#Installment plan

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"SHE GOT AWAY OFTEN BUT CAUGHT FINALLY," Toronto Star. July 28, 1933. Page 2. ---- Woman Dodged Employee of Store Where She Bought Coat and Didn't Pay ---- Mrs. Harry Chew, alias Mrs. Donald van Hassen, alias Doris Johnston, appeared in women's court to-day charged with theft of a fur coat valued at $119.73 from a store.

An employee for the company stated that the accused woman, then known as Mrs. Chew, had paid $5 deposit on the coat on Dec. 7, 1931, with the understanding she was to pay on the instalment plan. She had paid $30 altogether.

"Then she cleared out from her Jarvis St. room, leaving a note that she was going to jump into the river, and I didn't see her for six months, when I invited her to go for a ride," he testified. "She didn't know me and accepted. I drove her to the rear of our store and took her into the counter. Realizing where she was, she tried to get out and then said the coat had been sold in Montreal for $5, claiming she had turned it over to Mr. Chew, who works in a cafe. Then she ran away.

"I met her again on Church St. She said she had the coat and would get it in 15 minutes. I waited almost an hour, but she never turned up. Just about a month ago I saw her on the street, but she ran up an alley."

Witness produced the contract signed by accused, agreeing that the coat would remain the property of the company until paid for in full.

Harold Chapman, for the defence, claimed there was no identification of accused's signature and that the coat became accused's property when she took possession.

"I maintain there is no case against accused," he concluded, waiving defence.

"You will be remanded in custody for sentence on Aug. 4, sentence to date from to-day," ruled Magistrate Patterson

"I owed her $78 room rent, so she kept some of my tools worth $35 and I can't earn a living without them," claimed Sydney Bond, charging his ex-landlady, Alice Bouchan, with breach of the Inn Keepers' Act. "I tendered her a week's payment, but she refused me my tools even then."

"I have no other way to protect myself," pleaded accused. "I haven't enough money to sue."

"Complainant will pay $6 on his rent and accused must release the goods," ruled the bench. The case was adjourned to July 31 in order to allow the conditions to be fulfilled.

[americantaxsettlement]

WHAT IS AN IRS INSTALLMENT PLAN?

An IRS installment plan can take two forms: informal or formal. Under an informal arrangement, the taxpayer commits to monthly payments of an agreed-upon sum to clear the balance within two years. On the other hand, a formal installment agreement involves a written contract wherein the taxpayer pledges to make specified monthly payments, and the IRS agrees to accept them. While an informal agreement allows payment allocation, particularly towards the trust fund section of employment taxes, this flexibility doesn’t apply to a formal installment agreement.

WHAT IS THE MINIMUM MONTHLY PAYMENT FOR AN IRS TAX INSTALLMENT PLAN?

For balances ranging from $10,000 to $25,000, the minimum payment is determined by dividing the total amount due by 72. In most cases, IRS collection personnel are reasonable individuals. If an IRS collection employee adjusts a taxpayer’s installment payment at a sum that the taxpayer’s representative believes is too high, the representative can discuss the matter with the collection employee’s manager.  If this doesn’t lead to a satisfactory resolution, the representative can take the issue to the IRS appeals office.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Your pretender au is probably one of my favorites. You are an excellent writer but I have to ask. Ratchet is a good medic. Does he ever notice?

Would Optimus ever have to replace Ratchet with something pretending to be him? Can other bots be replaced like Orion was?

If that wasn’t your intention with the story I’m sorry it just gives such a good horror vibe of this secondary eldritch race replacing them or maybe it’s Primus’s next stage in evolution or maybe it’s unicron infiltrating.

Also just as a bonus, how would the humans react if pretender Optimus and Bee were finally revealed while on earth?

I gotchu buddy. I will forever expand on my precious pretender au.  And don’t you worry, this was 100000% my intention with this AU.  I will need to get to your last little question in another post, but don’t worry, it's all coming together o(^▽^)o

Previous part here. 

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Ratchet knew the moment the supposed Prime arrived that he was not Orion Pax. He had been one of Orion’s closest friends. He could sniff out a fake without so much as rebooting his optics once. In light of this, his very first instinct was to interrogate the fragger to find out who sent him and then promptly drop his body in a ditch somewhere. At least that way Orion could rest in peace. 

That was Ratchet’s plan, but then the fake presented the Matrix of Leadership and had the relic confirmed by the Primacy priests. It was legitimate. He was a true Prime, even if he wore the face of one who should have been dead. With that in mind, there was no way Ratchet could kill him. The fake did not hesitate to take up the position Orion left behind, quickly becoming the leader the Autobots desperately needed. Optimus never attempted to leech off Orion’s old connections or otherwise abuse the legacy he’d stolen, and for that reason, Ratchet let him be. He had no clue how Optimus had gotten Orion’s face and memory, but whenever he attempted to dig into any files and ask Jazz about Orion’s situation before death, the results came up unsatisfactory. 

