#I’ll just be avoiding/posting less about it. You’re free to talk to me about it if you want. I can’t stop you!! But it’s not my thing rn :]

[rusty-gloinks]

Hellooo silly tumblr people on my browser!!! I’ve decided to kind of avoid posting about murder drones stuff, and talk about it less frequently as it doesn’t interest me as much as it did, or at least until I’m able to get some new insight on episodes or teasers (which I may come back for). I’m really figuring out what I like and figuring out what I actually love drawing besides robots!! (Though I do LOVE robots they are wonderful creatures to me, just not drawing them 24/7) Who knows, maybe I’ll start talking about murder drones out of the blue, but I think it’s good to take a break from something every once in a while! I like finding out what I enjoy most :-)

[suddencolds]

Small Price to Pay | [1/1]

you know all those posts about making out with someone with a cold and the associated consequences? This is that in fic form, ~8.8k words. I'm embarrassing myself typing this, so here it is.

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves - you can read more of these two here! :)

Summary:

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest. Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

Yves has a birthday party to attend and a fake relationship to prove. Vincent is nothing if not adaptable. (ft. fake dating, an argument, contagion)

—

Here’s the problem:

Francesca throws a party.

It’s a birthday party, strictly speaking, but functionally it’s more of a college reunion—Francesca invites everyone from their year who rowed crew, which means that one: Yves will be surrounded by some of his best friends from college, and two: Erika will be there.

He thinks up an entire contingency plan—if Vincent can’t make it that weekend, for one reason or another, Yves will show up, hand Francesca his gift, spend the rest of the hour avoiding Erika and Brendon, and leave early, citing some excuse or other. It’s not that he doesn’t think he could handle talking to Erika—it’s just seeing her feels like reopening a wound. A part of him is scared that he’ll see her, and feel the loss intensely all over again—or, worse, he’ll get ideas about forgiving her, about letting her into his life again, about accepting her explanations.

And Brendon, too—seeing Erika means seeing Brendon, most likely, and Yves doesn’t want to justify himself to him any more than he already has. 

The point is: the less of the both of them that he has to deal with, the better.

When he asks Vincent a week before the event, though, Vincent’s response is immediate.

V: You can fill me in on the details later. I’ll be there.

It’s a little strange, he thinks, that Vincent always agrees so readily. Vincent isn’t a fan of parties—he’d been clear about that. He doesn’t seem interested in talking much about himself, either—he’s just the kind of person, Yves is realizing, who likes to keep his personal details close unless they offer some sort of utility.

Perhaps there’s something else that Vincent is getting out of this, then.

But when Yves asks, he’s met with the same cryptic answer:

“I don’t mind it,” Vincent says. “And you have something you want to prove to your ex. Ultimately, it’s a net positive.”

“While that’s technically true,” Yves says, “this seems like an unfair arrangement. I mean, you’re only doing this because I dragged you into it.”

“If I didn’t want to be dragged into it,” Vincent says, “I would say so.” as if it’s really that simple.

It can’t be that simple, Yves thinks—there must be more to his reasoning that he’s omitting—but he doesn’t press. Vincent is right. Vincent is the kind of person who knows precisely what he wants. If he really had a problem with this arrangement, he would’ve said so.

And, besides—a little selfishly, perhaps—Yves has started looking forward to their outings as of late.

—

Nevertheless, he doesn’t think about the party again until the Friday before it, when Vincent shows up at his desk.

“Do you have a moment?” he says.

“Yes,” Yves says, saving the spreadsheet he’s been working on and shutting his laptop. “What’s up?”

When he looks up, Vincent looks a little tired, though that’s not unusual—it’s been a long week, and busy season always means long hours and little sleep. 

“We can talk later if you’re busy,” Vincent says.

“I’m very free,” Yves says. He’s decisively not—and he’s sure that Vincent knows this, too, so whatever Vincent is approaching him with now must be important. 

“Regarding Francesca’s party tomorrow,” Vincent starts. He looks a little sheepish—as if he doesn’t quite want to be the deliverer of bad news. “I can still go. But I’m…”

“If something came up,” Yves says immediately, “you don’t have to come.” “It’s not that,” Vincent says.

“Or even if nothing’s come up,” Yves backtracks, “and you’re just not feeling it anymore? Also totally fine. Seriously. I can always just go by myself.”

Vincent seems to consider this. Yves is starting to get worried that something might actually be very wrong—something that Vincent is hesitant to even bring up—when Vincent takes a generous step backwards, raising his elbow to his face as his eyes squeeze shut.

“hhih’nGKTsHuhh-!”

The sneeze sounds harsh, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve; it tears through him with little warning, loud enough to echo slightly in the confines of the office space.

That’s when it all clicks into place: the tiredness. The slight off-ness to his complexion, the tension to the way he’s holding himself, the fact that Yves hasn’t caught him in the break room at all over the past couple days. The fact that he’s currently standing so far away from Yves’s desk.

“You’re ill,” Yves says, comprehending.

“Yes,” Vincent says. His voice sounds a little off, too, now that Yves knows what to look for; it has that quality it often takes on after a long day of discussions with clients—not quite hoarse, but getting there. “I’m positive it’s just a cold. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, seriously,” Yves says. He feels guilty, suddenly—here he is, asking Vincent to spend his already-limited free time at a party, when Vincent probably has a high volume of important clients—and a burgeoning head cold—to deal with. “If you want to take a rain check, you should. I’m sure this week has already been rough for you as it is.”

“When is the next time you’ll be going to an event where Erika’s going to be there?”

That question makes him pause. “I don’t know. In another month, or so, if I had to guess?”

“So this event is important,” Vincent says, sniffling. It’s the kind of light, liquid sniffle that implies that whatever he’s caught, he’s just at the start of it. “In that case, I’ll go.”

“Wait,” Yves says. “That’s not what I—your health is more important than any event. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I feel fine,” Vincent says. “No headache, no fever. It’s just a slight cold. I will be fine tomorrow if I make it a point to sleep early.” he sniffles again, his expression growing hazy for a brief moment before he blinks, rubbing his nose on one knuckle. “I just wanted to make sure you were fine with it.”

“I am completely fine with it,” Yves says, reaching for the box of tissues that’s perched on his desk. He holds it out. “I just feel bad about making you go if you’re sick.”

Vincent takes a handful of tissues out of the box, brings them up to cover his nose, just in time for—

“hh- hH’nGKT-! snf-! hH-Hhih… hh’hiHhh’iiZSCHHh-uhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis, pushing the entire tissue box towards him. “Times two. Seriously. I think you could use the weekend off—you know, to catch up on sleep.”

“Assuming that things haven’t changed from the event details you forwarded me, the party will be in the evening,” Vincent says, taking the tissue box from him, a little hesitantly, and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in.”

Yves opens his mouth to protest.

Vincent says, “I’m fine. I’ll call a rain check if I wake up with a fever.” He turns on his heels. “Otherwise, see you tomorrow.” 

—

Vincent, as Yves is coming to realize, is very good at appearing presentable, even when he’s under the weather.

“You made it,” he says. This time, they’d driven here separately. Yves had thought, initially, that it’d be easier to just drive Vincent places, so that the only thing he’d had to account for was his actual presence—but Francesca lives between them. I don’t mind driving, Vincent had said. You’d be going out of your way to pick me up, but he’d coordinated a spot a couple blocks down to meet up, so that it would look like they’d come together.

It’s cold outside still—it’s the sort of indecisive weather that seems to periodically hint at spring: a cold front, then a few warm days when all the ice thaws, a few flowers lining the grass along the road where the snow’s melted, and then another snowstorm. It’s easy enough, then, to chalk up the slight redness of his cheeks, the redness at the tip of his nose, as another effect of the not-quite-spring weather.

Yves is carrying his present for Francesca under one arm—a hardcover book—a sequel to one she’d read last year and gushed to him about liking; a couple fridge magnets, which she likes to collect; film for the polaroid camera her sister got her last year; and a letter, all wrapped up in a brown paper parcel. 

It’s nice to have an excuse to see everyone again, especially some of the members from crew whom he’s not close enough to invite to parties personally, that he knows Francesca was closer to. 

“It was a pain to find parking,” Vincent says. He’s wearing a red scarf today, and a white overcoat with black buttons and a sharply cut collar. Personally, Yves thinks it’s unfair that someone can be down with an irritating head cold and still look so good.

“No kidding,” Yves says. “You would’ve thought there’d be more than one tiny parking lot for all those shops.”

Yves asks how he is (fine, Vincent says—perfectly capable of spending a few hours at a party. Yves says, I feel like you would say that even if you were like, dead on your feet with a high fever, to which Vincent laughs, but doesn’t explicitly deny.)

Yves supposes he isn’t one to talk—he’d showed up to a crew event, near the end of the season, with the flu, just because it had been their then-captain’s last big event, and he’d been planning to give him a farewell speech. The speech had gone fine—and so had the first few hours—but then all his symptoms had hit at once—fever chills, exhaustion, a pounding headache, the likes—and Francesca and Erika had practically had to drag him home.

But that had been an important event—a once in a lifetime thing—and he’d drafted that speech for two weeks. This is so much less high-stakes. 

“I prombise I’m fine,” Vincent tells him, lifting up the side of his scarf to muffle a cough into it. “It’s just all the - hHIh-! all the annoyidg symptoms. I dod’t - snf-! - feel any worse than I did yesterday.” “Any worse?” Yves says. “Does that mean you were already feeling pretty badly off yesterday?”

“I barely even feel udwell at all,” Vincent says. “It’s just— I keep havidg to— hHih-! hihH’IIITshHHh-uuH!”

He sniffles, raising a sleeve to his face to cover the next, resounding, 

“hHih’iITTSshh’Uhh! snf-!” He buries his face deeper into his sleeve, his shoulders trembling with another gasp. “Hhih…. HIih’nNGKT—SHhuh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says, laughing. “Okay. Point taken.”

Vincent lowers his arm slowly with a curt sniffle. “Are Erika and Francesca close?”

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I think they still keep in touch pretty frequently.” it’s one of the reasons why he hasn’t told Francesca—or anyone else in the friend group—about the specifics of their breakup.

It feels wrong, somehow, to paint her in a bad light, to give people reason to take sides, when it’s always been all of them together as a group. 5am practice was a hell of a bonding experience, she was part of all of that, too. He has no right to take that from her. 

“How about Brendon?”

“Brendon’s sort of an odd one out,” Yves says. “I don’t think most of us had met him until he started dating Erika during our senior year. He usually hangs out with a different crowd, so he’s only really around when Erika is.”

Perhaps that’s better, too—more merciful—that when Erika had left him for someone new, it hadn’t been one of the people he knew and deeply trusted. If Brendon had been there too, at all those 5am practices, at all those oddly timed meetings—if Yves had had that much time to look back on, to wonder when Erika’s feelings for Brendon had materialized, to watch her fall for him firsthand, to look back and know that he was losing her…

It’s better, this way, he thinks, that at least he can look back on his time rowing crew as he’d always wanted to—not like the way he feels when he looks at Erika: heartbroken, and a little betrayed.

“I guess I’m in that positiod now,” Vincent says.

“In the sense that you didn’t meet everyone through crew?”

“In the sedse that I’m an outsider.”

Yves considers this. “My friends really like you, though,” he says. “I don’t think they think of you that way.” It’s a short walk to Francesca’s doorstep. Vincent really does seem to be okay, Yves notes—aside from the frequent sniffling, and the sneezes he turns away to direct into his sleeve, he isn’t shivering under his coat, and he doesn’t look more tired than usual.

Despite everything, Yves finds himself feeling cautiously hopeful. Something about Vincent’s presence has that effect on him. Vincent is always so sure of himself, even in situations Yves thinks he can’t possibly be certain will go well.

It makes Yves want to have faith in this too. Yves will see Francesca and his friends from crew, and he won’t have to say anything to Erika and Brendon, his friends will like Vincent very much, and everything will be just fine.

“Wait,” Vincent says, right after Francesca’s let them in through the apartment buzzer. “We should look like we actually like each other.” He holds his hand out, expectant.

“Good point.” Yves takes it. Vincent’s hand is warm, and a little calloused—when Yves tugs his hand a little closer, Vincent’s fingers interlace nicely with his.

“For the record, I do like you,” he adds.

Vincent laughs. “You kdow what I meant.”

—

It’s almost a relief, seeing everyone again. Yves used to feel a little apprehensive about reunions—around the possibility for the people that he’d known and loved to have changed past recognition, to have internalized everything some way but to come back and see that everyone’s moved on in their own ways, grown a little more into themselves—and a little further from him—than he remembers them to be. 

But when he sees Francesca, she still greets him with the same hug — one arm looped around his shoulders, for a firm squeeze. He hands her her gift, and wishes her a happy birthday, and she laughs and says the only good part about getting old is having an excuse to have everyone back in her living room.

“And Vincent’s here too,” Francesca says, turning to Vincent, who—after looking caught off guard for a second—smiles back at her. “I’m so glad you were able to come!”

“It’s good to see you agaid,” Vincent says. “And happy birthday. You look great, by the way.”

“Thank you!” she says, beaming. She’s wearing a cocktail party dress which slips elegantly over her still-bare shoulders. “I needed to pick something out for the occasion. I swear, these days, half my closet is just business formal attire. It’s depressing.”

“If that mbeans that the other half of your closet is filled out with idteresting clothes,” Vincent says, with a quiet sniffle, “you’re doing a lot better than I am.” 

Francesca laughs. “It’s just for my sanity,” she says. “Can’t let the clients dictate everything I wear.”

“It’s ndice that you’re celebrating your birthday, though,” Vincent says. He lifts a hand to rub his slightly-reddening nose with one knuckle. “My coworkers are always sayidg that they’re too old to want to ackdowledge it anymore.”

“It definitely feels that way sometimes,” Francesca says. “But it’s a good excuse to have everyone here, while we still can. Speaking of which—Yves is the worst at planning things for himself, which is ironic, because he’s always the one planning things for everyone else.”

“That is not true,” Yves says.

Francesca gives him a pointed look. “Last year, you were practically banking on having everyone forget your birthday.”

That is an exaggeration. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let that happen, even if I wanted it to,” Yves says.

“You’re damn right.”

“The ndext time you’re planning a birthday for him,” Vincent says, clearing his throat with a quiet cough, “I’ll pitch in.”

Francesca brightens, at this. “Finally another soldier on the right side of the war,” she says. “You can definitely be part of the secret planning council.”

“Thadk god,” Vincent says, playing along. “I was starting to thidk I was going to have to do it all alone.”

“It’s not a secret if I’m right here,” Yves says. Francesca ignores him in favor of having Vincent type his number into her phone.

—

Halfway through the evening, Vincent disappears into the kitchen for a moment. When he comes back, it’s with two drinks in hand—canned cocktails, Yves realizes, judging by the cans. He hands one over to Yves.

“I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” Yves says to him. “Even at happy hours.”

“I don’t drink very often,” Vincent says.

“Does this mean that I get to see you tipsy? I’m sure our coworkers will be jealous.” 

“If you’re expecting my personality to change,” Vincent says, “you will be disappointed.” he says it with such certainty that Yves pays closer attention to him after that. 

Vincent does hold his alcohol well, as it turns out, with the exception of the slight flush to his cheeks a few drinks later—though even then, Yves can’t be entirely sure it can’t be entirely attributed to his cold. He listens intently as Yves talks to Diane—who’s a couple years younger than Yves—about how Crew has been ever since Yves graduated (mostly the same; the new underclassmen are good at showing up to practices on time, but that’s partially because their captain this year is a little intimidating). He gives several of the crew members a candid summary of his relationship with Yves, when asked. He tells Marin how they first met and he tells Kenneth what it’s like keeping their relationship secret at work and he laughs—a little sheepishly—when Sasha says they make a cute couple. If lying so openly is difficult for him, it doesn’t show.

If there’s anything that’s off, it’s subtle. It takes some time for Yves to notice—

The next time Vincent sneezes, his breath hitches with a sharp, desperate, — “hHhiH—!” Then he turns away, craning his neck over his shoulder for an uncovered, “HIiiIKTshH-uh-!”

He blinks in the wake of it, as if a little dazed, before he seems to straighten, lifting a hand to wipe his nose on one knuckle. It’s not stifled, as it usually is, nor is it neatly pinched off into his fingers, which is unexpected.

It’s as if the sneeze has fully caught him off guard—as if all the systems he has in place to sneeze as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible are just slightly impaired by the alcohol. Not that it matters much—Francesca has put some music on, and it sits in the background now, a low thrum, all but the percussive elements muted by the chatter of conversation.

“Bless you,” Yves says, leaning over to grab a cocktail napkin from one of the neighboring tables. He hands it to Vincent, who blows his nose and emerges with a small cough. “How’s the cold?” 

“Fide,” Vincent says, with a sniffle. “Ndo worse than before.”

“Are you just saying that to get me to drop the subject?”

“I’m sayidg it because I actually mean it. It’s a very tolerable cold.”

Yves laughs, and reaches for his drink. He’s about to take a sip when he feels Vincent’s fingers close around his wrist

 It’s only a brief moment of contact, but the warmth it leaves around his wrist stays, even when Vincent lets go.

“Sorry,” Vincent says, a little panicked. He withdraws his hand. “That’s mine.”

“What?”

“The cocktail.”

“Oh.” Yves looks down to the can in his hands. He supposes Vincent might be right—they’ve both had a few drinks, so he’d lost track awhile ago. A lot of the canned cocktails taste roughly the same to him, anyways. “Is it? I can get you another one if you want.”

“No,” Vincent says. “I drank from it.” As if that explains everything. And then—a little quieter, as if he’s embarrassed to say it: “I don’t wadt you to catch this.”

Truthfully, the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind until Vincent mentioned it. It seems a little endearing that Vincent would be worried about it in the first place—Yves has certainly shared food and drinks with friends who were worse off. “I’m not worried about that,” he says. “It’s just a cold. Didn’t you say it was very tolerable?”

“It’s still…” Vincent trails off, averting his glance with a sniffle. “...an annoyance.” 

He looks like he’s about to say more when his expression goes distant, his eyebrows furrowing.

“HHih’IIIzSCH-uhh!”  It sounds so thoroughly unsatisfying, half-shielded by a hand raised a few moments too late. “hh-HIh-! Hh…” He pauses, his eyes watering, his breath still wavering, and—after a few seconds of nothing—sniffles; a forceful, liquid sniffle that practically emanates frustration. “hIiIIh’kSHhhhh! snf-!”

“Bless you!”

Vincent emerges, teary-eyed, still sniffling. “Case in point,” he says. 

—

He doesn’t see Erika when she gets there. It isn’t until she passes him in the living room, halfway in a conversation, that she makes her presence known to him.

“Hi Yves,” she says, and he looks up. Today she’s wearing a pink dress which cuts off at her knees—a strapless dress, save for a pink rose over her left shoulder which blooms into a sleeve. She is every inch as beautiful as she always is.

