#ill let you know when the wedding invitations are ready
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i cant stop watching this
#detroit red wings#jake walman#he is my new husband#ill let you know when the wedding invitations are ready
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the forgotten daughter- Tommy Shelby
summary- tommy sent his daughter away because she was a burden he wasn’t ready for. she went 12 years without seeing him once, what happens when she gets an invitation to his wedding?
trigger warning- talks of abuse, neglect, rape, violence, illness.
angst
dad!tommy shelby x daughter!reader
you were 6 when you were sent away to a girls school in manchester. your father, thomas shelby, had told you that ‘he couldn’t be a father’ and that he was ‘too busy to be burdened with a child’. you were now 18 and hadn’t seen your family since. the last time you had received a letter from your father was when you were 17 and it was to inform you about the birth of his son, charles shelby.
you were enraged. it was unfair that he saw charles as a blessing and you as a burden. that he could step up to be a father then but not 17 years ago. you had practically raised yourself for the last 12 years. every birthday you stole a cupcake from the canteen at the school and sung yourself happy birthday. every christmas you receive pitying looks from the nuns because you were one of the only children to stay in the four walls of your dormitory whilst all the other girls spent time with their families.
you had just finished your last year and was lucky enough to get a job straight out of straight out of school which allowed you to buy yourself a small flat. you sent a letter to your father to let him know that you were safe and you gave him your address although you never knew whether he received the letter because he never wrote back. until a week ago when he sent you a wedding invitation.
deciding to attend was the easiest decision. you knew you wanted to see him one last time before you ultimately cut all communication and moved on, knowing that there was no point in hoping he would acknowledge you as his daughter. you were however grateful that he paid for your education, even if he did abandon you for 12 years.
you used your savings to buy a new dress before getting the train to birmingham and paying for a taxi to the church. as you stood outside the venue you pondered on whether this was a good idea, but you knew you had to do this in order to accept that you were alone in this world. you sat at the back with your head down for the entirety of the ceremony. you didn’t even put your head up to see the bride. as selfish as it sounded, you didn’t care for the wedding and you did not care about their happiness.
when the ceremony was finished, you stood outside of the church with a cigarette in your hand whilst your ‘family’ took photos. next to you, a gentleman was doing the same thing. he was also glaring at the family and you wondered what his issue was.
“what did they do to you?” you scoffed.
“huh?” he raised his brow
“if looks could kill, they’d be slaughtered by now” you joked.
“i just don’t like the groom” he shrugged.
“me neither” you agreed. “y/n” you reached your hand out to shake his.
“alfie” he reciprocated. “so why don’t you like him?” he asked.
“im his daughter” you nonchalantly replied.
“never new tom had a daughter”
“yeah he seems to forget aswell” you shrugged.
“what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“it means he shipped me away for 12 years whilst he fucked off and had a family” you smiled. “fancy giving me a lift to this reception?” you linked his arm.
“absolutely. i think we will get along just fine” he grunted. and you smiled at him.
you both walked to his car and he held the door open for you. “didn’t take you for a gentleman” you bantered.
“is it the cockney accent that gave you that impression?” he wondered. which made you laugh.
“i suppose so” you climbed into the passenger seat and he climbed into the drivers. he started the car and drove towards what you were guessing was your fathers house, not that you’d ever been there.
“so tell me about the relationship with your father y/n” he delved straight in.
“wow you waste no time” you scoffed. “well he impregnated my mother, she died during childbirth, he lazily raised me for 6 years before telling me he couldn’t be a father and shipped me off to boarding school in manchester for 12 years and didn’t visit me once” you shrugged. it didn’t bother you anymore. you have accepted that even though he’s your dad, he’s never really been your father. he never tucked you into bed and read you a bedtime story, he never looked after you when you were ill, he never threatened your first date when he came to the door, he never took you for your first alcoholic drink and he will never walk you down the aisle at your wedding. and even though sometimes you just really need your father to tell you everything is going to be ok, you have been alone for 12 years and managed. you can go the rest of your life.
“oh. daddy issues then?” he tried to banter which made you laugh.
“you could say so yes” you replied.
“so if he’s such a shit dad why did you come to the wedding?” he pondered.
“i need closure. after this we will never ever speak again. all form of communication will be cut off.” you said with confidence.
“fair enough” alfie replied. he felt bad for the girl. she had never had a parent in her life. she had been neglected. and he could tell that even though she gave off the impression that she wasn’t bothered by it, he knew she was hurt deep down. so he left it at that.
for the rest of the drive you spoke about all sorts. your job, where you live, his job and where he lives. it was nice. and when your ‘fathers’ house came into view, you were in shock.
“are you fucking kidding me?” you whispered under your breathe. you don’t know why it was the house that made your heart drop, but it was a reminder that you were unwanted. that your father had abandoned you and started a new family that he lived with and looked after in the ridiculously large fucking house. and then came the lump in your throat.
“you ok?” alfie asked. he could tell that she was not.
you took a deep breath. “yes” you nodded and got out of the car. all the guests started showing up at the same time. you waited for alfie to get out of the car before you went in. he linked arms with you and you both walked in.
the first thing you saw was a stair case with large portraits of the family of three. it made you laugh.
“arrogant arseholes” you whispered to alfie which made him laugh. and it was then that you really looked at them. there was a portrait of what you’re guessing is your father, his new wife and his child. that was the first time you saw mrs grace shelby and charles shelby. and as bad as it sounds, you resented them. you resented grace for not encouraging your father to get to know you which sounds stupid and irrational but you couldn’t help it. you knew logically that it’s not your fault that the relationship between you and your father was none existent. it was his. and you resented charles for having the father you needed and wanted. that was supposed to be you. and again it’s irrational because he’s a child and it’s not his fault but you just felt so angry. so you looked away.
a waiter passed by with a tray of champagne and took a flute and chugged it. this concerned alfie. he didn’t want you to get drunk and say something to your ‘family’ that you would later regret.
“go easy” he sternly told you.
you glared at him.
from the other side of the room, john and arthur had noticed you.
“who is that linking arms with alfie?” arthur asked john.
“i think it might be y/n” john squinted.
“y/n y/n, as in tommy daughter y/n?” arthur responded.
“yeah, kind of looks like ‘er” john smiled.
“well why the fuck has she got her arm around alfie soloman’s” arthur said angrily.
“i don’t know, he’s like 15 years older than her” john looked confused. before tommy came up behind them. “need you in the kitchen now” tommy demanded.
“did you know y/n is here?” john asked him.
“who?” tommy asked
“your daughter, y/n” said arthur.
“what? where?” tommy looked around before he saw you.
“why the fuck is she linking alfie, and why is she downing champagne? she’s a child” tommy asked.
“that’s what we were wondering. and tommy she’s not a child, she’s like 18 now isn’t she?” john asked.
just as tommy hummed, he made eye contact with you and it was you who looked away as soon as it happened. he truly saw you for the first time in 12 years. you were a woman now. he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you were. you looked like the spitting image of your mother with your y/e/c coloured eyes and your soft y/h/c coloured hair. and all of a sudden he had a wave of guilt come over him. he knew he’d been a shitty father towards you, but he never really thought about it until that moment. he felt like shit and so he did what he does best and walked away.
on the other side of the room, you had just made eye contact with your father for the first time in 12 years. you had seen him in the papers so you knew he hadn’t really changed. but making eye contact felt so awkward for you. this was the man whose dna you shared and yet you felt no father-daughter connection with him. you just felt hurt. and so you chugged another flute of champagne. to which alfie’s concern grew even more.
the announcement was made that there was food in the other room as they asked everyone to move there.
you and alfie made your way to the table. you sat next to eachother. you looked around and saw your great aunt pol sat opposite you.
“is that you y/n?” she smiled.
“hello” you suddenly felt shy.
“hello darling” she replied. sat next to her was ada.
“how have you been y/n?” she asked.
“good, i graduated school”
“oh brilliant, do you work?” pol asked
“yes, i have a secretary job working at a factory and i’m a barmaid on the weekends”
“why two jobs?” ada asked
“moneys tight, have to be able to pay the bills on my flat”
“tom doesn’t give you money?” she responded
“why would he?” you asked.
“because you’re his daughter” ada said to which you shrugged. this conversation made pol and ada sad. they realised they truly knew nothing about you and your life. they also knew that tommy hadn’t been the best to you, but again, it didn’t dawn on them how neglectful they had also been.
“you recently turned 18 didn’t you?” pol asked.
“yes”
“did you do anything for your birthday?” she asked.
“not really. just went to work, went to the bakery on the way back home and bought a cupcake and went to bed” you shrugged. that was your routine of 12 years.
“you didn’t celebrate with friends?” they asked
“don’t have any” your shrugged.
“what about school friends?”
“well they all knew eachother because their parents were friends so they would see eachother outside of school” and this made pol and ada feel even worse, you truly were alone.
“well i’m sorry we didn’t come and see you, we were just so busy preparing the wedding” ada smiled.
“it’s ok, i didn’t expect anyone to”
arthur got up from his seat to do the best man speech.
“hello everyone, before you eat i just want to say a few words as best man. my brother tommy met grace in 1919, obviously at that point we didn’t know she was a spy from the parish” at this, you looked up to the top of the table for the first time to see arthur and john for the first time, and then you looked towards your dad. he had an uncomfortable face on him, obviously not expected arthur to bring such a thing up in his speech.
you chugged another flute of champagne. and now, alfie, pol and ada all grew concern for you.
“-anyway, enough about that. these two were destined for eachother. if tom can forgive her for it then it shows how much he loves her. tom doesn’t really love anyone besides grace and charles” and at this, your father looked in your direction to see you chugging another flute of champagne. your 4th in the space of an hour. his eyebrow raised.
“-they are the perfect family. tommy, grace and charles. when grace was pregnant with charles you should have seen tommy. constantly talking about how this is all he’s ever wanted. he was bouncing of the walls” a lump formed in your throat. because he already had a child. you.
ada and pol looked in your direction to see your head facing down and you picking at your nails. a nervous habit you have.
“when charles was born, you couldn’t get the smile off tommys face for weeks. it’s obvious he loves his little family. it didn’t take long for tommy to finally start taking days off work for once to take grace and charles on days out. i remember the first time tommy took a week off to take charles away in the caravan.”
you could feel your heart beat speeding up and tears forming in your eyes. and you sneakily tried to wipe them away. but alfie noticed. and he placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed it.
“i remember the dark circles under his eyes when charles had a cold and wouldn’t settle and tommy had been up with him all night”
your dad looked in your direction to see you wiping a tear off you face and put your head up. and he saw the disappointment in your eyes. and he was disappointed in himself. he knew then that he hadn’t been a father towards you. he can’t remember a single night where he stayed up with you as a child and helped settle you. it was mostly ada and pol who raised you for them 6 years.
“grace. we love you, you came into tommys life and made it better. you gave him something to live for, a child” at this you stood up and walked out of the room. at this it dawned on all the family what had happened. arthur hadn’t realised how big he was fucking up until your shoes clacked against the floor as you speed walked out of the room. “shit” tom whispered. grace looked very confused as to what was happening. alfie stood up and went after you.
he found you sat on a step with your head in your hands. he quietly sat next to you and out his hand on your back and rubbed it. neither of you said anything and you just sat there and cried for the first time in 4 years.
a minute later, tommy came out. alfie glared at him. “go away mate” he whispered gesturing to you crying.
“i want to speak to my daughter privately” tommy demanded.
“haven’t you done enough. why now?” alfie asked him as he got up of the step.
“please” tommy pleaded. he looked desperate.
“don’t say anything stupid” alfie warned as he walked back into the other room. tommy sat next to you. you still had your face in your hands and he could just hear you sniffling. it broke his heart.
“im sorry y/n i know i haven’t been the best father” you scoffed.
“you’ve not been a father at all” you muffled from behind your hands.
“i know” he nodded.
“i haven’t been there for you at all. especially in the last 12 years. but i want to start” he tried to put his hand on your shoulder but you shrugged it off. and pulled your face away from you hands.
“it’s too late. i’ve managed on my own for 12 years i can do it for the rest of my life” you turned to him.
“everyone needs someone y/n, trust me. i didn’t know it until i met grace” he sincerely said.
“maybe. but i’m fine without you in my life.”
“you don’t mean that” tommy shook his head.
“i really do. i have my own flat, a job and food in my cupboards. i don’t need you. i will never forgive you. you abandoned me for years. you neglected me. i spent twelve years in the same institute. christmas’s and half terms included. i was stuck in a building with people who would hit, kick and spit on me whenever i did the slightest thing wrong. i spent my 18th birthday being brutally raped by 3 men on my way home from the fucking bakery. i had to nurse myself back to health whenever i was ill. you weren’t there. you don’t need to be here now.” you shouted.
“y/n i- i don’t even know what to say. i overheard you talking to pol and you never mentioned that that’s what happened” you shook your head.
“its not really dinner talk is it.”
“i swear i will hunt those men down and make them hurt” he had a determined look on his face.
“too late. it’s already happened. they’ve already told me that if i tell anyone they’ll come after me” you shrugged.
“they won’t touch you, i’ll protect you”
“for how long? two weeks before you decide i’m too much of a burden again” you shook your head.
“you remember that?” he asked
“what? you telling me that i’m a burden? you don’t just forget your parent telling you that. sticks with you”
“i am so sorry y/n”
“yeah well i’ll get over it. coming to this wedding was a fucking mistake.” you sighed
“why did you come?” he asked.
“i wanted to see my family one last time before i cut all communication. not that any of yous care”
“come with me y/n” he got up and gestured for me to follow.
“why?” you questioned
“just come with me” he started walking so you followed.
you came to a stop infront of a door. he opened it and gestured for you to come inside.
you entered and quickly realised this was his office. “why are we in here?”
he walked towards his desk and grabbed a picture that was stood on it and held it out to you. it was a picture taken on your graduation. you looked up at him confused
“i had your school send a copy to me. i always asked for updates on how you were doing at school. i have every school report in my draw. i always cared about you. i was just terrible at showing it. and i always thought it was too late to try and be your father so i avoided you. which was wrong. but seeing you today reminded me that i don’t want to have regrets in life. i don’t want to be an old man on my death bed and wondering where my own daughter is. i know i cant expect you to just accepted me as your father. but i would really like you to come over for dinner one day. and meet grace and charles properly?” he asked.
“i don’t know. i don’t feel like they would want me here” you shook your head. with tears still rolling down your face.
“trust me, they do. grace has wanted to meet you for years. she was the one who encouraged me to invite you to the wedding. she really wanted family here. and you are family y/n. i know you feel wronged by all of us, and i understand why. but i want to make it better. please, give me a chance” he pleaded.
“okay.”
#peaky blinder imagine#tommy shelby angst#grace shelby#peaky blinders imagines#shelby imagine#peaky blinders#polly gray#john shelby#arthur shelby#alfie solomons#angst#peaky blinder fanfic#masterlist
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Coming Back to You | Minah Lee
Minah Lee x Reader
Cw: angst, smut, fluff. MDNI. MERRY CHRISTMAS @taruusmoon. <3, also I was waiting for Minah to poat the perfect picture for this pic and she finally did, look at how fucking hot she is!!!! And happy birthday to my girl Minah Lee.
"I'm just saying that I wish you could make time for me, even for just 10 minutes!"
Here you are again, you've been arguing with your girlfriend, Minah for the nth time this week. You two were supposed to be on a date today, but she ditched you last second because she "forgot" that her team had a scheduled meeting earlier on the same time of your dinner reservation at this restaurant.
Now you're both here in your apartment, 4 am in the morning, fighting like a wedded couple once again. Minah just got back from their "meeting" which you found out that is actually a party from the fact that your girlfriend reeks of alcohol.
"Babe, you know that we've been busy with the show right? We all need to be better, do you hear what people call us? We weren't even acknowledged by the other contestants, they were just calling us 'Bada and her students'." You scoff at your girlfriend's alibi, seriously you can't even comprehend how she could say that while slurring over her words, completely obvious that she is drunk.
"You don't have time? YOU DON'T TIME?" You couldn't contain your anger anymore, "YOU DON'T HAVE FUCKING TIME, BUT YOU HAVE TIME TO GO DRINKING AND PARTYING WHILE I WAS WAITING AT THE RESTAURANT FOR 2 FUCKING HOURS?!" Tears are streaming down your cheeks, when Minah sees this, something inside her snaps almost like her system sobers up immediately.
"Baby I—" you cut her off "Let’s break up" You said it, you finally said it.
You didn't let Minah say anything else as you already walked out off your apartment, leaving her behind.
That was 4 months ago, you moved back to your parents in Busan after your break up, you didn't even bother going back to your apartment for your things, knowing that you're just going to see Minah once again.
2
But fate has a different plan for you. You've blocked Minah on every single social media you have, and even her phone number, but you're still somehow in touch with her leader, Bada as she is also your dance mentor. So when you received a text from her, inviting you to attend the On the Stage: Busan concert of SWF 2, your mind is split in two.
You balanced out the pros and cons of your options: You want to go to show your support to your dance teacher, but you'll see your ex again; but you can go there and show that you hold no ill will towards her, but you are also not ready to talk to her again.
You sighed in frustration as you picked up your phone and typed in your response, you just hope that you won't regret this later on.
Now here you are, sitting amongst the crowd as the teams of Street Women Fighter 2 performs on stage. You are thankful because you get to watch the performance live and you didn't get to see Minah for the most part, trying to focus on other dancers like the international crew, Jam Republic and Tsubakill, and a some dancers you're close with like Harimu from 1Million and JJ from Deep 'N Dap.
You were screaming, cheering on everyone's performance, but that is until one of the audiences' most awaited performance: Bebe's Global Artist Performance.
Cockiness (I like it) by Rihanna started playing as the stage lights illuminated the 7 girls on the center of the stage, they were all wearing a burlesque inspired outfit which really suited each one of them. You looked at the big screen and the camera immediately focuses on the person you've been wanting to avoid the most
Minah did her iconic intro once the music start and everyone around screams. You wanted to divert your focus on the other members but after seeing your hot ex girlfriend dance in that outfit, you felt your heart flutter for the first time again, almost forgetting the fact that you guys broke up a few months ago.
Not too long, the concert then concluded, all the SWF 2 teams says their goodbye to the audience and finally made their way to each to their changing rooms.
As you are on your way out of the arena, your phone buzzes from your pocket, indicating you received a text message. You fished out your phone and seeing the notification was from Bada
"There's an after party tonight, wanna come?"
You are in the same situation again as when you are invited by Bada to attend the concert. You balanced out your options once again. With the concert only you can see Minah, but you can't interact with each other which you are grateful for, but going to the after party would mean that you will be seeing and interacting with your ex-girlfriend, and that is too much for you.
You were about to type in your answer, when a familiar voice calls out to your name.
"Y/N~!" You looked at the direction where you heard the voice and saw the tall woman running towards you.
"Unnie I—" before you could even say anything she immediately pulled you to the van where the rest of team Bebe is already at, making you seat next to Lusher who is sitting next to Minah. Guess you don't really have a choice.
Just great. You thought to yourself, the rest of the Bebe girls are all talking to each other with you occasionally joining in but you couldn't really say anything else, not when you literally feel the presence of Minah near you. You are thankful enough that Lusher is seated between the two of you.
Or so you thought...
"Y/n-ie can we switch seats, I don't like seating in the middle" You looked at the poor Lusher, she's getting pale due to the uncomfortable situation. Reluctantly you let her switch seats with you, but as soon as you sat down once again, your body tenses up as soon as you brushed your arm against Minah.
She looks at you and offered a bittersweet smile before looking outside the window, minding her own business. The light from the streetlights outside cascades on Minah features, you can't help but stare at her, her now black hair that used to be dyed orange suits her better, and you can see that she wears a subtle dark eye makeup, similar to the make up she wore on their performance.
You were in a trance as you stare at her until you heard snickering behind you, Kyma, Che-Che and Sowoen were right behind you, laughing at how awestruck you are at Minah. Minah heard this also and looks at you before looking at the girls at the back.
The giggling stops as you all arrived at the party venue, the rest of the teams are inside already. Once you got in, you noticed that the members from the other teams also have their own plus one, some are their close friends, while some seems like their partners as you noticed Babysleek’s husband is also here.
The party went on, people drinks and get drunk, some dances and grinds to each other on the dance floor, and soon you too finally let loose and starts partying.
It was way past midnight now and the party is still at its peak, ‘though some are already passed out aka mostly the youngest of each team except for Haechi and Rena who are still partying like wild animals on the dance floor. You however starts to gets dizzy as the song Meddle About by Chase Atlantic blasted on the speakers, the alcohol finally getting through your systems as you now feel quite high from drunkenness. Nevertheless, you still kept dancing on the dance, grinding on the person you now failed to recognize due to the alcohol.