Of course, Ratchet did not need to search in vain for long. As soon as the Prime began turning up on the battlefield and subsequently required medical attention, Ratchet quickly found out just what he was dealing with. Optimus’s CNA was a convoluted mess that shouldn’t have even been capable of producing a living being. There were strands from Shapeshifters, Insecticons, and even a small amount of Predacon within the Prime’s genetic code. There seemed to also be a bit of Cybernetic flora mixed into his CNA, but it was all so jumbled that Ratchet could hardly make sense of it. Orion’s CNA was like an accessory, a veil that hung over the monstrosity that Optimus really was. 

But Optimus had already proven to be highly intelligent, and he did not allow Ratchet to so much as record his findings. Clawed digits dug into his shoulders and mandibles clicked together ominously behind him as Ratchet looked over the scans he’d taken during Optimus’s examination. Every part of Ratchet screamed at him to run from the predator behind him. He could feel optics glaring at him, hot events brushing over his neck, and a rattling voice that sounded as though it were a sick mockery of his friend giving one order.

“Keep this to yourself, old friend. If you wish for your kind to be preserved, my nature must remain between us alone.”

Ratchet did his best to not shake, but the command rang out in his audials, causing his spark to spin in terror. He did not look behind him, he couldn’t bear to. He watched the screen in front of him, his optics on the distant reflection of the thing behind him. It was blurry and difficult to make out, but there were claws, fangs, optics, and mandibles that did not belong. He did not move from his prone station until he heard the definitive sounds of transformation and a dull almost comforting hum from the being behind him.

“Calm yourself. I mean no harm to your people. My purpose is to preserve, to protect… and to ensure that never again may you fellow creations of Primus enslave yourselves to the whims of your own desire.”

Dangerous digits ran along the side of his audials in what could have been a fond manner before the creature that proclaimed itself a Prime left the medical bay without another word. Ratchet remained still, watching the CNA scans as a biological hologram pretended itself. 

He feared what he saw.

Hidden behind an armored disguise was a being that was in no way Cybertronian. The computing program projected the image of a monster, one Ratchet could not find it within himself to look at for long. It was just a prediction, but beneath his shining shell, Optimus’s appearance was horrific at best. The predictions spoke of a long gangly build with extra arms and two jointed legs not too dissimilar to Soundwave’s. It had a hard shell almost akin to a carapace but with plenty of thin transformation seams where outer armor folded away. Three sets of optics were on a face filled with fangs and covered in mandibles. On the thing’s back were spines that extended down its back and developed into vicious looking raptorial claws that jutted out from around the base of the shoulders. The only familiar things present in the prediction were the colors the thing bore, the familiar finials, and the same optical structure Ratchet knew his deceased friend to have.

A being that masqueraded as one of their own… one that was capable of doing any number of horrific things to further its own unintelligible goals. Ratchet shuddered at the implications, but he closed and deleted every single scan after a few kliks of observing what he had discovered.

He would wait. He would see what Optimus wanted. Then when he stepped over the line, Ratchet would act and use what he knew to his advantage. Whatever Optimus was… he had Cybertronian roots in his CNA. Despite being a convoluted mockery of that which Ratchet and his people were, that simple fact ensured that toxins and disease were likely still viable options when it came to eliminating the threat. And so that is what Ratchet prepared for. Vorns were spent dutifully crafting the ultimate plague, one he carefully ensured was tailored to Optimus’s CNA specifically. No others would die should it be unleashed, just Optimus Prime.

It was a foolproof plan, one Ratchet had every intention of enacting as the war dragged on, peace treaties fell through, and Optimus’s sick tests put him and Jazz through all kinds of torture that thankfully were reserved for them alone. It was easy to see that Megatron would likely be willing to stop the war effort if he could kill Optimus. Somehow, he’d learned the truth regarding what the Prime was. Ratchet could see it in his optics when he flew forward in rage. If Optimus died, the truth would come out and the war could come to an end. Ratchet was not happy with the idea of Megatron ruling Cybertron, but in the face of the threat Optimus posed?

He was willing to compromise.

He spoke with Jazz and silently he selected a date to unleash his plague. But then, out of the blue, Optimus vanished. He was known for leaving for extended periods of time, but this was new. For six stellar cycles not a spark knew where he was. Ultra Magnus held the army together and Jazz wove a few lies to keep everyone calm, but Ratchet only felt relief. There was a looming fear of what was to come, but he enjoyed the lack of predatory presence for a time. And then of course, Optimus Prime returned carrying something in his arms. 

“What in Primus’s name is this?”

“He is what you would call a sparkling.”

“Where did you find him?”

“I did not find him.”

“What… does that mean?”

“This one is mine. Tend to him in my absence.”