He smiles at her, cordial, tight-lipped. “You made it,” he says. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more, and he realizes—with a flash of panic—that he doesn’t know what more to say to her. He hasn’t kept up with her over the past few months. He knows that she’s working as a quantitative analyst, at a company she’d been hired at a couple months after they’d broken up, but he doesn’t know if she likes her work, if she likes her coworkers, if it’s been busy as of late. If she works long hours, if she’s taken up any new projects. “Glad you found time. I assume work’s been keeping you busy,” he says,  

“Are you kidding? It’s Francesca,” Erika says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And there it is—that decisiveness. That same resolve that, back then, made everything with her seem so easy. Erika and Francesca have always been close—through college, back when they met during crew, and even after, when all of them had been still settling into their jobs or going off to grad school or moving halfway across the country; when seeing each other no longer meant just a fifteen minute walk across campus. 

“Yeah,” Yves says. “I know.”

They don’t speak, after that. Yves thinks it’s probably for the best—he doesn’t have anything to say to Erika right now. Back then, he could talk to her about anything, even if it was pointless or insignificant or of no real importance, and she’d make the conversation fun. 

These days, he only tells her things on a strict need-to-know basis, and—given that the only times he sees her these days is at events like this—there’s not really all that much to talk about. 

It had been difficult, at first. He’d wanted to share everything with her, still, back when his work schedule had settled enough for him to take long walks downtown, to start to go to concerts and bars again; when he’d redecorated his apartment, when he’d gotten someone to mentor at work, when he’d gotten back into cooking. For some time after the breakup, it still felt instinctual to turn to her, to text her about something interesting that’d happened, to ask her to try out something new that he’d found. 

But he hadn’t. Something about feigning normalcy seemed worse, even then, than accepting that she was really gone.

Perhaps her avoidance of him tonight is merciful. It’s easier, when he’s not thinking about her, to slip into the familiarity of talking to everyone, to enjoy all of it just as himself. 

It’s only when he excuses himself to get another drink that he runs into Brendon.

Yves has always been civil with Brendon. 

Brendon is—well, to say that Brendon isn’t someone he considers a friend is a vast understatement. The less of Brendon Yves sees, the better. Yves avoids him when he can, but he is good at holding up small talk, when it’s necessary, and on most days, Brendon has enough good sense to not start a fight.

Today, it seems, is not one of those days.

“So,” Brendon says. “You’re still dating him.” Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yves’s chest.

Yves frowns at him. “Is that supposed to be surprising?”

“I guess I’m surprised,” Brendon says. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting it to last.”

“Well, I’m happy to have exceeded your expectations,” Yves says. “Though it doesn’t sound like they were very high.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Brendon says, waving a hand. “It’s just—new relationships can be fairly unreliable. Especially when you’re dating around.”

“Maybe in your experience, that’s the case,” Yves says. “But personally, I tend to date people I can see myself with long term.”

“That’s the thing,” Brendon says. “I’m surprised you can see yourself with him.”

Yves sets the drink he’s holding down and turns to face him properly. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Brendon scoffs. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that you two are very different people.”

“So people can only date their clones,” Yves says flatly. He’s already tired of this conversation. “My bad. I must’ve missed that rule somewhere in dating 101.”

“Obviously, I don’t mean it to that extent. You’re blowing it out of proportion. I just mean that you can only be so different from someone before you’re incompatible. ”

“I agree,” Yves says. “And I don’t think we’re incompatible.”

“Are you sure?” Brendon crosses his arms. “This isn’t his scene, is it? Cocktail parties? I mean, he’s practically married to his work. Does he even like parties?”

Vincent doesn’t like parties—Brendon is right about that point. But hadn’t Vincent been the one who’d agreed to come here in the first place? To imply that he’s only here because Yves has dragged him along seems somewhat disingenuous.

Yves says, “If Vincent didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here.”

“Sure, but from what I’ve heard from Erika—” Yves doesn’t like this implication that Brendon and Erika talk about them behind their back, but he supposes it’s to be expected. “—he’s not exactly the type of person you’ve tended to go for in the past.”

That sounds awfully like an accusation.

“What exactly are you getting at, here?”

“I’m saying that it sort of looks like you just picked the most convenient rebound you could find,” Brendon says, quiet. “But usually people are honest with themselves when that’s the case.”

That startles a short, indignant laugh out of Yves. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Do you really not think that’s the case? Wouldn’t you say you’d usually go for someone more personable?”

“Personable?” Yves repeats. “Personable? Don’t make me laugh. Do you know how many clients I’ve seen Vincent talk down to a pleasant resolution because he’s so good at negotiating? Do you know how many conferences I’ve been in where Vincent is the one people come to after to privately compliment, because he’s so good at knowing how to talk to people?” he thinks to Joel’s housewarming party—to how compellingly Vincent had lied for him, then; to how good he had been at conjuring up a sense of history between them, of warmth. “His ability to answer difficult questions on the spot, with virtually no preparation at all, is something I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

He’s not sure why the accusation from Brendon makes him so upset, only that it does. Only that he wants to do nothing but tell Brendon just how wrong he is. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m settling for him, don’t patronize me,” he says. “Vincent is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people I know. Do you seriously believe I’d be dissatisfied with someone who holds himself to such a high standard?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in months,” he says, resolute. “Because of him.”

Through the adrenaline, Yves realizes, faintly, that he hasn’t lied about any of it. He certainly could have—after all, Brendon would be none the wiser—but everything he’s said about Vincent is something he really, genuinely believes.

“Ah,” Brendon says, knowingly, as if he has it all figured out. “I got it wrong. This whole time I thought you were the one that felt lukewarm about him. But it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re so sure he’s the one that you’re willing to overlook all of your obvious differences,” Brendon says. “Have you ever stopped to consider whether he feels the same way?”

“Presumably, he does,” Yves says. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be in a relationship.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Brendon says, as if Yves should already know this from past experience, which—if Yves is being really honest—makes him want to punch him.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath, schools his expression into a smile. “Usually, people in relationships aren’t still looking for other options.”

“Yes,” Brendon says. “Unless they’re unhappy.”

“Yves!” 

When Yves turns to look, Vincent is standing in the doorway. How long has he been here? Just how much of the conversation has he overheard?

“Sorry for the wait,” Yves says sheepishly. “I was getting us drinks.” Evidently, he’s been away long enough for Vincent to come check up on him, so he’s already spent unreasonably long getting drinks, and now he doesn’t even have the drinks to show for it. “Or, I guess I got a little sidetracked, but I swear that drinks are on the w—”

Vincent leans in, unprompted, and kisses him. 

Yves’s brain grinds to a complete halt.

It’s only a moment later that Vincent pulls away, but the decisiveness with which he’s carried it out, the broad confidence on his face as he smiles, unwavering, is—

Fuck.

“Oh,” Yves all but stammers. His face is most certainly red right now, and he can’t even blame it on the alcohol. “Um. Did you need anything?”

“No,” Vincent says. There’s something telling to his expression, some sort of quiet acknowledgement. “Just wanted to see what was takidg you so long.”

Suddenly, it makes sense.

Vincent must have heard. Everything Brendon said—or at least, the last part of it; the implication that Vincent isn’t as invested in this relationship as Yves is; the implication that their attraction towards each other is somehow one-sided. Vincent is doing this to cover for him, because he wants to make it excruciatingly obvious that Brendon is wrong.

The fact that he would go to such lengths to make a point makes something settle in Yves’s chest.

“It’s actually good that you showed up,” he says, playing along. “I don’t know what kind of drink you want. I was just going to get you something generic.”

He heads over to the ice box on the other side of the kitchen, and Vincent follows.

They’re far enough that they’re separated from Brendon by the granite island—and, beyond that, the cushioned high stools lined up next to it, but not so far that Brendon can’t still see them. 

So he certainly can see, Yves thinks, this:

Yves leans in, reaching up a hand to cup Vincent’s jaw, and closes the distance between them.

It’s nothing like the kiss at the New Year’s party.

That one had been all nerves—brief, impulsive, all adrenaline. This kiss is much more involved—Yves presses in closer, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Vincent’s skin, so close that he can smell the faint, not unpleasant smell of laundry detergent on Vincent’s shirt collar. So close that he can feel the breath that Vincent exhales, warm on his cheek; can feel the softness of Vincent’s hair as he shifts. He feels Vincent’s hand settle on his chest, feels his fingers curl inwards to rest on the fabric of his shirt, and—

On the other side of the kitchen, Brendon is watching, and Vincent is here—here, present, in the flesh, looking as put together as always, looking like someone out of a goddamn magazine—so Yves kisses him like he’s used to kissing—greedily, as if he’s been wanting this for ages. It’s been awhile since he’s kissed someone like this. Back then, there was university—the people at parties who he’d met and kissed out of momentary attraction, or out of alcohol-induced courage—though of course back then, neither party had harbored any delusions about how impermanent that connection was, or how little it meant. And then there was Erika, who, for the longest time, he thought was going to be the last person he’d ever kiss like this.

For months after they’d broken up, he hadn’t looked for anything. It felt wrong to subject others—even strangers, to which he had no allegiance—to the messy remnants of his feelings, to attempt to get into something he knew could only be half-hearted, at best, when there was a person in his mind who lingered so sharply.

But Vincent crowds up every corner of his mind, as if to say, pay attention, and Yves finds that for once, he’s not thinking about Erika at all.

When he feels the small hitch in Vincent’s breath, he thinks nothing of it.

Except, then—abruptly, and with barely any warning—Vincent is wrenching away, craning his head over Yves’s shoulder to let out a sudden, uncovered—

“hh-hIIIH’hH-IIKTshHuh!”

Their proximity to each other means he feels the way Vincent’s body jerks forward under his hands, his chest tensing. For a moment after, the rigidness of his posture doesn’t dissipate, tension still strung through the line of his shoulders.

“Bless you,” Yves says, surprised.

Then Vincent curses under his breath, drawing away with a sniffle. “I’mb sorry,” he says, sounding really, honestly panicked—a reaction which Yves finds both disproportionate to the situation and a little endearing. “That was— sorry, I should’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yves says, with a laugh; “I honestly couldn’t care less.” Impulsively—and maybe to prove just how little it bothers him—he leans back in.

Vincent is less hesitant, this time around, when it seems to register to him that Yves really doesn’t mind. He’s a surprisingly good kisser—Yves probably isn’t the first person he’s kissed, and he probably won’t be the last, but the second Vincent’s mouth works around his, Yves feels himself nearly go weak in the knees.

Fuck. Yves can’t say he expected to spend this evening making out with his very attractive coworker-slash-fake-boyfriend, but at the same time, he isn’t complaining. Yves thinks he could do this for hours, given the chance. He kisses Vincent as if to say, thank you—for the New Year’s party, for going along with this, for lying on my behalf—and Vincent kisses him back as if he wants this just as much.

It registers to him, faintly—as Vincent pulls away with a sharp gasp before he pitches forward, smothering another abrupt, wrenching sneeze into the palm of his hand—that he’s probably dooming himself to Vincent’s cold ten times over. But it occurs to him, too, that if he were really dating Vincent—if, after the party, they’d head back to Vincent’s place together; if they were really close enough to share car rides and food and drinks on the regular, to see each other frequently both in the office and outside of it—he would’ve almost certainly caught this anyways.

Something about the intimacy of it, the false closeness it seems to imply, is a little intoxicating. 

When he finally pulls away, Vincent is breathing a little heavily, his glasses askew, his hair slightly unkempt from where Yves had—mid-kiss—run his fingers through it. Yves looks over his shoulder to see that Brendon has, at some point over the last few minutes, slipped off. Presumably, he’s gotten the point, then.

It’s a relief. Yves is glad to not have to talk with him for any longer than he has to. 

“God,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Where did you learn to kiss like that, anyways?”

Vincent smiles. “I’ve had some practice,” he says, which Yves thinks must be a massive understatement. “Do you think it was convincidg?”

“I don’t know what kinds of standards Brendon has,” Yves says, lowering his voice so that he’s certain no one outside of the kitchen will be able to hear. “But I’d definitely be convinced.”

“He seems strangely idvested in our relationship,” Vincent says.

Yves sighs. “I think he was just trying to make trouble. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“Just the tail end of it,” Vincent says. “I—”

His gaze goes distant, which is the only warning Yves gets before he’s turning away, steepling his hands over his nose and mouth with a forceful:

“hH-! hhH-hH’iiKTsSHH-uhh! Hh-! Hih… HIIh’IzsSCCHh’hhh!”

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent is quiet for a moment, his expression still hazy, the irritation evident on his features, before he’s ducking away again.

“hIiih’GKTTSHh-uhHh!”

The sneeze is loud enough to scrape against his throat. It leaves him coughing a little, his eyes watering.  

“Bless you,” Yves says, with emphasis. He takes a small stack of napkins off of the kitchen counter and hands it over to Vincent, who eyes it for a moment. There’s a slight flush to his complexion—whether it’s from the alcohol, or from embarrassment, or from slight fever, Yves can’t tell.

“I hope you dod’t regret this in a few days,” Vincent says, carefully extricating one napkin from the stack to blow his nose softly into it. “You—” His breath hitches, sharply, and then he’s pitching forward into the handful of napkins with a muffled, “hiiHh’IZSSCHh-uhh!”

He emerges, sniffling, looking a little apologetic. “You’ll almost certaidly catch this.”

Yves laughs. “It’s fine. I know what I signed up for. Besides, I’m glad you stepped in.” He kneels down, at last, to procure two drinks from the long-neglected icebox. “A cold was a small price to pay for getting out of that conversation.”

He hands Vincent a drink. “Can I have a sip of yours? Now that I’ve doomed myself to it already, I suppose you don’t have to try so hard to keep me from catching it.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Vincent says, but he lets Yves try some, nonetheless.

Brendon is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Erika so much as look Yves’s way, which Yves thinks is better than another confrontation. Vincent looks happy—a little tired, a little tipsy, but happy. At some point into the evening he resorts to crossing his arms as a means to keep warm (“Is it too cold in here?” Francesca asks, passing him from where he’s sitting on the couch, to which Vincent shakes his head quickly, his face flushing red. “I’mb just slightly under the weather,” he says. “The temperature’s perfect.” to this, Francesca brings over a quilt from one of the closets and drapes it over his shoulders. “Your friends are very nice,” Vincent says, pinning the quilt in place with one hand, and Yves laughs).

At some point, Francesca brings out a cake (“earl gray with buttercream,” she says, “Erika and I made a smaller one as a test run last week, and it was a little too dense, so we’ll have to see how this one turned out.” which Yves thinks is very impressive—he’s certainly better than average at cooking, but that expertise does not transfer well to baking—truly, he’s not sure he’d be confident in his ability to pipe frosting in a straight line. When he tells Vincent this, Vincent laughs and says, “I’m sure people would forgive you as long as it tasted good,” to which Yves says, “I think you’re underestimating how bad I am at decorating.”) She’s piped small blue flowers around the periphery of it, and leaves that curl around the edges of the cake. Diane says, “this is way too pretty to eat,” and “are you sure you want us to destroy it,” while Kenneth—their year’s Crew captain—helps Francesca with setting up the candles around the periphery of the cake and lighting them one by one.

Francesca laughs when Erika tells a story about a series of errors pertaining to their last grocery store run and tears up when Marin gives a speech about how Francesca is the main reason she stayed in Crew. After that, everyone sings—for a brief moment, the clamor in the living room becomes strictly unified. Then she blows out all the candles in one go, and everyone claps.

All in all, it’s a good evening.

—

It’s really not a surprise when Yves wakes up a few days later with a sore throat.

It’s not a surprise, either, when his nose starts running shortly after, or when—a couple hours later—a harsh, wrenching sneeze catches him off guard at work.

It’s as if that first sneeze has opened the floodgates. After that, he finds himself muffling sneezes into his elbow, scrambling for tissues from the rapidly depleting stash—a travel sized tissue pack that he keeps in his briefcase, just in case. The persistent tickle that settles in his nose seems impossible to appease, no matter how many times he sneezes, or how diligently he tries to ignore it. Worse, the sneezes are forceful enough to leave his throat feeling tender and painful, and violent enough that he finds himself coughing a little after.

Vincent was right. The cold isn’t particularly miserable—aside from the sore throat, he’s a little tired, but he doesn’t feel strictly worse than usual. It is irritating, though, to deal with—and irritating, too, to be at the office as it settles in.

It’s probably not worth taking a sick day for. It’s more an annoyance than a tangible inconvenience. Besides, he has only a couple days left of work before it’s the weekend, when he can catch up on sleep.

He’s scheduled himself for a morning’s worth of back to back meetings—two meetings with clients, one with a coworker he’s been working with to go over her findings, another status update meeting to review the work they’ve all done over the past few weeks.

Yves is prone to losing his voice when he’s ill. It’s one of his most embarrassing tells—it’d certainly garnered more attention than he’d wanted in college whenever he was under the weather—but in a work setting where his participation in meetings is non-negotiable, with every meeting he takes, he can feel his voice get closer and closer to unusable.

His second meeting ends a few minutes early, which is a relief. But when he heads to the break room to make himself a cup of much-needed tea, he finds that the hot water machine is out of order.

Just his luck.

He pours himself a cup of cold water and looks through some of the storage cabinets for tissues, though he has no luck with that, either.

The office is always turned a notch too cool—air conditioned to keep everyone awake in the afternoons—but today, it feels brutally, unnecessarily cold. He really should’ve dressed warmer. Yves heads to the conference room his next meeting is booked in, speaks on the material he’s prepared, and tries his best not to shiver too visibly. His meeting before lunch runs over, too, which is not uncommon, but today it just feels like insult to injury.

All in all, he’s exhausted. He eats a quick lunch in the cafeteria, downs two glasses of water, and goes through an embarrassing number of cafeteria napkins.

“Coming down with something?” Stanley, one of his coworkers, asks him.

Yves smiles at him sheepishly. “I wish it wasd’t so obvious,” he says.

“It’s just the season for it, I think. Vincent was just sick last week.”

“Oh, was he?” Yves says, feigning ignorance. His cold is definitely, most certainly not related to Vincent’s. “I was just goidg to grab a bottle of hand saditizer to keep at my desk,” he says, with a small cough. “I thidk there’s somethidg going around.”

Thankfully, the afternoon is—for the most part—just occupied with work. Still, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the financial statements in front of him, the slew of emails he has pulled up.

His nose is running fiercely, the trash can at the foot of his desk is close to overflowing, and the stack of napkins he’d taken from the cafeteria—certainly not an ideal solution, but it’s the best one he can come up with at the moment—is almost entirely gone.

He grabs one off the top of the stack—he’s only able to unfold it partially before he’s jerking forward with a wet, spraying, “hhEHh’iiiZZSCHh’EW!” 

Fuck. The napkins, while infinitely better than nothing, are not as soft as tissues would have been. Given the frequency with which he’s been using him, he’s almost positive that his nose is redder than usual.

The next sneeze nearly catches him off guard. He barely has time to lift the napkin up to his face again before his breath hitches again, sharply.

“Hhehh… HEHh—’IIDDSCHhiew! hEHH’iITSSHh’Yyew!” 

His nose is still running fiercely, and worse, the sneezes are loud enough to scrape against his throat. He thinks his voice is never going to recover if he keeps this up.

From behind him, he hears someone clear their throat.

Yves freezes. His first thought is that he’s probably being disruptive. His second thought is that even if he isn’t, whoever’s behind him must have been waiting to speak to him for some time—he’d just been too caught up with sneezing to realize, which is a little embarrassing.