Unbeknownst to you the girl you are shaking your ass on is none other than Minah, her hands are on your waist as she guides your hips to match her rhythm. “Fucking hell, Y/n you’re driving me crazy” she whispers against your ear. Only then do you recognize the voice but instead of flinching away, which what you would probably do if only you were sober, you lean in more to her touch.
Your back against her chest, as you sway your hips against hers, her hands loosely wrapped around your waist while your left hand sat above it, meanwhile your other hand is reaching for her face, trying to keep her head close to yours as she whispers sweet nothings to you.
“You are so fucking beautiful…” She takes in your scent as she presses her lips on your neck before dragging her tongue against your skin. An inappropriate sound escapes from your lips and you can feel your ex-girlfriend smirks against your neck as soon as she heard it.
Her hands traveled down to your pants and started touching hour aching pussy through it. You leaned your head back more, you almost forgot that you two are still in the middle of the dance floor, thankfully everyone is drunk enough to simply ignore what you two are doing.
~~~
“Fuck…taste so good”
Here you are now, your pants now draped below your knees as you sat on the bathroom’s sink, becoming a moaning mess as your ex-girlfriend dives in between your soaking wet cunt. Tongue deep inside you accompanied by two of her fingers, simultaneously thrusting in and out of you.
“M-Minah f—uck” You couldn’t contain your moans, the effects of the alcohol finally subsided, you are now more sober than you were earlier, but now you are high on pleasure as you are about to reach your orgasm.
“Taste so fucking good. I miss this pussy of yours” Minah muttered against your folds “did you missed getting eaten out like this baby?” she dives right back in and you replied with only a pornographic moan, which only encourage Minah more.
“Such a slut for me. Tell me did you regret breaking up with me?” Minah said as she thrust her fingers inside you in a fast pace. You are already fucked out of your mind, couldn’t even construct a proper sentence as you nod your head vigorously.
“Use your words, Y/n” she looks directly at you eyes, and you did the same. You saw that behind the lust in her eyes lays a sense of hopefulness, hoping that you are telling the truth.
“Yes—YES FUCK! I miss you so much, I’m sorry I left you—ack” You are cumming, you really are close. Minah thrusted her fingers faster, while she busied her mouth once again on sucking your clit. Soon a wave of pleasure gushes on your nerves. Your breathe staggers as your legs shakes from the orgasm, your juices sprayed on Minah’s face, god she even managed to make you squirt. Minah stood up from her position and went up to kiss you which you willingly accepts.
“Please give me another chance, Y/n… I promise I’ll be better, I’ll never leave you alone again.” You saw the sincerity on her eyes and you answered her by pulling her again for a kiss.
Outside the bathroom is a poor Tatter who has been wanting to go to the bathroom for quite some time now, only to be welcomed by the moans of her best friends.
A/n: there you go @taruusmoon, I figured to just post it on Minah’s birthday instead but this also serves as your late Christmas present hope you liked it <3
#minah lee x reader#minah lee fic#minah x reader#minah lee#bada lee fanfic#bebe#bebe x reader#swf2 x reader#swf 2 x reader#swf x reader#nique's ask#bada lee x reader#bada x reader#bada lee x y/n#lee bada x reader
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The Worst Timing | [3/?]
part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T
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)
—
It’s fine, until it isn’t.
—
Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe.
His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes.
Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening.
Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.
All he has to do, now, is just see it through.
—
Yves wakes up coughing.
He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.
He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.
Fuck. This is not good.
One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.
“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”
The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.
The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.
But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest.
He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.
One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.
For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.
Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now.
Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.
Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.
“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”
Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.
Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.
“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”
Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.
He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.
Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.
Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”
“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.
“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”
“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.
Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”
“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”
“What time is it?”
Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”
“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”
His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.
“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”
It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.
“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”
“What?”
“Were you unable to sleep last night?”
It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.
But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday?
“I slept fine,” Yves says.
There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.
“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”
“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”
“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”
Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”
“Bless you.”
“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.
“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.
“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”
Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.
“What do you need?” he says, instead.
Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.
“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”
“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”
“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”
Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.
“You should sleep, seriously,” Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”
Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Vincent says, softly.
Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.
The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try.
The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.
Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.
Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.
In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.
He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.
Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.
It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.
Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.
But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?
It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case?
It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.
The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.
—
When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.
When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.
He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.
He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—
“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.
There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.
It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.
He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts.
It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.
Then he shoots off a quick text—
Y: thanks for the cold meds :)
Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)
Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh
Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:
V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon
V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch
Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.
His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.
Y: jealous! have fun!
His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.
V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep
V: Do you want me to bring anything back?
Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance
Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️
Then he sends back to Vincent:
Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch
Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.
He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.
—
The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.
It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married.
They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.
It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.
The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.
“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.
“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”
Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”
Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”
“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”
“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.
Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”
“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”
“Just because he’s funny?”
“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”
“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”
“Coming,” Leon shouts back.
Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.
—
When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.
He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.
“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”
She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.
He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.
“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”
“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”
“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”
For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.
“I’m terrified,” she says.
“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”
“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”
She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”
“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”
“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”
Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.
“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”
“I guess,” Genevieve says.
“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”
“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.
Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”
Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”
“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”
She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”
“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”
They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.
“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.
As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.
“There was never any doubt,” she says.
When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.
“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.
“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”
“That you wanted to be with her?”
“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”
“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.
“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”
—
When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.
The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.
He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.
His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.
Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.
“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.
“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”
“They were very nice,” Vincent says.
“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”
“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”
Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”
“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”
“Do you believe in mbarriage?”
Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”
“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”
Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”
“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”
“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”
“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.”
“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.
Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.
His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.
“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”
The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.
“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.
Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”
“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day.
He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”
“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”
Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”
“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”
“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”
“Yves—”
“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”
For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.
“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.”
Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how.
But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it?
“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.
[ Part 4 ]
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snzfic#this chapter turned out to be kind of personal to me in some ways?#i am so sorry if it feels uneventful 😭#i have done so much googling on so many things that did not make it in (and a few that made it in only peripherally)#work is killing me and i am stressed out of my mind so i am posting this before i get swept away and am unable to edit for a week#next chapter will be the wedding for real!#and i will be mean for real when i get to writing it 🙇♀️#yvverse#my fic#thank you to anyone who has left nice tags/comments on previous parts :') it's hard to express the full extent of my gratitude but#thank you for making my life a little happier
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( > 3<) >🩷 HAI you already know who i am 😓 but can we get another baizhu x gn!ready fluff? -🎀
You never have to worry about healing your injuries or treating your illnesses because Baizhu has the remedies and cures at the ready.
With Baizhu as your partner, his first priority would always be you, even if he's suffering himself.
Which is why you tend to avoid yourself from getting hurt so you can take care of him instead, even ignoring him whenever he would say that he is fine when he is clearly not.
Changsheng is the one who snitches to you about everything that Baizhu has done that is either embarrassing or worrying.
"Your hussband bought you thiss pair of beautiful braceletss, he wanted you and him to wear each one."
"Changsheng, please... that was supposed to be my gift for them for our anniversary."
"(Y/n), come quick, thiss hussband of yourss got hurt after we encountered a ssmall group of hilichurlss."
"I'm alright, dear. I can take care of myself. I am a doctor after all."
"He jusst lied."
"Hush, Changsheng."
Qiqi would always refer to you as her mother, even before you married Baizhu. Considering how you would always be worrying and taking care of her and how she would see you and Baizhu exchanging forehead and cheek kisses to one another. She learned at that time that when two people do that then that means they're married. And since Qiqi saw Baizhu as her father figure, you are now recognized as her mother.
With Baizhu always cooped up at the pharmacy, you would always come and visit him daily to make sure he takes a break to relax and stretch his legs.
Baizhu memorized your daily schedule of whenever you would come to the pharmacy to invite him out to eat lunch. Hence, he would always inform Qiqi to take care of the pharmacy while he spends time with you.
Sometimes when Baizhu is overworking himself and isn't in the mood to sleep, you can easily change his mind by giving him a peck on the lips before leading him towards your shared bed to sleep. It always works and Baizhu isn't even complaining about how effective it is. As long as he gets to be pampered in your affections then he would gladly accept it.
Baizhu would let you braid his hair when he is too busy to do it himself. He also uses it as an excuse to be able to melt into your touch as your fingers glide through the strands of his hair, it always manages to give him butterflies in his stomach.
He would always prefer the meals you cook than those you can buy from a restaurant or when other people cook it when you're not with him. There's just this homely feeling he gets whenever he eats your homecooked meals. Besides, he always likes seeing you cook, it gives him a chance to stand behind you and wrap his arms around your waist.
You don't have to worry about Baizhu liking another person because his heart belongs to you only. He did marry you after all, he courted you for five years straight, he isn't afraid nor scared to tie the knot and put a ring on your finger.
There was this one time that Changsheng informed you about how a customer confessed their feelings to Baizhu at the pharmacy.
"He only sstared straight through them as if they were blocking hiss view. Ha! Can you believe that man? He even showed hiss wedding ring before rejecting them and telling the customer their bill for consulting him."
Baizhu would always be seeking out your affections. He cannot last a day if you weren't able to give him a kiss on the lips.
This man is a tease. He always like seeing your cheeks puffed up in a pout whenever he avoided kissing your lips. You just look so adorable he can't help it.
What he likes even more is seeing your face flushed red. He would whisper either sweet or suggestive things to you and watch as your face would turn as red as a tomato.
Sometimes you both could be seen cuddling on the couch and talk about random topics that would appear in your mind.
"Would you still love me if I turned into a worm?"
"What gave you such thought, dear? Of course I'd still love you, I'd even make a remedy to turn you back... only if Changsheng hasn't eaten you yet."
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Enough is Enough [1/2]
Requests are open
not proofread
-not my gif-
Request- Something with mason where he stops being the hands on dad that you are used to and going out with his friends whenever he is free. You try talk to him about it and it ends in a fight. You need help so you go stay at your parents for a couple of weeks leaving mason to reflect and realise what an idiot he is. He comes to see you and sort things out and the baby is really happy to see him. Happy ending please xxx
_
You and Mason were perfect.
You were high school sweethearts, you had dated for five years before he asked you to marry him. People called you guys crazy for getting married so young.
“You've barely seen the world and you're all ready settling down.” Your Dad scolded you and Mason.
Your Mum send him a warning look before continuing “Look y/n I just think what your dad and I are trying to say is that there are better options out there for you”
You held tightly onto Mason’s hand before talking, “Mason and I are getting married. I love him and he loves me. if you guys can't be supportive of this then I think it's best you stay out of mine and my soon to be husbands life.”
You and Mason left shortly after this and you had no idea if your parents would ever speak to you again.
“I mean I knew they didn't like you that much but they're being crazy, they were talking about you as if you weren't sat two feet away hearing everything. I just can't deal with them right now.” you breathed out a heavy sigh clearly annoyed at the whole situation.
“I know I know baby. I mean maybe they'll come around. They didn't like it when we started dating but the got used to that.” Mason softly spoke.
“That's the thing Mase they shouldn't have to get used to it, they should support my decisions in who I love. Plus I had to talk about you as if you were god to get them to even admit I was dating you” You laughed at the last bit as you said it.
Mason looked over from the drivers seat raising one eyebrow, “As if I was God? You were screaming oh God the other day babe. I’m pretty sure I am.”
“Ew gross Mase i’m not even sure I want to marry you now.”
“Mhm sure baby” He giggled out.
_
Fast forward 3 years
You and Mase got married that summer. You invited you parents and when they didn't come you were devastated. You spent half your wedding night crying into Mason’s shoulder asking him why they couldn't accept your decision. Mase comforted you stroking your hair, rubbing small circles on your arm or just touching you in anyway he could.
A week after your wedding you were ill. Mason would leave you in bed when he left for training and when he came back you were still there. He was growing more and more worried about you.
“When will you let me call the doctor?”
Just as you went to answer it clicked, the nausea, the fatigue, the thought of certain foods making you vomit.
“Mason what day is it?”,You asked in an urgent tone.
“Erm Thursday?”,he answered looking confused as to why you were so desperate to know.
“Thursday the what?!”
“The tenth. Why?” Growing more concerned as to why you needed to know so badly.
“FUCK FUCK FUCK!” You stormed out of the bedroom into the bathroom.
Mason quickly followed and just as he got to the bathroom the door slammed in his face.
“Baby? Everything okay in there?”
Slowly the door creeped open.
“Masey I need you to go to the shops.”
“Um yeah okay. What do you need?” He said still wondering what your little outburst was about.
“A test”
He looked at you confused for a second.
“A pregnancy test Mase”
“You’re um you're pregnant?”
“Well I don't know yet that's why I need the test” Getting annoyed at the fact he was still stood in front of you not pulling out the driveway yet.
“Right.. yeah I'm going.”
_
Fast forward 2 years
You had just celebrated your little girls first birthday. Mason was the best dad anyone could ask for. He went to every doctor appointments. He held your hand through out it all. He tucked little Eva in every night. Until he didn’t.
He started going out every night. Stopped coming home for dinner. He wasn’t there when you went to sleep and he wasn’t there when you woke up. You had tried to talk to him but every time you brought it up he would jump the gun and get all defensive.
You had finally had enough. You were leaving and you were so as soon as you could.
_
This is my first time writing so no hate. Hope you guys enjoy and part 2 should be out soon!
#mason mount#mason mount request#mason mount imagine#mason mount fanfic#mason mount blurb#Mason Mount x Y/N#mason mount scenarios#mason mount x reader#footballer x reader#footballer x y/n
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hustling for the good life (never thought i’d meet you here)
Summary: “Erm,” Buck says eloquently and when the stranger’s lips twitch, he wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment. After a moment’s struggle, he manages to pull himself together and says, “Hi. I’m Buck.”
“Eddie,” the man replies, raking his gaze over Buck in a way that makes him feel ready to combust. “I don’t recall seeing you at the wedding. Are you on the bride’s side, or the groom’s?”
Shit.
or, a different first meeting, where buck accidentally crashes eddie's sister's wedding reception. just normal stuff.
(read on ao3)
thank you, @tawaifeddiediaz for all your help with this!
Buck slips through the glass doors separating the two party halls, stumbles through a throng of excited little ladies speaking rapid-fire Spanish and slumps against a wall in a dark corner, taking in a huge breath of relief.
He knows fully well that he should be back in the other hall, suffering through alongside Maddie, the fancy business event their parents had roped them into attending. After years of stony silence, of Buck going from one place to the next in a desperate attempt to find a home; of Maddie trapped in an abusive marriage; they’re both finally in a stable situation. Buck has settled down in LA for the past year and had just begun his time as a probationary firefighter with the LAFD when Maddie found him six months ago.
When she’d settled into her job as a dispatcher, it had been Maddie's idea to reach out to their parents. Buck had been reluctant at first, but after the ill-advised, fleeting high that was his relationship with Abby before she’d left him, he’d started to think that maybe it would be a good idea to mend some bridges, to at least try to have a relationship with their parents now.
Wrong.
Philip and Margaret Buckley had been in Texas on account of Philip’s work, and they’d invited Buck and Maddie to come directly to El Paso. Buck and Maddie had barely said hello to them in the hotel before they were asked to attend Philip’s event—no talk of the last ten years, no acknowledgement of how the Buckleys had essentially disowned their children. Buck wanted to tell Maddie that he told her so, but he wants to support her more than he wants to have the last word, so he bit his tongue and attended the party with her. And, it has been a trainwreck for the past hour—Philip’s smarmy colleagues turning up their noses at Buck being a firefighter and his lack of a college degree, Maddie’s pinched smile as their parents delicately danced around her abusive marriage and all the ‘terrible choices’ she had made—Buck has had to restrain himself from throwing a drink or two in his parents’ faces.
Buck only feels slightly bad about leaving Maddie on her own when he makes his escape, but he’d lost sight of her for a few minutes and couldn’t bear to stand his parents any longer. He does feel bad about crashing—what looks to be a wedding reception, by the sight of it, but hey, the place is so packed that he doubts anyone will notice him.
…it’s just a bonus that some of the snacks he grabbed from a serving tray are better than any of the ridiculously expensive food his parents have been serving all night.
As he makes himself comfortable in his corner, taking a moment to look around the venue, Buck can already feel the rage and discomfort that has simmered under his skin since they landed in Texas begin to dissipate. It might be crowded and loud, but the atmosphere is so different, feels so warm and inviting in comparison to the cold, formal mess Buck just escaped, that he lets his guard down for a minute, pushes up against the wall and enjoys the snack in his hand. And of course, that’s when—
“Hello,” says a smooth voice, so suddenly and so close to Buck’s ear that he jumps violently, spilling crumbs all over himself as he turns to face the owner of the voice. A momentary fear of being caught out vanishes when he sees the drop-dead gorgeous man standing next to him, with thick hair slicked back and amused brown eyes, wearing a navy-blue suit that frankly looks obscene with how well it’s tailored to fit his form.
“Erm,” Buck says eloquently and when the stranger’s lips twitch, he wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment. After a moment’s struggle, he manages to pull himself together and says, “Hi. I’m Buck.”
“Eddie,” the man replies, raking his gaze over Buck in a way that makes him feel ready to combust. “I don’t recall seeing you at the wedding. Are you on the bride’s side, or the groom’s?”
Shit shit shit. Buck puts a pause on objectifying the unfairly hot guy in front of him to try and make his answer sound believable. “Oh, I was there,” he says, trying for casual. “I’m er,” Buck chances a glance at the banner hung above the stage, Congratulations, Adriana and Ruben! “I’m on the bride’s side,” He finishes and gives a weak laugh, waving a hand. “Great party, huh?”
Eddie hums. “That’s interesting,” he says slowly, and Buck goes a little cold at his knowing tone, having a distinct feeling that he’s been caught out. “I don’t think my sister’s ever mentioned you. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around, either.”
“That’s strange,” Buck says, hoping he sounds cool and unaffected. He’s not sure he succeeds. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have.” He’s sweating now, uncomfortable under the stiff suit he’d dug out for the occasion. Not for the first time that night, Buck inwardly curses his parents.
Eddie only gazes back at him, his sharp stare betraying his smiling lips. Buck’s resolve crumbles like wet paper.
“Okay, fine,” he says in a rush, and Eddie looks satisfied. Dick, Buck thinks, hating how attracted he is to him. “I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t even know your sister. But I swear, I’m not trying to, like, crash this wedding, or score free food.”
Eddie pointedly lowers his gaze to the half-eaten pastry in Buck’s hand. Buck can feel himself go bright red, and promptly tucks it out of sight.
“…aside from that,” he amends. “Look, I’m from the other hall. It’s a party being hosted by my parents, and I didn’t even want to come, but I didn’t want to leave my sister alone. It just got to be a lot, and I needed to breathe, and coming in here seemed less conspicuous than sneaking out through the front entrance.”
He’s not sure why he’s even telling a complete stranger all this. His story sounds ridiculous when said out loud and there’s no reason for Eddie to believe him. Against all odds, though, Buck sees Eddie’s eyes soften a little, and he visibly relaxes.
“I take it you don’t get along with your parents?” Eddie asks.
Buck laughs. “What gave it away?” he asks, dryly; then, feeling sheepish, he adds, “Look, I’m really sorry I came in here. I promise you; I don’t have a habit of crashing the wedding receptions of random strangers.” Eddie laughs at that, and not to sound cheesy, but it’s a fucking beautiful sound.
“I certainly hope so,” Eddie says, amused. “You’re not very good at being sneaky.”
Buck’s mouth falls open with mock outrage, but Eddie goes on. “Look, do you wanna get out of here?”
Buck only blinks at him and Eddie rolls his eyes. “There’s a door in the back that leads out into the hallway. It’s technically staff-only but…” He shrugs. “I could use some air, too.”
“And you’re inviting a stranger who just crashed your sister’s wedding to come with you?” Buck asks, baffled.
Eddie smirks. “Well, it’s either that or you stay here and get caught by my parents, who are a lot less nice than I am.” Buck follows his gaze to an older couple who seem stern and no-nonsense, even through their joy for their daughter, and cringes. “On second thought…”
They escape into the darkened corridor outside the party hall a few minutes later. Eddie’s snagged a bottle of wine from the open bar and Buck blinks at it, wondering when he had the time to do that. He sits down cross-legged on the floor and after a moment’s hesitation, Buck joins him.