Ratchet’s plans shattered into a million pieces as he held the sparkling Optimus brought with him. The little one had wide blue optics, so trusting and so innocent. And yet when he smiled in his attempts to coo at him, Ratchet saw fangs and small mandibles hidden within the sparkling’s intake. His servos shook as he caressed the little one’s helm, coolant gathering in his optics as he came to a harsh realization. This was Optimus’s spawn, the precious life within his arms was another abomination. Despite that, the little one had not asked to be created the way he was.

Ratchet couldn’t kill a sparkling.

The plague vial was hidden and Ratchet gave a series of encrypted codes to Jazz which would lead to its location. The spy was no master decryptor, he would need time and a great deal of expertise to find the location Ratchet had imputed onto the drive containing the codes. That simple fact ensured that in the worst case… there would at least be time to get Bumblebee away. He may have been an abomination like his Sire, but Ratchet could not bring himself to do anything but treat the sparkling with love. He tended to him while Optimus went off to war, he taught Bumblebee how to read and write in numerous dialects, he showed Bumblebee their stories and their culture, and he took all the time in the world to make sure that should all else fail, a piece of what Cybertron was would remain. 

Optimus was a monster, but he cared for his spawn in a strange sense. He brought Bumblebee strange substances to consume, and sometimes he would take Bumblebee away for cycles at a time. Upon their return, Ratchet would quickly take scans and note a disturbing amount of Cybertronian protomatter within the sparkling’s tanks. He never commented, he merely rocked Bumblebee into recharge and sang him songs while trying not to look when Optimus began to grow harsher. No matter how much his spark cried out when Bumblebee was beaten or neglected by his Sire, Ratchet did not act. He refused to. He couldn’t risk it. Over and over he tried to remind himself that killing Optimus would likely only lead to Bumblebee’s death as well.

He refused to kill the sparkling he helped raise. As such, as vorns passed, Ratchet’s tolerance broke and he made one rash decision. 

“Ratchet! Where are we going!?” 

“Away from here! Don’t fight me Bumblebee!” 

“What about Optimus?!”

“He’s not coming. I am going to take you far away from this plasma pit of a world until we can deal with things here. Don’t worry, I won’t let them kill you.” 

“I don’t understand!” 

“You don’t need to. Just remain quiet and live in silence until I recall you. Then… then I will plead for your life before whoever rules our world.” 

He knew it was a death sentence, but Ratchet had to take the risk. He dragged Bumblebee kicking and screaming toward the space ports with every intention of putting the youngling into stasis and shooting him to some far off world. Once that was done, he would unleash his plague and wait until he was sure every other abomination was dead. Only then would he retrieve Bumblebee and proceed to plead for his life. It was a weak plan, but perhaps, if Primus was willing, he might be able to find a way to make Bumblebee normal. It all depended on his desperate attempt to get the youngling off world.

Ratchet did not have that chance. 

“What are you doing with my creation?”

“Optimus! Stay back!” 

“You know too much, and your loyalty has proven to be fickle.”

“Get away you abomination!”

“You have served your purpose, old friend. I believe it is time for another to take your place.”

Optimus grabbed him just before he reached the spaceports with his charge. Ratchet recalled very little of what followed, but next he knew, he was bound to a slab in some facility he did not know. Above him Bumblebee smiled at him eagerly and Optimus stared down at him with calculating optics. The Prime held a larva of some sort in his servos. It couldn’t have been bigger than a digit, but evidently that was as large as it needed to be to burrow into his processors through his right optic. 

He remembered screaming. He remembered feeling nothing but agony for cycles afterwards. He remembered gaping in horror as he ran scans on himself and found the same symptoms Orion Pax had presented. Most importantly, before his recollection faded into nothing but waves of torment, he remembered Optimus calling out to him, telling him that all would be well.

He did not know how long it took, but as he purged energon and organs alike and felt the sweet embrace of death, he smiled, content in the knowledge that Jazz would know. The spy would tell someone, he would give them a chance. All he needed to do was look at the drive Ratchet gave him and decode it. Then-

-Their people would have a chance. 

━━━━━━ 

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━

It did not have a designation when it woke. But it knew instinctively that it was hungry. Energon was given to it by those its code recognized as kin, and it devoured. It sensed another who was not of its kind observing, but that one fled soon enough. Then, once it had finished consuming, it stood up in its new frame and met the gazes of those who were also of its line.

“Hail Hierarch.” 

Its speech was disjointed as it settled into itself and the memories of its host began to funnel into it, but as the Hierarch leaned down and placed his servo on its helm, it was at peace.

“Hail Ratchet, second born of our line. With the knowledge you have inherited, we shall thrive.” 

Ratchet? That was a fine name. It was the name of its host. A smile crept across it- no, HIS face as he settled. He would surpass his host, he would serve, and by the grace of their maker, he would ensure their survival on a world filled with those not of them.