His third thought is—whoever it is, he wants to face them looking at least marginally presentable. He’s almost certain that right now, he doesn’t.

He blows his nose into the napkins he’s holding, runs a hand through his hair, and pivots around in his office chair with a smile that is admittedly a little forced. “What’s up?”

He expects to see Cara, who he’s been working more with, or perhaps Laurent, who he’s been shadowing. But standing there, looking every inch as formal and as put together as he always does, is Vincent.

For a moment, Vincent just stares at him, as if he’s cataloging Yves’s appearance in silence.

Yves tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. “Did you ndeed anythidg?” 

In lieu of responding, Vincent steps past him to set a box of tissues down at the edge of his desk. 

“I figured you’d want this back,” Vincent says.

It’s the same tissue box he’d handed off to Vincent last week, he realizes, when Vincent was the one who had a use for it. Vincent has taken care to set it down at the same spot where it was initially: at the right edge, next to his monitor.

“Thadk you,” Yves says. “I’ll treasure it.”

“This, too,” Vincent says, setting a mug down in front of him. Whatever’s in there is hot enough to be steaming.

Yves muffles a cough into his hand. “What?”

“Tea,” Vincent says, as if that explains everything. “Chamomile, if it matters. I didn’t know if caffeine would keep you up.”

“Oh.” Yves stares at it. “You got the hot water machide workidg. It was broken this morning. Or maybe I’mb just really bad at using it.”

“Actually, no,” Vincent says. “I got this from the third floor.”

“You walked all the way up here from the third floor?” Yves says, a little surprised.  He’s about to say more, but then—in a progression that he should probably be used to by now—he finds himself succumbing, with little warning, to another sneeze, which he muffles into a perhaps-too-generous handful of tissues. At this rate, he might run out of them, even given Vincent’s generous contribution.

“It was just two flights of stairs,” Vincent says. 

“Still,” Yves says, lowering the tissues from his face so he can take a sip. The thought of Vincent precariously taking the tea up two flights of stairs, careful to not let it spill, just to get it to his desk is so endearing that he finds himself smiling. “Thank you.”

Vincent blinks at him, as if he wasn’t expecting to be thanked. “I don’t think it will keep you from losing your voice,” he says, at last. “But it might help with your sore throat.” 

Yves doesn’t remember mentioning that. “How did you kdow I had a sore throat?”

“How do you think?” Vincent says. “I had the same cold a week ago.”

Even so, the idea that Vincent already probably knows, and knows intimately, how he’s feeling right now, even though Yves hasn’t said anything about it, feels a little incriminating. Yves is under no illusion that his current affliction is subtle, by any means, but at the very least he’d thought that the less visible parts of it—his sore throat, the growing exhaustion, the pressure he feels building at his temples—were things that no one else would have to think about.

“Was it this bad for you?” he says. “I’d feel terrible if I mbade you talk to all my friends if your throat was already— Hh- heHh-! hHEH-heHh’iSSSchh-Iiew!”

It’s a good thing, Yves thinks, hazily, that he’s still holding onto the tissues from earlier. His nose is running again, and the tissues feel traitorously soft as compared to the napkins he’s been using all day.

“No,” Vincent says, frowning. “I think you just wore your voice out at work.”

“That mbight be the case,” Yves says. “I had a lot of meetidgs this morning. Ndow it’s pretty much just heads-down work, thankfully.” He muffles a yawn into one hand. Vincent is probably here for a reason—but Vincent is usually very conscientious about the work he passes onto others, so whatever he needs Yves to do for him, Yves doesn’t expect it should take too long. “Did you ndeed me to look over somethidg?” “I just wanted to see how you were feeling,” Vincent says, which is not the answer Yves expects.

Yves blinks at him. “How did you find out I was sick?”

“I heard from Cara.”

“Ah.” He probably owes Cara an apology—he’s sure that she’d probably prefer to work somewhere quiet, and his cold is certainly making that difficult. “Yeah, she would kdow. I’ve been like this all day—well, sidce this mording, I guess.”

“It came on quickly for me, too,” Vincent says. “Can I get you anything?”

“It’s just a cold,” Yves says with a laugh. “I’ll mbanage.” He means for it to be reassuring, but Vincent just frowns, looking off to the side.

He looks… strangely upset, Yves realizes.

“It’s ndot really all that bad,” Yves insists, backtracking. “And the weekend’s coming up soon. I’ll catch up on sleep when I get the chance.” Now is a really inopportune time to have to cough. He raises an elbow to his face to cough as quietly as he can, though the effort only seems to prolong the coughing fit—it leaves him slightly breathless, blinking away the tears that surface in his vision. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, quiet.

“For what?”

“For giving you my cold.”

“I dod’t think you can even take credit for that,” Yves says. “I was the one who kissed you.”

Vincent does smile, at that—a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Even so.”

Yves wants to tell him that he would do it again, if he had the chance to. He wants to tell Vincent how easy it had felt to kiss him, how right.

How it felt to forget about Erika, and Brendon, and all of it—even if just for a moment—to feel so perfectly grounded in someone other than himself. To let himself experience the sort of closeness he’s been scared of seeking out, after the breakup, after Erika, in fear that no one would ever fit quite the same. To lean into the warmth of someone who still, even now, continues to be kind to him for reasons he can’t quite rationalize. 

How long has it been since he’s been able to place his trust into someone, blindly, in the way he trusts Vincent to keep up this act of theirs, to lie on his behalf? Vincent is nothing if not competent, but Yves hadn’t expected that competence to extend to this arrangement of theirs. How long has it been since Yves has been able to lean on someone the way he’s leaned on Vincent, to trust someone to meet him where he is?

“For the record, I dod’t regret it,” Yves says. He finds that he really means it.

[stardust948]

Frenemies AU angst

(I found this in my drafts and decided to post it. Based off this post.)

Iroh is a senior in military school or already in the military. The parents gaang is junior year in HS so around 16 and 17

Ozai still lives with Azulon but Azulon is hardly at home bc of work. When he is there or when Ozai knows he’s coming soon, he just doesn’t come back until he leaves again. Either stays with Ursa in her RV or roams around town in his car. Later stays with Hakoda and Bato when they become closer friends.

Azulon blames Ozai for Ilah’s death since she died during childbirth. He’s always been emotionally and verbally abusive to Ozai but it didn’t get physical until Iroh left for military boarding school. Ozai was 8-10ish. Mainly involved being burned or tased, which left less of physical scars.

There was a big fight between the two when Ozai announced he wanted to go to Republic Arts high school and pursue a career as a musician. Azulon wanted Ozai to follow his footsteps and go to military school like Iroh. But he backed off after Iroh vouched for his brother. Still, he refused to pay for the school but Ozai earned a scholarship and Iroh covered the rest. Ozai swore up and down he’d pay him back but Iroh just told him to give him free backstage access to his concerts and they’re even. Azulon and Ozai avoided each other after that; strangers in the same home. They physical abuse ended but the threat was still there and the mental scars lasting.

After the incident at the contest, Ursa finds Ozai sitting in his car at the school’s parking lot. She knows better to ask if he’s alright or what was wrong. Instead, she tells him to get into her car and they go back to her RV. There, they spend the rest of the night watching movies and cuddling. Ozai’s feeling somewhat better in the morning; able to speak some but not back to his usual loveable a-hole self. Though he is confused to receive a text from Hakoda of all people checking on him.

Hakoda: Hey man, you good?

Ozai: Are you seriously asking me if I’m good after burning a layer of my skin off?

Hakoda: You kinda just left after without a word.

Ozai: Because I burned a layer of my skin off.

Hakoda: Ozai, I’ve seen you explode over someone using your special pen without permission but you just shut down after burning your hand. Are you sure you’re okay?

Ozai: Who won?

Hakoda: Poppy.

Ozai: We’re going to be hearing about that for all next week.

Hakoda: She was pretty worried about you. We all were. You know, you can talk to me if you want.

Ozai: I just wanted to know who won. Now stop bothering me or I’m blocking you.  

Ozai closed his phone. Just then Ursa stuck her head through the door.

“Hey, my mom made pancakes. You want any?”

Ozai shook his head.

“Alright honey. Keep an eye on my children. I’ll be right back.”

Ozai smiled some as he rolled his eyes. Ursa always referred to her hoard of plants and succulents as her children. Still exhausted, he laid back down and pulled the cover over his head. Out of curiosity, he check his phone one last time.

Hakoda: Ok. See at school.

Ozai powered down his phone. He didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. He ran a hand along the bandages before drifting back to sleep.

///

The conversation they had in the janitor’s closet came flooding back. Hakoda’s seen Ozai fly off the rail many times, but that was the first time he looked guenically hurt. Hakoda’s clumsy joke about Dads also didn’t help. Hakoda cringed at the memory.

His mind drifted to the events after. The dark play Ozai wrote about the little boy slowly dying in the burning building wishing only to see his father again. Finally meeting Ozai’s father with his cold exterior and calculating eyes that made even the brash self-confident Ozai shrink back. And to top it off, Ozai saying he’d never seen his father look happier.

Hakoda didn’t know what to think at the time. He just assumed Azulon was like his father, criticizing his every move and lamenting how he wasn’t good enough.

///

Ozai refuses to bring it up despites Ursa’s suggestions of seeking professional help, even after he and Ursa wed and had children. Not until he lost his temper with Zuko and almost burned him like Azulon. Zuko’s horrified scream snapped Ozai out of it last second. Falling back onto old habits, Ozai took shelter in his car for the night and wept bitterly. Ursa finds him and directly tells him to get help which he finally relents.

It's very slow going but beneficial in the long run. Most importantly, his children never saw that side of Ozai again.

@waterfire1848

[cha-melodius]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks to @three-drink-amy and @orchidscript for the tags! Posting for accountability that I did, in fact, start writing the You've Got Mail AU over the last few days. (FWIW, this is going to be a long fic, which means it's not seeing the light of day any time too soon. But there are other things in the works too, so keep your eye out!)

What would You've Got Mail be without emails? So please, have some emails.

To: A <nerfherder615@gmail.com> From: H <austen.tatious@gmail.com> Subject: Changing Seasons Dear A, There’s something magical about the time when the seasons are just beginning to turn, don’t you think? The leaves are just starting to be tinted yellow in those trees that panic at the first sign of a chill, and the air has a crispness that you can practically smell. Well, maybe one could if one didn’t live in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world. I got a hint of it this morning, though, when I was taking David for a walk in the park. Soon I’ll need to wear a jacket, which is the best type of weather, if you ask me. If you’re wondering why I’m nattering in about the weather, it’s because I’m avoiding the fact that I’m to meet with my brother today concerning the family business. They’re expanding into a new venture shortly, and I’m expected to take a larger role in this one. I tell myself it won’t be all bad, but the whole business is just… not me. If only they’d just leave me to my books and forget I exist. Sometimes I dream of running off to the wilderness and hiding from the world, but would I be able to get a proper pot of tea? Anyway, I shouldn’t bore you further with my woes, minor such as they are. I hope your day is considerably less vexing than mine will be. Yours, H To: H <austen.tatious@gmail.com> From: A <nerfherder615@gmail.com> Subject: Re: Changing Seasons H, First off, you could never bore me, so jot that down. Seriously, your “woes” don’t seem that minor. To put it far less eloquently than you: that shit sucks, yo. You’re always welcome to complain in my inbox. You’re wrong (what’s new?) about the weather, though. I was born and bred for the heat and the sun. The coming of fall is like a fucking harbinger of doom. Most of the time the life I have here makes up for it, though. I don’t think I could do the wilderness, but not because of the lack of tea (lack of excellent coffee? maybe). I love how full of life the city is, how you can be so close to that many other people but somehow still so anonymous, how something is always happening. My day will probably be about the same as every other one, but I don’t mind. Sometimes a little boring is a good thing. Wish I could take your place at your meeting, though, I’d talk circles around your dickhead brother. I used to be in law school, did I ever tell you that? I’m SO fucking good at arguing. He wouldn’t even know what hit him. You can imagine me with you, if it helps, and feel free to unload your frustration later. I’m always in your corner. A

Tagging @celeritas2997, @cricketnationrise, @celaestis1, @rmd-writes, @welcometololaland (mostly because of your comment on the poll lmao), @mirilyawrites, @loki-is-my-kink-awakening

[purrincess-chat]

Cat’s Writing Tips: Trimming the Fat

Hello, and welcome to another Writing Tip Monday on a Tuesday with Cat! My name is Cat, and I was busy yesterday. For those that are new here, I’ve been writing unprofessionally for 16 years. I’ve learned a thing or two in my time, but feel free to take any of my advice with as many grains of salt as you see fit. Let’s get into it. 

If you’re someone who constantly has high word counts and are looking to cut them down to fit into a zine or just in general, then this post is for you! I’m talking to all my over-writers out there. Today I want to talk about how to trim down unnecessary words and phrases from your writing to be more concise and less confusing and redundant. Keep in mind that there are times when you can use these things, but I’m just saying that a majority of the time you shouldn’t. And before anyone gets their feelings hurt, I’m guilty of a lot of these during drafting too because sometimes it’s just easier to use them and get the words onto the page. These are all things to eliminate in editing. If it’s easier for you to use them during your actual drafting process, then by all means. Just be sure to go back and edit them out, and eventually, you’ll reach a point where you can avoid them during drafting all together. 

1. Filler Words

“Cat what do you mean by filler words?”

Words like “that,” “very,” “really,” etc. 9/10 you don’t need them, but let’s talk about each one specifically. 

That is one that I’m particularly guilty of. Maybe it’s a regional dialect thing, but I use “that” in my regular conversations when I’m speaking a lot. The thing about “that” is it’s usually unnecessary, and sentences can make sense without it. Key word: usually. I’ll give a couple examples to show you the difference between when “that” is appropriate, and when it’s not needed:

Appropriate use of that:

“Hey, can you hand me that?” She pointed to the wrench on the counter.

Here, context will matter, but it’s perfectly fine to replace an object in a scene with the word “that” in this context. Sometimes “that” does have a place, so I’m not saying go out and delete all the “thats” from your stories. Just assess whether or not it’s necessary in each context, like my next example: 

Unnecessary use of that:

Something told her that he couldn’t be trusted. 

In this context, the sentence can work without the word “that.” It still makes grammatical sense to say, “Something told her he couldn’t be trusted.” The word “that” is just an extra word filling up space in the sentence. Delete it. 

“Very” and “really” tend to serve the same function, so I’ll lump them together. These two words offer a scale your readers don’t need. In most cases, it’s best to replace these words with stronger verbs, more specific adjectives, or just delete them all together. I’ll give some examples:

Weak: A very big cake sat on a table, colorful birthday candles waiting to be lit. 

Stronger: A large cake sat on the table, colorful birthday candles waiting to be lit.

Weak: She was very tired.

Stronger: She was exhausted. 

Weak: This wasn’t really how he planned on proposing.

Stronger: This wasn’t how he planned on proposing.

These words aren’t as descriptive as you might think, and more than anything, they just bog down the sentence. Your writing will pack more of a punch if you replace them with better descriptors and actions. 

2. Epithets

“the brown haired girl”

“the blonde”

“the writer”

“the musician”

I see epithets used a lot, and I want to commend epithet users because it comes from a place of good instincts. You use them as an alternate means to describe someone because you worry people will get tired of reading a character’s name over and over, and you are correct. People will get tired of that, but they’re also going to get tired of the overuse of epithets too. Here’s my two cents on the matter:

Epithets are fine if the character doesn’t have a name or if they don’t bear any importance to the story. Let’s say your character buys a coffee in one chapter from a random coffee shop they’ll never visit again. Saying something like, “The barista handed him his coffee,” is fine because the barista is serving one purpose in the story--they’re a barista. They don’t need a name because the readers are never going to see them again. 

However, if you’re using epithets for important characters or even the MC, what you’re really doing is creating distance. And in some cases you’re also confusing the reader just as much as if you used their names over and over. 

“Hey,” the blonde said. 

“How’s it going?” the brunette replied.

“Great! How about you?” Her friend smiled. 

Like, you see how that’s just as annoying? I promise you, I would much rather just read the characters’ names in this situation, but how do we fix this in a way that doesn’t involve repeating character names or pronouns, which can also get tricky in scenes where people of the same gender are talking? There are a couple of different ways. 

-Break up long conversations with action or description

Very rarely should your characters just be standing around doing nothing except talking. Create movement in the scene, utilize the surroundings, have your characters do something instead of just talking. Even if that’s all your characters are doing in a scene because a conversation needs to be had, you should still break up the conversation every now and then. How does your MC feel about what’s being said? What things might they be leaving unsaid? How does what they’re feeling manifest physically? What is their body doing?

Ex from my own writing:

“Can I make you some tea?” She offered, setting her bag on the stairs.

“Sure.”

Perfect. Tea was a good excuse not to look at him. She kept her back to him while she worked, pretending that she didn’t know where things were to stall for time. His eyes followed her every move. Watching. Waiting. She couldn’t keep this up forever, so she might as well get it over with.

“So, what’s up?” she asked while filling the kettle.

Instead of immediately continuing the conversation, you can pause to give the reader a breather, but it really depends on the situation. If you’re going to break a conversation, be sure it makes sense for the character to pause and reflect. If characters are having a heated debate, inserting a paragraph where the character is reflecting on their feelings might pull the reader out of the tension in the moment. Just be aware of what the tone and intention of the scene is. 

-rather than overusing dialogue tags, consider occasionally using an action tag. 

“Said” is fine. I’m not advocating for the overuse of action tags or giving every piece of dialogue a hyper-specific tone descriptor. But if you write an entire conversation using only things like “said” “asked” “replied,” you’re going to suffer from White Room Syndrome/Talking Heads Syndrome. 

“Cat, how is this different from the previous example?”

The previous example was about interjecting a non-dialogue paragraph and getting inside the character’s head or following their actions. This example refers to how you tag dialogue itself. I’ll give another example from my own writing:

“Wow.” Marinette’s eyebrows raised. Her makeup never looked half this good when she did it herself—a skilled hand made all the difference. She peeked up at Gabrielle applying her own lip gloss and pursed her lips. “So, what kind of party is this?”

“Relax, goody-two-shoes, the most exciting thing at this party is wine. My parents don’t let me go to trashy parties.” Gabrielle rolled her eyes, removing her large trench coat to reveal a sparkly black dress with mesh cutouts along the waist. “Just try not to act too lowbrow, okay? Don’t embarrass me.”

“I’ll do my best?” Marinette said as they pulled up to the front steps.

“Great.” Gabrielle tossed her compact into her purse and kicked open the door. “Oh, and just because we’re arriving together does not mean you are allowed to socialize with me here. Don’t hang off me like a sad little koala. Go dance and have fun with other people.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re friends,” Marinette said.

In this case, having action tags instead of dialogue tags helps keep the scene flowing without the repeated use of their names becoming redundant. Keep in mind that there are more ways for characters to interact during a conversation other than just speaking. Body language can tell the reader a lot about how characters might be feeling and what their relationship is to the person they’re speaking to. 