“So, is there a particular reason you’re escaping your own sister’s wedding?” Buck asks curiously, accepting the bottle when Eddie passes it to him. Eddie visibly grimaces, looking a bit guilty. It’s such a sharp contrast to the rest of him; the polished, picture-perfect image he cuts in his crisp suit and styled hair and handsome face.
Buck likes it.
“I, erm,” Eddie pauses, considering, and then sighs. “My wife divorced me,” he admits and Buck twists his head around to look at him in surprise. He glances down surreptitiously, and sure enough, he thinks he can make out a tan line on Eddie’s ring finger.
“I love my family,” Eddie continues, “But they’ve been a little, well. Judgemental. About all of this. And they never really liked her, so now it’s all thinly veiled ‘I told you so’s from most of them. I love my sister and I want to support her, but I also need a break from being under their attention.”
“Is that why you bought my story so easily?” Buck asks, Eddie chuckles.
“I guess. I can understand complicated families,” He casts up his eyes at Buck. “What’s the story with yours?”
Buck sighs. How does he explain his parents’ cold, painful indifference; the years of silence, and the fact that his big sister had to practically raise him when she was a kid herself? How does he dump all of that on a stranger? Even for the kindness in Eddie’s eyes, and the understanding he feels from the other man; it’s all too much. Buck is too much. It’s been made pretty clear to him all of his life.
Taking a savage swig from the bottle, Buck sighs and thumps his head against the wall.
Eddie seems to sense his reluctance to open up, and starts quietly talking instead, about his sisters. Adriana, the one who’s gotten married and has begun working in a big law firm. Sophia, who’s just started college, loves pop music and the colour pink and endlessly mocking her big brother. “Sounds like Maddie,” Buck interjects, and Eddie laughs.
“Sisters,” he says, fondly, and Buck starts telling him about Maddie, about what a badass she is, how she definitely has a crush on his co-worker but is too stubborn to admit it, how she used to be a nurse, and what an amazing dispatcher she makes these days. The bottle of wine sits forgotten between them as they’re suddenly talking like they’ve known each other all their lives. Eddie has a dry, wicked sense of humour that makes Buck laugh until his stomach hurts. He continues to listen attentively even when Buck diverges in the middle of a story to follow a different train of thought, and that makes his heart hurt in a funny way.
He thinks he understands why Eddie invited him out here. Maybe Eddie recognized another kindred spirit, just like Buck did.
Buck has just mentioned that he’s a firefighter when Eddie lets out a low sound of surprise.
“No shit?” He says. “I just applied to the Fire Academy.”
“You’re kidding,” Buck says, amazed. Eddie shakes his head and tells him how he’s been working three jobs since his wife left, and how firefighting seemed like a good choice.
“My parents say I’m practically killing myself, and they’re probably right,” a shadow crosses over Eddie’s face like he’s remembering something unpleasant. “Most of all, I hate not being able to spend enough time with my son.”
Buck jolts. “Whoa, you got a kid?”
Eddie tenses, and looks at him carefully, but whatever he sees in Buck’s face must reassure him, so he pulls out his phone and shows him the lock screen—a picture of an adorable curly-haired boy on crutches with the biggest grin on his face. Buck’s heart melts. “He’s super adorable.”
“He’s seven,” Eddie says, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “I, uh, I’ve either been working or being at home with him, so this is the first night in ages I haven’t done either. Feels a bit weird, to be honest.”
“Well, your entire life can’t revolve around being a dad,” Buck points out, reasonably, but Eddie sighs and looks away. Sensing that this is a potentially explosive topic, he decides not to push.
“If this is your first night out in a while, I’m surprised you chose to spend it with me,” Buck jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Eddie smiles.
“Well, you were being quite conspicuous in a wedding reception you weren’t supposed to be at,” Eddie teases. “I figured it would be interesting if nothing else?”
“I was not,” Buck protests. “That party is packed, Eddie. I didn’t think I was noticeable.”
Eddie shrugs. “Well, maybe I was just paying attention,” he replies, and Buck knows, he knows Eddie doesn’t mean anything deeper, but the words still make his heart do a pathetic flip in his chest. Spending all this time with his parents had made him feel like he was back there in his childhood home, unseen and unheard, tiny and invisible. And to be seen—to be listened to—by someone he’s just met…
Well.
It feels a lot like hope, Buck thinks and turns to look at Eddie, only to find his face inches away from his.
When did we get so close, Buck thinks dazedly, seconds before Eddie’s lips are on his.
Eddie tastes like the wine they’ve been drinking, is the first thing Buck registers. He turns, trying to get closer, and grabs the curve of Eddie’s shoulder, relishing the noise he makes into his mouth in response. Eddie buries his hands in Buck’s hair as the kiss turns filthy, tugging slightly, smiling into the kiss at the groan Buck lets out. Buck’s blood feels like it’s on fire. He shifts his hands to Eddie’s hips, pulling him closer, but knocks over the abandoned wine bottle in the process.
The sound of the bottle hitting the floor is loud in the silent hallway and they spring apart in surprise, panting. Eddie’s eyes are blown black and his cheeks are flushed. He looks wrecked. God, the things Buck wants to do to him—
A buzzing noise from his pocket breaks the spell. Swallowing, Buck puts some space between himself and Eddie, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He winces when he sees the caller ID.
“Mads—” he tries, but she interrupts him, sounding furious, “Where are you?”
Buck checks the time on his phone and his eyes go wide when he realizes that he’s been out here with Eddie for over an hour. “I’m so sorry,” he gets out. “I was—I’ll be right back, oh my God.” He scrambles to his feet, as he ends the call, and stops, suddenly unsure, when Eddie imitates him.
Eddie tries for a smile but he still looks a little stunned. Buck can relate.
“So,” Eddie runs a hand through his hair, flustered, and that really should not be as hot as it is, what the fuck. “I’m guessing that was your sister?”
Buck nods. “She’s pissed. I have to, uh…”
“Yeah, no, I get it,” Eddie seems at a loss for words for the first time all night and it sparks a kind of pride in Buck’s chest, he was the one to do that. “Well, I guess—”
Buck’s phone buzzes again, with a series of frenzied texts from Maddie. “I really have to go,” he says quickly. Before he has a chance to second-guess himself, he’s darting forward and pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek.
He hurries back through the door they came through, leaving Eddie in the hallway with the wine bottle at his feet in a pool of the dregs.
It’s not well after the scolding he gets from Maddie and another confrontation with his parents that he realizes he never got Eddie’s number.
Hours later, after reaching home and thanking the sitter and looking in on Chris, Eddie is still feeling dazed.
Did he really just do that? Did he make out with a stranger—a guy—at Adriana’s wedding reception, did he almost hook up with him right then and there and…let him leave without even getting his fucking number?
Eddie collapses down onto his bed and buries his head in his hands. He needs to work tomorrow, and he should be taking advantage of what little sleep he can get. But he can’t get his mind to quiet, can’t stop thinking about Buck, the way he’d felt alive this evening for the first time in months. He can’t squash the guilt he feels about kissing someone that wasn’t his (ex) wife. Can’t help but feel awful that he spent the majority of this night just…enjoying himself, and not thinking about Christopher every other minute. Can’t run from the fear that what he’s known about himself for a very long time might actually be true now.
He needs to be focused on Chris, on becoming a firefighter, and on potentially moving out of El Paso. He can’t be thinking about Buck, or the way he smiled, or the way he kissed.
He just needs to compartmentalize this, like he does everything else.
Besides, it’s not like he’s ever gonna see the guy again.
Seven months after El Paso, Buck is coming into the firehouse along with Chimney, for the beginning of their shift.
“Look, I’m glad that you and Maddie are finally dating,” Buck is saying to him. “I’d rather just not hear the details.”
Chim looks at him in disbelief. “You think I’m eager to discuss them with you, Buck?”
“I’m just saying! I had to hear every detail of your date from Maddie last night, I’d rather not have a repeat of it!” Despite himself, Buck is grinning, genuinely happy for his sister and his friend. He can’t help but feel envious whenever he sees what they have, though—that ease, that comfort, that familiarity. He wants that for himself.
“You do realize that your protesting is just gonna make me want to talk about it just to mess with you, right?” Chimney asks, dryly. He says something else, but Buck isn’t listening anymore, frowning when he sees someone unfamiliar standing in the bay, his back to them.
“Hey, who’s that?”
Chimney pauses mid-sentence and squints. “Must be the new recruit. Bobby said we were getting a probie this week.”
Buck’s hackles instantly rise. “What new—”
The words die on his lips when the man turns around, smiling as Bobby approaches from his office.
It’s been months, but Buck still recognizes him. That face consumed his thoughts for weeks after he came back to LA.
He’s still as gorgeous as Buck remembers.
Eddie turns to look at them as they approach, and his eyes go wide for a split second when they land on Buck, the smile slipping off his face briefly. So he does remember, Buck thinks. He’s not sure what to do—does he try to confront him? Is that even a good idea, here in the firehouse, with all their colleagues around them? How would they even explain this?
Eddie collects himself remarkably quickly and they breeze through the introductions, and Buck is certain that no one but him has noticed the way their gazes linger on each other for a little too long; how they take a moment to let go when they shake hands.
Buck is an awkward mess around Eddie for the rest of the shift, though, and Bobby pulls him aside, though not for the reason Buck expects.
“Look, I know it’s difficult having a new guy on the team,” Bobby tells him. “But you’ve gotta play nice, all right? Eddie’s one of us, now.”
Buck just blinks at him. He has no idea what Bobby is going on about.
Buck does learn that Eddie was in the army, and…wow, that explains a lot about him, actually. He’d been pretty tight-lipped about his ex-wife, the circumstances around their split, and what he used to do for work, and Buck can start putting the pieces together. It makes him—goddamn—it makes him like the guy even more.
They end their shift by disarming a fucking grenade together, and Buck is amazed by how seamlessly he and Eddie work together, like they share a mind. They work side by side like they’ve been doing it for years, not even needing to verbally communicate to know what the other needs. And, when they get out of the ambulance and Eddie grins at him and tells Buck that he can have his back any day, Buck knows that he can’t pretend the night they spent together didn’t happen.
Buck lingers by his truck in the parking lot after the shift ends, twisting his keys in his hands nervously as he waits for Eddie to come out. When Eddie does, he makes a beeline straight for him, much to Buck’s relief.
“Hey,” Eddie says, a little awkwardly. “So, um. Insane coincidence, right?”
Buck laughs, feeling some of the weight lift off his shoulders. “I wasn’t even sure you remembered me, for a moment there,” he admits. Eddie looks surprised.
“How could I forget?” And Eddie really needs to stop saying stuff like that, or Buck will—he doesn’t know. Get down on one knee, maybe.
“When did you move to LA?” Buck asks, mostly to stop himself from lurching forward and kissing him. “I mean—were you already planning it when we met, or…?”
Eddie shakes his head. “I was considering leaving El Paso, but I wasn’t sure where, yet. And once I came here—I mean, I remembered you saying you’re from Los Angeles, but it’s a big city, I didn’t even imagine we would run into each other, let alone that I would be assigned to the same firehouse as you.”
Buck swallows. “That’s—that’s not a problem for you, is it?”
Eddie tilts his head, looking at him consideringly. “As long as it’s not a problem for you.”
“Hell no.”
Eddie laughs but looks slightly relieved at Buck’s words. If he’d been just as nervous as Buck felt, he’s done a damn good job of hiding it. “So.” Eddie fiddles with the strap of his bag. Buck takes a moment to appreciate how good he looks even in casual clothes; a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans that look like they’re painted on. He drags his eyes away when he realizes he’s been caught and a smirk appears on Eddie’s face. “What now?”
Buck takes a step closer to him. “Well…I could take you out for coffee?” he offers. “And maybe I could meet Christopher sometime?”
Eddie looks incredulous. “You remember Chris?” he asks in a quiet, disbelieving voice.
“I mean, of course—” but Buck doesn’t get to finish the rest of his sentence as Eddie shoves him up against the side of his truck and kisses him with the same precision and intensity Buck dreamed about for weeks, and oh, okay. Buck grabs onto Eddie’s waist, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. Talking is overrated, anyway.
Eddie pulls away all too soon, breathing hard, but he’s smiling as his hands come up to cradle Buck’s face. “Coffee sounds good,” he says and looks a little smug when Buck takes a beat too long to respond, the kiss having fried his brain.
Buck’s initial assessment of Eddie was right. He is a dick.
And Buck’s already a little in love.
“We should probably take this somewhere else before our co-workers find us and start asking some uncomfortable questions,” Buck says, but makes no effort to let go of Eddie.
Eddie grins delightedly. “Yeah, it’ll be pretty hard to explain to them that we know each other because you crashed my sister’s wedding reception.”
Buck shakes uncontrollably with laughter and lets his head fall into the crook of Eddie’s neck. “Eddie, oh my God.”
“What? I am never gonna let that go, you know.”
Buck pulls back, his cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Eddie only laughs and kisses him again.
#neethu writes#buddie#buddie fic#evan buckley#eddie diaz#911#911 fox#tuserzee#userisha#useralie#userkourt#usercorrine#userdorksinlove#tuserksn#alielook#i don't know what this is but it's been sitting in my drafts for the last? three months? so here you go 🙈
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the ruin in me
CW: Sex addiction (atm undiagnosed), cheating (mentioned, in past chapters but none this chapter), masturbation
Summary: Jaskier is determined to be strong for Geralt
Taglist: at the bottom - let me know if you want on/off it!
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Story Masterlist
It was a blessing that Geralt was in no rush to get married. As excited as Jaskier was, he had no idea how to even start on a wedding, and was more than happy to put that off for as long as Geralt would let him.
The guilt still ate at him. Sat heavy in his stomach like a festering illness as he spun the ring on his finger, pushing food around his plate at the local cafe.
As it turns out, work was close enough to walk to from their new apartment, though the offer was still being finalized. Within the next few weeks they’d be renting a truck, moving their stuff, and officially be living together.
Living together meant spending more time together. A lot more time together. Jaskier took a sip of his coffee and stared out the window, watching the first few droplets of rain slowly roll down the glass.
Geralt wasn’t one to crowd anyone. He liked his space, and didn’t expect Jaskier to go everywhere with him - and in turn didn’t expect to be invited everywhere either. It worked so well for them, and left Jaskier schedule open to fuck whoever happened to cross his path on any given day.
Would be harder to do it once they lived together. Jaskier’s hand shook as he sat his coffee down, and it spilled on his fingers, making him jerk his hand back and shake it with a hiss.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Wiping off his hand first, he pulled it out and checked who was messaging him, and when he read the name he really wasn’t sure how to feel. His friendship with Valdo had always been hit or miss. When it was good it was brilliant, but they’d go full months at each other’s throats.
Truly, Valdo was his best friend. He was just also his greatest enemy, and where they were at any given moment was up to the gods and the gods alone.
Still, the message was harmless enough. Just a congratulations on the engagement, though there was no telling who exactly told Valdo that they were getting married. Scrolling back up in their messages, it had been a hot minute since Jaskier had said anything to him at all.
He’d gotten worse and worse at keeping up with people. Yet another thing he was doing horribly at. Couldn’t maintain any sort of healthy relationship.
New guilt added on top of the old was why Jaskier didn’t just send back a thank you. He asked if Valdo happened to be in town that week (his sister lived in the city, and Valdo had always been close to her) and went back to his breakfast after that, though he didn’t feel all that hungry.
Saturdays were always his lazy days. He got up early by habit but didn’t really have to be anywhere, though he tended to stop into work just to make sure the place wasn’t burning down without him. Everyone knew they could call him if they needed him but several of the newer people felt bad about doing it anyway, meaning his desk by Monday was filled with sticky notes concerning problems that should have or at the very least could have been solved days before.
Worst yet was that some of them were already fixed, and he never knew until he did some digging. It saved him a headache if he just popped in and made sure they were alright.
But since he wasn’t expected, he didn’t have to go in at any set time, and his little cafe was the perfect place to get ready to face whatever the office would throw at him. He just hoped it wasn’t anything too terrible that day, else he risked getting caught out in whatever storm was brewing outside. He leaned against the glass to look up at the sky, sighing at the darkening grey clouds. Better to go in as soon as possible if he wanted any chance of outrunning it.
His phone went off again as he gathered his jacket. Valdo was in town, and before Jaskier could give it much thought he asked if they could get dinner sometime. As he watched the little check marks show his message had been read, he worried his lower lip between his teeth.
Should he be asking Valdo to meet him like that? Jaskier shook his head and scowled, shoving his phone back into his pocket so he could dig a tip out of his wallet. Meeting a friend wasn’t inherently nefarious, and it wasn’t like he was attracted to Valdo anyway. He could have dinner with a friend and not turn it into a fuck date.
And he was determined to do just that as he made plans with Valdo. Tuesday, a local Italian place that was sure to give them enough leftovers to have lunch for a few days after. Jaskier wrote it in his calendar and even told Geralt about it - though Geralt had never met Valdo and didn’t know much about him beyond ‘old friend’.
“Not sure you’d get along, really,” Jaskier admitted as he’d curled up in Geralt’s arms that night. “He’s a bit stuck up and peculiar.”
“Exactly like all your other friends then,” Geralt had sighed, and Jaskier could only bother being offended for a few seconds before relenting that he was right.
Tuesday came, and despite himself Jaskier was nervous. Hands fretting over everything all day, thoughts refusing to be quiet, and work continued to pile around him without any sort of relief. It didn’t help that Rose was in office that day, her long hair spilling over her shoulders, long lashes fluttering at him every time she leaned over his desk.
Only last week, he’d met her in the bathroom, and had fingered her with his free hand over her mouth to help smother her moans. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and any hope of getting any more work done was out the window.
It really wasn’t a bad idea to get it out of his system before going out to dinner with Valdo. Better to get it over with instead of flirting with his friend, or worse yet blowing a waiter in the bathroom there. Jaskier flashed Rose a grin, handing her the paper she’d asked him to print out and purposely letting their fingers touch-
And jumped when a call came through his headset, cursing when he saw his boss’s name flash across his screen.
He wasn’t sure how he survived a half hour long call with them, though pacing around the room seemed to help ease some of the tension and anxiety. But as soon as he was off the phone Jaskier made a beeline for the bathroom, locking it up tight behind himself and soaking his face in cold water.
Wasn’t a bad idea to get it out of his system now. As if it was an inevitability that he’d fuck someone other than Geralt tonight, just a matter of where and when. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, staring at the white porcelain as water dripped off of his bangs and ran down the drain.
His knuckles were red, he gripped the sides of the sink so hard. And with every breath he was fighting back tears that he had no right to spill. He wasn’t the one hurting; even if Geralt didn’t know it, Jaskier was tearing into him each and every time he fucked someone else.
Tonight, he wasn’t going to do it. Jaskier grinted his teeth and finally looked at the mirror, his eyes hard despite their shine - he wasn’t going to do it. For once he was going to be strong and wouldn’t let himself stray.
One night. He could do it for one night. Starting with not letting Rose catch him and risk being tempted further.
Unlocking the door and peeking out of it just to make sure no one was there, Jaskier quickly left the bathroom and went straight for his desk. He sent a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening that he was salaried and could just leave, packing up his belongings at his desk and waving a quick goodbye to his employees.
“Call me if you need anything.” With that reminder, he was out the door, shooting a quick message to his own boss that he was going to one of their in-store locations to make sure everything was going smoothly with the new general manager.
It wasn’t often that he went to one of the stores, having gladly given up seeing customers in person years before and never wanting to go back. But he wasn’t in any sort of uniform that a customer would recognize so it wasn’t ever that bad anymore. He held his arm over his head as he jogged to his car through the rain, making sure to drive extra carefully since everyone on this side of town seemed to forget how to drive as soon as a cup full of water was dropped on the freeway.
As it happened, the rain kept the customers away, so he didn’t have to deal with much of anyone at the store. The general manager was a younger woman who’d been hired out of company, which meant that she knew a whole lot about being a manager and not that much about the basics of the jobs beneath her level. Jaskier hadn’t ever worked their job either, but he’d helped enough when they called his office that he didn’t feel too awkward being the one to teach her.
She also didn’t hesitate to ask her own employees for help, and that’s exactly why Jaskier believed she’d do just fine.
Keeping his thoughts on their stock and computer system wasn’t all that easy, not after seeing Rose earlier, but knowing the general manager was happily married and not interested in anyone else at least helped. The other employees for the most part ignored him, knowing his name and voice but not his face, and after just a few short hours he felt confident enough to leave for good for the night.
“Pay attention to the alerts, and don’t be afraid to say no,” he reminded her as he put his jacket back on, scowling out at the rain that had only started to pour harder over the evening. “Selling stuff isn’t the same as renting it. We have to get it back, and at the end of the day the next 10 customers are more important than one shitbag.”