[prince-liest]

I wish I had comments better than NEW 666 CHAPTER IS SO GOOD but unfortunately, that is all my brain is able to come up with !!!! You're killing it and the Aislin collabbis Heaven sent !! (Or maybe Hell sent, whichever you prefer)

All praise to Aislin: not only is her art a gift and a delight, but she's also been enabling the fuck out of me and I love it.

And HAHA, thank you! <3 I'm so fucking flattered y'all out here are still enjoying the ride even though we're, like, almost 100k words into what was supposed to be a silly oneshot.

[suddencolds]

Fool Me Twice | [6/6]

Part 6 is finally here! 🎉 (6/6 feels so surreal to write.) I think this will be the last installment out of this mini-arc, but I definitely want to write more of these two in the future (+ have a lot very loosely planned, if I can ever get around to writing it).

Part 6 ft. fake dating, cold-induced exhaustion, and questionable decisions

You can read part 1 [here]! The other parts are listed in my [fic masterlist].

—

Yves isn’t sure what he expects.

He wakes up early to shovel snow from the front porch, makes breakfast, weighs his options over breakfast, and then—maybe ill-advisedly—texts Vincent before he heads out for work.

Y: tell me you got some rest last night! 

V: Of course

Y: more than 3 hours? 

V: Do you even need to ask?

Y: i’m sure no one would mind if you took the day off Y: give someone else a chance to be the most irreplaceable person in the room for a day!  Y: i swear i’ve never seen you take a sick day

V: No need. I’m feeling a lot better today

It’s said with such conviction that Yves thinks he has no reason to question it. It isn’t like Vincent to be outright dishonest, after all. If he’s claiming to be feeling better, he must be at least on the mend.

It’s for that reason that Yves resists the urge to go out of his way to check on him. The office building is spacious enough that neither of them has a reason to cross paths, usually, except potentially at lunch.

And either way, it’s nothing Yves should have to concern himself with—Vincent can take care of himself. He can, and he will, Yves thinks. Perhaps in the future Yves will be able to take him out for a proper dinner, as a way of showing his thanks. But until then, things will be back as they’ve always been, barring the unusual circumstances over the last few days. Yves will go back to regarding Vincent as nothing more than a colleague—as someone he cares about to the appropriate extent, as someone whose life he’s in only tangentially.

And Vincent doesn’t need anyone—least of all, Yves—to look out for him. Yves likes his coworkers, but he knows better than to confuse civility with friendliness. He and Vincent certainly aren’t close enough to be properly considered friends.

It’s with that reassurance that he goes about work for the first few hours of the day. It’s easy, as always, to fall into the flow of it. He’s a little more tired than usual—he finds himself stifling a yawn into one hand during the morning team meeting—but not quite tired enough to be nodding off, at the very least.

Work always feels longer when he’s tired, though it’s never too long of a stretch until lunch. As a general rule, he likes to tackle the more difficult work in the morning, after he’s had his morning coffee, and save the more structured, less demanding busywork for after lunch. It’s interesting, but it’s work nonetheless, and all in all, it goes by especially slowly. He very pointedly does not allow his mind to wander. Halfway through his morning, Laurent shows him some of the ridiculous emails he’s gotten from a particularly standoffish client, and Cara comes over to peek over his shoulder and laugh with him about Laurent’s businesslike, unwavering civility, and the morning goes by faster after that.

It’s only when he’s a few steps away from the break room that he hears—or, rather, overhears—

“I’m sorry,” someone says, from the other side of the door. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice for who it is—the new hire. Angelie. Right. It’s not that he means to eavesdrop, but he thinks it’s strange that she feels the need to apologize at all. It sounds like the kind of apology that she really, sincerely means—not one given out of thinly-veiled obligation, not one exchanged only as a business courtesy, and that makes him pause.

He wonders what it is that she thinks she’s done wrong. Maybe if he sticks around, he can reassure her afterwards—he knows how intimidating it can be to be new. “When I asked you for help, I didn’t realize how much work it’d be.”

“It’s— it’s ndo problem, snf-!” Whoever she’s talking to says. As if Yves doesn’t know immediately; as if Yves hasn’t been thinking—or rather, trying not to think—about said person all morning. “I’m used to it.”

“Still, if I had known how long it’d take—”

“It’s really okay, Angelie.” 

“You’ve been such a big help to me. I didn’t know until Charlotte told me you’ve been here all morning trying to—”

“It’s fine. This isn’t any sort of special circumstance. I’mb - snf-! - frequently here early. J-just a second—” For a moment, Yves wonders if they’ve lowered their voices to speak more quietly, but then the reason for the lull in the conversation becomes evident. Vincent coughs—harshly enough that, even through the wall, it sounds almost certainly painful. When he speaks up again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser than before. “Sorry. I— coughcough - I’m happy to be - snf-! - of assistance, really.”

“Thank you,” Angelie says. “I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. I think I’m good from here—but um, if you don’t mind me asking…”

She hesitates. For some reason Yves can’t quite parse, she sounds uncertain.