But just like the last point, I’m not advocating for you to go and delete every dialogue tag in your writing and replace it with an action tag. Use of action tags still needs to make sense and add something to the conversation. Using action just for the sake of action can be just as redundant and annoying to read. Conversations are a balancing act. Remember: “said” is fine, but using only “said’ is boring. Writing is a balancing act, so assess your scenes carefully. 

-create distinct character voices (*a topic I’ll touch on another day in more detail)

I’ve talked about dialogue tags, action tags, breaking up conversations with inner monologues, but what if I told you some lines of dialogue don’t need any tags at all? I’ll give an example from my own writing:

“I know I messed up. I’m sorry.” He lowered his gaze. “I learned my lesson.”

“Good. With your silly little conscience out of the way, we can actually get some real work done,” Chloe said. “I do have a few ideas for you, but…”

“But what?”

Chloe leaned against her fist with a wicked grin. “I need to test your loyalty. If you’re going to lie down with the dogs, you can’t be afraid to get dirty, so I need to know you’re capable of breaking the rules.”

A chill prickled his spine, and Adrien shifted in his seat. “What kind of rules?”

“See? This is why I have trust issues, Adrikins.”

In this example, I have two lines of dialogue that are untagged, but in both cases, it’s still clear who is talking. Given that this is a conversation between two people, and by sheer adherence to the “new speaker, new paragraph” rule, you can rightfully infer that Adrien is the one who says, “But what?” Similarly, you can assume the last line is said by Chloe, but the last line in particular is very specific character voice. Chloe is the only person who calls him “Adrikins,” so even if there was another person in this conversation, you’d still know it was her talking. Giving your characters a specific manner of speaking can help readers infer their dialogue in situations like this. This specific manner of speaking is known as “character voice.” It’s literally what it sounds like--the “voice” that readers will hear in their head for a specific character. If your character has a distinct and strong voice, readers will be able to pick up on their dialogue more easily. 

3. Adverbs

I feel like everyone gets heated about this one, and some writers will cling to their precious adverbs until their dying day. Cool, you do you, but I’m here to tell you that adverbs aren’t doing as much as you think they are. 

Don’t get me wrong, I like adverbs, and I’m not one that’s going to tell you to go out and delete every single adverb from your story. Adverbs do have their place and can add to a scene, but you need to be conscious of how you’re using them. Let’s talk about some examples of good and bad adverb usage:

Bad adverb: “She ran quickly down the road.”

Running is inherently something people do quickly. By definition, it’s faster than walking. 

Good adverb: She smiled sadly. 

Smiling is normally something people do when they’re happy. By adding the adverb “sadly” in this instance, it changes the meaning of the smile. 

When using adverbs, it’s best to ask yourself what exactly the adverb is adding to the scene, if anything. Is it changing the meaning of something, or is it being redundant? In general, most adverbs can be replaced with stronger verbs to improve a sentence or just deleted all together. 

It’s fine to just say: “She ran down the road.” But if you’re trying to convey a bigger sense of urgency in the way she’s running you could say: “She darted down the street.” or “She sprinted down the street.” Both of those are ways to say she’s running faster than normal. You could also get showy with it and say something like:

“The rubber soles of her shoes hit the pavement, ragged breaths weighing her lungs. Her child’s pained cries fell silent in her arms, and she cradled her closer. The hospital was still three blocks away.”

There are a lot of ways to eliminate adverbs from your writing to make it stronger. The world will go on without them. Please, let them go. 

There are plenty more things you can do to trim down word counts, but I feel like these are the big three I see a lot. Another option is cutting unnecessary scenes, but that’s a topic for another day. A lot of the time, you can easily cut down words by making these little line edits and improve your writing exponentially. If anyone has any more questions on how to trim these examples specifically, feel free to send me a message or leave a comment on this post. I’m always happy to talk writing! As always, we improve by helping each other, so don’t be afraid to ask. I’ll see you guys next time! 

[frenzyarts]

Hello Frenzy from Frenzy-Arts!!! If this is out of the blue and weird PLEASE feel free to delete this but i have a question: im an artist who wants to get into drawing suggestive/nsfw girls (less bean ism <3), but im struggling with how to stylise suggestive posts/outfits/actions without veering too far into caricature Horny Poses or alternatively the other extreme "i am drawing this sexual nude far too much like how i draw in a life-drawing class". Do you have any tips for finding a happy middle ground in stylisation?? Sorry if this is a weird question, i just thought i might ask you bc u talk openly abt being an nsfw artist and enjoying drawing nsfw art ;-; and i cant exactly ask my art professor XD have a great day regardless! 🩵

This isn’t a weird question at all! I’ve noted in the past that I don’t like when people ask me about my own personal sex life, but I love to talk about my nsfw art, and am happy to answer art questions always 🥳

Trying to balance between caricature and figure drawing style nudes is something I find myself trying to work on still as well, and something that helps me a LOT is looking at other nsfw artists work that I enjoy and trying to really think about what makes it appealing and sensual. Is it the body shapes? The faces? The fluids? I’ll try to incorporate whatever it is that’s captured my interest into my own art.

Also what I would recommend to make your art not look like a figure drawing nude is to turn up the spice. Add an element you wouldn’t get in a figure drawing class like a saucy pose or some props

I think trying to avoid generic horny caricature won’t be hard as long as you’re drawing from your heart, and creating something that is genuine to what you want to see. A person could draw the most generic pinup of all time but if they put their soul into it then people usually don’t care how generic a pose is!

Again, this is stuff that I feel like I’m still working on still, but I hope this advice was helpful nonetheless. If there’s a specific aspect of nsfw art that you’d like to hear my thoughts on as well, feel free to let me know!

[avpdpossum]

welcome to the avoidant zone™️

you can call me poss!

i have avoidant personality disorder (AVPD), and that’s what i talk the most about on this blog. i spend a lot of my time researching AVPD as well as living with it, so the posts here will generally be a mixture of casual posts about my life and more formal posts about the things i learn in my research.

i also have narcissistic and schizotypal traits (possible NPD and StPD), depersonalization/derealization disorder (DPDR), dissociative amnesia, and obsessive-compulsive symptoms, and those may come up in my posts from time to time. i’m autistic and ADHD as well, but those won’t come up as much, since i want this blog to focus on the parts of my experience that i don’t often see included in discussions of mental health and neurodivergence.

please note, if you...

are anything less than enthusiastically pro-self-diagnosis

try to force people to disclose if they’re self- or clinically diagnosed

disagree with anti-psychiatry/psychiatry-critical ideas

think “narcissistic abuse” and “borderline abuse” are real

call people “psychopaths” or “sociopaths” when you see them as evil

say you’re “schizoposting” when you’re not schizospec

purposefully trigger someone’s paranoia or dissociation when you don’t like them

armchair diagnose people you see as “bad” with NPD and/or ASPD

exclude personality disorders from the neurodivergent umbrella

don’t believe in personality disorders and think they’re “just autism” or “just cptsd”

romanticize OR demonize self-harm and/or disordered eating

would call the cops to “check on” a suicidal person

think “recovery” should be the goal for every single person with a PD

...you’re probably not going to have a great time here. i can’t stop you from staying, but i don’t like you and you probably won’t like me either. don’t say i didn’t warn you.

if you have any questions about the topics i talk about here or just want to talk, feel free to send me an ask or DM me! i can’t always answer (thanks AVPD brain) but i’ll always do my best, and it’s never a bother!

[shebeezee]

Welcome to my page! <3

I’m redoing this now that I’ve been on here for a little while. :]

Quick Intro:

Hey, I’m Bee! I’m a 21 year old queer hispanic from the USA. I prefer if a mix of pronouns are used for me but it’s not required.

I have multiple different disorders/ mental illnesses but you’ll mostly only find BPD related vents here so big TW for BPD related stuff. It’s a safe place for anyone who struggles with any type of disabilities, disorders, mental illnesses, etc.

My DMs, Inbox, etc is always open for any comments, questions, concerns, etc. I’m not very active on Tumblr (I don’t spent a lot of time on here) and I don’t have notifications on but I will respond once I see your message. If you’d like to be mutuals, feel free to interact with this post! Feel free to like, reblog, comment or shoot me a message! If I deem that your account is too triggering for whatever reason however, I may not follow back.

Take care of yourself honey! 💛

Tags:

#SheBeeZee - lil rambles or whatever else

#Inbox - inbox stuff

#BPD - bpd related vent/ rants

Longer Intro:

Hello again! I’ll just go into a bit more detail here. :)

I’ve been off the internet for a long while since I did cut off everyone in my life a few years ago. I isolated myself until more recently when I really started struggling and needed a place to vent out some frustrations. I struggle reaching out to people so feel free to reach out yourself, I promise you’re always welcomed here! :]

I only really post BPD related stuff here to try to keep things more of a safe place where there’s not too many sensitive things that can easily trigger people. I do have a side blog that’s not too hard to find but I won’t link it here because I’ll be rambling more on there about other sensitive topics that can be triggering.

I never had a “Tumblr Era” before this so I’ve pretty much been going in blind. I also don’t spend too much time looking at stuff on here either, not cause I don’t want to but just the mental illness brain talking.

I also do have pretty bad paranoia so if there’s ever something I don’t really answer or I seem to avoid mentioning, please don’t take it personally. I don’t mean any harm by it but I just prefer to keep some things private and my privacy is something I value a lot.

As I mentioned previously, I do have a lot of different disorders along with BPD so BPD can look very different on me compared to someone else who has different disorders. I am not a professional and only use this page to vent thoughts related to my experiences or things I’m going through. People without BPD might also relate to some of my vents since I do have other disorders that can affect my mindset so please don’t take anything I say or vent about as professional medical advice. If anyone wants to talk about it privately, I don’t mind that but please don’t take anything I say as 100% one way or the other since BPD can really look much different in people as well as my other disorders that are also factors to take in.

Thank you so much for reading and I appreciate anyone who sticks around! It’s definitely made me smile knowing there’s a lot of people who can relate to things I struggle with. It makes me feel much less alone than I did when I first started this account. It’s made me feel less crazy and less “it’s all in my head” about things. I appreciate each and every one of you. 🫶 Hope I see all my cute lil flowers around often! 🌻 Take care of yourselves, stay hydrated and remember you’ve been doing amazing with the cards you got given. If no one has said it, I’m so proud of you and love you! 🐝

Started: 9/27/23

Carrd: (bc I’m proud of it :>)

[villainship]

[Somebody who genuinely hates the Empire]

Once, (before the Galaxy turned conveniently chaotic to free him from his job), Agent pumpkin was presented with an opportunity to imagine a specific alternative to being a spy: Piracy.

(Small snippet of a pretty Large fic. . . I’ve been sharing on Discord sometimes, & intend to post to followers-only on PillowFort)

-

The captain’s name was Ganec, & he made the mistake (had the misfortune) of catching Kallir on a stealth mission aboard his ship -- without realizing he wasn’t working alone.

What operative pumpkin did before this: 

-tried to stow away in stealth to investigate a pirate ship; got caught -indirectly/semi-cryptically informed Keran (who is undercover as a regular pirate crew member instead of Sneaking around) that he has a new Plan B -got beaten up as part of the welcoming interrogation -spent a while in a cell -convinced the captain he was unhappy being a spy, anyway... and he would rather flirt w/ a big strong pirate leader (Truth) -avoided telling the captain that he ISN’T single... and that he still intends to steal the secrets he was sent for, then let Keran sweep him away (in order for them to--unfortunately--return to Imperial HQ together)

. . . so, with Kallir still in some binder cuffs & a shock collar (and EXHAUSTED, but no longer confined 2 the brig) he and Ganec Talk . . .

-

“If you’re with my crew, I look after you. If it means cracking a bounty hunter’s helmet, that’s easy. They ain’t gonna send anybody all that /good/ for a basic stray. Right?”

In ordinary circumstances, he might have a point...

“—You don’t gotta hide. You just give me your best guess what to expect, so I’m doing my best to be ready for it.”

Kallir feels his face warm and his thoughts tangled on themselves. “Ok,” he stalls, not entirely speechless. Certainly on the brink. “I’ll— think about that.”

It was an uncomfortable thought in his situation, knowing it wasn’t a faceless bounty hunter who would be on hand to collect him.

He would not be warning the pirates of a genuine Sith assassin already in their midst.

“It would be easier to turn me over, wouldn’t it?” he asked instead, quiet and curious. “If you were able to placate the Agency by returning an asset, have you considered they might cut a deal to allow you to go about your business with... less scrutiny?”

“How about this: you think they’d take you back without asking any real searching questions about my operation?”

“Mn.” 

Yet Ganec had been right in his earlier point: they’d just as soon accept an operative’s corpse for closure, after one who had been captured was spotted off-world, cooperating with the enemy. Or alive at all without an acceptable justification. Kallir is thinking it, and he gets the impression Ganec hasn’t forgotten either.

“No,” the Captain’s confidence is matched by his decisiveness. “Wouldn’t sit right with me. Not for you, not for everyone I’m lookin’ out for. My own self-interest, too, but that’s only the first part of why I wouldn’t give them a hair of somebody who genuinely hates the Empire.”

Anxiety rises and blocks the Agent’s throat. Not because he would be caught lying, if he were asked to swear to that hatred—but because he has rarely been confronted so directly with the truth of it.

“You do right by us, though—you can find out what my word means.”

The pirate’s vow hangs in the air, a portent, as the very faint, electric crackling of the beam for his restraints becomes white noise in Kallir’s ears. 

-

[ask-projectstarstruck]

Mod Briar's Boundaries

Can I DM you/send you a message/anon ask?

Anon asks, absolutely. DMs and messages you can certainly try, but I can’t promise I’ll respond!

Can I make fanart?

PLEASE I would be indebted to you forever (not literally but I would be so very happy). Just no NSFW and we’re golden

Can I make an OC in your world?

Go nuts. Go crazy. Go stupid. Go bananas. (Yes)

How can I tell who’s talking?

My characters will sign off on each post that they make! If there are multiple people speaking in a post, there will be multiple sign offs.

Can I ship your characters?

No. I am super uncomfortable with both Austral and Boreal being shipped with anyone. Even though they’re their own characters at this point, they still started off as a representation of me, and I am not okay with them being shipped with anyone.

Will you draw/answer everything I ask? Anything?

Obviously not lol. As nice as it would be to respond to everyone who comes across this blog, I have time constraints and personal boundaries. Plus, most of the work for this blog should be credited to Doe—I’m less likely to draw and post responses myself, to begin with. That being said, there are some asks I will never respond to.

I will not respond to asks if:

They contain flirting (sexual or romantic)

As stated earlier, I am not comfortable with shipping Austral or Boreal. Any ask that I feel comes across as flirting will most likely be ignored. Respectfully, that’s not what their story is about lol

They ask for personal information about myself (Mod Briar)

While I am open to answering asks about the story and even some non-sensitive info about myself, my personal information is off-limits!

They are fishing for free art

I’m not normally going to be the one drawing responses, but if you send in an ask that doesn’t contribute much to the story or have much substance, and is just fishing for art of ocs, I’m just going to ignore it lol

They are rude, demanding, etc

Don’t be a jerk! If you’re mean you’re probably also just going to get ignored lol. To avoid accidentally coming across as rude, consider using tone tags like /lh (lighthearted) or /nm (not mad)! 

They have nothing to do with the blog

This includes asks promoting your own blog and not actually interacting with ours—I’m sure your blog is great, but self-promotion is not the vibe over here! This also includes asks that are just wholly unrelated to the characters or the mods. I don’t really have any examples in mind, this just feels like common sense

I hope this doesn’t come across as super rude or overly strict or anything, basically just be polite and respectful, and don’t ship my characters, and we’re good LOL

-mod briar :)

[rome-roy]

wowowow fun :) my only remaining friend from high school (and real life) has now blocked me on instagram and privated her account. I guess so she can chat shit about me! And like I’m sad to lose her but also…

I’m definitely in the wrong myself but to just drop me? ok sure… that’s reasonable.

I want to rant for a sec. You don’t need to read this but feel free to tell me if I’m the asshole. I know I am a bit but… yeah. I feel guilty but not enough to warrant her reaction? Maybe?

So we’ve been friends since HS, but I left school and moved away. So we’ve kept in contact on and off over the years. Saw each other rarely but it sometimes it happened. I could probably count on my hands the amount of times we’ve seen each other (less than 10.)

One thing that is clear about me to anyone and most certainly her: I am terrible at staying in contact.

I’ll see a message and say I’ll respond later. And then it gets too late. Weeks go by. Most of the time I completely forget about it. And I end up not responding at all. I dislike this about myself. A lot of the time I don’t respond because I need time to think about the message or time where I don’t have distractions around me. The only time I can guarantee this is when I go to bed, and sometimes I’m just too sleepy or want to chill. Tough cycle to break.

Anyway, she knows this about me. I’ve been like this since high school. She’s never been mad about it, or at least she’s not said anything. We usually fall back into old ways before I lapse again.

Before lockdown (or the year of?) we decided to try writing some scripts together. We’ve been trying to do it for ages, but it’s hard to pin me down. I have no schedule, I cannot ever guarantee her a time in which we can both hop online and write. This especially got harder when she moved to Korea. Like where my life is at the minute… I don’t think anyone really understands how it makes me feel and how I feel I can’t do anything. I cannot dedicate my time because I don’t know what’s happening week to week, and I don’t want to inconvenience anyone else around me. I already feel like such an inconvenience to them.

ANYWAY, I told her this a few months ago, along with the fact that I’m just not feeling the story anymore and I’m struggling to be creative. I hoped that would be it, I’d have some space from the writing till I was able to think again. I was also kinda annoyed that we weren’t starting from scratch like we said we would but just editing what we had. We both agreed it needed to be completely rewritten… but no? She sent me a couple of voice notes, I didn’t have the time to listen to them straightaway so I put it off… we know how this goes.

So instead of just leaving me be for a bit she continues to message me. She messages me when she sees I’m online. Keeps trying to catch me out. And this kinda pisses me off. I don’t like that behaviour, just because I’m online doesn’t mean I have to talk to her. She doesn’t know what’s going on in my life. Having constant access to people online has fucked the world up a little - being online does not mean fully available and at your disposal. Oftentimes I wouldn’t actually be online. I’d click onto messenger to check the family groupchats and then go off… but it still says you’re active for a little while after that. I guess it’ll say you’re active if you have the tab open too. Not only did I not have time to start up a conversation with her but her trying to make me respond to her made me put it off even more.

Eventually she just messages me and says, to sum it up, ‘bye.’ I’m like… okay so… is this it?? She’s dropping me? None of my behaviour is out of the ordinary for me, I’ve never argued with her, never said a bad word, never fallen out with a friend before. After a few weeks she tries to catch me out some more. There’s a bit of attitude to her words and I’m not about that.

ON MY BIRTHDAY she posts a very plain ‘happy birthday!’ on my page. I honestly thought she wouldn’t bother. I can’t avoid it any longer, I say thanks and that I’m going to reply to her and explain. But it’s my birthday, I plan to do it the next day. No. That night she messages me after seeing I’m online and says ‘I thought we were friends??’ I’m tired and honestly just doing a quick scroll on insta before bed but I write back to give a brief summary and that I’ll reply in full later because I’m tired. I tell her that I see I’ve caused her pain and how terrible I feel, which I 100% do. She doesn’t respond straightaway so I go to sleep.