“Ever call one of them a shitbag?”
“Nope, but I did call someone a dumbass.”
She laughed, and Jaskier really hoped she stuck around longer than the last one had.
The little Italian joint wasn’t exactly on this side of town, but thanks to living here most of his life he knew a decently fast backway to get there. Much faster than it would have been from his office, and less traffic to fight through, though he thankfully didn’t ever deal much with rush hour. His office opened before most and closed later as well, and the roads, though rather slick, weren’t all that bad for how much it had rained.
It hadn’t been that long since he’d been there. Geralt wasn’t much for Italian but he indulged Jaskier on occasion, and just the month before they’d come here with his brothers for a night out. His brothers weren’t in town very often, what with Lambert off at the trade school and Eskel slowly taking over the farm back home, but when they were Jaskier made a point to make sure they all got together.
None of them were that good at communicating with each other. He shook his head, a fond smile on his lips as he locked up his car and went inside. Disasters, the lot of them, but there wasn’t a single one of them that he didn’t love.
Though Lambert had taken getting used to. Jaskier wasn’t convinced the good feelings were mutual, but he was also pretty certain Lambert didn’t know how to differentiate his good feelings from general annoyance or anger.
Despite his rather good timing to the joint, Valdo had beaten him there. Jaskier waved at him as soon as he spotted him, not bothering to be perturbed that once again Valdo was earlier than him - seemed like he could never beat him somewhere, even when he actively tried, but that wasn’t the night for pettiness.
He was getting married, and he hadn’t seen his best friend in ages. No petty annoyances were allowed to get under his skin.
“Ever been here before?” Jaskier didn’t bother with a greeting, sliding in and only glancing at the menu out of habit. When Valdo shook his head and sipped his water, Jaskier continued. “Whatever size you assume something is, double it. Really if you see something you like we could get away with just ordering one thing. They expect you to share.”
"Don't remember us sharing much in tastes." Valdo folded up his menu, placing it on the edge of the table. "But I'm not picky about Italian. Whatever you order will do."
"Good, cause their carbonara is excellent."
It was easier than he expected to fall back into their routine - their pleasant routine, notably, since Valdo was being polite and amicable that evening. Jaskier relaxed and enjoyed learning what his friend had been up to, and despite how reserved Valdo could be about himself Jaskier managed to get him talking.
Valdo had followed his passions after all, slowly making a name for himself as a composer. Once upon a time, Jaskier would have been jealous to hear it. At that moment he was just happy for him.
"Already composed for movies." Jaskier sighed wistfully, spinning his straw in his water as he picked at the last of his garlic bread. "You'll have to send me the names, you know I won't remember them."
"I wasn't the lead composer," Valdo grumbled, and Jaskier tsked at him.
"Doesn't matter, it's brilliant. Stop seeing yourself short."
Valdo didn't respond, and the color in his cheeks told Jaskier to drop the topic. So he helped himself to another small helping from the large bowl of carbonara they'd placed in the middle of the table, letting Valdo relax in the quiet again.
He needed more of this, Jaskier decided. More time with friends. It could never be like it was in college, working schedules wouldn't ever allow it, but he wanted to at least see a friend or two often enough that it wasn't all catching up. Valdo hadn't even met his fiance yet, and Jaskier had been friends with him since the 7th grade.
Well, he still didn't think Geralt would like Valdo much. Jaskier slumped in his seat, picking out the peas in his pasta and rolling them off to the pea graveyard. Didn't mean he didn't want them to at least know each other.
"How long will you be in town this time?"
Valdo poured himself more water, and stole Jaskier's glass to do the same for him. "A few more days. I was looking at moving back though."
"Oh?"
"Likely not in the next few months." He scowled as water spilled onto the table cloth, and tried to clean it up with his cloth napkin. "I'm contacted to work on a show right now. They're finishing up editing but they expect me in office."
"Can't you write music at home?"
"Some studios are behind the time," Valdo sighed, wiping the stray ice cube into his hand to dispose of on his bread plate. "Work from home positions are saved for people they can't afford to lose. Besides, you know it's more than just writing music."
Jaskier wrinkled his nose, glancing over at the drink menu and wondering if he should order something. "Stupid of them to think they could replace you."
"I'm just another throwaway artist," Valdo shrugged, though his eyes were dark. "Composers don't get big names and press. But I knew that when I went into the business."
Sucked, but Jaskier knew he was right. He raised his water glass to him and said, "Here's to being replaceable" - and with a clink of glasses and a shared snort of laughter, they drank to that.
"But speaking of replaceable," Valdo put down his glass, laughter still making his lips twitch and his eyes light up, "sounds like you don't qualify anymore, and I haven't heard anything but his name yet."
Jaskier grinned, thumb immediately moving to play with his ring. "Guess not. And Geralt is... well, he's Geralt. Not perfect but better than I could have ever hoped to find."
Better than he deserved by a long shot. Before his smile could slip, Jaskier sipped his water.
"That tells me nothing. Talk or I'll get his number and meet him myself."
Considering Valdo never made empty threats, Jaskier answered every question he had that night.
It was well past his usual bedtime when he finally got home, the rain having for the most part passed. His place was dark, no one greeted him when he got in, and he couldn't help the giddy feeling that grew at knowing soon that wouldn't be the case.
And for once, he didn't feel guilty when he saw Geralt's goodnight text. He had stayed out with a friend, had told Geralt he loved him, and not a single bit of it had been a lie - even of omission.
It was pitiful that he had any reason to be happy about that, proud of himself even if just a small amount. Hurray, I didn't cheat tonight - it wasn't really an accomplishment.
Except it was. Jaskier locked his door behind him, chewing over the conflicting feelings that were clawing their way through him.
He could do it. He had done it. For one single day, Jaskier had been the partner Geralt deserved: faithful and loving. He'd finally met the baseline expectations and for fuck's sake he could do it again tomorrow.
Would do it again tomorrow. He put his keys in the bowl near his door and hung his jacket up, his jaw set and every bit of him determined to follow through.
Geralt deserved better, and for him Jaskier would be better. If he could do it once, he could do it again, and again.
He jerked off in the shower thinking of Geralt, and fell asleep with one last "I love you" sent to his fiance, and made a promise to himself that one day he'd be good enough for Geralt - good enough to not feel guilt over being with him.
--
@fontegagrilledcheese @damnbert @mothmanismyuncle @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @jaskierswolf @oldandkinky @blooodymoon @kan0chan @silvermintnightprincess @flowercrown-bard @sharinalein @concussed-dragon @hayleynzlive @feral-jaskier @sweetiepieplum @stonedstargazer666 @deafeningnightcollection-things @luteandsword @kmuir1 @little-boats-on-a-lake @dani-dandelino @rurousha @renewlucifer
#geraskier#geralt#jaskier#geralt of rivia#geralt de rivia#the witcher#witcher#the witcher fic#witcher fic#the witcher fanfic#witcher fanfic#fanfiction#mywriting
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Valorant Incorrect Quotes dump
Phoenix: Are you implying that I occasionally stray from the rule book?
Viper: I'm implying that you do not posses a rule book. And if you do, you certainly have never opened it.
Yoru: Google, how do I get revenge on those who have forsaken me?
Google: The best revenge is letting go and living well
Yoru:
Yoru: Bing, how do I get—
KJ: I swear to God, I am the only one here who has a braincell
Jett: ALL HAIL the keeper of the sacred braincell!
Raze: ALL HAIL the keeper of the sacred braincell!
Neon: ALL HAIL the keeper of the sacred braincell!
Yoru: ALL HAIL the keeper of the sacred braincell!
Phoenix: ALL HAIL the keeper of the sacred braincell!
Phoenix: Why don't you ever say anything encouraging?
Yoru: I encourage you not to die
Phoenix: *dies in his ult*
Phoenix: Task failed successfully
Jett: What is the most attractive thing you find about women?
Yoru: Normally, their boyfriends
Phoenix, reading a fortune cookie: If you kill a killer, the amount of killers in the world stays the same.
Yoru, with a mouth full of takeout: Kill two.
Jett: What the hell were you thinking?
Skye: I heard releasing birds at a wedding is romantic!
Neon: You released OSTRICHES
Phoenix: I have a new hoodie.
Yoru: Wrong.
Yoru: We have a new hoodie.
KJ: Look, I’m glad everyone’s on the same page.
KJ: But it’s the last page in a book titled “we’re all going to die”.
Yoru: That’s not even clever.
KJ: Come to dinner tonight. I can’t cook, but I’ll bring plenty of free wine.
Raze: Marry me.
Jett: I’ve invited you here because I crave the deadliest game...
Yoru, nodding: Knife Monopoly
Jett: I was actually going to play Russian roulette, but now I'm really interested in whatever knife Monopoly is.
Phoenix, texting Yoru: Roses are red, Tony Hawk is a skater…
Yoru's phone, auto-replying: I’m driving right now– I’ll get back to you later.
[Later]
Yoru, texting back: Fuck you.
Yoru to Jett: We smell of sweat and loss.
Jett: Hi-
Yoru: Leave before there's a terrible misunderstanding between my foot and your ass.
Phoenix: Are you busy?
Yoru: Yes.
Phoenix: Cool, listen to this.
Yoru: You’ve got to learn to love yourself.
Neon: But don't you hate yourself?
Yoru: Yeah, but this is about you. Stay focused.
Yoru: Well you see, the explanation is perfectly simple and scientific. It was because shut up. Shut up is why.
Yoru: Protip is you do not feel good about yourself after eating tomato sauce on iceberg lettuce.
Phoenix: What's wrong with you??
Yoru: I literally JUST said I ate tomato sauce on iceberg lettuce?? Pay attention.
Jett: No, he meant other than that.
Yoru: Ohhhhhh.
Yoru: I haven't slept in 4 days.
Yoru: Bro- 
Phoenix: No, no, hold up, rewind.
Phoenix: My tongue was down in your throat just a second ago and now you're calling me bro??
Yoru: Standing next to sunflowers always makes me feel weak like ‘look at this fucking flower. This flower is taller than I am. This flower is winning and I’m losing.’
Killjoy: Wow, you are not ready to hear about trees.
Phoenix: Yoru, you do remember when we agreed we were better off as friends, right?
Yoru, naked in Phoenix's bed: No, I absolutely do not.
Phoenix, already taking off his clothes: Fuck... Me neither.
Yoru: I fell—
Phoenix: From heaven?
Yoru: No, I literally fell—
Phoenix: In love with me the moment you saw me?
Yoru: MY ARM IS BROKEN!
Phoenix: Okay, but do you think I'm pretty? Be honest.
Yoru: I like to think of myself as a semi responsible adult here.
Raze: Phoenix is 70% of your impulse control and you know this Yoru.
Phoenix: I feel like Yoru is the more responsible one of us two though.
Yoru: We are both 70% of each others' impulse control.
Phoenix: Just two lil beasts in pinwheel hats spinning on the merry-go-round at dangerous velocities, holding each other’s hands so the other doesn’t fall off.
Neon: You look mentally ill.
Yoru: I am. Let’s go.
Yoru: This bloodline ends with me.
Phoenix: That's the fanciest way I've ever heard someone say "I'm gay".
Yoru: Ask me anything. Go ahead, I'll give you a straight answer.
Jett: Why are we so fucking awesome?
Yoru: That's the best fucking question anybody's ever asked.
Killjoy: We need a way to lure in new customers
Phoenix: Maybe we could have some fun, interactive events!
Jett: Yoru bath water.
Yoru: ABSOLUTELY NOT!
Neon: I regret getting dragged into your heterosexual tomfoolery.
Phoenix: Let’s watch Sharkboy and Lavagirl.
Yoru: Okay.
Phoenix: And make out during the scary parts.
Yoru: Th-
Yoru: The scary parts.
Yoru: Of Sharkboy and Lavagirl.
Phoenix: Is it just me or is instant ramen even better uncooked?
Yoru: It’s just you.
#incorrect valorant quotes#valorant#valorant agents#yoru#phoenix#jett#killjoy#viper#raze#neon#skye#nanobomb#yorunix#riftfire
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Initiative - aka NMJ and JYL get engaged - ao3 or tumblr pt 1, pt 2
Jiang Yanli’s first engagement had been announced when she was three and a half years old – there had been a big party, festooned in color, exquisitely and meticulously planned out in advance, and she’d been obliged to stand on stage next to a baby in a cradle that had done nothing but cry and spit as all the adults around her congregated and congratulated each other on the excellent match.
She hadn’t enjoyed that at all.
Her second wedding announcement was simultaneously more casual and more noteworthy, and she enjoyed it tremendously.
Madame Jin had sent several invitations to Jiang Yanli to come visit Lanling in advance of the hunt planned for Phoenix Mountain, speaking of how beautiful it was and how much she looked forward to seeing her good friend’s daughter – talking about she’d always regretted how Jiang Yanli had been obligated by circumstances to take shelter at the Unclean Realm rather than in Lanling City, although she’d been pleased to hear from her son that she was doing well – all the right sort of words. The words might have been more welcome if Jiang Yanli hadn’t known that Madame Jin was still intent on securing the marriage she had arranged.
If she hadn’t been engaged, she would have accepted the invitation, hoping to form an alliance for her sect through a close relationship with Madame Jin even if she didn’t have one with Jin Zixuan (no matter what Madame Jin hoped), but as she was, in fact, engaged to another – even if it hadn’t been formally announced – it would be inappropriate to go. So she instead played ignorant and responded graciously, protesting that she couldn’t possibly impose, that the rebuilding at the Lotus Pier needed her, but that she would of course be happy to attend the hunt alongside the rest of her sect.
She arrived at her brother’s side, smiling all the while.
Her second engagement was announced like this: Sect Leader Jin, using his newly legitimized son as his mouthpiece, had brought forward some ghastly ‘entertainment’ that involved shooting at helpless prisoners, tied up in chains. Jin Zixuan had complied, but Wei Wuxian had marched out and disrupted everything by showing off to a ridiculous extent – Nie Mingjue, who had been watching with a black face full of rage but unable to speak due to propriety, had started applauding very loudly and very enthusiastically – and Sect Leader Jin had ordered the prisoners taken away.
“Well, then,” he said, clapping as if he had impressed himself: as if they hadn’t just been subjected to a powerplay under the guise of hospitality, as if everyone would be over-awed by his might now that they had seen him abuse the helpless while they were all forced by the rules of etiquette to say nothing or else risk carrying the blame for trying to start another war. “Absent anything else, we should proceed to the hunt itself, where await you only the finest of prey and the sharpest competition among your peers.”
For the further display of the power of the Jin sect, he meant.
“Actually,” Nie Mingjue said, interjecting in a moment in which Sect Leader Jin had paused to take a breath so that it was technically not an interruption, “there is one thing. A request, in fact.”
Sect Leader Jin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he maintained his false smile. “Of course, Sect Leader Nie. What can I do for you?”
“I’m getting married,” Nie Mingjue said. “The bride is Young Mistress Jiang, of Yunmeng Jiang, and I would like –” He raised his voice to overcome the abrupt explosion of talk that had erupted. “– I would like to have her accompany my sect in today’s hunt. I hope that doesn’t interfere with your plans for a competition between the sects?”
There were those who said that Jiang Yanli’s chosen husband was bad at politics, and they might even be right. But it didn’t really matter in the end if he’d thought of the idea on a whim or if it’d been a prearranged plan by Nie Huaisang, who was cleverer than he liked to let on to people, Jiang Yanli’s future husband had still wiped away in a single sentence all memory of the farce they’d all just endured and of the hunt that was yet to come, ensuring that the only thing anyone would remember about today was the shocking news of the engagement of the leader of one Great Sect to the sister of another.
(And if everyone remembered that at the last celebration hosted by Sect Leader Jin, he had proposed to resurrect the marriage between Jiang Yanli and his own son, instead, forcing her to publicly demur on vague terms…well, that just made it all the more satisfying.)
Now it was Sect Leader Jin’s turn to scowl and glare, and Madame Jin’s expression looked no less thunderous, but in the end Jiang Yanli got to go with the Nie sect on the hunt.
“You know I’ll only slow you down,” she said to Nie Mingjue, who snorted.
“No more than Huaisang will,” he said, and if his face was stern and his voice gruff then she still thought she detected fondness and humor beneath it. “Besides, it’ll be a good opportunity to measure you.”
It turned out that he meant that more literally than she might have thought.
Jiang Yanli was promptly whisked away to the back of the Nie retinue by a small cadre of Nie disciples, men and women both. She was presented with a number of training sabers shaped out of wood and made to hold them in a variety of positions as they murmured things about stability and reach and balance as if they really, truly thought that she would actually use the saber they were preparing for her.
“This one,” Nie Jiahui, a steely older woman with silver in her hair and fierce eyes, eventually announced, and the practice saber Jiang Yanli had been waving around was taken away. She was then presented with one that was twice as heavy, for “practice”.
“Do you always practice with something heavier than the actual thing?” she asked, and Nie Jiahui nodded.
“Strengthens the shoulders,” she said, curt but not standoffish. “Have some candy.”
Jiang Yanli blinked, but smiled and accepted the offer. It was licorice, which she liked.
“Do you often carry candy with you on night-hunts?” she asked, listening to the sound of fighting from up ahead. Every so often, a disciple or two would trot by carrying the corpses of larger and larger creatures, slain in the fighting; it seemed that the Nie sect was not, in fact, being slowed down in the slightest by her presence.
Of course, she also wasn’t being tended to as if she were their chosen lady, either, as she might have otherwise expected – all pomp and flowery language, Nie Mingjue by her side at all times to show her around as if they were on a pleasure stroll – but in all honesty that would have been a little bewildering. It was very much not the Nie sect’s character, all practical and straightforward, and she found that she preferred it that way.
“It’s important to have something to replenish energy,” Nie Huaisang said, having dropped back to join them from the front. He looked tired and grumpy, but his saber appeared to have been put to some work; he immediately climbed up into the carriage that people were taking turns riding and started cleaning it. “And licorice candy clears the lungs.”
“Clears the lungs?” Jiang Yanli asked.
“It’s good for more than that,” Nie Jiahui said. “But that’s one of the uses, yes. Do you ever feel like your chest is too tight, especially when you move too much? Leading to coughing, shortness of breath, your lips turning blue?”
Jiang Yanli blinked. “Yes,” she said. “But that’s just because I was born with a weak body.”
Nie Jiahui scoffed and Nie Huaisang laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said cheerfully. “I was born with muscles that didn’t keep their tone: too flexible, incapable of gathering strength, requiring more energy to do less, making me twice as tired twice as fast – even sitting up straight can be a struggle in some extreme cases, though luckily not mine. And do you think that helped me one bit in getting out of saber training? It did not.”
“Early childhood intervention is best,” Nie Jiahui said. “But the next best is starting today. I’ll show you some low-impact exercises that you can start working on to strengthen your shoulders and stomach, as well as some balance movements to center yourself and improve your posture – that way, by the time your actual saber is ready, you’ll be able to take it through one of the basic routines.”
“I’m happy to learn whatever you have to teach,” Jiang Yanli said, ignoring Nie Huaisang’s dramatic cry of ‘And here I thought you’d be on my side!’ “I only regret troubling you.”
“Not at all,” Nie Jiahui said. “It’ll be good to have someone watching the Sect Leader’s back on night-hunts.”
Jiang Yanli felt a surge of terror and excitement in her belly. “He would trust me with that? You would trust me with that?”
“I did tell you that you’d need to keep up with him,” Nie Huaisang said mildly, and it was true, he had, only she’d assumed it was a bit more metaphorical. “You don’t have to fight or even walk too much, if it doesn’t suit you – my grandmother was lame in both her legs from a childhood illness, she rode everywhere, scariest woman I’ve ever met by far – but you do have to be there. Someone needs to be able to tell my brother to stop. Someone he’ll listen to.”
And wasn’t that something of a thrill to think of?
Jiang Yanli wasn’t someone anyone listened to – not her parents, not her brother, not her sect disciples. She’d always been the one who comforted them afterwards, who supported them; she made them food and tried to convince them to be kinder to each other, and sometimes they even tried for a while before getting into another tiff. They would kill for her if she so much as hinted at it, tear down the sky for her, but it was more in the nature of indulging her rather than actually allowing them to guide her.
Yet here was Chifeng-zun, a war hero and a sect leader, one of the most powerful men in the world, a man admired by men and sought after (even if only in their hearts) by women, and his family was telling her that he would listen to her.
“If you say so,” she demurred, but they insisted, and by the time the hunt was over Jiang Yanli was surprised to realize that she hadn’t needed to resort to sitting on the carriage more than twice the entire time.