“What is it?” Vincent says.

“Um, are you okay?”

All of a sudden, the apology makes sense.

“What?”

“You— seem—”

“I’m fine,” Vincent says. 

“Okay.” A beat. “Do you need cough drops? I have a whole bag at my desk. I always get sick when I’m in new places, so—it hasn’t happened yet, I mean, but I wanted to be prepared in case it does. If you want any, I have a ton to spare.”

Yves hears the static whir of the coffee machine as it comes to life. 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay,” Vincent says. “Though, you should - hH… hh… hH-hih’GKT-! snf-!” The sneeze doesn’t sound relieving in the least, and the sniffle which follows seems as good as useless. “You should keep your distance.”

“Well, the offer still stands if you end up needing them later,” Angelie says, sounding uncertain. “Thanks again for all the help.”

“It’s no problem. If you run into any issues later, don’t be afraid to reach out.”

He hears footsteps, receding—Angelie is going back to work, he realizes. And, judging by the sound of the coffee machine, Vincent is still here, making his usual morning espresso.

Yves really shouldn’t interrupt. He should turn around and head back to his office desk. Really, it’s none of his business if Vincent is okay. It’s none of his business whether or not Vincent got to the office early today, as usual, despite working so late last night. It’s none of his business whether or not Vincent is feeling well enough to be here in the first place. Perhaps he should go back to his desk—perhaps he doesn’t need coffee as imminently as he’d thought.

Against all logic, he finds himself on the other side of the break room door.

At the sound of the door opening, Vincent looks up. Yves catalogs his appearance in silence. His hair is as neat as usual, his jacket ironed, his tie perfectly straight, but there’s an unusual flush high on his cheekbones, a paleness to his complexion.

“Yves,” Vincent says.

His voice practically cracks on the syllable, as if he’s just a few conversations away from losing his voice. He sounds so distinctly unwell, Yves realizes.

And he looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes are even more prominent than before, and when he lifts his elbow to his face to muffle a few harsh, breathless coughs into his sleeve, there’s an uncharacteristic sluggishness to the motion of it. When he lowers his arm, there’s a thin sheen of water to his eyes—from the sheer force of the coughing fit, perhaps. His eyes are a little red-rimmed.

Vincent sniffles, though the sound is so congested that Yves isn’t sure it’s made any difference at all. Past them, the coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s done.

Yves pushes the door shut behind him. His mouth feels dry.

“I wadted to - snf-! - properly thank you for last ndight,” Vincent starts. “I realize that—” His eyes water, and he blinks, reaching up with one hand to rub his nose. “That you - hH-hHih…” He veers away from Yves, steepling both his hands over his face as his shoulders jerk forward with a forceful, “hihH’GKT’ShhuH!” And then, just a few moments later, another - “hH… hiIH… HIIh’NGKTshHh!-!” The sneezes—even stifled—sound loud enough to grate on his throat. It’s no wonder his voice sounds off. “I realize that you ended up staying a lot later than you planned to.”

Yves stares at him. Is this really what Vincent thinks he wants to hear?

“And I apologize if I came across as…” Yves sees the moment Vincent’s gaze unfocuses. He sees the way Vincent tenses, cupping a hand over his face for another, “HIh’Gktt! Hh… hHh… hiih—!”

The look of ticklish desperation—his eyebrows creased, his expression slack—doesn’t let up, even as his breath settles. Vincent rubs his nose with the bridge of his index finger, sniffling again, as if to coax out the sneeze that his body seems so adamant on denying him—

“hiHH-’IksSHuhh! … hHIH… Hh… hh-hIih—HIih-TSCHhuuh! snf-!” A soft, almost imperceptible exhale. “Excuse mbe, I...” His voice practically gives out on that note, and he takes a halting step back, veering aside with another fit of coughs.

“You said you were feeling better,” Yves all but snaps, when he’s done.

Vincent looks off to the side. “I’m not as tired as I was yesterday,” he says. “So, in that regard.”

He turns aside to lift the coffee mug from where it sits on the machine. There’s a slight tremor to his hand when he picks it up, before he steadies it—indicative of one too many cups of coffee, perhaps—or, knowing Vincent, probably a lot more than that.

“In that regard?” Yves repeats. “So you’re feeling worse off in every other regard?” 

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so accusatory, but a part of him feels—betrayed, maybe. By the dishonesty of Vincent’s response, by the intensity of his own worry.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something more, but then he’s hurriedly setting his coffee down, raising both hands to his face, again, for—

“hiIH… HIIH’GK-t! Hh! Hih… HIih’IZSCHhuh!” A single, breathless, “Sorry,” and then - “hhH-! snf-…!” Yves watches his expression crumple as he jerks forward, his eyes watering. “hiIH-NGkt-! Hh…. HHh… hiIH-!... HH‘IIKTCHhuhH-!”