Next day I see she’s said that ‘it hasn’t caused [her] pain it’s just fucking annoying, do [I] want to write with [her] or not?’ and… I have been so so tempted to say ‘do you want a friend or do you a writing partner?’ but I can’t bring myself to do it. Because this is the only reason she’s been messaging me - so that I will write with her. The only reason she’s been in touch with me for a long while. I’ve been telling myself that people only want me around so they can use me for something that they want. She only talks to me because she wants to write this thing, for her benefit. Never about me, never reaching out for me. She has a fancy to start writing this again and that’s when she reaches out. That message really highlights that point to me, and the fact that the potential that she may have lost my friendship hasn’t actually caused her pain? But it’s been hurtful to me thinking she’s done? Like… do you actually care about me or do you just want me so you can write?

The story isn’t even what we started out with and has been really dominated by her and she’s never truly listened to anything I’ve said. I’ve tried to make her follow structures (and I hate structures usually but we really needed them) and suggested helpful things. It kinda means nothing but I do have a masters in creative writing, I know what I’m talking about. Yet all my suggestions go unfollowed.

She has not been the greatest friend to me (her 2019 birthday is a while other story), but I still love her. So I’m hurt. But in some respects I do wonder whether it’s for the best to maybe let her go. She’ll be fine, I know. She has lots of other friends and she has a boyfriend now. I don’t think she needs me… and I don’t think she’s wanted me for me in quite some time.

It’s a bit much for her to just go and block me. Like. I’m literally doing nothing. I’m not even posting, haven’t watched her insta story in a long time. But whatever. If she wants to go drastic and cut me out of her life like that so be it. I wonder if she’s going to unfriend me next?

I do plan on messaging her, maybe it will end up being the last time, but I don’t want to argue. I hate arguments so much, especially when we should be able to communicate like civilised adults.

[4bstr]

And so it begins

I pasted this post from my Substack for convenience and will probably do so for the subsequent entries. Feel free to subscribe to the newsletter to get them as they release.

INTRO

First entry with reading notes about a "first adventure" module (we are getting meta already). I'm also getting into the dungeon23 challenge with my own twist on the formula.

I’m still forming the newsletter concept as I’m writing this entry (isn’t that the beauty of language? Barely knowing what you’re going to say before actually doing so). I would like to use this part to talk about what I’m working on and extract some of my thought process. My guess is that I’ll keep updating it endlessly because the reflection on a feature sparkle new ways to improve it again and again…

… Interestingly enough, that’s not what happened. Instead, I expanded this intro into another full-fledged article about “Skills” that I decided to separate from this entry. Maybe I’m digging writing even more than I thought. As for this part, I start to wonder if I need it at all, I’ll leave this one for posterity.

READING NOTES

In that part I’m using one RPG, Module, bunch of Articles or even Podcasts as support to raise design questions and start answering them. What catches my interest will most likely be very subjective, so don’t take that as a review (Although, it will give insights on what it’s about, so it can help you form a decision I imagine)

And for the first entry we dive into…

A Most Potent Brew - A Basic Rules Adventure

Free to grab over here

A classic I heard, and indeed, this module has a lot of good traps that … how can I say … “caught” my attention.

The first one is about finding clues in a poetry and using them to move on a specific part of a mosaic floor to avoid being cut in halves. I'm not keen on enigma, so I overlooked it. What got me thinking instead are the following two encounters that "felt" like traps:

The slowly approaching fire spider makes for a great cinematic moment (triggered memories of Queen Gohma for the connoisseur) when you finally notice the glowing silhouette that has been lurking over you from the dark.

The rat, drinking the "enlargement" potion, becoming a (larger) threat after one minute if not taken care of.

The characteristics that separate traps and encounters can easily shift, making their definition look similar. The former could be in motion and even have a state bloc if you want to leverage the combat system or opposite checks. Likewise, the latter can feel like a static puzzle with a clear way to "disable" it and avoid the bad outcome.

Now, more than lexical consideration, those two encounters share a common flow:

You enter a space with several intriguing things and clues about a threat.

A timer starts without players knowing about it.

Depending on their actions, they'll have a more or less challenging outcome.

That sounds exactly what a trap design should be. You have several options, and you need to make the right one to avoid something undesirable. The first example was a static choice clearly telegraphed as an enigma; players don’t have any time constraint to process and think it through. Contrariwise, the other two are only hinted, and the puzzle becomes to figure out what's up before it's too late.

Last note on a different aspect, I also liked the simple tension arc of the module: From a friendly pub to a mysterious old space, to a dangerous dungeon, back to the safety of the starting point for a casual debrief. I had the same vibe reading through the Hobbit when, after all their adventure, Bilbo and Gandalf walk the way back home. We could call that a “diegetic closure”, and it may have a special place in TTRPG.

BIT SIZE REVIEWS

In this section I put 3 links with just enough context so you can get if it’s worth your time. Expect to find reviews, design breakdown or even content on adjacent topics for inspiration purposes.

Art Book Excerpt (≃2 minutes) → Retro computer graphic dark fantasy by Plastiboo

It seems to be out of stock at the moment, but the picture still makes for great inspiration on a niche genre. You can follow the artist here or on Twitter.

Podcast (≃1 hour) → Designing Monsters for RPGs with Greg Stolze and Caleb Stokes by RPPR

The whole conversation feels a bit disconnected (with good vibe nonetheless).

Provides insights on horror game design with some great pitches like: A (truly) giant beast that may smash you while wandering. Players may want to "get inside" it because it doesn't digest precious metal. You’re effectively taking the position of bacteria, competing with others at a completely different scale.

Not exactly mentioned like that, but there is an interesting correlation to be made between HP and “time on screen.” If a monster as a low amount of HP, it may not live long enough to develop complex skills over an encounter. On the contrary, you don't want a large pool of HP remaining if there is nothing fresh to showcase on the next round.

Video (≃7 minutes) → Dungeon design tips by Baron de Ropp

Great collection of topics that could each become the starting point for a full design conversation.

A ROOM

This section is dedicated to actually making something. We can talk and reflect and talk again about that reflection, sparking a new one that… Gathering knowledge; accumulating ideas; you also need to just DO. That being said, I still wanted a framework, a big picture in which all my small expressions would take a deeper meaning. Sean McCoy (main designer of Mothership) happens to give me a starting point … while, in the meantime, arguing that it isn't the way to go… Thanks anyway

In this post on Substack he began a trend that you can follow with the hashtag #dungeon23 on Twitter. The goal is to make a room per day during 2023 with the hope that it might make a full-fledged mega-dungeon down the line. The idea is appealing, but I still needed to:

Connect it fictionally to my RPG Bonaventure (not at all a dungeon crawler).

Get a basic understanding of the game flow I want…

… So I can define the key points that need to be described for each space.

I didn't fully answer those points, and I shouldn’t try to, because the goal is to make something first and foremost. Here’s my initial take anyway:

I’m playing with the idea of a spiritual world living side by side with the grounded, near future backdrop of Bonaventure.

This structure struck me as a perfect opportunity to make a Roguelike: small encapsulated bits of content arranged by a system to produce an interesting level in real time (Which I would translate with “at the table” in this instance).

In addition to environment and inhabitant description (namely rooms and monsters), I want to focus on its “connectivity” (dead end, fork, pathway, loop, going deeper) and potential “foreshadowing/after effect” (how does it affect other space when it comes online)

OK ... see how quickly this section gets filled with thoughts, “DO” we said; here it comes:

Room

Two golems in a room (6 m tall) both extremely strong, but equally built. They’re similar except one as a red glyph and looks one side while the other as a different mark painted in blue and faces the opposite direction. They’re chained together with narrow yet indestructible links. The chain is just folded two times around the central pole of a giant crank. It would be easy for them to coordinate and free themselves from it, but the titans are constructing their own self by opposition with the other. If one wants or say something, its counterpart readjust to focus on the contrary.

The room is high but narrow, making movement around in golems‘ reach. Each one will seek validation of the players as they pass by. If one is confronted, it will build anger and finally attack (grabbing and tearing apart). The other will try to defend the victim, although, in a limited capacity because it keeps facing the opposite direction.

Side Content

A massive door with engraved representation of an army of golems marching in unison against a “dark figure” (this figure could be replaced with any important character already defined). This door is open if you find a way to turn the crank in the room.

Deep voice arguing over a topic; tinkling of a chain.

[lys1]

Congratulations! You waited so patiently <3 This is another Asra x fem!reader for you. NSFW. 5218 words. 

Playing With Potions

—————

The late spring morning air was warming up to be a balmy 75 degrees. You had your skirt pulled down and up, tucked in the back of the waistband, forming makeshift shorts. The shop was somewhat quiet, yet the din from the streets made its nimble way through the open windows.

You descend the ladder to the box of ingredients you were unpacking. They had come in the previous evening and Asra had promptly asked you to “organize them later”. Of course you said yes, the two of you shared this shop after all, and the work that came with it.

Asra himself was bustling behind the counter, sweeping the wooden floors free of the dust and fallen ingredients. He stops momentarily to pick up his cup of tea and take a long sip. The jasmine tea's steam billows into his face as he sighs with content pleasure.

The floorboards creak as you step down and Asra looks over at you, gaze soft. "How's the supplies look, dear?" He asks curiously, returning the cup to it’s coaster.

"Ah," you muse, counting the small containers in your hands. "Looks like we will be all set on lizard toes for a while, I think our supply captain read 1000 instead of 100." You can't help but chuckle, it couldn't be helped, at least you wouldn’t have to order more for a while.

Asra's eyes open a little wider, "oh my." He laughs, "I suppose we won’t". He sets his broom to rest against the counter and bare feet pad over to you, his deep-purple eyes examining the products.

You feel his hand settle on your waist subconsciously; a side effect of being close to one another. You breathe in lightly, smelling the sweet scent of coconut and honied biscuits wash over you. Asra's breakfast choice was apparent.

"Mm," you say, turning so the two of you were face to face. "You smell delicious."

Asra smiles, box in his hand now a little less important. "Care for a taste?" He teases, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sets his lizard toes aside and joins his other hand at your waist. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod.

He is a mere millimeter from sealing the gap between you when the bell of the shop jingles merrily.

"Ah jeez," you huff good in good nature. "I forgot we have jobs and responsibilities."

Asra laughs at your obvious disappointment and steals a small peck. "Unfortunately, we have to eat somehow." He then turns away and walks back to the counter to greet the customer.

The man is short and has a little round face. He looks extraordinarily nervous, and this catches your attention. Yours and Asra's shop is well known in the city and the townsfolk trust their magicians. You hadn't seen anyone come in here looking so nervous, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Asra asks charmingly, resuming his position behind the counter. Briefly you let yourself admire how nice he looks, comfortable in his shop and expertise, before turning back to the box you were supposed to be dealing with. Not, however, letting your ears miss the conversation.

"I," the man starts, already fumbling with his words. "I, well look. I need help." He finishes plainly, nervously clutching his shirt between his pudgy hands.

Asra smiles kindly, "many do." He says, tilting his head and examining his new client. "Are you here for a card reading? Need to get some answers?"

The man groans as though he is already exhausted with the conversation. "No, I already know what I need. I have the answers. I've heard about this place. The ways you can help people. I live an hour out of the market and I made this trip just to see you."

"We're flattered, for sure." Asra says calmly, you can hear slight annoyance in his tone from all the ambiguity. The visitor is none the wiser though. "To help you though," Asra continues. "I'll need to know what you need."

"Alright I need a potion," the man finally reveals. "One that will help me... with performance." His cheeks are redder than a bell pepper in the sun.

Asra raises a white eyebrow, "performance? Are you an actor?"

"No!" The man's voice came out in a strangled whisper, obviously trying to keep it down. You roll your eyes, chancing a glance over your shoulder. The shop floor wasn't that big, of course you were going to hear everything.

"No," he said again, this time a little more composed. "What I mean is... my sex life performance." The truth comes out. Your visitor wipes his forehead with a dirty rag from his pocket. "My wife and I well.. we've hit a slump," he explains. "And I've heard of potions that can help with that kind of thing. Stuff that will completely change the game." His eyes are shining now, imaging life post-performance potion.

Asra looks uncertain at best. "I see," he starts, shooting you a glance. "That.. does exists. But it takes awhile to make. And the price isn't cheap either."

You shove the last of the crow feathers into their designated drawer while listening. You have never heard of such a potion, but you were also still learning. Asra sounds a little unsure though.

"Price isn't an issue," the man sounds desperate. "I'll pay anything."

Asra sighs, he feels bad for the man wringing his hands before him, practically crying for a cure. "Alright," he finally concedes. "I'll make it, but you'll have to come back in the morning. This kind of thing takes all evening to brew."

Your customer nods vigorously, "I can wait." He says. "Tomorrow morning, yes! I'll be here!" His excitement apparent, he bows a few times while backing out of the door, tripping over his own feet.

The door closes with a sharp bang and the bell rings furiously. Asra blows air out of his mouth so that itf ruffles the curls between his eyes.

"Well," he says after a moment. "A sex performance enhancing potion was not what I was expecting to make today." He rubs his temples, eyes closed and looking thoughtful.

You grin at him from the shelf as you pick up the empty shipping box and rest it on your hip. "That's quite the name, I've never heard of a potion like that."

Asra laughs and opens his beautiful eyes to look at you. "Yes, you'll have to forgive me for not teaching you that kind of magic, it's not the.. safest." He ends uncertainly. "I don't even know how this guy found out about it. It's not talked about much amongst us magicians.. and it's certainly not a common one."

Immediately more questions than your mouth can keep up with flood your brain. "So how did you find out about it? And why isn't it safe?" You ask the two more important ones, eyes following Asra as he finds a piece of paper and quill to use.

He dips his quill in the register's ink well and starts scratching down what you presumed to be ingredients. "I've been studying magic for years, my love." He says simply, "and before you ask, no I haven't used it on myself." He looks up at you, mischief dancing in his pretty eyes. "I'd like to think my sex game is up to par." He adds innocently, licking his lips seductively when your ears tinge pink.

You brush imaginary dirt off your shirt sleeves and huff. "I suppose it's pretty good." You mumble. It almost feels like a lie to just describe it as "pretty good" but Asra doesn't need you to stroke his ego right now. You do that enough falling to pieces beneath him every night.

Asra is well aware of your attempt to keep him humble and laughs lightly. "And to answer your other question," he says, turning back to his ingredient list, "messing with ones body like this can be dangerous. You have to be very precise."

You nod as he explains, it makes sense.

Potions are always brewed in pots over a magic fire so you put yourself to work, removing a medium sized iron pot from a hook on the wall and carrying it to a fire stand. Asra is busy himself, opening various drawers and adding seemingly random ingredients to a basket he has looped over his arm. Iris petals, newt eyeball, and some shimmering gold flakes. You smile watching him, your gorgeous magician; smart and able.

In no time at all Asra has a bubbling pot of sweet smelling liquid stirring before him. You stand beside him, observing curiously.

"Why are you wearing gloves?" You ask, taking note of the large leather gloves that clad all the way up your lover's forearm.

Asra continues to stir and looks over at you, happy to hear your eagerness to learn. "I can't risk even a drop of this touching my skin. It's so strong, and will immediately absorb into anyone's skin, leaving them..." He shakes his head and trails off, amused. "That's why it has to brew so long, to burn off some of the potency."

Your mouth opens in amazement, taken aback by the idea. This is the real deal you decide, stepping back a couple inches in precaution. After watching the potion bubble for a couple more minutes you stretch and grab the watering can sitting by the floor of the door.

"I'm going to water the plants," you inform Asra, waving your hand briefly until the can is full of cool, crisp water. Gods knows there are at least three dozen inside and outside of the shop.

Asra is humming in confirmation that he heard you as you open the shop door to the plants hanging outside. You don't get very far before you're blindsided by a streak of purple darting through your legs.

Escape!

"Faust?!" You yelp, dancing around the squirming snake as she winds her way under and into the open shop. A loud, booming bark makes you jump again. This time a large hound dog is rounding the tight corner from the side street and barreling full speed towards you.

All hell breaks loose. The water can is up in the air, crashing wildly into the side of the building. You are thrown back onto the dusty floor and a mass of fur and teeth race past you, paying no mind to your yelling.

Help!

Faust is racing around the floor, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the angry dog she seemed to have aggravated. There's a large crash from inside and you cringe, hearing bottles break and wood crunch. You look back, scared at what you might find.

The shop is a disaster, papers strewn, vials broken, and potion pot toppled. Asra is groaning on the floor, obviously doing no better than the rest. You glance at him worriedly, taking quick notice of the potion he had been making spilled everywhere, even on him.

You snap your fingers and the dog's growl, who was cornering Faust by the bookshelf, turns into a whimper as you lift him up with your magic. "I'm sorry pooch," you sigh, "but we can't have you eating our friend." With a wave of your wrist the hound is out the door and down the street in an instant. The hinges creak and bell rings as the door is once again closed to outside.

Thank you!

Faust wriggles happily, red eyes glowing in relief. You guess she got up to some trouble with the local fauna. She slithers up the stairs quickly, leaving you to look around at the ruined shop.

"Ah, fuck," Asra's words cut through your thoughts like a knife. He's laying flat on the floor, chest heaving as though he just ran a marathon. Sweat glistens on his tan skin, covering him from head to toe.

You step over the broken bottles and kneel at his side. "My love?" You ask, unsure of what to do. It was obvious what had happened, it didn't take an expert. The potion that was supposed to be for your customer was now soaked into Asra's glowing skin.

Asra opens his eyes and you swallow hard. You know that look, and it nearly makes you start trembling where you sit. Lust is prevalent, clouding Asra's eyes until they're a dark amethyst color.

"You-" you start to speak but are cut off by Asra sitting up abruptly. His face is close to yours and his breath washes over your lips, hot and wanton. He looks positively desperate, just the sight of you sitting before him doing wonders.

"Please," Asra's voice comes out low and husky, he watches your chest rise and fall quickly as a result. "Can I please have you, right now."

You could almost call him asking like that soft and innocent, if it wasn't for the raw, hungry look he was giving you. His eyes were traveling everywhere across your body, leaving an invisible line that you could almost feel burning into your skin. Your lips parted and you let out a soft gasp, the power that kind of look had over you was astonishing. You shifted your legs under you subtly, feeling the result of the hot atmosphere low in your stomach.

"Tsk, tsk," you had to tease for a moment. "Closing the shop at midday for some fucking?" You reach up and cup Asra's cheek, feigning uncertainty. His skin on your fingertips burns white hot and you have to hide your amazement.

Asra's eyes narrow, he knew you too well. With a quick flick of his wrist you hear the deadbolt on the door slide into place. It's only a second later and both of his hands have found a place on either side of your hips.

"Why do you torment me?" he asks, pulling you close so your legs straddle him. "Can't you see I'm getting enough of that from this damn mistake of a potion?" His words are almost shaky, as though he can barely speak anymore. He presses his hips up to meet yours, and a soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally gets a little friction.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and gasp, the feeling of Asra so obviously in need is enough to make anyone go wild.

You can't resist grinding down lightly and Asra's eyes practically roll back at the sensation. "How can I say no to such a pretty face," you whisper, completely in love with his reaction.