“We’ll send Auntie Jiahui to the Lotus Pier after today’s hunt is done,” Nie Huaisang chattered cheerfully in her ear as they headed back towards Jinlin Tower. “She’ll work you through your paces, believe you me, and all the supplemental things, too – making sure you eat the right thing, take medicinal baths to improve your meridians, apply massages to loosen your joints…those parts are nice, actually. Take care of your body as you would your saber, take care of your saber as you would your wife! That’s how the saying goes. Trust me, you’ll be regretting the whole thing soon enough.”
Jiang Yanli didn’t think she would. “You seem very confident that A-Cheng will allow you to do as you please, even in the Lotus Pier.”
“I’ll tell him it concerns secret Nie sect marriage rituals,” Nie Jiahui interjected. “When two women are involved, men tend to run away when the words ‘marriage’ and ‘secret’ are combined.”
Sadly, she was probably right.
“Show me those exercises again,” she requested, and Nie Jiahui climbed up on to the carriage to show her the ones she could do even while sitting down.
Jiang Yanli might never have had the opportunity to strengthen herself before, and she was moderately certain that she wouldn’t have too much success now, as the various tricks Nie Jiahui had taught her were largely body refinement, barely reliant on qi, and her cultivation was still as low as ever.
But she was good at devoting herself to learning something when she wanted to, and as soon the hunt at Phoenix Mountain was over and they had shifted over to the various feasts and meetings that Lanling Jin had planned for the rest of the week, she began her efforts at self-improvement in earnest.
The weak body her mother had always despaired of might always be weak – Nie Jiahui had been quite blunt on that subject, making it clear that nothing she was suggesting was some sort of miracle pill, and furthermore that there was nothing wrong with being weak as long as she made an effort (Nie Huaisang had been the recipient of several pointed looks there) – but Jiang Yanli was determined to at least demonstrate that she was trying.
A gesture of good faith, perhaps. Some small show of initiative.
Nie Huaisang had said that Nie Mingjue appreciated her initiative.
“A-Xian,” she called one morning, only a few days later. “A-Xian, are you going out for a walk? Let me come with you.”
“You’ve gone on a lot of walks recently,” Wei Wuxian laughed, but allowed her to take his arm as they walked into the crowd. “Do you like Lanling City so much?”
“It’s the exercise I’m after,” she said, smiling at him. “The Nie sect is a martial sect, remember? I’ll be going on more night-hunts in the future, if all goes well, and I’ll need to keep up.”
“Oh, but surely they’ll bring a carriage..? I don’t know if you really need to go on night-hunts –”
“I want to! It’ll be nice. Don’t worry about me so much, A-Xian –”
Wei Wuxian was shaking his head, smiling, and he wasn’t looking where he was going; perhaps that was why he bumped into the young woman.
But then she looked up at him, and he looked down at her, and he froze.
“Wen Qing?”
#mdzs#jiang yanli#nie mingjue#nie huaisang#wei wuxian#my fic#my fics#initiative#the untamed#includes my medical HCs for JYL and NHS#but no actual medical incidents
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All I See Is Blue (Part 1) | Mark Lee
Pairing: Mark Lee x Reader
Summary: You confess to Mark on his wedding day. His cruel rejection pushes you over the ledge.
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 0.6k
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, mentions of mental illness
Gif: @jaemtens
Part 1 ⭐️ | Part 2
You’re standing in the corner of the marquee’s dance floor, watching Mark Lee twirl his new bride, Joy.
You take a deep breath and walk towards him. Mark’s face lights up when he catches your eye.
“Sup, Y/n?” he says, beaming in the way a man should on his wedding day.
“C- can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
Mark follows you into the cold car park. “What is it, Y/n? We should get back soon for the cake. You know what Johnny’s like, he’ll eat it all if we don’t stop him!”
Mark falls silent when he sees your glistening eyes. “Yo, are you alright?”
Your heart thuds in your ears. It’s now or never. “I’m in love with you.”
The smile drops off Mark’s face.
You gulp. “I’m sorry if that’s weird, but I needed you to… hear it.”
Mark’s brows knit together. You’ve never seen him look so… torn. “W-what do you want me to say?”
You shrug, trying not to cry. “It’s probably bad timing, I know -”
“Probably bad timing? Y/n, it’s my goddamn wedding day!”
You stare at the gravel. “I just needed you to know.”
Mark kicks a nearby bin with his foot, making the scratched metal ring. “You were the one who rejected me two years ago. You were the one who introduced me to Joy. It was all you!”
You grip the lapel of Mark’s satin wedding tux, choking out a sob. “I’m sorry. L-let’s just go back to the party.”
You turn towards the marquee entrance, but Mark grabs your shoulder.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he spits, with a ferocity you’ve never heard. “Get the fuck out of my wedding, Y/n. You’re not my friend. Friends don’t do this to each other.”
Just then, you’re interrupted by a musical voice.
“Mark! There you are!”
You jump back from Mark and swipe away your tears. It’s Joy. She’s dazzling in the off-the-shoulder lace wedding dress you picked out.
Joy smiles at you. “Y/n, are you not coming in?”
Mark snaps, “Y/n’s feeling sick. She’s going home.”
“Aww, feel better, Y/n… Thank you for coming!”
You turn away from the happy couple, bile rising up your throat. You walk onto the main street.
The more you walk, the more your thoughts spiral. Mark doesn’t want you.
Nobody wants you.
The night sky cries alongside you, drenching you to the bone.
A busker with a glowing green mic stares at you, wide-eyed. I mean, why wouldn’t she? You’re the ghost in the pink party dress with tear-streaked makeup and no reason to live.
You don’t stop until you reach Brooklyn bridge. The black water churns below. It looks… inviting.
You’re suddenly overcome with an urge to climb onto the railing. So you hoist yourself on the flat, cold steel. Bolts bruise your thighs.
Your feet dangle into nothing.
One of your blush pink kitten heels falls off your foot, and disappears into the water.
You let the other heel go as well, smiling as it’s consumed by the blackness.
Just push yourself off. It’ll be like falling asleep…
You take a deep breath as you ready yourself to jump. This is it.
No one will miss you…
“Y/n!”
---
Read Part 2 here.
MASTERLIST
#mark#nct 127#neowritingsnet#mark lee#nct dream#nct fluff#nct angst#nct smut#nct imagines#nct drabbles#mark smut#mark angst#mark fluff#nct dream fluff#nct dream angst#nct dream smut#NCT-WRITERS#nct scenarios#nct dream imagines#nct dream reactions
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Hi Steph! reading your blog has become a sort of guilty pleasure for me. Thanks for everything, it’s so clear that you put a lot of time and energy into your content. I was wondering if you have any johnlock fics that feature a particularly well-written or memorable original character? I always love to see how authors integrate their own character creations into johnlock stories!
Hey Nonny!
Ahhhh!! This is a GREAT request, because I like well-written OC’s in fics, so yeah, this is a great list to make. Here’s what I recall from my bookmarks. Please add your own faves, friends!
MEMORABLE ORIGINAL CHARACTERS
Ex by Itsallfine (T, 1,248 w., 1 Ch. || Angsty Fluff, Love Confessions, Coming Out, Exes, First Kiss, Fake Relationship, Getting Outed) – One night, in the midst of their post-case high and on the cusp of something more, John and Sherlock run into John’s ex. His ex-boyfriend.
The Prize We Sought Is Won by deathfrisbees (E, 4,610 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Mild D/S, Oral, Military Kink, Bottomlock) – Sherlock's in love, or in lust, or both--unfortunately, the object of his affections is not only his completely oblivious flatmate, but said flatmate would probably run screaming into the hills should he find out. John's been invited to a wedding--unfortunately, the groom used to serve under him back in Afghanistan, and requests that John wear a uniform he's honestly not sure he fits into. Unfortunately for both flatmates, Sherlock's got a military kink the size of Kandahar and John wants to know if he actually can fit into this uniform or if his eyes are deceiving him. It goes from there.
Time on my hands by Mildredandbobbin (M, 7,179 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-S3, One Night Stands, Mutual Pining, Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Sexual Exploration / Discovery, Desperation, Body Worship) – Virginity’s a construct, a concept—what does losing one’s virginity entail for a gay man anyway? Sherlock wants to fill that particular gap in his knowledge but John won’t, can’t, never will assist and there’s only so much desperately unspoken pining even Sherlock can take.
High and Tight, Soft and Loose by cwb (E, 7,429 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous John, Miscommunications / Misunderstandings, First Kiss / Time, BAMF John, Insecure Sherlock, Clueless Sherlock, POV John, Embarrassed John, Adorable Sherlock, Junk Size, UST / RST) – John pressed the knuckle of his index finger against his mouth and sighed. “So, you're coiled like a spring and ready to be ... sprung?” “If you want to be pedestrian about it, yes.” “Like I said, you should do something about that.” “And like I said, pedestrian. What would you have me do? Take up jogging? Yoga? Oh! Unless you mean –” “I don't mean anything. Let’s drop it.”
Matters of National Security by mistyzeo (E, 8,465 w., 1 Ch. || BAMF John, Doctor John, Jealous Sherlock, Dating, Bisexuality, Arguing, Stupidity, Teasing, First Kiss/Time, Hand Jobs, Frottage, RST, Idiots in Love) – John starts dating a male client of Sherlock's, and Sherlock can't figure out why he's so incensed about it.
High Tide by stardust_made (T, 8,540 w., 1 Ch. || Jealousy, Angst, First Kiss) – A little favour Sherlock stupidly agrees to do for Mycroft leads to John meeting a handsome, affluent man, who is going out of his way to woo him. Sherlock struggles with the situation and with his own reactions to it. Part 1 of The High Tide Series
Iris by slashscribe (E, 11,948 w., 1 Ch. || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Post-S3) – Sherlock does his best to make John happy when John comes back to 221B with his new baby after the events of Season 3, but Sherlock has a track record of getting things wrong in this area. This story is an exploration of their gradual shift from friends to lovers, told from Sherlock's perspective, full of a lot of pining and lack of emotional awareness.
A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M, 12,757 w., 1 Ch. || Mutual Pining, POV John, Phone Sex, Texting, Masturbation, Long Distance, Drunk Texting) – What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.
Twelfth Night by yourdykeinshiningarmor (E, 15,139 w., 5 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Christmas, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Angst & Fluff, BJ’s, Anal) – John is invited to his aunt's Twelfth Night ball. Sherlock offers to attend with him as a friendly face among strangers, but John's family force him to address his true feelings for Sherlock.
Vessel by Rhuia (E, 15,695 w., 1 Ch. || Cancer, Medfic) – That was the surprising bit – the way his doctor said it, eyes shining with sympathy but breathing it out, shifting it off her shoulders and thrusting it onto his, making him take it like an unwanted gift.
A Life Well-Lived by Kate_Lear (E, 20,121 w., 1 Ch. || Original Male Character, Sherlock Woos John, Jealous Sherlock, Reluctant Bi-John, Past Abuse, Insecure John, Reassuring / Caring Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Understanding Sherlock) – John got scared off men by an abusive past relationship. Sherlock has to try and woo him while not scaring him off with protective possessive rage.
Winter's Delights by Kate_Lear (E, 21,173 w., 1 Ch. || Holmes Family, Christmas, Fake Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Bed Sharing, Domestics) – Sherlock takes John home for Christmas to meet the extended Holmes family. Part 1 of Winter's Delights
A Shipless Ocean by myswordfishmind (M, 22,135 w., 4 Ch. || Post-TRF, John has a Kid, Angst, Reunion, Falling in Love, Open Ending) – Ten years after the fall Sherlock goes back to London to find that John no longer lives there. Instead, he resides in a seaside town, a widower, and the father of a seven year old son. Now, Sherlock must struggle with the fact that there may no longer be a place for him in this new world.
Maintaining A Personal Life by Gingerhermit (E, 24,284 w., 6 Ch. || Alternating POV’s, Bisexuality, BAMF!John, Jealous Sherlock, Romance / Drama, Sort-of Case Fic, Peril & Angst, Love Confessions, Toplock, Soft Idiots in Love, Post S3) – Sherlock and John discover some interesting revelations about each other’s sexuality, which lead them both to question the assumptions they've made about one another for years. In the midst of their mutual discoveries, a dangerous psychopath looms on the side-lines who threatens to destroy their new beginning.
26 Pieces by Lanning (E, 28,236 w., 1 Ch. || H/C, Torture, First Time, Happy Ending, Schmoop, Past Abuse) – Mycroft gives Sherlock the apparently simple task of solving a puzzle box containing a stolen microchip. It isn't simple.
Where Else Would I Be? by cwb (E, 34,910 w., 10 Ch. || Retirementlock, Domestic Fluff, Falling in Love, Parentlock, Fluff and Smut, Reminiscing) – John and Sherlock's five-year-old granddaughter spends the weekend with them in Sussex. Sherlock happily indulges her whims, and John takes care of them while quietly revisiting the past thirty years of their lives together.
Classified(s) by blueink3 (E, 36,153 w., 4 Ch. || Wedding Date AU || Fake Relationship, Jealous, PIning, H/C, Idiots in Love, Happy Ending, Mary is not Nice, Escort Service) – Clara's American father is the ambassador to some such territory that Great Britain probably used to own, but she (and Harry’s undying love for her) is the reason John is getting on a flight at 12:30pm, flying across the second largest ocean in the world, and pretending to be in a perfectly happy, healthy relationship with an undoubtedly perfectly coiffed stranger. See, Clara is not only American (and wealthy to boot), she's also best friends with John’s ex-fiancée. Whom she's placed in the wedding party. As Maid of Honor. And John just happens to be Best Man. Bloody brilliant.
Nothing to Make a Song About by emmagrant01 (E, 36,833 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Time, Reunion, Jealous John, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending, Sherlock Has a Boyfriend) – When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting.
Set in Stone by SilentAuror (E, 39,309 w., 1 Ch. || Romance, Wedding, Therapy, Fluff and Angst) – Sherlock and John are back from Ravine Valley and planning their wedding. However, as they move past the trial of the human traffickers, Sherlock can't help but wonder if he's imagining that John is becoming a little distant. Surely he isn't getting cold feet about the wedding... Part 2 of The Ravine Valley series
Only To Be With You by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (M, 40,768 w., 4 Ch. || Black Mirror / Future AU || Character Death, Future Technology, Sickness/Cancer/Illness, Heavy Angst with Happy Ending, First Person POV John, Pining John, Heart-Wrenching Angst, Promise of Forever) – I tell myself that next time I’ll come near this same place again. Wait around for the mysterious stranger in his coat to dash past me, hot on the heels of a new criminal in black. I think this all the way back to my Exit, planning where I’ll wait and what I’ll say when I see him. Scheming on how to get his name. It’s only once I reach the Exit Point door that I realize two hours and forty-five minutes have passed, and I realize that this won’t be the last time I Visit. It won’t be the last time at all.
Corpus Hominis by mycapeisplaid (E, 47,709 w., 12 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Case Fic, Fluff, Romance, Frottage, Angst, Anal, Blow Jobs, Rimming, Spas / Massages, Shampoo, Jealousy, Fake Relationship) - John knows the human body intimately. He’s had plenty of opportunity for study as a doctor, soldier, and lover. There’s one particular body, however, he knows very little about. When Sherlock launches himself head-first into a new obsession and they get sent on a case in an unlikely location, the pair discovers each other’s bodies with confusing yet delightful (and sometimes hilarious) results.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...
Coventry by standbygo (E, 52,020 w., 26 Ch. || Dollhouse AU || Case Fic, Slow Burn, Sci-Fi / Fantasy, First Kiss / Time, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF John, Falling in Love) – “Let me get this straight,” John said, wondering when his life had become a science fiction film. “Some guy orders up a personality, a person, to his specifications, and they program this into a real live person, who has consented to do this, and she goes to this person and acts as his wife, or lawyer, or Royal Marine, or Navy Seal or what have you, and she has all the skills, all the knowledge, everything? Then you say the magic words, and she follows you back to The House, and they erase it all until her next appointment?”
Albion and the Woodsman by Glenmore (NR [E], 54,437 w., 50 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post S3, Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst, Family, Drug Use, Depression, Sherlock POV, Light Humour, Reconnecting, Declarations of Love) – Sherlock and John are devastated after Mary Morstan makes her final moves. Sherlock relapses at the crack house, John walks around the world … and a lot happens in between. Parentlock, in the good way.
Wars We Fought, Things We're Not by blueink3 (M, 55,204 w., 10 Ch. || Post S3 / Post TAB, Parentlock, Fluff & Angst, Kidnapping, Whump, Post-TAB, UST/URT, 3G, Mild Peril, Slow Burn, Couple for a Case, Protective Mycroft, Infant Death Pre-Story, Friends to Lovers) – Five months after John's world has fallen apart, Mycroft sends the consulting detective and his doctor on a case that neither is prepared for.
Isosceles by SilentAuror (E, 56,609 w., 7 Ch. || Post-S4, POV John, Original Male Character / Sherlock Dates Another Man, Love Triangle, Jealous John, Virgin Sherlock, Sexual Coaching, Angst, Romance, Domesticity, Unrequited Feelings, Miscommunication, First Kiss/Time, For a Case, Friends With Benefits, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Spooning) – After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...
The Great Sex Olympics of 221B by XistentialAngst (E, 58,611 w., 10 Ch. || First Time/Kiss, Experiments / Sexual Experimentations, Multi Pairings, Voyeurism) – John Watson thinks Sherlock Holmes should admit that he, Watson, is more of an expert on sex than Sherlock is. But Sherlock refuses to concede the point. He comes up with an experiment plan that will resolve the issue. The results will determine who wins the prize. But sometimes even the best thought-out scientific study has unexpected consequences.
Bridging the Ravine by SilentAuror (E, 58,887 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Couple For a Case, Bed-Sharing, First Times, Confessions, Awkwardness, Sex Trafficking, Massages, Wet T-Shirt Contest, Group Therapy, Past Loss of Child) ��� Sherlock and John go undercover at Ravine Valley, a therapy centre for same-sex male couples in an investigation into a possible human trafficking ring. As they pose as a couple and fake their way through the therapy sessions for the sake of the case, it quickly becomes difficult to avoid discussing their very real issues. Set roughly six nine months after series 4.
The Bells of King's College by SilentAuror (E, 64,019 w., 5 Ch. || Post-S4, Missed Opportunities, Angst with Happy Ending, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, John POV, Jealous John, John in Denial, Travelling / Holidays, Virgin Sherlock, Wedding Proposals) – It's only been two weeks since Eurus Holmes disrupted their lives when Mycroft sends John and Sherlock to Cambridge to pose as an engaged couple at a wedding show in the hopes of solving six unsolved deaths...
Summit Fever by J_Baillier (M, 78,802 w., 18 Ch. || Mountain Climber AU || POV John, Angst, Tragedy, Suicidal Ideation, The Himalayas, Mountain Guide / Doctor John, Mount Climber Sherlock, Loneliness, Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Injured Sherlock / Sherlock Whump, Pining John) – After graduating from medical school, John Watson followed his heart to the Himalayas. Ten years later, he's a haunted cynic working for his ex-lover's trekking and mountaineering company. Will leading an expedition to Annapurna I—the most lethal of all the world's highest mountains—shake John out of his reverie, and who is the mystery client added to the group at the last minute?
Secrets and Revelations by Hisstah (E, 83,535 w., 9 Ch. || Sentinel / Guides Omegaverse AU || Adventure, Violence, Anal / Oral, Omega!John / Alpha!Sherlock, Case Fic, Politics, Mild DubCon) – Dr John Watson has some major secrets that he's kept from his flatmate, Alpha Sentinel Sherlock Holmes. Now the Sentinel Tower is after him. Can John stay out of their hands until he can reveal his secrets to Sherlock? Part 1 of Secrets and Revelations
Thermocline by J_Baillier (M, 83,557 w., 14 Ch. || Scuba Diving AU || Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marine Archaeology, Asexual Sherlock, Horny John, Relationship Drama, Technical/Scuba/Wreck Diving, Slow Burn, Underwater / Medical Peril, Doctor John, Hurt Sherlock, Anxious Sherlock, John POV, Protective John, Body Appreciation) – John "Five Oceans" Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?