The sneezing fit is punctuated by another round of coughing, which all but confirms that all this sneezing is making Vincent lose his voice faster. 

Yves passes him a coffee napkin. Vincent eyes it for a moment before taking it, gingerly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Yves says. “You’re clearly unwell.”

“I’m fine. I had a couple calls this morning.”

“You didn’t think to cancel?”

“They were urgent.”

“And what do you think our clients would think if they see that you’re clearly coming down with something?” 

“I took medicine to suppress the symptoms,” Vincent says, glancing off to the side. “A few hours ago. It’s - coughcough - just starting to wear off.”

“I don’t get it,” Yves says, feeling the frustration build in his chest. “You’re not going to recover quickly if you keep pushing yourself.”

“It’s just a cold. There’s nothing I can do but wait it out.”

“There are plenty of things you could do. You could take a sick day, for one. You could head home early. You could even get more than a few hours of sleep, instead of—” Yves looks toward the coffee mug in his hands. “—insisting on taking cold medicine and keeping yourself awake with caffeine. Just how many cups of coffee have you already had this morning?”

“I’m fine, Yves. 

“As you’ve said,” Yves says, a little bitterly. “Though, even if you insist on lying to everyone else, at least you should be honest to yourself.” 

Vincent is quiet for a moment.

When he speaks, his voice is carefully even. “Is that why you’re so upset?”

“What?”

“It’s because I told you I was feeling better.”

Yves supposes that’s part of it. But another part of him is frustrated—with himself, first and foremost, for putting Vincent in this situation in the first place, for inconveniencing someone he’s already indebted to, only to have to watch from the sidelines, guiltily, with no way to help. Back then—with Erika, with crew, with university; with the cheating, and the aftermath; with the apartment hunting, with the start of his job, with everything else—Yves has always disliked the revelation that there’s nothing he can do.

“You’re free to lie to me,” he says. “I know we’re not close. But I care about you, which is why I asked.” 

“I don’t think you understand.” Vincent takes a measured sip from his coffee. His hand trembles slightly when he lifts the cup, and Yves has the sudden urge to take it from his hands. Vincent sighs. “Do you know why I told you I was feeling better?”

That seems obvious enough. “Because you wanted me to stop asking.”

“Because I don’t want it to be anyone else’s problem,” Vincent snaps. “Especially not yours.”

Before Yves has the time to fully process that statement, Vincent continues. “I don’t want my assignments to be work on someone else’s plate. I don’t want my health to be someone else’s problem. You already stayed so late last night—you went out of your way to get me dinner. How could I possibly ask any more of you?”

The sentence seems to grate unpleasantly against his throat for the way that he winces a little, turning aside to cough harshly into his fist. “I’m not feeling well today, but I knew you’d be worried if I told you. And how could I knowingly take up more of your time? After everything you’ve done for me already?” 

His sentence tapers off into another coughing fit, which he emerges from with another wince. It must hurt his throat to speak.

“I wasn’t being honest when you asked me how I was feeling,” Vincent says—finally an admission, but hearing it now doesn’t make Yves feel better at all. “But it would be selfish of me to make this any more of your problem than it already is.”

In lieu of responding, Yves takes the coffee cup from his hands and sets it down, gingerly, on the countertop. He takes another mug—unwraps an herbal tea bag from the cabinets, while he’s at it—and fills it to the brim with warm water, for the tea to steep. He stirs in a spoonful of honey. Steam rises from the cup in white wisps, and with it, the faint smell of chamomile.

When the tea is ready, he holds the cup by the rims, turning the handle outwards for Vincent to take. Vincent regards it with confusion, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, and for a moment, Yves wonders if he should clarify that it’s meant for him.

But then he takes it. Watching him lift the cup to take a sip—seeing the brief, miniscule flash of relief as his throat dips with a swallow—makes something tighten in Yves’s chest.

It takes everything in him not to cross his arms outright. 

“You are really a hypocrite,” he says. 

“What?”

“You helped Angelie, just yesterday. You helped me when I was just starting out. Both of us made our work—and our training, and our inexperience—your problem.” For all the things Yves has asked of him—for all the things he’s seen others ask of him, however inordinate—Vincent has never once complained. 

“You’re always taking on things for other people, because you know you’re capable of doing them,” Yves says. “How is it any different if it’s you?”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that.

“You’re harder on yourself than you are on anyone else,” Yves says, with a sigh. “Even if you tell me not to worry, I’m still going to worry about you. But it’s not a burden to me.”

Something in Vincent’s expression stills. 

“I know I can’t change your mind,” Yves says. “But you should get some rest—whenever you can. You’ve already done more than enough, I promise. I—or anyone else on the team—can take up anything that can’t wait until you’re feeling better.”

