#i'm sorry this is very soft

[aka-efirg]

sooo i wrote the thing i was talking about in this post and wow did it take more time to write than i planned. honestly i blame enzo, he talks too much and has too many opinions

so context for the fic, damon has been having lots of flashbacks from the previous timeline and nightmares these days so he has more and more trouble to appear fine and sometimes everything is too much for him

it's also happening after season 3 with main differences:

-alaric didn't die and get turn into an enhanced original vampire because damon kept an eye on him and made sure he didn't die more than he already did before coming back so ester couldn't corrupt his mind

-elena still gets turned into a vampire but still no idea how it happened since there was no super evil alaric to kill

-mason didn't die as well (or maybe he did, haven't decided yet) (but if he doesn't die, he will totally bitch with damon about katherine and how she manipulated them and made them fall in love with her. it's how they bonded)

-no idea what happened with ester and how they got rid of her

and during season 4 where they are trying to find the cure (jeremy is one of the five)

also damon has marks that look like burn scars on his arms and his back (hellfire) and a symbol on his chest (emily's mark to send him to the past and to protect him because him being in the past could count as being a disruption to natural balance)

Seeing Damon, seated cross-legged on his bed with fingers tightly pressed against his temples, is sadly unsurprising but nonetheless worrying. He knew it was bound to happen with how Damon spent the whole day zoning out, eyes looking at things that weren’t there, brows slightly burrowed as if he was fighting a headache. Enzo knows he is the only one who noticed—or maybe not, if the occasional glances the witch kept sending the older vampire’s way were any indication, and Enzo absently wonders what she sees, because he knows she can’t perceive what he does—

(the hurt, the despair and the guilt, the blood, the death and the fire)

so he wasn’t surprised when he witnessed Damon leaving the living room, so silently the only reason he noticed was because he didn't take his eyes off the older vampire. It took almost twenty minutes for the others to notice the oldest Salvatore was no longer with them and for Stefan to worry about where he was. At their questioning glances, Enzo simply stated that Damon was in his room before leaving as well.

(Sometimes Enzo wants to shake the younger Salvatore so hard, wants to crack his head open while screaming at him to just look at his brother, to see how much he’s hurting, all the things he hides behind sarcasm and apathy and monstrosity. He wants to gouge his eyes out just so he would have a reason to not see. And other times he wants to tear him apart because he can’t help but reminisce about hope and faith slowly shriveling as days and months and years accumulated, as blood kept pouring and screams became better than silence—because if he screams it means he is still alive it means you haven’t lost the most important thing you have left in this instant)

After closing the door as silently as possible, Enzo takes in the heavy air in the room, feeling like ozone and something electric, magic but not before focusing on his friend, his tense form on the bed, his breathing deliberately slow, sharp contrast to his heartbeat, too fast for a vampire. Slowly, Enzo walks closer to the bed, making sure to make some noise. Even if he’s sure the other vampire heard him, he doesn’t want to risk having a cornered, distressed Damon near his throat. When he notices Damon isn’t reacting save from a little tightening of his shoulders, he sits down on the mattress and waits.

“I’m fine.”

Enzo takes the time to look at his friend’s face, thin lips, burrowed brows and tightly closed eyes. In sum, in pain.

In sum, perfectly, absolutely fine.

Not even bothering to answer—did Damon really think he would believe him—, he edges closer and only then is he able to see the light, barely perceptible tremors that run through Damon’s arms, more noticeable around his hands where they’re pressed hard against the skin.

“Damon.”

The other vampire doesn’t answer, just curls a bit on himself, bringing his knees higher and his elbows closer to his body. Removing his shoes (because Damon will absolutely chew him out if his mud-covered boots so much as touch the silk covers, well… he will when he doesn’t look like a particularly sad puppy, as blood-sucking as he is, one scream away from collapsing into itself and—great now he just wants to hug this metaphorical puppy), he makes himself comfortable on the bed face to face with the older vampire waiting for him to acknowledge him.

When Damon realizes that he is not leaving and that he will not win at the waiting game (Enzo has plenty of experience in waiting and Damon is not particularly known for his patience, quite the contrary), he finally opens his eyes to glance at the younger and Enzo nearly wishes the other stayed how he was. He knows the look Damon is sending him is supposed to be a glare, to convey his annoyance at his presence but all Enzo can see is the shine. Gleaming blue eyes looking at him and… fuck he didn’t think it was that bad.