That was enough for Asra and without added words he gathers you up in his strong arms and lifts you both. Your head falls back pleasurably when his lips find your neck. It only takes a few quick steps on his part to bring the two of you into the plush back room.

The purple cushions lining the cozy futon sink in gently as your back hits the mattress. The room has a slight pleasing haze as sandalwood incense burns at the table. The smell washes over your senses and a new wave of sensuality comes over the room.

Asra's hands hold you firmly as his lips continue to press lovingly into your skin. He hovers over you, one leg pressed between your legs, causing your hips to involuntarily move along his thigh.

"I need you out of these clothes," Asra groans, lips being stopped at your chest where your shirt has suddenly become a hindrance. He's already tugging at the hem, untucking the loose fabric from your waistband. You raise yourself to your elbows and help him pull the shirt over your head. At once it is thrown over Asra's shoulder and his eyes are set on your bare skin, drinking in the sight of his lover.

You smile at his admiration and lay back again, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back. You feel his hands on your stomach, traveling up to rest on your breasts. Your skin prickles with desire, flesh lighting on fire from his ministrations.

"How did I get so lucky," he breathes out, looking down at you with a look filled with love and passion. He rests the tips of his fingers on your nipples and swirls them lightly, leaving you to twist in torturous pleasure beneath his touch. "Everything about you is beautiful." Asra continues to flatter, lowering his head so his curls tickle your stomach. He licks a long line from the dip of your hip up to the valley between your breasts.

After a few moments of tasting your supple skin he moves his hands to the top of your skirt and tugs. You lift your hips in compliance and the fabric slides down your legs easily. Asra licks his lips as your body is finally fully presented to him.

"I could feast on you," he announces, voice lowered with need. "And I wouldn't go hungry in a lifetime." These words he whispers into your inner thigh, they tickle your skin softly.

You watch with bated breath as the man before you adores his lover. It's hard to keep your moans controlled as you feel his sinfully good tongue lick you in a way that can only be described as ecstasy.

Asra shifts into a more comfortable position, lying on his stomach and he brings your legs to lay comfortably over his shoulders. You shudder as you feel his hot breath flutter over your dripping slit. He doesn't waste anymore time and lowers his face to enjoy you.

Your thighs squeeze his head lightly as your body arches in response. Asra is devouring you as though you were a feast and it was the only meal he is to have in a lifetime. He grips your legs tightly to keep you from moving and covers your slit with his mouth, sucking for a moment on the tight nub at the top. He groans happily into your skin before moving down to lick your hole.

"Oh please, yes," you run your trembling hand through his hair and raise your hips up to meet his greedy mouth. He laps short, quick strokes first, stimulating you into madness.

After a moment he slows his tongue down to swirl languidly, looking up at you. You make eye contact and groan at the erotic scene of him eating you out. "That mouth of yours is too skilled for its own good," you whisper, fingers digging into his scalp, trying desperately to savor every swipe of his tongue.

Asra smiles against your folds. "I live to make you feel good, my dear." He says, pausing a moment. "You intoxicate me. Your smell, your taste. I couldn't get enough even if I had all the time in the world." He presses his lips on each one of your thighs with hot, open mouth kisses.

You blush at his words, feeling amazing under his praise. "Come here," you command softly, pulling on Asra's hair lightly to guide him back up your body. He kisses every inch of skin he passes before finally reaching your lips.

"Mm," he hums, taking your face in his hands. "But these lips, are like the finest honey in Vesuvia." He lifts your head so your mouths meet. It's a hot and feverish kiss, full of staggering amounts of love.

You press your body into his and relish in the feeling of kissing Asra. Your mouths are opened to one another and your tongues meet in fiery unison. While you enjoy the kiss you allow your hands to roam. Your fingers find his shirt buttons and you start to undo them as best you can, only a little distracted. It takes just a minute and you sigh happily into his mouth when you finally remove the annoying clothing.

You part a moment to admire the divinity of his body; prostrated before you. He was calling himself the lucky one, but you could probably make a pretty good argument for it being the other way around. He looked absolutely glorious in the hazy glow of the room.

As you reach for the waistband of his pants and rest your fingers playfully on the skin above it Asra breaks out in goosebumps at the fluttering feel of your touch.

"Ah," he breaths out, raising himself to his knees and closing his eyes. Clearly, he's enjoying the attention finally being on him.

"You are the one with the potion affecting them." You say, drawing a line from one hip to another. "It'd almost be criminal to ignore you for any longer." Your eyes fall to the bulge straining under Asra's pants, just begging to be free. A smile plays across your lips as his breaths quickens significantly.

"I.. wouldn't complain." He finally manages to say in a strained tone.

You smile, maybe a little too satisfied, and hook your fingers under the band. "I know." You chuckle, pulling. The trousers catch a moment on Asra's hardened length before slipping down to his knees. You take time to admire the sight before you, licking your lips. Asra is panting slightly, looking down at you lustfully as your eyes graze over him.

He grabs your head on either side and looks into your eyes. "Please," is all he can croak out.

You swallow thickly and you feel yourself dampen even more at his begging words. “I’d like nothing more" you say; need dripping heavily from your words. You lean forward and kiss the tip of his leaking slit lightly. Asra's body shivers with pleasure when your soft lips meet his aching shaft.

You take a breath before closing your mouth around his tip. Your cheeks hollow and you suck in deeply, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure emitting from Asra's lips. He groans even deeper as you finally swallow down his whole length, tip sliding down the back of your throat.

"Ah fuck, baby," he stutters through gritted teeth, fingers threading through your hair. He thrusts into your mouth without hesitation, reveling in the way you feel around him. The pace is fast and vicious, leaving no time for extra room for breathing.

You choke back your gasps and feel the involuntary tears prick at the corners or your eyes. Your hands fall to your sides as you let Asra use your mouth how he pleased. Licentious noises ring around the room as he sinks his member into your mouth relentlessly, moaning at each stroke and the salacious feelings that come over him.

His grip tightens in your hair as he pounds into your face. You open your mouth as widely as you can and take him in, ignoring the slight pain of labored breathing. The feeling of being used so mercilessly is intoxicating, and you close your eyes, enjoying the pleasure that overtakes you.

With a loud pop he pulls out of your drooling mouth, leaving you to be the one groaning in disappointment.

"I'm sorry love," he huffs dazedly, need heavy on his features. "But if I don't stop this now I'm cumming in your mouth."

"That doesn't sound so bad," you complain, sticking your tongue out so Asra can view how much you want it. His eyes darken considerably and he looks ready to break.

He takes a breath in sharply, steadying himself before holding your face gently in his hand. "As much as I want you fuck your face, that pussy of yours I know is dripping for me and I have to comply." He chuckles, running his thumb along your lip.

You whimper at his words, practically climaxing at the suggestion. You meet his eyes in a needy manner and nod. "Oh, Asra," you start, already seeing excitement flit across his face at the mention of his name. "I want you more than I can even describe to you."

To this Asra inhales sharply, thumb still hooked in your mouth. "Tell me how you want me," he says, barely able to contain his own desire.

"I want you to fuck me from behind," you begin, knowing exactly how to please his ears. "I'm going to cry and moan, and beg you for relief but you will know better." His eyes widen in ecstasy but you continue anyway. "I want you to give everything you can to me, without holding back."

Asra seems to snap right in front of you. His features immediately seem to plead for consolation. "You'll get what you ask for." He growls, fingers tightening in your mouth. You lick his thumb seductively and the action throws him over the edge.

Asra's hands fly to your waist and hold you firmly, you're flipped over; ass to the heavens greeting him. He swallows at the sight and digs both palms into the flesh, enjoying the feeling immensely. "So needy and ready for me," he groans, finger finding your entrance and slipping in easily. You gulp at the warmth of having fingers enter you. Asra is unrelenting and curls them cruelly against your walls.

"Just fuck me already!" You cry, unable to hide your desires anymore. You hear Asra laugh behind you, yet despite this you know he is dying to sink himself into you.

"Alright, alright." He concedes, taking your hips in his hands. "If you insist."

You feel his tip slide against your slit and shudder, craving the feeling of him inside you. It doesn't take more than a moment before you feel him start to enter you. You lay your head down, turning your face so you can watch Asra take you from behind.

His lips are parted in a silent moan as he relishes in the feeling of your walls around him. You sigh softly as he fully sheaths himself in you, a small tremor passing over your body from the pleasure. One moment, two moments pass as you both bask in the feeling of being connected.

"Give me your hands," he commands, slowly sliding in and out of you, giving no care to his agonizingly slow pace. Soft gasps are falling from your lips as you try to register his request.

Carefully, you cross your arms behind your back. It's no use to keep the blush at bay as you take in the dirty scene. Your face is pressed to the pillows, unable to move much as Asra takes your wrists and pins them to your back. Your ass is raised in the air to meet his rhythmic thrusting.

Asra grips one of your thighs with a free hand and quickens the pace a little. Your eyes shut tightly as your body responds. You can feel his tip hit deep inside of you with each snap of his hips. It's unrelenting and you have to catch yourself from begging for more.

You feel the fingers around your wrist tighten a bit as Asra's breathing speeds up behind you. You know that he's set on giving you as much painfully slow torture as he can manage himself, but you also know that potion is working against him. There's nothing he wants more than to let go and pound you into the mattress.

"Baby," you choke out, words bouncing along with your bodies. "I know you want to fuck me so good right now." Your voice is deep with seduction. "Please just fill me up like I know you want to." You finish your plea, watching his face with satisfaction. His eyes are darkened with desire. He takes just a few more strokes before slowly to a stop inside you.

"You asked for it," he warns. He only takes a moment to let go of your wrists and flips your body so you're facing him. He cages you in on either side and licks his lips as he stares into your eyes. His hungry mouth meets yours in a kiss full of fire. You can melt into it for only a second before you feel him grab your hips and pull you flush against him; Your cries drowned by his lips as he sets an erratic pace, skin meeting with loud slaps.

"Fucking hell," he groans, still kissing you between words. "You feel like heaven on earth. You're so hot, and I can feel your insides squeezing me." He explains, hot breath falling over your face. Your cheeks burn at his descriptions.

You loop your arms around his neck and press your chest into his. Your skin meets, shining with sweat and burning from love. Asra presses back, savoring the feeling of your nipples brushing against his.

You start to feel that familiar blossom of unreleased pleasure pool in your lower stomach. Asra's shaft is hitting you just right, sending jolts of satisfaction right to your core.

"Oh-" you stop and whine pleasantly when he shifts angles. "Fuck. Please yes, don't stop!" Your arms drop and nails dip into his biceps and you grit your teeth from the hot delight searing through your body.

"I couldn't even If i wanted to," Asra answers, words strained as his grasp on himself starts to crumble. His breath is leaving his lips in short pants now and you can almost see the resolve to hold on slip away before your eyes.

He falls into you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and thrusts into you with all of the strength he can muster. You bury your face in his neck and take hold of his hair. You can feel Asra's body shuddering to not let go.

You bring your lips to his ear and bite his lobe. "Won't you come for me sweetheart? Please empty yourself in me." You whisper.

Asra takes in a sharp breath and you hear him choke at your words. They were enough to push him over the edge and he rams into you with a low, strangled cry.

Your head falls back and your mouth opens in a silent scream as Asra lets himself go in you. Your legs shake violently of their own accord as you feel your orgasm wash over you, leaving your body in euphoric fire.

Asra's lips immediately find yours as you ride out your orgasms together. You kiss him passionately, all of your senses in overdrive. His kisses are soft, and sweet, a clear declaration of his love. Happiness rushes in like a flood as you enjoy the afterglow. After a minute Asra removes himself from you and joins you in laying down, sides still heaving from the activities.

"My dear, how I love you." He says with a smile, running his fingers in slow, soft circles on your stomach.

You turn on your side and look into his eyes. He looked content, and his cheeks were dimpled from his growing grin.

"I love you too," you return, hand falling into his. His skin was still warm. The two of you lay there for a while, out of breath and simply enjoying the presence of one another.

Eventually, Asra sits up and looks down at you with humor in his eyes. "Well, I think I can tell our buyer that we did an extensive review of his product and it does, in fact, work."

Your face breaks into a smile and you laugh at Asra's words. "Oh goodie, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear all about it."

[write-orflight]

Adore You: Chapter One

**Gif Not Mine**

Prev -  Next

Pairings: Frat boy!Steve Rogers x Reader

Rating: M (eventual smut)

Words: 2K

Warnings: none for this chapter: talk about sex, language.

Request: OPEN/CLOSED

Summary: After what happened to her brother, Y/N had a distinct hate for Fraternities. So how did she end up falling for the president of the school’s most elite frat?

A.N Can’t remember my permanent taglist so I’m just going to post this and hope for the best. if you wanna be tagged in this please reply or inbox me. Also feel free to send some suggestions, I see so many other writers getting some but I never do. Don’t be shy or a stranger. Much love, Cia

 Chapter 1:  You don’t have to say you love me. 

You hated parties. 

You found no desire in the grinding of sweating bodies, the drunk guys either trying to cop a feel or barfing in the front yard and the loud music, you could do without. But when your roommate/best friend, Wanda begs you and throws in doing your biology homework in the mix, you find yourself in a sheer blue dress Wanda forced on you in the belly of the beast. 

Now it’s suddenly 2AM and your roommate was nowhere to be found. You had checked everywhere from the front yard to the back deck but you couldn’t find her so you found yourself through the kitchen where a group of Frat boys were taking shots. 

“Hey, hey where’s the rush, sweetheart?” The tall man asked as he saw you passing through. “You need a drink?”

“Leave her alone, Wilson.”  One of the other men says, he’s not as tall as the others, a brunette with a small scar near his nose. You could see the hearing aid he had in his ear. “You need to resign that you’re not getting any tonight.” You watched as the other man punched the guy in the arm which started a less than mature slap fight between the two. 

Another man enters the kitchen at that point. The first thing you notice is how tall he is, certainly taller than the other two men with broad shoulders and a muscular back. He was wearing a thin, pale blue shirt that was almost threatening to rip off him at any moment. He was hot, but you couldn’t focus on that at the moment. “Come on, guys. Knock it off.” 

“He started it, Steve.” The man you now know as Wilson says. The other man rolls his eyes. 

“Yea, well I’m finishing it. Knock it off or you're both on cleanup tonight. I’m sure the pledges would love the break.” You watch as the men mumble apologies into their drinks. That’s when Steve turns to you. You’d only seen his back at this point but the front was just as glorious, with a broad chest and ice blue eyes above soft pink lips. He almost looked unreal, like he was made in some type of lab. “You look lost.” He says, it takes a moment for you to realize that he’s talking to you. 

“I–, um, I’m just looking for my roommate, Wanda. We were supposed to leave by now and I’ve got an 8AM tomorrow.” 

“Wait, Wanda? She a redhead, long hair?” Wilson asks, you nod. The man whistles lowly. “Yea, last I saw her she was talking to Bucky. Think they went upstairs.” 

“Yea, and if she went upstairs with Bucky, she’s not coming back down.” The other man laughs, Steve hits him upside the head. 

You groan. “Ugh, looks like I’m walking back to Morehouse alone.” 

Steve’s eyes bulge. “Morehouse?! That’s like 20 away and it’s late. Just stay here.” 

“Thanks, but I’m not bumming it on a couch at a frat house, I don’t have a death wish.” 

“You can stay in my bed if you want.” You give him a look of Do I look like an idiot to you? He exhales a laugh. “I’m serious, I’ll stay on the couch. No one will bother you, Scout's honor.” 

“You do look like a boy scout.” You mumble. “Fine, where's your room?”  

You follow the large man upstairs to a door down the long winding hallway, avoiding the judgey looks you were getting from other party goers. You knew what this looked like, you felt like an idiot. 

“I’m not going to sleep with you.” You blurt as you approach the door. Steve gives you a confused look. 

“I wasn– I’m just trying to be nice. I wasn’t expecting anything.” He says as the two of you enter the room. It’s modestly decorated, with a bookshelf hanging above a desk in the opposite corner of the bed, which had a vintage Captain America poster above it. 

“Captain America, huh?” 

“Yea, Ma loved those movies. I grew up with it, I guess.” 

“So is this your play, Steve?” You say, musing around the room. “You find girls lost and alone at your party and play knight in shining bedroom?” 

Steve laughs. “No, I don’t do this often. I just feel bad because your friend abandoned you, plus I noticed you earlier and it doesn't seem like you’re the biggest fan of parties.” 

“You noticed me earlier?”

You watched as a flush spreads across the adonis’ face. “Erm, so here’s my bed. If you need anything, I’m right downstairs.” 

“Thanks again, Steve.” 

“No problem, umm– I don’t think I got your name.” 

“I didn’t give it.” 

“Oh, uh–okay. Goodnight then.” 

“Goodnight, Steve.” 

—------------------------------------------

Steve made his way back downstairs to his friends in the kitchen. 

“Hey, you’re back fast.” Sam says as he pours himself another drink, he grabs another cup and pours Steve one while he’s at. Steve nods graciously as he hands him the treat. 

“I’m not surprised. We know Rogers can’t close.” Clint laughs, slapping Steve on his shoulder. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“I wasn’t trying to ‘close’. She needed help, I helped her. That’s it.” 

“What’s this about Stevie not closing?” Bucky says, entering the kitchen to get himself a drink. 

“I’m surprised to see you down here too. Thought you were hooking up with Wanda.” Sam questioned. 

“Yea I was until Vis pulled a robbery on me.” Bucky groans. “I was about to take her upstairs when he came up to tell her how much he loved her multiversal theory in their advanced physics class. Next thing I know they’re talking about a bunch of science shit I don’t know about.” 

“You lost a girl to Vision?? The human robot??” 

“How was I supposed to know she was a secret nerd?” Bucky shrugs. “Now what’s this about Steve?” 

“That girl he’s been looking at all night turns out is Wanda’s roommate.” Sam says. “He offered her his bed to sleep while she waits on Wanda.” 

“So… what’re you doing down here?” Bucky smirks “If she’s in your bed?” 

“I offered her my bed to sleep, not sleep with me.” 

“Stevie…” Bucky tsks at the man.

“What?” 

“You’re never going to get laid if you keep on like this. Peggy thought it was charming but not every girl is like that, soon they’re gonna be walking all over you.”

Steve darkens when he hears the name of the senior he had fallen for his freshman year of college. Peggy was amazing but broke his heart when she had broken up with him the day before her graduation. 

“I was just trying to be nice because I thought you had trapped her roommate into a regrettable night with you.” Steve jokes. 

“Oh, it’s never regrettable with me. Speaking of which, I’ve got my eye on my next victim. Have fun sleeping on the couch alone, though.” Bucky says, laughing, clapping the man on his shoulder. 

Steve sighed into his drink. The couch really wasn’t comfortable. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know what woke you up first, the light in the window or the sound of the door opening. You don’t know why but you immediately went into fight or flight mode, grabbing the nearest heavy object off the nightstand and chucking it at the intruder. The man dodges the heavy book and looks at you wide-eyed. 

“Shit, I forgot you were in here. I’m sorry if I scared you?” He trails off awkwardly, hand going to scratch the back of his head. 

“Where am I? Where’s Wanda?” You asked. 