Maintenance and Repair by patternofdefiance (E, 106,650 w., 71 Ch. || Future AU, Augmentation || Augmented John, Depression, Body Modification, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, Sci-Fi, Self-Care, Body Dysmorphia) – John wants to explain the rush of sensation and data, which is just another form of sensation (or is it the other way around?). John wants to say: Augmentation circuits report temperature, pressure, various forms of quantitative input. Sudden changes are reported as pain, since sudden changes are dangerous, and pain is the quickest way to encourage reflexive extraction. But all John can manage is, “Nng.” Because this sudden touch is not reporting as pain. Part 2 of STATIC
The Burning Heart by May_Shepard (M, 119,150 w., 21 Ch. || Canon Divergence, Post-TRF, John’s Sexuality, S3 Rewrite, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, POV John Watson, John’s Gay) – When Sherlock dies, John Watson feels like his life is over too. He’s completely shut down, until Mark Morstan, a new nurse at John’s medical clinic, catches his attention, and helps him uncover the long buried truth of his attraction to men. Although he’s certain he’ll never get over Sherlock, John plans to move on, and build a new life with Mark, unaware that Sherlock is not quite as dead as he appears, and that Mark is hiding secrets of his own.
The Swan Triad Series by Pennin_Ink (T, 121,660 w. across 3 works || Swan Lake AU || Magical / Fairy Tale AU, Romance, Falling in Love, Pining, Psychological Torture, Transformation) – Sherlock and John grow up spending every summer together. Their mothers' attempts to play matchmaker only fuel their mutual resentment and scorn. But then, one summer.
Colors by Quesarasara (E, 140,537 w., 17 Ch. || Pleasantville-Inspired AU || Soulmates, Colour Bonds, Alternating POV, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Case Fic, Medical Procedures) – Everyone on earth is born with eyes that see in black, white, and an endless series of greys. When you meet your soulmate, you finally see the world in color. We're all searching for the person who brings color to our lives. John and Sherlock are no exception. Part 1 of The Colors 'Verse
The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.
The Lost Special: Family Matters (As Do Relationships) by ShirleyCarlton (M, 144,688 w., 40 Ch. || S4 Fix It Fic, Unreliable Narrator, John’s Mind Bungalow, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending) – Sherrinford is not really the name of some high security prison. That was just a figment of John’s frantic coma dream. And Eurus is not actually Sherlock’s sister. That’s just something random she said to John before shooting him. Sherlock and John were never actually estranged. That was just their act to cover up what really happened to Mary – or Rosamund Moran, as her real name has turned out to be. Sherlock does have a secret sibling, though, and his name is Sherrinford. After finally eliminating Moran – though in a rather dramatically different way than they had envisioned – and exposing the truth about Eurus, John encourages Sherlock to delve into his past and to find out whether the reasons to keep Sherrinford away from Sherlock were the right ones, and to discover what really happened in 1981. Along the way, Sherlock and John gradually, finally, stop keeping each other at a distance, and eventually become a proper family of their own. (SC’s version of Sherrinford may as well be an OC; he’s well written and different from Canon)
Sketchy by serpentynka (E, 184,053 w., 83 Ch. || Post-TRF, Post-Mary, John Whump, Slow Burn Love Story, Case Fic, Art, Porn With Feelings, Switchlock, Travelling, Career Change, Family Secrets, Illness / Health) – What (and who) will be left when nobody cares about your Work? A slow-burn fic with cases, places, mistaken identities, unfair choices, essential changes, violent feels, blatant lies, fearless portraiture, family secrets, high-risk bespoke gifts, durable friendships, bedtime stories, foreign travel and tongues, sickness (and health), and the significance of things which are slow to unfurl -- but cannot be ignored. Oh, and...porn. Part 1: Sherlock takes on an obvious case (barely a 4) and meets someone who will force him to re-examine what it means to see. Part 1 of Sketchy
The Gilded Cage by BeautifulFiction (E, 326,887 w., 31 Ch. || Omegaverse || Omega Sherlock / Alpha John, Friends to Lovers, Dub Con, Reproductive Rights) – In a world where Omegas are the property of the elite Alphas, locked away and treasured by those wealthy enough to buy them, John never questioned his flatmate's secondary gender. Sherlock Holmes was an Alpha through-and through. Wasn't he? A chance discovery turns the world on its head, and John is left grappling to come to terms with Sherlock's past as events conspire to threaten their future.
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charlie and amelia have lunch
tw: disordered eating (kind of, sort of) and mention of death
amelia has a thing about eating in front of people
it isn't the eating thing that bothers her, she eats just fine
she doesn't like eating with other people
all her life, she's eaten in the bathroom or the corridor at school
she never eats out at restaurants, she feels like people are staring, judging
todd's aware of this, of course, and he's done his best to help her
they started with little cafes and muffins
upgraded to sandwiches
but they have yet to eat at a restaurant, a proper one, with a waitress and stuff
however, at welton, during lunch period, students are required to be in the dining hall, they can't make students eat technically, but it's noticeable if they don't
mr dalton notices
so one day, he asks if amelia would come by his classroom before lunch to talk about something
and when she gets there, he's got food there for the two of them
(which is against the rules, but when has charlie dalton followed the rules)
amelia reluctantly accepts
she mostly talks while he eats
gets really awkward when he asks how her mother is and she says "well she's dead"
charlie gets really quiet for a moment "i'm so sorry, i had no idea"
she didn't know that he didn't know, she assumed that because he knew todd, that he knew her mom had died
it was wilson's
wilson's, then cancer
amelia was eight, and her mom was sick her whole life
she still remembers little aspects of her mom
her laugh
her jokes
her hands
her eyes (todd says amelia has her eyes)
she's unfortunately forgotten a lot
her voice
the way she dressed
her hair color
her hugs
all the things she lost out on in the last year of her life
"but it was sort of relieving when she died," amelia says, "because i knew she wasn't in pain anymore, dad and i would beg for her to be relieved of her pain, and it turns out we had to let her go for that to happen, so we did, and she's not in pain anymore, and that's the greatest thing i could have asked for
"dad didn't speak for days after, when he finally did, the first thing he said to me was 'sorry you lost your mom' and i said 'sorry you lost your wife'
"dad and i were always close, but when she died, it was like... our grief bonded us forever, no matter how mad i would get at him or how much i could disappoint him, we would always come back to her"
after amelia's mother died, todd didn't have much of a choice except to start sending her to boarding schools
he really didn't want to, because he grew up with those, and he didn't want to isolate her further
but he couldn't stay at home, he had to keep himself busy at welton so he didn't completely collapse under the sorrow of losing his beloved wife
charlie was at their wedding
it was small and rather private
todd and his bride didn't have huge families, so it was just parents, siblings, and friends who could make it
all living poets made it
and todd looked so happy
charlie heard of amelia's birth, and it sounded like (according to knox) that todd was over the moon
it was nice, that after all these years, maybe todd anderson could finally have something to be happy about
todd lost contact with the other poets pretty shortly after, between being a father and a writer AND a teacher, he didn't have much time for outings anymore
with the exception of cameron, he just didn't talk to the rest of the poets
that's why charlie hadn't heard about his wife, he knew she had underlying illnesses, but never heard of her death
anyway
amelia starts eating in mr dalton's room, actually eating
it's in the third or fourth week of these meetings that she finishes the whole meal
she's still not ready to eat in the dining hall in front of the student body, so mr dalton says she should bring one of her friends in
she invites stephanie
then lacey
and pittsie, and evan, and richie
one day, the students ask mr dalton about his time at welton
charlie stops short of what happened with neil, but lets the students look through his senior braden annual
it's amelia that looks at his extracurriculars and laughs and says, "what was the dead poets society?"
~
taglist!!! (please lmk if you want to be added or removed)
@chloe-octavia
@aedan-mills
@regina-della-poesia
@justarandompjofan
@sapphicnoel
@iguanamuppet
@maisietheweltoncow
@finding-an-angle
@srj901
#dps 2: electric boogaloo#dead poets society#tw disordered eating#tw death mention#uh oh spaghettio#the way neil's death tore todd and charlie apart but amelia feels bonded to todd forever bc of her mom's death 🤟🏻😔#also please let me know if there are triggers i should add to any of my posts#i do my best but i don't want to upset anyone yknow
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The Worst Timing | [2/?]
happy (late) new year :') after a month (and a lot of editing and dissatisfaction), i am back with part 2 of the 'yves has had too easy of a time' series (6.4k words). you can read [part 1] here!
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
—
When they get to the hotel Aimee’s booked for them, it’s already late enough to be dark out. Yves helps unload their suitcases from the back, while Leon loads them up onto a luggage cart.
It’s an exceptionally nice hotel—picturesque brick walls, glossy windows all in a row, slanted red rooftops rising up into the sky. He’d looked at it briefly when Aimee consulted him about the bookings, but it looks even more like a castle in person, like something straight out of a storybook. Yves will have to remember to thank Aimee and Genevieve again for picking such a nice place for them to stay at.
They check in at the lobby. Yves makes sure the suitcases make their way up to Leon and Victoire’s room, which is on his and Vincent’s floor, but at the other end of the hallway. (“Don’t be late to breakfast tomorrow,” he tells them, sternly, and Leon—who has slept through his alarms for as long as Yves has lived with him—laughs. “I’m especially talking to you,” Yves adds, looking straight at him).
Then he wheels the luggage cart down the hallway. “I’m so ready to crash,” he says, to Vincent. “It’s been a long day. Are you tired?”
“I’ll be tired once I lay down,” Vincent says. He carefully extricates one of the key cards and holds it out to the door card reader.
The interior of the hotel room is a little colder than the hallway is. Vincent flicks on the light, slips the key card back into its designated slot, and leaves his shoes in a neat line at the door. Yves follows him in.
Their room is a standard suite—there’s a small sitting area just next to the entrance, a bathroom off to the side, and a door frame—though not a proper door—which leads to the bedroom. On the far end, translucent white curtains give way to a sliding door which opens up to the balcony. It’s a nice room, Yves thinks, with a nice view of the rest of the hotel, its pool and gardens, the circular sun umbrellas stretching out floors below them. It’s only when Vincent hesitates, standing in the bedroom, that Yves realizes what’s wrong.
The bedroom has a singular queen-sized bed, and nothing else.
Of course. It makes sense for this to be the living arrangement, if they’re really dating.
“I can take the couch,” Yves says, clearing his throat, which doesn’t feel any better than it did earlier.
Vincent turns to look at him.
“I mean, this whole pretend-relationship thing doesn’t have to extend to us sharing a bed.”
Mentally, he kicks himself for not having the foresight to predict this. Just because Vincent is fine with putting on a show in front of his friends—and in this case, family—doesn’t mean that Vincent will be fine sharing a bed with him when they’re in private.
“You can have the bed,” Vincent says. “The bed will probably be warmer.”
Whether that’s a comment about how Yves has been too cold all day, or whether it’s just an offhanded appraisal which has nothing to do with him, Yves doesn’t know.
“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I don’t mind the sofa. Besides, hotels usually have extra blankets. I’m sure they’re just hidden in some drawer somewhere.”
He rummages through a few of the cabinets and looks through the closet until he finds what he’s looking for—a feather comforter, folded neatly on the top shelf. He takes it down, keeping it folded under his arm.
“See,” he says, flashing Vincent a smile. “I’ll be perfectly warm, like this.”
Vincent still looks a little unconvinced. “You should wake me if you’re not,” he says. “I don’t mind switching.”
“Duly noted,” Yves says, even though he has no intention of waking Vincent for any reason.
“The couch probably extends into a pull-out bed,” Vincent says, already heading back into the living room. “It should be more comfortable. I can help you set it up.”
“I can do it,” Yves says. All this talking is not helping with his throat. Worse, somewhere over the course of the past couple hours, there’s a faint tickle that’s managed to settle into his sinuses.
“It’s the least I can do, if I’m taking the bed,” Vincent says.
Yves is about to say more, but he finds that he really needs to sneeze. He lifts his arm to his face, his eyes watering, his breath hitching—
“Hh-! hHehh’IIZSCHh-IIEW!”
“Bless you,” Vincent calls, from the next room over.
“Thanks,” Yves says, turning into his shoulder with a small cough. His breath hitches again, irritatingly. “hHeh-! HEHH’IiITSHHiEW! snf-!”
When he heads into the living room, Vincent is already almost done setting up the pull-out bed. Yves helps him lock down the legs of the frame.
“Thanks,” Yves says, fluffing out the blanket he’s holding so that he can lay it out over the mattress. “All set up.”
He looks the bed over. It looks inviting enough—a little smaller than the bed in the bedroom, the mattress thinner, but fluffy and clean regardless. Vincent steps past him to duck into the bedroom and emerges a moment later, carrying two pillows.
“Are these your pillows?” Yves says.
“They’re yours now.”
“I can sleep without pillows.”
“They gave me two sets, anyways,” Vincent says. “I wouldn’t have made use of these ones.”
“Okay.” Tentatively, Yves takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. From the doorway, he gets a limited view of the bedroom—he can see the curtains at the far end, the desk pushed up against the wall, and the very foot of the bed. “Do you think this is what couples do when they’re traveling and they get in a fight?”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Vincent asks.
“It might as well be,” Yves says.
“If your family walks in and sees that I’ve banished you to the sofa, I don’t think I’ll ever be forgiven,” Vincent says, so seriously that it almost doesn’t register as a joke. Yves laughs.
“You can just say I snore,” he says. “Or, worse. Maybe I kick you in my sleep.”
“Do you?”
Yves doesn’t—at least, he’s been told he doesn’t—but it’s of no consequence. They’re not going to be sharing a bed. “Luckily for you, you won’t have to find out.”
He gets settled—sets his suitcase out on one of the side tables, sets out all his toiletries in the bathroom, puts the clothes he’s planning to wear for tomorrow in a neat stack, and hangs up the suit he’s going to wear for the wedding in the closet. He’d been careful folding it, but he’ll probably have to give it another good iron before the wedding date. By the time he has everything accounted for, the bathroom door is closed, and the shower’s running.
The hotel has left them a couple bottles of water on the nightstand but he heads downstairs to buy a couple more from the on-site convenience store on the first floor. Victoire had them exchange dollars for euros at the airport, which Yves thinks he might have forgotten to do in their haste. Even though she’s the youngest of the three of them, sometimes he thinks she is the one with the most common sense.
He strikes up a brief conversation with the cashier, in French that he thinks is fairly fluent but probably accented—it’s been awhile since he’s gotten any practice with it. His speaking is good, but there are some colloquialisms and some idioms that he’s not familiar with and ends up having to ask about.
By the time he gets back up to the bedroom, bottled waters in hand, Vincent is done showering, his hair still a little damp.
“I got us extra waters,” Yves says. “There’s a convenience store down on the first floor.”
“Oh,” Vincent says. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.” He looks nice, even with his hair damp, even though he’s wearing just a t-shirt and shorts to sleep, Yves thinks, and then immediately tables that thought.
“It was nice to stretch my legs,” Yves says. “And nice to have a chance to practice my French. My relatives are going to be disappointed in me if I sound worse than I did last year.”
“Are you fluent?”
“Fluent enough to hold a proper conversation. Not fluent enough to not sound like a foreigner. I grew up speaking French and English, but obviously in the states, there aren’t as many opportunities to practice French.”
“I don’t think you would have lost much of it,” Vincent says, as if from experience.
Yves laughs. “For my own sake, let’s hope not.”
When he steps into the bathroom, the mirror is still fogged up from the steam. He swipes a hand over the glass to clear enough of it so that he can see.
He looks fine, still, at least outwardly—a little tired, maybe, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by. There’s a faint flush to his complexion, too, which is strange, because he doesn’t feel like he has a fever. He’s just a little colder than usual, is all.
All in all, he still looks passable. At first glance, it doesn’t seem very evident that anything is wrong at all.
He takes a shower, cranks the water up until it’s almost scalding, and stands under the hot water, shutting his eyes. The warmth is a welcome change. It’s the first time today that he’s been really, properly warm—if only because he’s turned the water up a couple degrees higher than he usually has it at.
The water splashes over his shoulders. He leans his head back, taking in a deep breath of the steam.
It’s fine. It will be fine. He’ll drink tons of water, take all the vitamin C he can find, and sleep this off tonight. He’ll be good as new tomorrow.
—
When Yves blinks awake, it’s still dark out.
The first thing that registers to him is that he’s cold.
What started off as a slight headache has turned into something much worse—his head is throbbing, and even with the blanket, he’s freezing. The air conditioning in the room is on—he can hear the low hum of it through the vents—and everything feels unbearably frigid. Even the bedsheets, which are at the very least warm from his body heat, seem to always be losing heat, unpleasantly, when he shifts.
When he checks his phone, the time onscreen is 3:45 am. Too late to call the front desk and ask them to send up more blankets, probably—even if they are technically in operation, he doesn’t want to be that one asshole to ask for a favor at this time of day.
He’ll ask tomorrow, he thinks, at a more reasonable hour. It’s almost morning, anyways. Maybe if he manages to get back to sleep, he won’t feel the cold as much.
There’s a dull pressure to his sinuses, a slight tickle that seems only to sharpen as he rubs his nose. His breath catches, too quickly for him to do anything to attend to the subsequent—
“Hheh—! hHEHH’iISHHhi-iEw!”
Fuck. The sneeze is loud enough to echo a little within the confines of the living room. Vincent is in the next room over. Vincent is asleep, presumably, like Yves should be.
And Yves’s nose is starting to tickle again.
He raises the blankets to his face, presses his nose to them to muffle the next—
“hhEH— hehh’IZschhH-IIEW! snf-!”
The sound is marginally quieter this time, muffled into the cotton, but it’s far from silent. He hopes, desperately, that it’s quiet enough, or that Vincent is a heavy enough sleeper for it not to matter. There isn’t even a proper door between them.
He reaches up to swipe a hand over his eyes. How did this get so bad so quickly? His head feels heavy, and every sneeze that tears through him is harsh enough to scrape at his already-raw throat—whatever hope he’d had for sleeping it off seems to be diminishing with every passing minute.
He listens, for a moment, for anything: any shifting from the room over, any motion, any footsteps. But to his relief, there’s nothing.
His head is swimming. Worse, he still has to sneeze. The tissue box is on the nightstand in the bedroom Vincent is in, but Yves thinks that it would be too unwise to make a trip right now and risk waking Vincent up a good three hours before sunrise.
“hHh-! hhH-!...”
Fuck. He stays frozen like that, for a moment, one hand hovering over his nose and mouth. His nose tickles, badly, kept just narrowly on edge. It feels like one wrong breath would be enough to set off a sneeze, but sometimes it seems to evade him at the last second—he can’t seem to get his body to settle on something decisive. “hhHEh-!”
The sneeze is unexpected, when it comes, at last—loud and forceful and vicious.
“hehH’NGKT’shhH’EEW!”
A short burst of pain shoots through his temples. Yves can’t claim he’s ever been good at stifling, and this attempt is no exception. It’s not much quieter than the others, even muffled into his pillow, and the attempt to stifle has only made the pressure in his head feel worse.
“Hheh… hh-!” He sniffles. His eyes are watering so much he thinks they might spill over. “hHeh… hh-hHih-HEHh’DJJSHh’iEEW!”
This one he muffles into his hands, ducking forward into his chest. The relief he feels from letting out the sneeze is unfortunately short-lived. He’s nowhere close to done. He can feel it, in the tickle in his nose which refuses to let up, in the pressure to his sinuses which only seems to worsen with each sneeze.
For a moment, Yves contemplates spending the rest of the night just outside their room, out in the hallway. It will almost certainly be colder, he would be quieter there, at the very least—there would be a proper door and a wall between him and Vincent, and that’s something, isn’t it?
Before he can seriously consider it, he’s snapping forward at the waist, muffling another loud sneeze into the covers.
“hhHeh-iIDDSHHhh’YyiiEW!”
He finds himself coughing, after, muffling the coughs tightly into the feather blanket in an attempt to cough more quietly. He shivers, huddling deeper into the covers. His head is pounding. Every time he swallows, sharp, hot pain lances his throat.
He hears nothing from the room over, even when he listens carefully. This much is a relief—truthfully, he would feel awful if he were keeping Vincent up because of this. Yves has survived on less sleep—back in university, 6am crew practice meant waking up early even when he’d been up late to finish projects or coursework, or otherwise out late with friends—but the thought of keeping Vincent up makes something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. Vincent hadn’t slept at all during the flight. He must be tired, now. The last thing he needs—after the stress of being surrounded by strangers in a foreign country, after traveling for almost 10 hours straight, after being assigned to room with his coworker, of all people—is to be woken up at an ungodly hour just because Yves can’t keep this damn cold under wraps.
Yves thinks he should try to sleep too, if only because it means he won’t be awake to succumb to the next sneeze that threatens to tear through him.
But if he’s entirely honest with himself, he’s not sure if sleep is going to come to him anytime soon.