Damon must read something on his face because his eyes harden, a sneer appearing on his lips.

“I’m fine. Go away.”

Enzo has to act quick if he doesn’t want Damon to completely close himself off.

Suddenly Enzo wants nothing more than take every single person who made Damon so cautious and insecure about his hurts and vulnerabilities the simple thought of having them feels like a weakness, of showing them a burden, and tear them to shreds, piece by piece so they can feel every hurt, every tear they forced Damon to keep for himself. He wants to watch them burn, helpless and begging for mercy. And okay, maybe this is a bit extreme, but he spent seventy years being tortured, cut open, reduced to nothing but a mass of bones and blood. He long lost faith in mercy, leaving him only with a rage so intense and unending he wants to put the world on fire, scorching it into nothingness, just to sit on its ashes (or maybe dance, Damon has always loved dancing) and revel in the resulting absolute and beautiful desolation.

(When Enzo is left with nothing but fierce everlasting rage, he needs to unleash it because he knows, otherwise, it will simply consume him and everything around him. But—

—his torturers are all dead. Enzo remembers the ravages Damon left when he came back and rescued him, the complete destruction of everything Augustine represents, in pieces, covered in red and burning so hot he could almost feel the flames licking at his body, but this time, a promise of freedom instead of a promise of pain and blood.

—no matter how much he cursed the man, hated him with a searing, blinding passion, Enzo has long accepted he could never harm Damon. No matter how much he tried—and tried he did—. So many times (too many times part of him cries) he found himself looking down at the other vampire, straddling him, a stake pressed on his chest, tip piercing the skin just above the heart. Just one pressure and the wood would slide right through the bone. Blue eyes looking up at him, blankly, calmly, just waiting to see what he would do. So accepting Enzo wanted to scream at him to defend himself, to stop making himself so vulnerable. To do something because he left him to die, he killed one of the most important people he had and he shouldn’t accept to die. He doesn’t have any right to let Enzo kill the last person he has left. He did scream a few times, eyes burning with tears, until his throat was so sore the only sounds that left his mouth were rasps of rage and despair, and all he could do was throw the stake so hard against the wall it exploded in thousand fragments before collapsing, curses on his lips and apologies and regrets on Damon’s.

So while he doesn’t care whether the world burns and crashes, he will be damned before he lets anything happen to Damon. If he can’t direct his rage to the ones who wronged him—all dead and ashes and unable to harm them anymore—, he has no issue focusing it on the people who hurt his person.)

Distractedly wondering if it would be possible to resurrect one Guiseppe Salvatore, just to have the pleasure of killing him atrociously, Enzo practically jumps on the other vampire, taking his wrists into his hands. The glare Damon sends him is ferocious, and Enzo is sure if he were anyone else, he would have lost a few fingers for his trouble. When he’s certain he actually won’t lose any part of his body, he slowly lets go of the other’s hands and moves until he finds himself behind Damon, against the head of the bed. Even though the older vampire is watching him, he still lets a soft noise of surprise when arms grip his waist to pull him against the other’s body. He fights the hold for a moment until the younger vampire tightens his arms and drops his head against shoulder.

For a moment, everything is still and silent except for their breathings, one calm and deliberate, the other rapid and jerky until it progressively slows down. The shaking doesn’t stop though and when Enzo notices the tight grip Damon has on his own arm, hard and grinding—he is surprised the bone hasn’t given way yet—, he places his own hand on the other’s to make him relax his grip.

He turns his head, his lips barely touching the other vampire’s skin, but he still feels Damon react, how he inhales abruptly and presses himself more against him.

“It’s okay.” And he drops a faint kiss where the shoulder and the neck meet and Damon simply… stops. Falls further into Enzo like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut. A whimper escapes his mouth, something like a sob. Enzo kisses him a second time, this time on the neck, right on the pulse point. “I’ve got you.”

The next kiss lasts longer and, after removing Damon’s hand from his arm, he starts rubbing his thumb on the already healing bruises, feeling the sharp and still-getting-used-to contrast between cold and warm.