“Well, you're in the Alpha Psi Delta house, you slept in my bed–” 

“We didn’t..?” 

“Um, no I slept on the couch. I just came up to get my running shorts.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Quarter to eight.” 

You spring out of bed. “Shit, I’m going to be late. Dr. Erickson is going to kill me.” 

“I had Dr. Erickson last year, he’s pretty chill ab–” 

“I’m not late, I’m never late to class and I can’t walk in like this-” You say gesturing to your dress from the night before. “They’ll have a field day–God, I shouldn’t have let Wanda talk me into this stupid party.” 

“You can borrow something of mine, if you want.” Steve interjects. “I might have some stuff that’ll fit you.” He then pulled out a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, handing them off to you before giving you privacy to change. There wasn’t much you could do about the shirt, you were practically swimming in it but you did manage to tie the sweatpants so they weren’t so baggy around your waist. 

“Thanks again for this–” You cut off as the man’s name was suddenly blanking on you. 

“Steve.” 

“Steve.” You repeat, before starting to head out the room. 

“Do you need me to walk you to class?” He says, hopefully. Trying to buy more time with the beautiful stranger. 

“I’ll manage.” You say, with a small smile. 

“Do I at least get a name? I mean, you took my bed and clothes, I think that’s fair.” 

You continue walking towards the stairs before shooting an “It’s Y/N.” over your shoulder before sprinting out the door. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

Biology was boring but then again it always was. You were thankful that Wanda was a woman of her word because in your email mailbox was the homework she had promised to do, so you weren’t completely empty-handed in class. When Dr. Erickson dismissed you with a quote like he always did you high-tailed out of the class. As you walked outside, You saw Wanda sitting on the steps waiting for you. You moved to step in front of her and crossed your arms, irritated. 

“Please don’t kill me.” She started. 

“What was the one rule we had when I agreed to go to Alpha with you?” 

“Not to leave you.” 

“And what did you immediately do?” 

“Leave bu–” 

“It’s not even like you left me for a good reason.” You said starting to walk down the steps towards the quad, Wanda in a tow. “You left me to hook up with Bucky Barnes!” You never personally met Bucky but his reputation of being a ladies man preceded him.  

“I didn’t even hook up with Bucky! I was going to but then I met the sweetest guy, Vis. Can you believe we were in the same physics class and I never saw him? We spent most of the night talking about my multiversal theory and then I kinda passed out in his room. I’m sorry, y/n/n.” 

“I guess if you really like him then I can forgive it.” You grumble. Wanda throws her arms around you to hug you. 

“Good, because I need a favor.” 

“God, what is it this time?” 

“Well, Vis invited me to the charity car wash Alpha Psi Delta does every year this week.” 

“You don’t have a car, Wanda.” 

“But you do…” 

“No, no, no… I’m not letting a bunch of sweaty frat guys pretend to wash my car.” 

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Plus, I’ve been texting Vis and apparently you caught a little someone's eye last night.” You look at Wanda confused. “Come on, why didn’t you tell me you hooked up with Steve Rogers last night?” 

“I didn’t– is he telling people I did? God, I should’ve known you can’t trust a fra–” 

“He isn’t saying that. I just assumed with how much he’s going around telling the guys how beautiful and perfect you are that you put a little something on him.” 

“Please, I barely spoke to the guy. He only offered me his bed because he thought you were hooking up with his best friend.” You shrug. “He was just being nice.” 

“Oh yea, and whose clothes are you wearing?” Wanda says, smug. 

“Shut up.” You grumble. “Fine but if they fuck up my car, you’re paying for it to be detailed. And you're doing my biology homework again.” 

“Done!” She says, flinging her arms around you again. “God, is it just me or does it seem like this year is going to be great?” She smiles. 

You couldn’t help but show a small smile over your friend's enthusiasm, even though you had a bad feeling. 

“Yea, Wan.” You smile. “It’s going to be great.”

[volturiwolf]

Soulmates - A Demetri Volturi x Reader Imagine

A/N: This is the first imagine I finished and uploaded, and it came quite unexpectedly while talking with @volturidoll13 who suggested a Demetri Volturi one-shot where the reader would follow Bella and Alice to Italy and would accidentally say “wish he��d choke ME” out loud (see my post for reference). So, here it is. Also, I’m sorry if something doesn’t make sense. English is not my first langage. Enjoy :)

No of Words: 5749

Mentions of: Swear Language, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Dying/Death, Killings, Self-doubt, Self-consciousness, Kinky Choking, Sexual Arousal

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I think I had enough of Bella. No, I know I've had enough of her. She may be my best friend, the one who truly understood me the moment I stepped foot in Forks High School, beginning of last year, but this was just too much.

I have spent countless hours trying to support her when Edward Cullen left her, 5 months ago. I was there to be her emotional support, and even spent time with Jacob Black, an old friend of Bella's, who stayed at the Quileute reservation.

Jacob seemed kind of polite, although his attempts to flirt with Bella whenever he could were cringy, to say the least. But I supported her then too, trying to be sort of the third wheel / the one who tried to show Jacob she wasn't really interested in him that way.

His friends, Embry and Quil, were as nice and polite as they were beautiful. When Embry abandoned Jacob and Quil, Bella and I were there to support him. When Jacob abandoned Bella, I was there to support her. 

Even when Bella was sad, angry and desperate to know what happened to Jacob, I was there to calm her down. I was there when she went to see him and he turned her away. I was there when she slapped Paul in the face. I was there when he turned into a huge wolf, and I couldn't help but scream.

Jacob explained everything about the wolves to both Bella and I. He told us how it's part of their DNA; how they are meant to protect the tribe from dangerous outsiders; how the metamorphosis from human to wolf can be somehow controlled over time, with practice and persistence. THAT I could understand.

What I couldn't understand was how vampires existed in this world! It wasn't Bella the one to reveal that secret to me, rather Alice, Edward's sister. Apparently, she saw Bella dying, the day she supposedly went cliff-diving, which I told her not to, having a severe fear of heights myself.

Bella took the risk, and if it weren't for Jacob, she would most likely be dead by now. That's what Alice said she "saw" - she explained to my incapable self that, as a vampire, she had a gift, the gift of predicting the future, based on others' decisions. 

All this information was overwhelming me. I could swallow the harsh reality of wolves existing, but vampires, too? It seemed too much for me in such a short period of time.

Alice quickly explained some basics to me, like the fact that the Cullens were vegetarians, but the majority of their kind fed on human blood, as well as the fact that they even had a sort-of-government of vampires, residing in Italy, the Volturi.

She then turned to Bella to scold her about her recklessness and how she was prone to "life-threatening idiocy". I couldn't agree more with the short brunette right now. Bella has been nothing but reckless the last few weeks, and she was putting her life in danger for no reason.

They were talking about Edward or whatever, but I wasn't paying any particular attention until Jacob showed up. I decided to give them some space to talk, and Alice followed behind me, stepping out of the house.

Her face was a mix of disgust and worry, not paying any particular attention to me, probably trying to hear Bella and Jacob's conversation from the kitchen. After a minute or two, I heard her taking a sharp breath, her eyes fixating on nothing in particular; they were just staring ahead of her.

She took a sharp breath, as she regained consciousness, stepping quickly into the house. She walked in quite wide and quick strides, considering her miniature figure, and, though taller than her, I had some trouble following behind her.

She ran directly to the kitchen. "Bella. Bella, it's Edward. He thinks you're dead. Rosalie told him why I came here."

They both looked at Jacob; Bella practically screaming to his face, accusing him of not giving her the telephone to speak with Edward herself.

"Bella, he's going to the Volturi. He wants to die, too." The small brunette continued.

Within a minute, Bella made her decision: she was going to Italy to save her ex-lover. She promised us that she would just make sure he lived, and then, she would go back to her "boring" life.

Alice ran outside, starting her car immediately, as Bella was followed closely by Jacob, who tried to convince her not to go, pleading with her, all in vain. Bella was as stubborn as she could get, and nobody could change her mind. 

I turned to Jacob, without really thinking about my next words. "Don't worry. I'll go with her. I'll make sure she's back safe, okay?"

All Jacob could do is nod at me, though his face was full of concern, frustration, and he was clearly distraught by Bella's decision to leave him and save Edward. As if all this time she, Jacob and, sometimes, I spent time together meant nothing to her.

I jumped in the back seat of the car, not waiting for either Bella's, or Alice's approval. I knew it would be a huge risk for me to go to the vampires' lair, but I also knew that Bella could use all the emotional support she could get. 

As much as I hated Edward for what he did and said to her, I knew that he was everything to her, like her own little haven. Her own little oasis, which I guess felt more like a tundra, compared to Jacob's flaming hot desert. I rolled my eyes at my embarrassing thoughts, but I assumed that's how she thought of them.

The drive to the airport felt like a ton of weight crushing my shoulders. I had no place to follow them to Italy, as it was truly none of my business. But I promised Jacob, and though Bella could make me so frustrated with her lack of self-confidence and self-respect, I liked her company a lot, and I needed to make sure she was alive and safe.

In the couple of months that she came out of her apathetic state, we reconnected again, reminiscing about our unorthodox friendship, both of us being new to the town, shy and not particularly sociable.

However, Bella was the ideal friend to keep you grounded and connected with reality, which I, sometimes, had trouble with; my mind was running wild and free most of the time, while my mouth was staying shut. 

So, I was willing to go across the ocean for her, to an unknown place, in a castle full of bloodsucking vampires. I wasn't pleased, but I was willing. Willing to help her save her stupid ex-boyfriend, and hopefully not get killed in the process.

During the flights, Alice tried, more or less, to explain the dynamics of the vampire world; the Volturi, being this sort of government-slash-royalty of the vampire kind, were tasked with imposing their laws over the other vampires. Their most important law? Don't expose your existence to humans, unless you want to die. Well, there goes that! 

Alice had already talked to me about their kind; Bella knew through her association with both Edward and the rest of the Cullen family. The chances of any of us making out of there alive seemed slim to none. I was literally flying towards my death. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. 

I was trying to calm down my nerves, which did not work at all, when all I could think about were those Italian vampires. Alice told me that the vampire Kings, especially Aro, who seemed to be their leader, were interested in collecting talented vampires. 

So, it was pretty obvious that he would, most likely, get rid of Bella and myself, and would gladly keep Alice and Edward, who, as Alice told me, has the gift of reading people’s minds. So, we were actually doing that Aro guy a favor there; bring him the “talents” and get rid of the “intruders”, the humans. Great. Just, great.

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We were currently on our way to Volterra. Alice had stolen a yellow Porsche from the airport’s parking lot, which neither Bella, nor I opposed to, for now. It was a fast way to get to Volterra, plus I’ve never actually been in a Porsche, and I felt pretty amazing. Alice seemed like a skillful driver, and drove pretty fast, which I liked, especially if I was the one driving. Bella and Alice’s conversation interrupted my thoughts.

“What? What do you see?”

“They refused him.” That was good, right?

“So..?” Bella knew there was something else behind Alice’s vision.

“He’s gonna make a scene. Show himself to the humans.” Why the hell, Edward?!

“No! When?”

“He’s gonna wait until noon, when the sun’s at its highest.” Bella seemed more and more worried and anxious, and I heard her heavy breath, which seemed like she was starting to go on panic mode. I stroked her shoulders lightly, trying to calm her down. As much as she deserved to get worried, given the events that led us here, this was not the time to panic.

“There’s Volterra.” Alice pointed to her left, at a beautiful, picturesque town that looked as if it had jumped out of the Renaissance era. The scenery of Tuscany was beautiful, and it had always been part of my bucket list to travel across Tuscany in a small rental car. That was not how I pictured that trip, or how I pictured my last day on Earth.

Alice was running through the city’s narrow streets by now, never stopping to honk at people passing by, who moved left and right, trying to avoid the “crazy driver who decided it was a good idea to drive a sports car through such a city’s small, narrow, occupied streets”; at least, that’s how I saw it.

Alice did not back down, and continued driving skillfully through the city’s small arteries. It was odd though, the fact that everyone around us was wearing red capes, red clothes, everything was red. Bella questioned it out loud and Alice informed us that today was the celebration of Saint Marcus’ Day, the day that the Saint expelled all vampires from the town. The irony.

Bella was experiencing a full on panic attack, as we were only 5 minutes away from Edward’s shenanigans. Theoretically, everything was in order, until the moment we were stopped by the local police who refused to let us go any farther. Bella opened her door. She would go on foot, to find Edward before he exposed himself. Alice would park the car somewhere outside of the town’s walls, and we’d then go and find them.

I turned around my seat, to watch Bella running through the streets, to the plaza where the clock tower, which Edward was going to expose himself from, was located. Alice left the car outside of the walls, but still, close enough to have easy access. 

For me, it was quite easy to walk around now, as my skin was not sparkling like Alice’s was. Alice had to wrap herself around a coat, a long, thick scarf and gloves, and wear sunglasses to protect her identity even more. I was walking in the middle of the streets, watching around carefully, as good as my human eyes could see, trying to help Alice go unnoticed, as she pushed herself more towards the buildings’ walls, trying to avoid the sunlight. 

That went on for a while, until we were close enough to the clock tower, where Alice took my hand on hers and, with long strides, walked towards the main entrance, which was, thankfully, shaded enough for her to walk through. 

She must have heard the conversation inside the building, as the moment we stepped in - Alice breaking the lock that kept the door momentarily closed, she started talking to the others, who I mistook as being Bella and Edward. As another sign of my unluckiness in life, she was actually addressing two other vampires, a tall brunette and a shorter blond.

They both looked gorgeous, but they could probably kill me as easily as it was for me to blink. I instantly became stiff, and Alice must have felt it, but she kept on holding my hand, trying to play it cool in front of the others, while trying to get rid of her disguise with her free hand at the same time.

“Come on, guys. It’s a festival. You wouldn’t want to make a scene.” She tried to play it nice and cool, though I knew she was just as worried being here as the rest of us.

“We wouldn’t.” The brunette vampire responded, now looking at me, who, by now, I have lost all my confidence in coming to Italy to help Bella.

I caught the blond vampire looking me up and down my body, and felt rather self-conscious. I didn’t have the best relationship with my own body and my own self; I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror, most of the time. So, I made up for what I lacked in self-confidence with sarcasm, bad humor, honesty and snarky remarks. I would be really going off of him right now, if I wasn’t shaking.

Though beautiful, the blond vampire also scared me, just as much as his brunette partner. I stared back at him, looking at his confident stance, one hand behind his back, and a smirk across his face. 

When my (Y/E/C) eyes met with his red ones, I started shivering even more, holding on Alice tighter than before. I felt my heart beating faster, my breath became both sharper and deeper, and I felt as if I would cry, right then and there, in front of everyone. I saw the blond becoming a bit stiff, his jaw clenching, swallowing deeply, but he still wouldn’t take his eyes off of me.

Alice and Edward exchanged some looks, as if they knew what was happening, but chose to not tell anyone else. The scene in front of me was interrupted by the clicks of heeled shoes, and a blonde girl came into our view. 

“Enough.” Her voice was stern, and her stance was stoic as she came closer to us.

“Jane.” Edward recognised her and lowered his head towards the ground. He didn’t seem scared before, when it was just the two vampires in front of us, but the small woman now seemed to have him terrified.

“Aro sent me to see what was taking so long.” She looked between the two vampires of her coven, as if she was criticizing them for their incompetence to bring us all before Aro. Then, she turned to us, looking us straight in our eyes, or rather our souls, probably to warn and scare us at the same time, before walking back to where she came from. 

Alice turned towards Bella and I, the only humans there, who clearly looked more terrified than she and Edward did. “Just do as she says.” She simply said and we followed behind the girl, with the other two vampires closely behind us. 

The blond one was so close to me, I could feel the coldness radiating off his body, making me shiver. The brunette gave Edward the red robe I didn’t notice he was holding before, probably to cover himself in front of the Kings. The blonde girl moved between Bella and Edward, and Alice and I. Edward was trying to comfort Bella but I couldn’t exactly make out what they were saying, my mind making all shorts of scenarios about how the vampires would kill me and the others. The more I thought about it, the more I was shriveling on Alice’s side. 

We reached an elevator - I never thought vampires used elevators, but maybe it was for the humans around? The brunette and the blond entered first, as the blond turned around to stare at us, turning his gaze at me afterwards, before fully stepping in. Then, it was time for Edward and Bella to get in, followed by Alice and I. The blonde girl stepped in last, before the elevator’s doors closed shut.

The elevator music, an operetta, was supposed to calm peoples’ nerves. Yet, in this tight box, it had the opposite effect. Surrounded by vampires, vegetarian and non, the music was just creeping me out. 

The fact that the blond vampire was merely two inches away from me was making my knees weak and my heart pounding, though I, myself, didn’t even know if my own body was reacting out of fear or attraction towards the blond vampire. I felt him leaning closer to me and barely heard him sniff around, but I clearly saw Alice turning her head around and giving him death stares, to which he retrieved back to his original position.

The elevator stopped and we all stepped out. We walked past a receptionist’s desk, the woman standing up, smiling and wishing us a good afternoon - based on the few Italian that I knew. From what Bella and Edward said, the receptionist was a human, wishing to become a vampire, like the others.

“And so she will be.” Demetri smirked, looking at me, who I still haven't abandoned Alice’s hand.

“Or dessert.” Jane interrupted, and I felt myself losing consciousness for a split second, before I felt the blond vampire grabbing my arm to stabilize me. His hand was cold and his grip tight on me, not leaving me even after I looked at him with wide eyes. He just smiled and continued walking ahead.

Jane opened the doors in front of her, leading us to a massive room, made out of marble, and decorated with Roman columns and scriptures on the walls. Surprisingly, it was well-lit and bright, compared to the dark halls that we passed through just a minute ago.

“Sister. Send you out to get one and you bring back two. And two halves. Such a clever girl.” A brunette boy, a bit taller than Jane, called towards her, as she walked by his side.

The blond vampire let me go and walk farther into the room, still holding Alice’s hand like I was holding on her for dear life. The blond vampire now stood a few feet behind us, next to the tall brunette one.

A black-haired vampire, who seemed a bit too excited, started walking towards us. “What a happy surprise! Bella is alive after all. Isn’t that wonderful. I love a happy ending. They are so rare.” He was talking with fake happiness in his face, as if he was reading from a script, grabbing Edward’s hand in the process.

“La tua cantante.” Your singer. The vampire seemed to know how much Edward craved Bella’s blood, and questioned how Edward could do so easily. 

“Aro can read every thought I’ve ever had with one touch.” Well, that explained a lot. And now I placed who Aro was within the Volturi.

I now learned more about Edward’s gift, which was more similar to Aro’s than anyone else’s, but he couldn’t actually read Bella’s thoughts. Aro requested if he could test his own gift on Bella, probably hoping that he could read her thoughts and brag about it. But when Bella offered her hand, which he took too willingly, his face was unreadable and then, disappointed and angry, not being able to read her either.

Then, he turned towards me, still by Alice’s side. His red eyes were cold and hostile, and his face uninviting. I felt small and vulnerable, exposed, in front of his critical gaze.

“Dear (Y/N), excuse me for the waiting. Edward has presented me a very..intriguing image of you. Could you offer me your hand? I would like to get to know you, as well.”