Vincent turns away, his shoulders trembling on an inhale, and Yves barely squeezes in a preemptive “Bless you,” before—

“Hh… hiIH’EKkTSHuhH! Hh… hh… HiIH’IIKKtsCHuhH! snf-! ”

He lifts his free hand up to cover, his eyes squeezing shut as he muffles the sneezes into his wrist. It’s a miracle that the tea doesn’t spill, Yves thinks.

When he emerges, a little teary-eyed, sniffling, he really does look tired. He says, “I don’t understand why you care so much.”

Isn’t it obvious? Yves opens his mouth to say just as much, only…

…Only, Vincent looks genuinely stricken.

“I like you,” Yves says, because it’s the truth. Because he wants, suddenly, for Vincent to know it. “Do I need any other reason?”

“That seems… impossibly simple.” “It is,” Yves says. For a moment, he wants to tell Vincent just exactly how simple it is, just how easy Vincent is to like.

“I didn’t intend to worry you,” Vincent says, looking off to the side. “I didn’t expect for anyone to be worried in the first place.”

Yves—who frequently worries about people, whether they want him to or not—laughs. “If you don’t want me to worry about you, you should hurry up and get better.”

At this, Vincent nods, contemplative. “Duly noted.”

“Which means getting some proper rest.”

“I’ll consider it.”

(Yves half expects that to be a lie. But when he gets to work the next morning, Vincent’s desk is unoccupied, for once, and there’s a small packet of cough drops leaned up against his desktop monitor—so he had asked Angelie for them yesterday, after all—and a stack of files set off neatly to the side, marked For Later.

Yves supposes he can deal with that.)

[bwabbitv3s]

Good Godfather Vlad AU - Part 6

Lingering Memories and Future Plans 

Link to Index Post, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Vlad is not sure what is worse, the look of hope on the boy's face knowing he is not alone, or the horror it turns into at the revelation of what Vlad implied by it being drawn out. He is not able to ponder for long as in typical timing Jack interrupts them. Dragging Danny away to meet another old acquaintance. Voice booming out another ridiculous nickname suited more for a teen than a grown adult as they disappear into the crowd. There is an almost hollow feeling to standing there after his most tightly kept secret was finally told to someone. 

It is hard the rest of the night trying to socialize for long enough for it to be acceptable to slip out early. Only getting glimpses of the Fenton family in the now crowded room. Drifting away from them to mingle and get his thoughts and emotions under control with frivolous small talk. The last hour has been a whirlwind and he has a lot to unpack in private and some very creative allegories to work out for his therapist. He is not quite ready to face any of the Fentons anymore tonight. 

It won’t leave him alone as he tries to talk about useless things like the frogeye salad at the buffet, how the gym still has the old mascot mural, and listens to people talk about their children when he can’t even remember if they were in his classes. The thoughts on his mind keep sliding back to what his old friends would do to him being part ghost. What they could do to their own son trying to understand.

What ghosts had they interacted with to colour their impressions of ghosts? Had they faced only the emotional blobs of animated ectoplasm that were the jellyfish of the ghost world? Leaving them thinking ghosts are just thoughtless creatures barely intelligent and driven by instincts. Maybe the half formed ghost animals that were next most common. He knows his first few encounters had left him with a poor insight to them. While the most populous of the ghosts he had encountered were not a true representation of what ghosts are in general. It would be like judging all the animals of a forest by just garden snails and slugs you find under one rock. 

Memories drift to his first few encounters with sapient ghosts. Ones that seem to line up more with the ominous phrasing of having to deal with the ghost from Danny. Had they faced any of the aggressive ghosts that were never human or living creatures before? The ones that don’t understand the fragility of life or danger they could inflict. Or almost worse the ones that were stuck in an endless loop of their death unable to understand what had happened and doomed to linger until they run out of energy and end. It was almost enough to make him actually drink tonight. He downed his fizzy mocktail almost wishing he could let himself have an actual cocktail, but no drinking never made things better for him. 

 Maybe he could try and introduce them to some of the more friendly and harmless ghosts he knew? Slowly get them to see the ghost animals when not aggravated and just acting the same in death as life. If he got it just right he could easily convince them to come visit as a favour for advice on their expertise in ghosts. Sighting that he is a bit out of practice after switching to business. After all his home is haunted by the Dairy King he could probably work out a deal with him to help slowly change their minds over the course of a few days. Then once they are in research and observation mode over hunting help ease them into it. 

The start of the plan begins to form from there as he watches the lights get switched from mingling with buffet food to the evening dance as the live band takes over. Miraculously the evening continues without any emergencies and he is able to leave without it looking odd. The last thing he sees before slipping out of the gym is a set of glowing green eyes and a timid wave. Vlad offers a very small wave of his own as his eyes glow red briefly. In the cool evening air he lets out a sigh. It is going to be a long night and he needs some time to unpack things with his therapist before he should make any actual plans. 

~ ~

Whoo, that was hard to get ironed out. I had to keep wrangling it back into place as I got Vlad's train of thought right. Next chapter or one soon will likely dip into Danny's or Jazz's POV. As always the Tags have my thought and stuff that would not fit into the post.