(This is something new. Where now sit marks—burn scar-like—, Damon’s skin is an interesting and unnatural mix of cold and warm skin. Vampires and undead cold. Humans and living warm. The first time he noticed it, he wasn’t able to contain his curiosity. But, when he questioned it, Damon shut down. Frozen and staring into space, watching things only he could see. He stayed like that for almost one hour, not even realizing how long he was in this state nor remembering what the question was. It was enough for Enzo to know not to ask about it again.)

His arm still around Damon’s waist now sits under his T-shirt, gently stroking his ribs, enjoying the light shiver that follows his hand. His lips stretched slightly, and he knows Damon felt it because he hears the beginning of a growl that ends up in a strange and entertaining mix between a groan and a moan when he starts dragging his nails instead. Enzo lifts his head, laying his cheek on the other’s shoulder, when he feels Damon turning his head. Placed like this, their noses bump before they can look at each other. When their eyes meet, Enzo smiles at the glint of amusement in Damon’s eyes. Because he much prefers this to the empty stare the blue-eyed vampire has been displaying all day, he slightly moves his head, rubbing their noses together once again. He is rewarded with a small chuckle, barely a sound but here in the way Damon’s lips stretched up a little and his eyes lighted up for a second. Feeling a bit lighter than when he entered the room, he can’t resist pressing his lips against the other’s and revels in the soft moan of surprise he gets in response. Damon doesn’t reciprocate, but he feels him relaxing, heartbeat finally calming down to a vampire-normal one.

When they separate, and since they’re already all feeling and soft, he murmurs a faint “I love you” and—wow the look he gets is so precious, so fragile it is heartbreaking.

(Seriously, tomorrow the second-class scooby gang (Yes, Enzo thinks pettily, they don’t deserve Capital Letters.) better be on their best behavior, or heads will be rolling.)

“I love you.” He repeats, making sure to look the other in the eyes, and kisses him one last time before repositioning himself behind Damon, bringing him closer. The other vampire leans against him, grabbing the hand next to his arm and starts playing with it. With the way he seems too focused on their linked hands, Damon must be thinking about something. Used to him sometimes needing time to organize his thoughts before speaking, Enzo simply waits for him to be ready to speak. Absently he goes back to stroking the other’s ribs, head resting against the headboard and his eyes closed.

Somewhere between his thoughts about the probability of making Stefan disappear without Damon noticing (zero percent) and if cheese chips and chocolate ice cream would make a good combination (the idea has some merit), Damon stopped fiddling with his hand, dragging his forefinger the long of his fingers instead. Enzo gets distracted by the change and almost misses Damon speaking.

“I love you too.”

Well, speaking might be the wrong word. The words are said, barely a whisper. And without his super-hearing, he would have missed them. Before he can respond, he feels Damon tensing a bit before he moves, so that they are facing each other, more or less with Damon still seated between his legs and his own arm around the other’s chest.

His eyes meet blue eyes, intense, filled with determination.

(God, Enzo loves these eyes. Haunting unforgettable breathtaking eyes.)

“I love you too. I know I don’t say it often. But I do.”

(Be still, vampire-heart. No need to beat like a normal human one.)

“I know you do. You made it pretty clear from the moment you came back to rescue me.”

That seems to take Damon by surprise who can’t help but blurt a stunned “What?”, eyes wide open.

“I mean I didn’t let myself believe at the beginning because… well obvious reasons,” and Enzo is pleased to see the other is not looking away for once, despite the flicker of shame and guilt that still flashes in the blue eyes. “But trust me, thinking back about it now, it’s really evident. You came back. For me.” Enzo takes the way Damon opens his mouth, probably ready to refute what he is saying, and glares at him. What he wants to say is hard enough. After a few seconds of hesitation, he takes a breath. “We talked about it. Several times. You know what I think and you know I forgave you. The thing, Damon, is yes I was angry and hurt and I felt betrayed. But there were days I was… not happy but relieved you could say. Because you got out. Because, deep down, I knew if you hadn’t left me, you would have got captured again and it would have meant the year prior would have been for nothing. That whole year, starving like I never did, always feeling on the verge of desiccation, would have been in vain. Plus, who knows what they would have done to you after you killed every attendee at the party. They were vicious afterwards.”