My lips were trembling, not being able to say a word, and my eyes were glistening. Please, don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. I knew that whatever Edward had shown him I couldn’t avoid. So, I took a step forward, leaving Alice’s hand and extending the other one towards Aro. I felt a breeze behind me, as Demetri came to stand on my right side, looking closely between Aro and I.

The mind reader took my hand between his hands, and I felt my thoughts being examined and tossed around my head, like a small whisper trying to cast a spell on me. The vampire looked at me, deep in the eyes, and his face was filled with fascination for whatever he saw inside my head.

“Fascinating, indeed, dear. Your mind is just filled with thoughts and images, though they are not very distinct. You are not an easy book to read. I still haven’t figured out who you really are. Although…”. He looked at the vampire standing beside me, motioning for him to give him his hand.

The blond obeyed his master. Did he have any other choice? Probably not. Aro took the blond’s hand, and his wicked, sick smile came back.

“Oh, this suddenly became even better than I would have expected.” He turned towards the vampire sitting on the throne, looking sad. Marcus? The vampire in question nodded, and Aro turned around in an almost theatrical move, with open arms, for everyone to see. 

“It seems that our dear Demetri has finally found his mate in (Y/N). I’m so happy for the two of you!” His face was smiling, but his voice sounded as fake as ever. 

I didn’t know what “mates” meant. Alice didn’t have enough time to explain every “vampire term” to me, so I was clueless regarding this part. The blond, who I now knew as Demetri, must have seen the confusion in my face, as he leaned slightly towards me and whispered “Soulmates” in my ear. My eyes widened and he giggled lightly.

Whether it was how close he came near me, or his giggle, or the fact that we were “soulmates”, my heart responded immediately, thumbing faster in my chest, and I felt my cheeks burn - I was clearly blushing in front of everyone, as if I couldn’t be any more awkward than I was before.

Aro interrupted my embarrassment, as he turned once again towards Bella, wanting to test if she was immune to the others’ gifts as well. He turned towards the blonde girl, Jane, asking her basically to show off her own gift. Edward ran forward to stop whatever it was going to happen, only to end up in pain, writhing in an inaudible pain, as Bella was practically screaming to stop.

I honestly didn’t mind Edward suffering, even if it was for a few seconds, considering that Bella had it worse for over 5 months. He finally dropped to the floor, as Alice ran to his side, and the blonde girl’s brother ran to grab Bella, to stop her from going by her lover’s side.

I had no idea what was happening. I was just looking around, shocked and scared, as all these unfamiliar things were taking place in front of my untrained eyes. I felt a hand stroking my arm up and down. I turned around to see Demetri smiling slightly at me, trying to calm me down. I sighed a bit and felt my heart slightly at ease.

That was until the Kings decided that Bella was a liability - I wasn’t? - and Aro called out for Felix. I turned around and saw the tall brunette smiling evilly, while the shorter brunette turned Bella around and left her there, exposed, in front of the giant. Edward seemed to know what it would be happening, as he immediately stood up and ran by Bella’s side to protect her.

He immediately ran forward, attacking the tall brunette, and knocking him down. Alice ran towards Edward to help him out, but she was immediately stopped by Demetri, who I didn’t notice had left my side, grabbing her by her neck and immobilizing her, dragging her away from ever reaching her brother. 

“Alec!” Demetri shouted towards the brunette boy, who had just left Bella at Felix’s mercy, pointing towards me with his eyes. The boy, Alec, came by my side, and practically dragged me farther from the scene that took place in front of me. His grip was a bit too much as he squeezed my arm, making me slightly cry in pain. Demetri growled at him, and Alec’s grip loosened significantly, but he still kept his hand on my arm.

Felix was pissed by now, as he immediately started fighting Edward, pushing and slamming him around the room. However, I couldn’t focus my gaze on them; not because they were fast, but because I was focused on watching Demetri, and how he was still holding on Alice’s neck tightly, never letting her go.

Watching Demetri’s hand around Alice’s neck should have made me feel appalled and sorry for the small brunette girl, but it didn’t. On the contrary, I felt rather aroused, watching his strong hand wrapped around the brunette’s neck. 

Honestly, I felt a wave of jealousy and annoyance hitting me. That should have been me! Only I was worthy to be touched by this sort of demon who masked his true identity with the facade of an angel. It should be me! I couldn’t help myself, my jealousy building up inside me. 

“Wish he’d choke ME!” I told myself, getting more frustrated by the minute.

“Patience, cara mia. All in due time.” Demetri smirked at me. I did not realise I said that out loud, until Alec started snorting beside me, clearly laughing cheekily, and Felix started bursting in laughter, his grip tight on Edward’s jaw by now.

I had embarrassed myself in a room full of vampires once again, the majority of them being part of the Volturi coven. If the Earth opened in half and swallowed me, I would pretty much welcome it at that point.

Bella brought me back to reality, as she was practically screaming, begging the vampires to let go of Edward, as she looked clearly distraught and upset. She even offered herself instead of Edward! Why, Bella? Just why? I have understood by now that they were mates and they’d do anything for each other, but she would sacrifice her own life for Edward?! That didn’t make sense to me.

Aro seemed to agree with me, but he thought more of the “soulless monster” perspective, while I thought more of Edward’s character, and how much his absence had scarred Bella. Alice told me, on our way here, that he thought he was doing everything to keep her away just to protect her, that being close to him put her in danger. But, from my own experience with Bella, she was suffering more away from him than he thought she would.

Aro looked disappointed between Edward and Bella, wishing he would give her immortality, which he did not seem willing to do. Aro moved menacingly towards the terrified girl, prepared to end her life. I fell forwards, attempting to reach her, to move in between them, but Alec’s grip tightened, keeping me back, both of his hands on my arms now. Aro was basically licking his lips, when, suddenly, Alice stopped him. 

The small brunette confirmed that Bella would become a vampire like them, and that she would even be the one to change her, as she saw in her vision. Aro called her forward, and Demetri let her walk towards his Master. 

He then moved towards Alec and I, replacing the brunette boy, but, instead of grabbing my arms like Alec did, he embraced me tightly, not letting me move away from my position. His cold embrace sent shivers down my spine, but, surprisingly, I let myself relax in his arms, feeling safe, and like that was where I belonged. I felt him smiling and relaxing, as well.

Aro seemed pleased with whatever Alice had shown him, and intrigued by her own gift of predicting the future. Alice had told me that her gift was subjected to the decisions people made, and the future could just change at any point. However, if Aro believed that her vision would eventually come true, we had no reason to tell him otherwise. 

Aro turned to Bella. “Your gifts will make for an intriguing immortal.” He whispered as he touched her face, Bella clearly feeling uncomfortable under his touch. I would, too - Aro seemed creepy in his own way, his behavior and movements just as unpredictable.

He then told us to leave, and prepare for Bella’s transformation, and Felix let go of Edward. Marcus told everyone that a woman named Heidi would be coming soon and thanked us “for the visit”, as Aro said his goodbyes. Demetri walked towards the exit, me still in his arms. Edward grabbed Bella by her hand and Alice followed them behind.

As we were walking through the corridor, a beautiful woman walked past us, many people - they looked like tourists - following behind her. She had long, wavy brown hair and purple eyes, which could only mean that she was most likely wearing blue contacts over her red eyes. Her aura was full of confidence and power; she knew what she was doing and she took her job seriously.

“Nice fishing, Heidi.” I heard Demetri addressing the woman from behind me. So, that was the Heidi Marcus was referring to. Wait.. Nice..what?

“Yes, they do look rather juicy.” The beautiful woman replied, eyeing between Bella and I, as she continued leading the tourists down the hallway.

Demetri must have seen her reaction, as he brought me closer to him. I was in shock, and started trembling more than before. These people, these poor people would be the vampires’ snacks in a few seconds. Like Bella and I could have been just minutes ago. I tried to not think about it, but the screams that echoed through the hall would probably haunt me for the rest of my life.

Demetri opened another door as we approached the end of the corridor, and we found ourselves back in the reception area. The Italian woman greeted us once again, but I didn’t listen to what she said, still in shock, just waiting to leave this horrible place as soon as I could.

“Just wait here. You will be able to leave in a few hours, when it’s dark outside.” Demetri instructed Edward and Alice, and took his arms away from my body, turning to look at me. “Wait here, cara mia. I’ll be back soon.” I nodded, not being able to say a word.

Demetri turned and ran towards the throne room. I knew he left to feed, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of him killing innocent humans. I couldn’t keep myself from crying, as I started trembling and losing balance. 

Alice came by my side, trying to stabilize and calm me down, while Edward tried calming down a hyperventilating Bella. We were both losing our sanity, not being able to keep up with the Volturi’s lifestyle, as it seemed. I was craving Demetri’s touch but, at the same time, I couldn’t stop the human in me, the logic, the sense that said that I should stay away from the vampires who killed people. 

I heard Alice and Edward talking with the receptionist, but I couldn’t make out exactly what they were talking about. Alice, slowly and carefully, with her hands still on my arms, led me to a nearby bench, as the receptionist walked away. I was rocking back and forth, trying to calm down, realizing that we are still alive. I saw the receptionist coming towards us, offering a glass of water to both Bella and I.

“Grazie mille.” I thanked her, my voice barely audible.

“Prego.” She smiled at me, and walked back towards her desk.

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

I didn’t realise how much time passed, until I heard footsteps coming towards us. I was way more calm by now. Lifting my head towards the direction of the footsteps, I saw Demetri and Felix. I shyly smiled at Demetri, and he smiled back, with a smile wider than mine, a smile that warmed my heart.

“Hello, again, amore mio.” I felt as if my heart stopped for a split second upon hearing the words he used to address me. I would still be weak to my knees, if I didn't already sit down.

Felix was the one to inform us that we were allowed to go now, being way past nighttime. I stood up, and attempted to walk forward, towards Bella and the two Cullen siblings. I intended to leave with them, but I was stopped by Demetri’s hand on my wrist.

“Where are you going, cara?” He looked at me, knowing why I was attempting to walk away.

“I.. I thought we’d.. be leaving? That I’d be leaving? With the others?” At least, I was hoping I would be leaving with them. 

“I’m sorry, amore. I can’t let you go, not now that I found you. You’ll be staying here, with me.” Demetri sounded so natural and serious, and I could only stare at him, my mouth agape.

“But.. I thought it was okay for me to leave. I have a life behind, you know. I have a school to finish, I have my family, I have things to do.” I still looked at him dumbfounded, waiting for him to allow me to go, just for now, just for a few months at least.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). But I cannot risk anything happening to you. I will make sure you are safe and protected here. We will arrange everything with your school and your family, and whatever else is needed. Please, stay.” Demetri’s eyes were pleading, and a shiver passed through my body, just by looking at him and hearing him talk.

It took me a few minutes to respond; nobody said a word all this time. “Okay.” I said faintly. “I will stay.. here.. with you.”

Demetri’s face lit up, and he leaned closer to me, wrapping his arms around me. He was careful to not hurt me, and I knew, at the moment, with my heart full of love and affection for that man, that that was where I was supposed to be. With Demetri. For as long as it lasted.  

[yandere-sins]

Hello friend!❤️ I absolutely adore your Miya Twins works. Every time you post something for one of them or both of them I’m so elated and excited to read what you’ve come up with! If your requests are open (your bio says they are) I was wondering if you could write something where the reader almost successfully escapes or calls for help? What are the twins reactions? What would they do? I love how you write their dynamic and would love to see this idea explored! If you don’t want to write for both of them, maybe Atsumu’s perspective? Personally he is my favorite twin! I hope you are well thank you❤️

Hey friendo! ♥ We actually talked about escaping them before, so this might be interesting for you! Thanks for requesting, I hope this is close to what you wanted! I needed a reason to just make it ‘almost’ ^^’

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"Keep it down, 'Tsumu."

His brother's warning only frustrated Atsumu more, but he grit his teeth in response, the last remnants of his voice fading through the hallway of the apartment complex. Maybe he had been a little loud as he tried to voice his anger, frustration, and fear, but how else was he supposed to come to terms with this situation? Not only had their darling found a way to crack the lock on the front door open, no, they also successfully slipped out of his grasp and outran him in the moment of surprise - HIM, a professional athlete.

It was almost too bad that they missed a step on the second to last staircase, making them fall right into the opposing wall. The twins' screams as they heard the maddening crack when their head hit the cement must have echoed throughout the whole house. Luckily, the twins weren't the only shady people renting an apartment here, and most were empty anyway. No one came to see what the ruckus was all about.

Their darling was anything but weightless as they were slumped against his back, Atsumu giving them a piggyback ride back to their home. Luckily, his muscles were good enough to easily carry them around, but taking three staircases with an extra person on his back wasn't the most comfortable task even for him.

"It's your responsibility. You let them get away," had been Osamu's reasoning as to why they wouldn't alternate carrying them. "Asshole," Atsumu grumbled, Osamu giving him a glare back over his shoulder. He knew just as well that Atsumu wasn't lashing out at him, both of them going through the same state of shock and frustration. But now, with the blood of their darling's head wound dripping onto Atsumu's shirt, they also had their hands full with worrying.

"Stop making a scene. It could be worse," Osamu reminded him, but despite the harsh words, Atsumu felt the same kind of relief. At least they didn't make it out. But at what price?

"Ya think they'll recover from that?" Atsumu asked quietly as Osamu opened the door for him, both of them frowning at the busted door lock. It was crazy to think that their sweet, docile darling was able to do such a thing. However, when their darling realized that their plan failed to pick the lock, they must have panicked so much they ended up opening it this way. "From their failed escape? Probably. That wound is a different thing."

Both of them were tense as Osamu spoke out what they wished didn't have to be voiced. They were no doctors. They could patch up a cut or put ointment on a bruise, but if anything was wrong inside of their brain, they'd be screwed. Bringing them to a hospital was out of the question. Less their darling might be taken away from them. Atsumu didn't even want to start thinking about all the people that would be all over his sweetheart, touching and caring for them while he couldn't. A stupid moment to get jealous, but who could blame him?

"Put them down in their room; it's the safest spot at the moment. Close the door just in case," Osamu instructed, opening the door for Atsumu before disappearing into his own bedroom. "Bring tissues!" Atsumu called after him as he carried their darling inside, trying to slide them off his back as gently as possible and laying them on their bed. His t-shirt was already ruined as he pulled it off, gently dabbing the fabric against the wound on their forehead, waiting for his brother to bring some bandages and ointment. "Shit," he mumbled, biting his own lip in frustration.

The person he was most frustrated with was himself. Yes, he knew about what kind of power balance reigned in their house. Yes, he knew that not all he did to his darling was in their best interest. But he didn't want it to end... like this. That's not what he wanted. Pressing the shirt to their wound, he lifted their hand with his free one, bringing it to his lips. They had done something bad. Something really, really bad. But at the same time, they were so vulnerable, so dependant, and they didn't even know it. They shouldn’t have run from them, it was their darling’s fault in the first place. But how could he be mad at them when they were in this heartbreaking state? Punishment was nothing he could even think about in that moment. What if they didn’t wake up again? Even with the blood dripping from their face, they were the most wonderful person he knew, and Atsumu feared to have told them that less than he should have when he had the chance.

"Move." Giving him an ungentle kick in the waist, Osamu made Atsumu free up the space directly next to their darling's head. He wished he could have his brother's place, but Osamu was just a bit better when it came to fixing stuff. So maybe, he could fix this too?

Pushing away Atsumu and his shirt, Osamu leaned over their darling, checking again if they were still breathing before taking a closer look at the wound. "Ya know how to do stitches?" Osamu mumbled as he looked at it from every side possible. "Are you crazy?" Atsumu hissed back. "Neither of us can do that!"

"And your better idea is...?"

Fuck. His stomach twisted and churned as Atsumu thought about this.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"You do it," Atsumu spoke monotonously. Trying to hide his fear and the shaking hands in his lap.

"Your hands are more steady," Osamu hissed back at him, not noticing that they currently were out of control, only trusting logic in this situation.

"Are you kidding?" Atsumu barked, ready to hit his brother if not for both of Osamu's hands being around their darling's face to steady it.

"One of us has to, and it ain't me! I just cook! You have finger coordination!"

"But..." Atsumu's voice cracked, his eyes falling onto their darling's almost peaceful face if not for the bloody mess at the side of their forehead. Osamu sighed. He pulled his hands away, fingers covered in red smears as he brushed back his hair. "They're bleeding, 'Tsumu," he whispered, and Atsumu heard the same damn fear in his brother's voice that he was fighting with. The struggle, the uncertainty. Fear of losing their darling and guilt of letting it come so far. Osamu had been farther away from their darling than Atsumu, but he was blaming himself just as much. "What do we do?" Osamu's voice was strained with the burden of a person's life on his shoulders as well.

That's right. Atsumu wasn't the only one hurting.

"Then the hospital--" Osamu sighed, catching his composure as quickly as possible, or he might have started to cry. Instead, he pulled out his phone. He hesitated before his lock screen flashed up, ready to call the emergency hotline. By now, time was of the essence.

"No," Atsumu decided right as his eyes caught the light coming from the display. "I'll do it," he stated, determined with an unknown strength.

"I will," he emphasized again, this time, trying to hide the slight shake of uncertainty in his voice. All their work, all this time they put into keeping their darling with them - it couldn't be in vain. Their love was not so shallow. "But..." Osamu mumbled, unsure if this was the right decision.

"I'm the older twin. Trust me."

"Debatable..." Osamu mumbled, glancing back at their hurting darling. "But I trust you."

It all felt unreal. Their first aid kit wasn't just a normal, store-bought one as Atsumu always thought. Somehow, Osamu seemed to have predicted there could have been worse wounds to befall them, owning everything they could need. Chaos reigned in Atsumu's head as he watched one video after another of how to stitch wounds on Osamu's phone while washing his hands maniacally as if to wash off the sins crawling over his skin. The time was pressuring him. There was so much to note, he was barely able to remember the first step once he was done watching it. Avoiding blood poisoning seemed to be the slightest problem when he couldn't even remember how to close a stitch.

Both of them suited up for the occasion, Osamu silently bringing a new shirt into the bath before washing his hands next to his brother. "We said we'd do it together when we brought them here," he reminded Atsumu as he helped him into the gloves. "You're not alone in this."

"I know," Atsumu sighed. "We always did it together, but I have to do this alone. For them. For us."

"I'm always right behind you," Osamu encouraged Atsumu as they stepped up to their darling. A moment of silent prayers passed as they looked down at the biggest mistake of their life. Their darling.

"Let's get it over with," Atsumu mumbled. There was something in his brother's eyes that Osamu had never seen before. He could only recognize it as a point of no return. A breaking point. And yet, Osamu handed the needle to his brother, who immediately pointed it to where he wanted it to go. However, before he could stick it in, he hesitated, his will faltering instantly. What if he'd mess it up? What if he couldn't do it? They'd die. Either way, they'd die.

"On three," Osamu caught his brother, who was falling into despair. Atsumu had to do it. There was no turning back, they had long ignored the right things, and now they were too deep in to go back. He'd prove his love once and for all. Atsumu breathed in.

"Deep breath. One. Two..."

Atsumu breathed out.

"Three."