—
Yves doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to his 7:30am alarm so tired that he feels like he hasn’t slept at all
“Morning,” Vincent says, emerging in the doorway. He’s fully dressed already, his shirt crisply ironed, the collar upright, his hair neatly styled.
“You’re fast,” Yves says. His voice sounds a little hoarse—all the sneezing last night probably hasn’t done it any favors. But if Vincent can tell that it sounds off, he doesn’t say. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Not really,” Vincent says. “We have time.”
“Give me a few minutes to get ready,” Yves says, hauling himself out of bed. “I’ll be out in five.”
He changes in record speed, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and stuffs everything he can see himself needing into a backpack to take down to breakfast.
When he emerges, Vincent is waiting for him in the hallway.
“How did you sleep?” Yves asks.
“Fine,” Vincent says. “You?”
“I slept well enough,” Yves says, before muffling a yawn into his hand. At Vincent’s pointed glance at him, he adds, “I’m just a little tired. It’s probably jetlag. It’s what, like, 2am over in New York?”
“1:42,” Vincent says, checking his watch. “Is your whole family going to be at breakfast?”
“I’m not sure if everyone’s up,” Yves says. “But Leon and Victoire will be. I told them to be downstairs by 8, so obviously they’ll kill me if I’m not there first.”
The breakfast lounge is on the first floor, a few hallways down from the reception desk. Yves saves a table for them.
He isn’t very hungry, for some reason. Still, he fills his plate with breakfast pastries and scrambled eggs and grabs a cup of hot tea while he’s at it. He really doesn’t want to lose his voice entirely before the ceremony. Even with his jacket on—which is probably even excessive, considering the temperature of the lobby—he isn’t as warm as he’d like to be.
Victoire joins them next. She waves to Vincent as she passes. “Hope you guys got some sleep,” she says innocently.
Yves says, “We got perfectly good sleep, thank you.”
“Morning,” Leon says, appearing in the doorway at 7:59.
“You’re really cutting it close,” Yves says, sniffling.
“It’s 7:59,” Leon says. “Whether I’m on time is a binary, not a sliding scale. I’m entirely on time.”
The table Yves picked can fit more than four, so they spread themselves out through the seats. “Mom and dad said they’re having breakfast at one of the cafes nearby,” Victoire says, shrugging her sweater off and leaving it perched on the back of her seat. “They said they’d report back if it’s anything life changing.”
“There’s a welcome party tonight,” Yves says to Vincent, “For everyone who’s flown in. You’ll get to meet them then.”
“Is there anything your parents hate in a partner?” Vincent asks.
“Don’t worry too much. I don’t think— hEHh…” Yves scoots back from the table turning away as he reaches blindly for one of the cocktail napkins he’d taken. “HEHh’DDJJSHh-iiEW! Ugh, sorry.” His nose has been running all morning—he’d made sure to take a generous stack, and stuff some of them into his pockets for later, but it’s been all of fifteen minutes and he’s already nervous that he might run out. “I don’t you could get them to hate you even if you tried.”
“Mom and dad met in college, at a bar,” Leon says. Yves, who has heard this story many times before, busies himself with eating, and tries hard not to visibly shiver. In a way, he’s grateful to the two of them for filling in the space for him—the less he strains his voice today, the better. “Mom was super drunk, and for some reason when she started talking to dad the conversation topic turned to, like, something super specific and not at all romantic.”
“It was whether or not it’s ethical to clone extinct species,” Victoire says, idly folding her napkin into a pinwheel. “Though this was before it had ever been done.”
“Apparently she was drunk enough to ask his hand in marriage mid argument, and he was drunk enough to say yes, because he thought it was a joke,” Leon says. “And it was a joke. But he proposed to her seriously a year later, and all she said was ‘at least you kept your promise.’”
“But now they’re happily married,” Vincent says.
Leon nods. “They’ve been happily married for almost thirty years now. Anyways, my point is that whatever relationship you have with Yves, you don’t have to try and impress them. There’s no need to overthink it.”
“I understand,” Vincent says. “My parents got married because my dad did well in a business competition at the time, and my mom thought he was going to make a lot of money.”
“And how did that turn out?” Victoire says, interested, propping her head up on one hand.
Yves watches Vincent cut a pastry into four even pieces. “Better than you might expect,” Vincent says.
—-
The welcome dinner is held at a local restaurant—Aimee and Genevieve have rented out the outdoor space for seating. The table—a long table that seats thirty, or so—is set with tall, elegant white candles, all in a row; wine glasses with delicate stems; vases spilling over with flowers—lilacs, pink and white roses, orchids.
Above them, string lights are strung up in neat lines. When Yves sees Aimee, he doesn’t drop all of his things to run over and hug her, but it’s a close thing.
“Yves! You made it,” she says.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he tells her, in French. “God. Did you plan out all of this? It looks gorgeous.”
“Genevieve did a lot of it,” she says. “She has a good eye for decorations.”
Genevieve is off to the side, talking to someone who Yves recognizes as her sister—Yves follows Aimee’s gaze over to where she’s standing. When he looks back, Aimee is smiling in a way Yves has never seen her smile before—the sort of fond, private smile that he feels like he isn’t sure he’s supposed to be seeing.
Yves is stricken, for a moment. It’s so clear that she’s in love. It shows all over her face, plainly, the kind of love that’s uncontestable; the kind of love that makes love, of all things, look simple. Has he ever looked like that, to someone else?
“How have you been?” he asks. “I imagine preparations have been hectic.”
“Never better,” she says, turning back to face him at last. “You’re right—it’s been exhausting. But I feel like the adrenaline is carrying me through, you know? Like I’m so happy this is happening.”
“You two deserve a perfect wedding,” Yves says, and means it. He clears his throat, sniffling. It’s a little cold out, even though the sun hasn’t gone down yet; he really hopes his nose doesn’t start to run visibly. “If you ever need any help—with last minute preparations, or if anything comes up, or if you need someone on transportation or moving things—let me know. Even if it’s like, 3am or something. My hands are completely free.”
She laughs. “Thank you, that’s so kind of you to offer! It has been hectic, but I haven’t been up at 3am this week, thank God.”
“I hope to keep it that way.” Yves turns away from her, raising an arm to muffle a fit of coughs into his sleeve.
Aimee takes a step forward, her eyebrows furrowing. “Are you okay? You sound a little off. And you’re coughing.”
And Yves thinks: she can’t know. He has his toasts to give at her wedding. He has the wedding rehearsal tomorrow and the wedding ceremony on Saturday to attend. If Aimee finds out he’s coming down with something, she’ll probably tell him to sit things out—to get some proper rest, to disregard virtually everything she has planned, and to not leave the hotel room until he’s feeling a hundred percent better—even if it’s at her own expense.
Worse, she’ll be worried for the entirety of his illness, he’s sure. As if she doesn’t have enough on her plate already, between the setup and all the accommodations and the last minute changes.
Aimee deserves a perfect wedding.
That’s the bottom line in all of this. This is a once in a lifetime thing for someone he cares and cares deeply about. Yves is not going to ruin it. He’ll get through the next few days, even if it means pushing himself a little past his limits. He can crash afterwards, on the plane ride home, after all the festivities are over and everyone bids farewell.
“I’m fine,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I’m—” This is really the worst possible timing. He takes a few steps back, craning his neck over his shoulder. “hH-! hHhh’kKTSSH-IEEW! snf-! Ugh. I’mb just getting over a slight cold.” Getting over might be a bit of a stretch, and a slight cold might be even more of one, but other than that, it’s not entirely dishonest.
Aimee frowns at him. “Bless you. Does your throat hurt? There are cocktails on the side table, if you want anything to drink. Wine, too. I can get something for you if you’d like.”
“Nice try, but there’s no way I’m letting the bride go and get things for me,” Yves says, grinning. “Do you want any cocktails?”
“I need to be sober until I’ve officially said hi to everyone,” she says. “Can’t make a fool of myself just yet. Speaking of which, where’s your boyfriend?”
Yves waves Vincent over. “Come say hi!” he says, in English.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Vincent says, in slightly accented French, which is a surprise. He seems to hesitate, thinking hard. “Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Oh my gosh!” Aimee says in English, pulling him close for a hug. Vincent hugs her back. “It’s good to meet you too, Vincent. Thanks for always looking after Yves. I’m glad to have someone keeping him out of trouble overseas.”
“Thank you for having me here,” Vincent says, hugging her back. “I know it was really last minute with the flight and everything. I hope it wasn’t too stressful for you.”
“It was no trouble at all!” Aimee says. “Yves is like a younger brother to me. Last summer was pretty rough for him, I think.” she doesn’t mention Erika, but Yves is sure Vincent knows what she’s referring to, regardless. Aimee smiles, a little wistfully. “I’m just so grateful that he met you. I’m glad to see him happy again.”
“I don’t think I can take credit for that,” Vincent says, blinking.
Aimee smiles warmly at him. “He’s the happiest he’s been in months,” she says. “I think you are selling yourself short.”
After Aimee asks Vincent how his stay has been (good, Vincent says, it’s actually my first time in France, to which Aimee excitedly lists off places he absolutely has to see while he’s here) and Vincent asks Aimee how the wedding preparations are going (nothing’s gone terribly wrong yet, Aimee laughs, which I suppose is all I can ask for), they find their way to their seats at the table. Someone has set out little name cards with all of their names written in calligraphy. Yves realizes, faintly, that the handwriting isn’t Aimee’s. Maybe it’s Genevieve’s, then.
“I didn’t know you knew any French,” Yves tells Vincent, in English.
Vincent looks away, a little sheepish. “I took a crash course into it when you mentioned the wedding would be in France,” he says, which Yves finds somehow disproportionately endearing. “I know maybe five sentences total, plus a few common terms.”
“Five sentences is impressive given that you had, what, just a few weeks to learn them?”
“I’m not sure if they are very coherent,” Vincent says. “The vowels are different from English. I’m still trying to get the hang of saying them.”
Yves is about to respond, but he’s cut off with a sharp, unexpected gasp. He pitches forward, raising his elbow up to his face just in time to muffle a—
“Hh… HhEHH-!’IihH’DZSCHh-IIEW!”
He’s glad, for once, that he’s not wearing the suit he’s planning on wearing for the wedding. His nose is running again, which is embarrassing, especially because he can still feel Vincent’s eyes on him.
“À tes souhaits,” Vincent says.
Yves laughs, rummaging through his jacket pockets for one of the napkins he’d taken at breakfast to blow his nose into. “Merci. Is that one of the common terms you learned?”
“No,” Vincent says. “I looked it up last night.”
“Last night?” Yves asks.
For a moment, he’s afraid that Vincent might reveal to him that Yves had kept him up last night, after all, despite all of his efforts to keep quiet.
“On the car,” Vincent clarifies. “During the trip to the hotel. I was just curious.”
“Oh,” Yves says, relieved. He blows his nose into the napkin he’s holding, which he’s sure he has reused at least a couple times already—but with his nose running so much, he doesn’t exactly have the luxury to be picky. “Well, you’ll be an expert at saying that phrase by the end of this trip, at the very least.”
It’s easy to lose himself in the throes of conversation, after that. Aimee and Genevieve have arranged it so that he and Vincent are sitting directly across from his parents. Leon is right—his parents have never really been the type to subject the partners he’s brought home, over the years, to any sort of interrogation. It’s a fun night, especially after everyone’s a couple drinks in.
“I think it’s a good thing that you guys are in the same line of work,” Yves’s dad says, conversationally. “Yves won’t have to explain why he’s always working overtime.”
Yves’s mom says, “Isn’t that a bad thing? We shouldn’t be encouraging their workaholic tendencies.”
Yves neglects to mention that he’s pretty sure Vincent (who worked the entire flight here)’s workaholic tendencies will persist, even without any encouragement.
Vincent tells them how they’d met—it’s the same story as he’d told the first time they’d done this, during Margot’s new year party a few months back, but Yves’s parents seem to find it extremely entertaining.
Yves’s mom says, “I told you Yves was the one who asked him out.”
Yves’s dad says, “I didn’t know if he had it in him.”
Yves’s mom says, “I remember hearing him say something about having an attractive coworker. It wasn’t that much of a logical stretch to assume he’d make a move at some point.”
(Yves thinks he sees them exchange a twenty dollar bill under the table, but he can’t be sure.)
Vincent practices his French with Yves’s parents—Yves fills in for him when he stumbles on a word, or when he hesitates, wracking his memory for a term he can’t quite translate.
“A fantastic attempt,” his dad says, when Vincent is done talking. “I can’t believe you learned so much in just a few weeks. I can only hope you’ll keep learning..”
“I will,” Vincent says. “Maybe next time we can have this conversation entirely in French.” There’s no uncertainty to the way he says it. Yves doesn’t mention that there’s a real chance Vincent won’t see them again, after this. It’s not a thought he particularly wants to confront.
At some point, Leon rises to his feet and shouts, in French, “Let’s toast to Aimee and Genevieve, everyone’s favorite couple!”
They all stand and raise their glasses. Yves finds he feels a little unsteady on his feet—maybe he’s had too much to drink. He feels warm, through the flush of alcohol in his cheeks, despite the evening chill.
He’s marginally worse at covering when he’s tipsy—and worse, too, at anticipating that he’s going to sneeze in the first place. At some point during the night, someone—maybe Vincent, or maybe one of Aimee’s friends from work that are seated nearby—sets down a stack of cocktail napkins in front of him.
Yves just hopes whoever’s put it there knows how grateful he is. The night is getting colder, even though he can’t quite feel it, and his nose is running so much that he finds himself grabbing a new napkin every couple minutes to blow his nose. It’s strange, he thinks, how such a small thing can be so comforting.
At some point, too, Vincent takes the glass of wine out of his hands and switches it out with a different glass. Yves thinks it might be a cocktail, at first, but when he takes a sip, he finds it’s just orange juice.
“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Vincent says.
“I haved’t had that much,” Yves says. But come to think of it, his head feels hazy in a way that suggests he’s just a little drunk. “Just a couple— glasses— hh-! hHhEH’IIZSCHh’iIEw! snf-!” He barely manages to cover that sneeze in time.
“Bless you,” Vincent says.
“Ugh.” Yves reaches for another napkin from the stack. He feels a little dizzy, now that he’s paying attention. “I swear, my toleradce - snf-! - used to be a lot better before I graduated.”
Vincent hides a laugh behind one hand. Yves is too tipsy to pretend he doesn’t find that a little endearing.
“What?” he asks, faux-affronted.
“Nothing,” Vincent says. “I should’ve known that you went to parties and drank irresponsibly.”
Yves laughs. “Along with every other college student in the world.” He turns aside to muffle a cough into his sleeve. Perhaps he hasn’t been especially conscientious about saving his voice this evening—with all the talking he’s been doing, it will probably sound even worse tomorrow. “What, don’t tell me you’ve ndever gotten irresponsibly drunk!”
“Once or twice,” Vincent says, which is a bit of a surprise—he can’t imagine Vincent being drunk enough to lose the air of… well, composure isn’t the right word, perhaps. Professionalism? Self-assuredness? But maybe even drunk Vincent is professional and self-assured, all the same. Yves wonders, faintly, if he’ll ever have the chance to find out.
—
Dinner winds down slowly. Yves helps Genevieve collect all the name cards, gathers everyone’s plates to set them in a couple neat stacks at the end of the table, says hello to the relatives he’s closer to, and strikes up a conversation with some of Genevieve’s friends, who look to be just a few years older than he is. They talk first about the planning she’d kept them in the loop about, and then about the planning that she’d pulled off behind the scenes. Yves tells them about the many aesthetic and managerial decisions Aimee had consulted him for early on over text. The common consensus seems to be that Aimee and Genevieve are vastly overqualified when it comes to making sure that everything is logistically sound.
“Do you want to head out soon?” Vincent says, after some time, when Yves returns to his seat and some of the other guests have begun to filter out.
“That might be a good idea,” Yves says.
He says his goodbyes—to his parents, to Leon and Victoire, to Aimee and Genevieve, whom he’ll see tomorrow. Then he follows Vincent out. The hotel is a fifteen minute walk from where they are—some of their relatives have cars, but they’d walked here, and Yves thinks it’d be more work to try to coordinate a ride with someone.
Everything feels bright, Yves thinks, blinking.
“You’re cold,” Vincent says. It isn’t a question.
Yves realizes, faintly, that he’s shivering. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t feel it that much.”
“That’s because you’re drunk.”
“I’m ndot drunk.”
“Tipsy, then.”
Yves can’t argue with that. “Just a bit. I’ll probably— hhEh-!” He turns aside to direct the sneeze over his shoulder, away from Vincent. HH-! hHEHh’iIITSHh-IIEw! Snf-! —sober up soon.” The end of the sentence catches wrong on his throat and suddenly he’s coughing, a little harshly, into his wrist. The coughing fit is harsh enough to leave him faintly lightheaded, which is a surprise to him.
He thinks it shouldn’t be visible, but Vincent reaches out and grabs his shoulder to steady him. For a moment, Yves contemplates how nice it would be to lean into his touch.
Then he catches himself. He’s tired, but not so tired that he can’t sustain a short walk from the dinner venue to the hotel. It’s dark, but they don’t have any early obligations tomorrow, and it’s not late enough that he won’t have time to shower, get changed, and get a good night’s sleep, with time to spare.
Yves shifts out of Vincent’s touch. “Sorry about that,” he says, with the most convincing smile he can muster. He’s sure Vincent would be understanding if he brought it up, but truthfully, it feels like a waste of time to say anything at all.
Vincent doesn’t reach for him again, but his eyebrows furrow. “Are you okay?”
“What?”
“You almost fell,” Vincent says.
“I just tripped. The roads aren’t very even, and it’s dark.” They’re standing in the middle of a small, winding cobblestone street. None of the roads around here are very flat for very long.
“Are you saying that because you believe it?” Vincent says. “Or are you saying that so that I stop worrying about this?”
Yves stares at him for a moment too long. He’s sobering up a little.
For a moment, he contemplates telling Vincent everything—about how tired he’s been, all day. About how much it’s taken out of him to keep up this front, the whole day; about how he feels worse than he did waking up this morning—tired and cold and congested, a little unsteady on his feet. If he’s not mistaken, he thinks he might be running a slight fever; it’s hard to tell through the jacket, through the brisk evening air.
Maybe Vincent would understand. Maybe Vincent would insist that he get some rest, tomorrow, before the wedding. Maybe Vincent would tell him that this is all going to be fine—that this wedding that Yves’s been looking forward to for months, that he desperately doesn’t want to mess up, is going to be perfect, just as Aimee and Genevieve has planned it, even if he isn’t feeling his best.
But this is not Vincent’s problem to solve. Yves’s bad timing and his unfortunate circumstances are not Vincent’s responsibility, and Yves extended the invitation because he wanted Vincent to have fun on this trip, and no part of that entails having to look after Yves. Vincent has always been reliable, but Yves can’t start to expect things out of him—to take his kindness as a given, to take more than Vincent is willing to give.
He already asks more than enough of Vincent, as it stands.
“I’m fine,” Yves says, a lie, as easily as any other lie he’s ever told. The smile that follows comes easily, too, though he’s not sure if Vincent can see it in the dark, can’t tell if it’s more to fool Vincent or more to fool himself. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
[ Part 3 ]
#sneeze fic#snz fic#snz kink#snz#i edited this for a week straight#and now i have given up officially#i hope this doesn't feel too much like a filler/otherwise uneventful 😭#next chapter i promise yves is in for a bad time#yvverse#my fic
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𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘼𝙇𝙇 𝙊𝙁 𝙈𝙔 𝙎𝙏𝙐𝙋𝙄𝘿 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏 ;; 𝙛𝙞𝙫𝙚
𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 .
𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏
𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮 𝙭 𝙤𝙘 (𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨)
𝙏/𝙒 : 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙜𝙚, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙨, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙
𝘼/𝙉 : 𝙞’𝙢 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙨 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧!! 𝙬𝙚’𝙧𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖 .. 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮’𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 :)) 𝙞 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙞’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩! 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨? 𝙩𝙗𝙝 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚. 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙡𝙡 <3
𝙏𝘼𝙂𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 : @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lord-byron @drxcomvlfx @neocityslut @gloryekaterina @sunles @cherrytomato2 @confuscita
Draco couldn't help but glare as he descended the stairs from the dormitories.
It was odd, even to him. He couldn't have cared less about Persephone's friendship with Blaise prior to the engagement, betrothal be damned. Now, however... Draco Malfoy was infuriated by the sight of his fiancée cozied up to Zabini.