[teethands]

while it hasnt been accepted yet on large scale mod distributing sites, cenozoicraft is available for download now on mcreator's site!

[sorryimananti-romantic]

I'm still stuck on the ATLA thing and I just realized that San can probably melt metals and throw it around to burn his enemies' flesh to the bone.

If Wooyo and Mingi combine their powers they can make a fire tornado. Yunho can bloodbend, make blood clot in your veins, make it heat up and expand so much that every single capillary bursts.

Hongjoong's light magic, if he can imbibe an arrow with it and it hits someone, can probably combust someone from the inside with the amount of energy light has. (Do you think he kinda has a glow from within because of his light magic tho? Whenever I think if him as the Prince of light, I imagine him glowing)

Wooyoung also probably does this

San/wooyoung/Jongho:

And Jongho is so Toph coded he WILL call you twinkle toes.

Also ever since the picture of Lightning bender Mingi took a seat in my head I've had this headcanon that whenever he gets flustered or shy little flashes of Lightning fly around him. Like you can literally SEE his fuse short circuiting

Mingi trying to flirt:

YES SAN CAN. also... isn't the iron in our blood a metal too? bloodbending for san, perhaps? (far-fetched tho i think yunho should be the only bloodbender out there loll also easy there mate-)

ah yes the combinations! wooyoung and mingi with the fire tornado, also wooyoung and yunho could do a water tornado (sth similar to a waterspout methinks)

hongjoong with his light arrows that would burn the flesh off your bones before it even gets to the combustion part. there's a reason i chose ginger haired bronzer makeup hongjoong as the prince of light bc i feel like he looks way too ethereal and prince-of-light-ey in that! the illusion mv, specifically. he looks etheral anyway but this:

also cackling at the gifs! so accurate haha wooyoung threatening the teezers with mini tornados between his hands. there's a reason i put wooyoung, jongho and san in one continent they have like similar? power types i think and can you imagine the chaos when they get together to practise? imagine them going to mingi's kingdom that has the only desert on their planet. they must be practising all that in the desert 😭

DSKLHFJKSDGH MINGI SHORT CIRCUITING WHEN SOMEONE CONFESSES TO HIM OR WHEN HE FEELS THE 'SPARKS' DFKJGHDJKGH if i write a mingi series in the lore that's exactly what we're exploring- his struggles with the lightning part of fire magic and how he finds a partner in between all of that and keeps getting his ass electrocuted 😭😭

[cashweasel]

The rise of the cursed baby pots

[stone-cold-groove]

From Stone Cold Groove’s Compendium of Banned, Amoral or Dirty Books: Take All You Can Get.

[empresskadia]

There are two fanfics that I really want to write but I'm so lazy, ughhhh

so instead, I'm playing Halo Wars and I'll tell you about them.

Our first contestant is a Naomi-010 fic where instead of it being from her POV or your POV, it's gonna be Mal's and it follows them seeing Naomi show more emotion when she receives several messages and how it slowly comes to light that Naomi has a partner

The second is a John-117 but it's Paramount Halo John where it follows him getting his pellet taken out and he does have someone to guide him around the park and see things.

Those are on my current list, stay tuned.

[corvidg4ng]

pov: you lost to bridget and she is about to take your wallet

[gg-selvish]

blur - knf/dnkn fanfic

rating: not rated

tags/themes: non-sexual/lifestyle bdsm + subspace, established knf, dom karl, sub george, dream + sapnap are also there

word count: 2,300

summary:

Karl, Dream, and Sapnap come home from a dinner out to the LA house where George waits. He's in subspace and does anything Karl asks, which finds the other two very intrigued by their dynamic. Questions ensue, and possibilities for the future arise.

read on ao3

maybe start of a series ... ? 👀

[clumsiestgiantess]

Day 1 for Ento’s writer appreciation challenge!!!

My favorite comfort fic is actually a webtoon called My Miniature Life Manual! The characters are all very cute in their own ways and the shenanigans they get up to are always fun to read about! And of course there’s a tiny bit of angst sprinkled in every so often too

My own comfort fic is The Walls Won’t Be There Forever! It’s a nice mixture of comfort and angst that I always wonder how I managed to write so well (It does deal with the pet trope, but it’s rather condemning of it)

[onewingedangels]

i wanna play a dress up game.... (looks at bg3)

[running-in-the-dark]

kinda disappointed with how this weekend went. I mean, it wasn't bad! but it was our first weekend in the new apartment, and I/we wanted to get a lot done. I already did a lot during the week (a lot for me, not a lot for most people I guess), but there's lots of things that I can't do/can't do on my own, either because I'm too short or not strong enough or I need someone else to hold something or whatever. which realistically just won't get done during the week because my husband works full time, so. it sort of sucks that only one very small, unimportant thing got done. 😔