to buy a nice mug without thinking twice about it. and all the comments were saying how they could just buy a cheaper mug. and they were like jesus fucking christ ITS NOT ABOUT THE MUG. because yeah

[raisans-art]

hi, i just found this blog and was reading back on your current submas au. you say you dont like others giving ideas for the au, but unless i missed a post you didnt seem to make it clear any point before getting upset that you didnt like those types of messages or that you already had the story planned out. maybe you should make a post about this being an already written story your releasing bits at a time and not a wip au?

As I see it, that post is a version of that post that you mention. It wasn't an immediate issue, only cumulative because (at current and at time of that ask being sent) there was a larger volume of those kind of asks than there normally are when I start sharing an au that operates the way I'm operating this one: letting people ask questions about things that they are interested in learning about in the au rather than trying to tell a linear story.

So. As it stands, that answer stands as that post. I love questions about my aus. I just ask a bit of consideration on whether or not your ask comes off as simply throwing what-if scenarios at me without considering what I am at all doing with the au. It doesn't feel great.

I guess this post stands as a declaration of what Brothers' Starter is.

[miodiodavinci]

(single loud AA) (the forest goes silent immediately after) (birdsong returns moments later)

[blorbobutworse]

Guys help im looking at a tumblr post that was implied about fanfiction and what people write in general. What are your guy's thoughts?

Personally, I think that, at least generally, what people write is not a reflection of who they are as a person. At least pieces of fiction. Fanfiction in particular I feel that this statement applies to a lot more. Like. Fan fictions are just that: Fiction Written by Fans. And fans project. And fans love and demonize and follow characters characteristics exactly or empty them out and put their OCs personality in or a million other things!! And that's okay.

That's why 'don't like don't read' EXISTS. Because it's people publishing THEIR works and THEIR feelings and they know that what they are posting is strange. Like. If someone doesn't want a response on their stuff is it so bad to leave them alone? What morally compells you to intrude on a space other people are asking to be left alone in?

[camprell-art]

Do the two toxic gays ever get jealous ?

This is a hard question..... What I can imagine is King Boo being slightly possessive with(to?) Dimentio, for example, if in this same Au he did like Mimi at a certain point and he brought this memory back and actually talked about it with him, King Boo would be a little, but a teensy bit annoyed by this.

But his way of showing this is to be a lot more strict with Dimentio and almost abuse of his power as his boss and literally the king of that area? Place? I don't even know if King Boo has a home that doesn't include the traps he makes to attempt defeating Luigi. kajdkfg

And if Dimentio notices this he will obviously push the king's buttons because he likes poking bears. Hehehehehehehe

It's actually so funny how I imagine that Dimentio can just turn things in his favor, he may be a little pathetic and close minded (Like how in game he was so sure that he could manipulate everyone into fulfilling the prophesy and that he didn't even think about a plan B before literally merging with Super Dimentio and thus making himself vulnerable), but he IS somewhat intelligent and persuasive, and he does have moments in canon that support this. :)

^ All of this is proof that I might be autistic, but my psychiatric appointments are 5 minutes long and, after hearing 1/10 of my hypothesis, the doctor just said "oh don't think about it, the meltdown you had is just a trait" without even letting me say why me, my brother and some people of his friend group THAT IS ALMOST ENTIRELLY COMPOSED OF AUTISTIC AND NEURODIVERGENT PEOPLE think I actually may be autistic.

[ladye-zelda]

Ok I swear I am in the twilight zone or something, but in A Link to the Past didn't it say that the Master Sword was created by the seven wise men?

(We're just gonna disregard Skyward Sword for a moment)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

for no fucking reason: real life dictatorships in the 20th and 21th centuries are almost always allowed to thrive because of some empire's interests. If not, they get heavily demonized then dismantled by said empire over a relatively short period of time (unless exceptional circumstances, tho it's almost always applicable). the examples are countless; please read declassified reports and interviews from the CIA/KGB/other intelligence agencies across the world to lose your mind about it, especially those involving what happened during the Cold War and what happened in the Middle East (and still does).

characters like ganondorf are the epitomy of the fantasy that colonized/"exotic" countries naturally spawn evil incarnate and must be controlled/stumped/imprisoned/destroyed by the "responsible ones" while the perfect good place is perfect and utterly blameless about what went down and how the local population suffered (which, in real life, the empires of the world are most definitively not that --the amount of dictators that were ushered into power by western interests is staggering and we fucking love to see it don't we). And also, a blameless victim to whichever retribution eventually comes back their way.

It is a rethoric that denies interconnectivity and historical responsibility.

this is what I criticize about the narrative choices of a fictional conflict that *does not exist in real life* and has been entirely made up by human beings: the cowardice of blamelessness, and what little this kind of narrative brings to the table --especially today when we should be looking at the root cause of broken systems of violence instead of endlessly scapegoating minorities.

and well, especially given how effective this narrative apparently seems to be.

[shoechoe]

"potentially autistic enough to get regularly assumed some form of neurodivergent including just being asked 'are you autistic' several times from friends and acquaintances, but not obviously potentially autistic enough to ever be evaluated for it" is such an interesting spot to be in

[zipquips]

i am going to combust from the amount of times my parental figures assume i cannot do anything right