"Darling," Draco purred, approaching the two, and surprising himself with how genuine it sounded, how soothing he sounded, in contrast to the rage he felt.
Persephone looked up, confusion written on her features for a sixteenth of a second. Her face quickly smoothed into a smile—seemingly genuine, but Draco knew better.
Again, he made a mental note to learn the secret to her happiness.
"Blaise," Draco greeted. The boy nodded in response.
His fiancée was small enough for him to fit in the chair with her. He rested a hand on her thigh and couldn't help but marvel at how his hand dwarfed her leg.
"Feeling better?" Persephone asked, a hint of concern coloring her tone. Another surprise.
"Much, thank you," he replied, managing a smile.
Blaise had his brow furrowed.
"You speak like business partners," he remarked.
Draco was aware of his quick temper—but awareness was not synonymous with control, no, never for Draco.
"You'd do well, Zabini," he seethed, removing his hand from her thigh. "To keep yourself out of our relationship."
"Draco," Persephone warned. "That was unnecessary."
"I won't allow him to speak ill of—"
"You aren't in charge of him."
"I'll leave you to it," Blaise was smirking as he rose from his seat, and Draco resisted the urge to draw his wand and jinx him.
Persephone sighed, closing her eyes.
"Could you not be so sour?" she wondered, annoyed by the display. "He's right, Draco. Every interaction we have is as if...," she paused and ran a hand through her curls, struggling to find the words. "It's as if we're being held at wand-point."
Draco was silent, mulling over her words. Anger, of course, was at the forefront of his mind... but she was right.
But he smirked.
"Your love poem in potions seemed rather genuine."
She exhaled, the slight curve of her lips betraying her amusement.
"I thought I did a decent job of dressing up your... odor."
"Odor?" He asked, offended, and ruining their first semblance of a lighthearted conversation. He sounded the way he used to, pompous, stupid, and the realization dampened his mood.
Frowning, as if she had sensed the flavor of his distaste in the air, she ghosted her hand over his arm.
"Sorry, I just—"
And without another word, he stood and made a move to exit the common room. He was tired, far too tired.
Draco Malfoy was too tired to pretend.
Every day that had passed since the first term began was as excruciating as the first.
Wren recognized that she had became the subject of scrutiny among her peers, and, honestly, she couldn't blame them. She would have been a fool to expect anything different. Between her sudden engagement and obvious personal deterioration, whispers and stares were the least of her worries.
But the unyielding gaze of Harry Potter was fueling her anxiety.
She wanted to tell him, to beg him, to stop, to let her focus on classwork and how to breathe. Green eyes followed her through classes, halls, and mealtimes. He observed her whereabouts, her tone, her gait... he was perceptive, it seemed, in matters related to Draco Malfoy.
Unfortunately, she had fallen under that category.
Wren assumed Draco was off plotting the murder of Albus Dumbledore when he hadn't shown for breakfast. Truthfully, it was bothersome that he was refusing to involve her in any plans he may have. For him, it wasn't out of care. It was his pride.
Blaise had elected to eat in solitude that grey morning. She found herself relieved—her own company was all she wanted. It was hard enough to choke down porridge alone... but with watchful eyes, it neared the impossible. Her status as Malfoy-to-be worked in her favor during such times—an even wider berth was given to her than before.
Until Harry Potter appeared at her shoulder.
"Persephone," he greeted, awkwardly. "Er—how are you?"
It was in that moment, when Wren found herself at the verge of hyperventilating, that she realized she may have needed psychological help.
The stares the interaction had already attracted made her hands shake more violently than they had already been prone to. She gripped her napkin so tightly that she thought her bones would burst through her skin.
He saw you on the train. He knows. You heard his bone crush under Draco's sole. You're not innocent. He knows.
She wondered if admittance to Saint Mungo's following a nervous breakdown would exempt her from the mission.
Breath, she reminded herself. He can't hurt you. You're in control. Act the way you were taught—or you'll end up like mum.
In an instant, she had regained composure.
"Good morning, Harry," she greeted, with a smile that might have been dazzling months ago. "I'm alright—ready for the weekend, of course. Yourself?"
He looked slightly confused, which almost reassured her—but she had hesitated a second too long. She knew he had caught it.
Breathe.
"Brilliant," he responded slightly too quickly. The word had tumbled from his mouth, indicating he had his script written and he didn't want to forget it.
"Um... was that all?" she wondered, mirroring his awkward disposition, and slightly cocking her head to the side. Good, play innocent, she praised herself. You can avoid this. Evade it.
"Well...," Harry scratched the back of his head, looking towards the Gryffindor table. She followed his eyes to the disapproving gaze of Hermione Granger, as well as the scrutiny of Ron Weasley.
"I was just wondering," he lowered his voice. "I was curious about your... relationship... with Malfoy."
"My engagement?" She continued to feign innocence. "What's there to be curious about?" She made a point to glance down at her engagement ring with a smile.
"You've never talked to Malfoy much before," his inflection was becoming bolder, challenging.
"Harry," she exhaled, still smiling. "Draco and I grew up together... I love him, and he loves me. It just... took us a while to realize, is all."
"I don't believe it," he whispered, harsh, an edge to his tone.
"I can't help you there, then," she returned, an edge forming in her own inflection. The stares from other students remained steady. She wondered what Blaise made of it, or if he cared enough to even pay attention. Her nerves had receded, shifting to irritation.
Harry searched her face, but she had molded her mask. She was impenetrable, unyielding.
"Persephone," his tone took on a different tone, one of... desperation. Pleading. "You were on the train. I know you know what's going on—please, just tell me. I-I can help you, alright? I know you're not like him."
Fortunately for Wren, she had settled into her part, and was damn good at playing it.
"Listen, Potter," she hissed, cold, dangerous. "You'd do well to leave behind your delusions about myself, my fiancé, and our relationship. Chosen One or not, you have no right to project your savior fantasies onto me. I don't need your help. I'll be sure your wedding invitation makes it to the cupboard under the stairs," she snarled, standing.
As she approached the exit to the Great Hall, she spotted Draco entering.
It was a snap decision, and she had never been so thankful for the unwanted attention the morning had provoked.
Taking in the tiredness, the irritation, the questioning written on his visage, Persephone Wren Bardick grabbed Draco Malfoy by the lapels of his suit and pressed her lips to his.
#with all of my stupid heart#harry potter#harry potter angst#harry potter fic#harry potter smut#draco x y/n#draco imagine#draco x you#draco x reader#draco angst#draco x oc#draco fic#draco smut#draco malfoy#draco#malfoy#malfoy x reader#malfoy x y/n
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Sanctify - Chapter 30 (Ben SoloxOC AU)
Ben Solo is looking for a new place to call home. When Snoke arrives offering a home, food, community for the simple price of manual labour Ben and a few others jump at the chance to start over. Upon arrival at The First Order Ben meets Cora, Snokes daughter. Whilst Ben and Cora grow closer Ben learns the secrets of the town, and Cora has some secrets of her own.
Please leave likes, comments and reblogs if you like it. If you want to be added to the taglist, please let me know.
Warnings: Cult stuff, Religious themes, Language, Violence, Flogging, Depression, Eventual fluff, Angst, Feels, A lot happens in this chapter
Chapter 30
Ben Solo
Snoke didn’t arrive back at the house until just before curfew. It was obvious he was hungry and tired from working at my house all day. Going back had completely slipped my mind, considering what had happened with Armitage. Snoke went straight to the kitchen, finding his dinner portion and shoving a forkful of pasta in his mouth, waving at me so he didn’t talk with his mouthful. I just hoped he wasn’t mad at me for not coming back to help at the house. Plus, I wanted to ask a few questions, ones that I would need to tread carefully around.
“Sorry I wasn’t back at the house today; some stuff came up,” I apologized.
“Its fine, we managed. Everything back here, okay? Cora’s, okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. She wanted to get an early night. I have some questions, just some hypothetical stuff, for when I take over.”
“What would you like to know?”
Snoke took a seat with me at the kitchen table, still eating his dinner.
“When I take over, I need to know how to punish the flock should they ever need it. Say, for example, a couple were committing the sin of lust before they were officially wed. Perhaps not actual sex, but other things. How should I handle that situation?” I asked.
“Such urges must be resisted, Ben. Imagine if you and Cora have a daughter and you find out a man has tainted her flesh before she’s wed, wouldn’t you want justice? One sexual encounter invites lust into a woman’s heart, and she’ll want more. One sin always leads to another. And if they wish to burn in the heat of their sin, then so be it, they will burn.”
I did my best to remain calm on the outside, not wanting to act suspicious. But I prayed our secret never got out, otherwise Cora and I would burn as Brendol had.
“Makes sense. And what about things like attempted murder, say someone tried to kill another out of jealousy? What would I do? Would it be the same as what happened to Brendol?”
“An eye for an eye. Unless it is self-defence. Crimes like that mean the person is past the point of forgiveness amongst us, but perhaps God will forgive them,” Snoke explained.
“Of course. Thank you, I guess this stuff was just playing on my mind and you were the best person for answers. Besides Coras not taken the delay of our engagement well.”
I felt the need to form an excuse for her just in case she seemed off tomorrow. Last thing we needed was her father asking too many questions. Snoke nodded in understanding.
“Makes sense. She’ll get over it though, we’re working on the house as fast as we can,” Snoke replied.
“I told her that. I’ll be there to help tomorrow.”
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The next morning, after getting ready for the day, I headed downstairs to find only Snoke in the kitchen. Cora wasn’t awake yet? It’s not like I could go up to check on her with Snoke here, either. Snoke didn’t seem impressed with her sleeping in.
“Unless she’s ill, she better have a good excuse for being late. She’s going to miss morning mass at this rate. Then I’m going to have to waste time to do it with her later when I could be working on your house,” Snoke said, clearly exasperated.
“Could I not do it? Surely, it’s something I’m going to need to learn eventually, why not now?” I asked.
Snoke considered it for a few seconds, likely weighing the pros and cons.
“That’s not a bad idea, Ben. I’m glad to see you taking a potential leadership role so seriously.”
“I just want what’s best for the flock.”
After breakfast we headed to morning mass. Armitage sat in his usual spot, refusing to meet my gaze.
He was lucky we were in church, otherwise I would have laid into him again. It was a good thing Cora wasn’t here; she didn’t need to see him yet. Once service was over, I headed back to the house to check on Cora. Making her breakfast, I headed upstairs to find her still in bed. Dark circles lined her eyes, meaning she hadn’t slept well last night. She forced a smile at the sight of breakfast and sat up.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she spoke, “thank you.”
“You missed morning mass, but I said to your father I’d go over it with you, so you didn’t completely miss out. But if you have a day off, I won’t tell him if you don’t.”
She smiled softly, a genuine one this time, before forcing herself to eat a mouthful of breakfast. Likely to keep me from pushing it on her.
“Still feeling shitty?” I asked.
“Yeah. It feels like I’m mourning a loss even though he’s still alive.”
“I get it, and in a way, you're right. You are mourning a loss. When Poe left, a part of me had to wrestle with the fact the one person who had stuck with me through the bad eventually gave up on me like everyone else. But I had you. And I promise I will help you through this.”
Her smile grew slightly, my fingers lacing with hers. I’d do anything to make her truly happy again.
“I’m gonna be at the house all day, so is there anything else you need before I go?” I asked.
“No. I’ll be okay.”
“Try having a shower and eat. It’ll help. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I kissed her softly before leaving her too it. Down at the house, a lot of the debris had already been cleared and even Armitage was helping. But even if this was his way of saying sorry, it wasn’t good enough. Nothing was.
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Cora’s next cleansing had arrived and the two of us were very anxious. If someone felt Cora was holding back, they would keep the cleansing going until she confessed. Dressed in a floor length white skirt and backless white long-sleeved shirt, Cora held my hand as I led her up the steps of the church. The shirt had to be backless for the women of the flock, so they could still be flogged, whereas the men had it easier and could just be shirtless.
Entering the chapel, Cora and I paused. Armitage was waiting with Snoke, meaning he was partaking in Cora’s cleansing. We should have seen it coming, as he was keen on taking his father’s role. Cora’s grip on my hand tightened in fear. Squeezing her hand to offer comfort, I forced us forward. Armitage was going to out both of us here and now in not only the eyes of God but also Snoke.
I would do what I had to ensure Cora, and I lived through this. Even if it meant leaving, even if it meant I was the one who was punished for our sins, and she was spared.
“Is there anything I’ll have to do?” I asked.
Internally, I prayed I wouldn’t be the one to hurt Cora, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
“You’ve been impressing me so far with your attitude to leading the flock, I thought I might let you lead this and to step in if you felt she hadn’t given a full confession. Not that we’ve ever had a problem with Cora,” Snoke explained.
Cora knelt in the same spot I had done for my first cleansing, keeping her gaze low to hide her tears. Armitage picked up the flogger, ready to begin when instructed. As Snoke’s back was turned, she met Armitage’s gaze, pleading silently with him. My heart was pounding so loud I’m surprised nobody else could hear it, Armitage was in complete control here and we had to pray he wouldn’t push her to confess everything. But Cora may not be able to endure the pain he inflicted on her. As if he hadn’t already inflicted enough.
Her gaze returned to the floor so her father wouldn’t see her guilty tears.
“Look at it this way, Ben. If you can cleanse your future wife, then you can cleanse anyone,” Snoke continued.
Nausea had filled my stomach, but I forced myself to nod in agreement. Whilst Armitage was in control of her pain, I was in control of when this was over. And if he wanted to be in her good graces again, he would keep his mouth shut. Taking a bible from Snoke, I opened it to the page that had been marked.
“Confess your sins and repent, then you shall receive forgiveness,” I began before reading the passage that had been marked, “whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.”
Cora took a deep breath, likely to calm her nerves as Armitage took his place behind her.
“I confess on the day of Ascension that I was glad when Mary was picked in the lottery. And I was even more glad to do the honours of burning her,” Cora confessed.
I didn’t doubt her words, nor did Snoke or Armitage. I’m sure a lot of the flock were pleased to see Mary’s name picked from the lottery box.
“Repent then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the lord,” I read the next marked verse aloud.
Armitage brought the flogger down on Cora’s back, forcing her to cry out from the pain. At that moment, I would have done anything to trade places with her.
“I confess that I have been wrathful lately, knowing we have to wait longer before we can get engaged and then married. I have even taken it out on those closest to me,” Cora continued.
Armitage hit her again, seemingly harder this time. Cora shrieked, her body crumpling forward. She picked herself up on shaky hands; her gaze staying on the tiled floor beneath her.
“I…I confess that I’ve had impure thoughts recently…about you, Ben.”
My heart seized for a second, praying to God and other deity that existed that Snoke wouldn’t become suspicious.
“We have sinned and done wrong. We have been wicked and have rebelled; we have turned away from your commands and laws,” I recited.
The third strike comes quickly from Armitage, this one harder than the last. Cora’s scream echoed through the empty church, and I prayed I would never have to hear such a sound from her again. Closing her eyes, Cora breathed deeply to try and work through the pain.
“My thoughts have tempted me, but I’ve never given into them,” she added.
“Repent. Repent and you will be forgiven, welcome into the kingdom of heaven where rewards will be bestowed upon you,” I forced the next verse out.
The fourth lash reverberated off the walls and Cora fell forward, her mouth open in a silent scream. This time, she didn’t pick herself up from the floor. Her pale back was littered with red marks, each one more prominent than the last.
“That’s it. There’s nothing else, I swear it,” she sobbed.
Armitage hesitated before lowering the flogger, letting Cora go. I only felt a glimmer of relief, still not fully trusting him. He could still turn on us at any moment.
“With your confession, God shall forgive you and will shine his light upon you once more,” I concluded.
Snoke seemed satisfied with how I had handled the situation and Cora’s confession. Handing Snoke the bible, I helped her up before Armitage could.
Cora practically threw herself into my arms, still sobbing from the pain. Holding her, I stroked her hair to offer comfort.
“It’s okay, it’s over now,” I murmured.
It took a few moments before Cora’s sobbing eased and she left the safety of my arms. Snoke embraced his daughter, praising her for her honesty. Snoke took the flogger back to his office, leaving the three of us alone.
“Cora, can we talk? Please,” Armitage broke the silence.
Cora and I exchanged a glance before I wrapped an arm around her waist, making it very clear that I wasn’t going anywhere.
“You have five minutes,” Cora replied.
“I know what I did was unforgivable, I wasn’t thinking straight. Not that, that’s an excuse. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know that I am truly sorry. I’d like to start making it up to both of you, if you’ll allow it.”
Nothing he could do or say would make up for his actions. But I had a feeling he would have tried this, eventually. Cora looked at me for my opinion first.
“You tried to kill her, and that’s after you tried to blackmail us. Do I need to mention my house? What the hell do you think you can do to make it up to us?” I hissed, keeping my voice down.
“Anything. I’ll do anything. I’m already helping rebuild your home and I didn’t push the cleansing any further. But if there’s anything else, I need you to tell me.”
Armitage looked so desperate for her forgiveness that I thought he would get on his knees next.
Cora didn’t have a shred of sympathy on her face for him, looking at him with pure disdain.
“There is nothing you can do because you're right. I will never forgive you. And you only have yourself to blame for that, Armitage,” Cora spoke firmly.
I had to hold back from smiling, but I couldn’t be prouder of Cora for finally standing her ground and letting go of something that could never be repaired. Armitage looked wounded by her words, taking a moment before he nodded.
Gently, I led Cora out of the church, wanting to get her home to take care of her back. Cora took a deep breath once outside, trying to hold back more tears. And these tears weren’t from the physical pain, this was from having to let Armitage go.
“You did the right thing,” I reassured her.
“I know. I just didn’t think it would be so hard.”
“Well, the hardest part is done now. It’s going to get easier now.”
“I hope so.”
Once inside, I sat Cora down at the kitchen table before grabbing the first aid kit. Studying her back, I then leaned forward and trailed soft, tender kisses across the marked flesh.
“Luckily, he didn’t break any skin. Otherwise, I would have broken his legs,” I teased.
Cora made a soft sound of amusement before I applied some healing balm to the wounds, it wouldn’t be too long before it helped take some of the pain away.
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Six months later
The house was almost finished, the last few bits of decorating and furnishing would be complete within the next two weeks. And Snoke had finally given me proper permission to marry Cora. Before I could worry about a ring, he had given me one, telling me how it had been her biological mothers who had wanted Cora to have it. The band was silver, with a decent sized circle cut diamond in the centre surrounded by smaller diamonds. Now it was just finding the best way to propose to her.
Cora met me by the lake half an hour before sunset. Picking her up bridal style, I placed her down in the rowboat I had borrowed. Pushing it out, I climbed in, trying to keep my balance as the boat rocked slightly from weight. I managed to sit down before another set of rocks knocked me off balance and I fell backwards. Both of us were laughing as Cora helped me sit upright. Grabbing the oars, I directed us to the centre of the lake.
We reached the centre as the sun began to set.
“I can’t believe we’ve never thought to do this before,” Cora spoke.
“Well, maybe we should make it a regular thing from now on.”
Producing the small ring box from my pocket, I opened it and presented the ring to her. Cora’s eyes widened at the sight, unable to hide her excitement.
“You know I would have done this sooner. Even though we haven’t known each other as long as other couples have, I know you’re the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. You came into my life at a difficult time, kinda like an angel, and you’ve had my back ever since. Before I met you, it felt like I was stuck in a rut, now I can picture my future, our future, clearly. I will lead this flock with you by my side, as my wife, as the mother of my children. Cora, will you marry me?”
Cora hung on my every word, tears lining her eyes.
“Yes. You know it’s a yes,” she answered.
Relief and joy filled me, and I slipped the ring on her finger before we shared a passionate kiss. Cora looked down, admiring the ring on her finger.
“Where did you get this? It’s beautiful,” Cora asked.
“It was your mothers. Your biological mothers. Snoke said she gave it to him for safekeeping, she wanted you to have it for this occasion.”
Cora’s expression changed, clearly touched by the sentimental value of the ring. We spent the rest of the evening discussing what we wanted for the wedding, although as long as Cora was happy, so was I.
Taglist: @pascalnerdery
#ben solo#ben solo fic#ben solo fanfic#ben solo fanfiction#ben solo angst#ben solo feels#ben solo fluff#ben solo au#ben solo smut#ben soloxoc#kylo ren#kylo ren angst#kylo ren fic#kylo ren fanfiction#kylo ren fanfic#kylo ren fluff#kylo ren au#kylo renxoc#star wars#Star Wars fanfic#Star Wars Fic#star wars fanfiction#star wars fluff#star wars feels#star wars angst#star wars smut#star wars au
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