(And they were. The year that followed the massacre at the New Year party was atrocious. The scientists who survived or who weren’t there felt vindictive—like they had any right—and they took it out on him. He was an easy target for their revenge. The experiments became harsher, unforgiving and downward crueler—something he didn’t think was possible after fifteen years in their clutches. And if the physical torture wasn’t enough, he was feeling hurt and betrayed in the worst way possible. And so angry. There were days he was so furious the pain of the experiments barely registered. He would spend these days on the operating table planning how to take revenge on Damon in the most brutal and devastating way possible.

He knew everything about him, it would have been so easy to ruin him irreparably. Because Damon, for all he appears callous and impervious, cares. So much it is ludicrously frighteningly simple to hurt him.)

“But this is not what I was getting at. I mean, we can talk about it again. If you want. But another day. When at least one of us is emotionally able to lead this kind of conversation. What I wanted to say originally is… you came back. And no matter how angry, hurt or relieved I was that you weren’t there with me anymore, I still hold that hope that you would. Come back I mean.” For some reason, Damon looks particularly stricken at that, something heavier than guilt shining brightly in his eyes and Enzo almost wants to ask about it. Doesn’t because he knows Damon will not answer. “Of course, the hope I had that you would rescue me flickered a lot. Some days I felt ridiculous thinking you’d save me because I saw you turn your humanity off and you probably thought I was dead. But some days I was thinking to myself that maybe today would be the day you wake up and realize I didn’t die that day and that you’d come.” Unable to look at Damon for his next words, Enzo lowers his head, staring at their linked hands instead. “These days were the worst.” At the sharp inhale from his ex-cellmate, he stares down more intensely. “Because at the end of the day, I was still in this cell and I felt so stupid. But as stupid as hoping was, it… helped me. In some kind of cruel way. Because, if I had hope, I had something to hold onto. I couldn’t keep relying on anger to survive. I would have gone crazy. Lost myself in ways everything they did to me would never have. But, these last years, it was getting harder and harder to hold on to something positive. The fatigue, the pain, it made it easy for all the negative emotions to break through. Even then, I was losing my grip on them. And all of a sudden, after fifty years, you are here. You are standing in front of my cell, covered in blood. Then, you open the door and I’m out of the cell. I’m walking through the lab and there is blood and bodies everywhere. Until you shoved that guard at me so that I could drink, I was still persuaded it was a hallucination. A very elaborated one my brain conjured to… torture me more I guess. Damn, I don’t even remember where I was getting, but the bottom line is you came back when I thought you wouldn’t.”

When he finally looks up, he swallows. Damon looks devastating, he can practically see his heart breaking in his eyes. Enzo hesitates. He didn’t mean to make Damon feel worse. Maybe he should have waited for him to be emotionally more stable. Releasing the other’s hand—and pretending not to hear the wounded sound at the action—, he puts his two hands on Damon’s cheeks, making sure he is looking at him.

“You came back and got me out when you could have left me there,” Enzo can’t help but feel a bit relieved when he sees the other frown, protective anger in the lines of his face. “And then you didn’t leave me alone, you stayed, and you took care of me.” Dark eyes stare straight into wide blue ones. “At first, I thought it was out of guilt, and maybe it was, partially. But I know you. Guilt alone wouldn’t make you stay or help. Or keep still while someone is pointing a stake at your heart.” The last part is said with a bit of reproach despite Enzo knowing it is useless. Damon has something akin to a martyr complex but instead of the whole thing about sacrificing himself for people’s sake, he is willing to die if he feels he deserves it. In a fucked-up way, despite how it angered him at the time—still does to be honest—, Damon not trying to defend himself and looking ready to accept whatever punishment Enzo had for him, even death, was what convinced him Damon was earnest, made him realize how important he was to him.

(He swears, people who say Damon is unable to feel any sort of remorse have never seen him actually deal with guilt. Probably because it presents itself as recklessness and stupid impulsive decisions. Ordinary Damon things. But the thing with guilt is that Damon takes all of his worst traits and makes them worse.)

Because Damon has a thing about deals and debts. He particularly noticed it these last months, seeing him interact with people who are not himself nor doctors and their assistants. How he would carefully formulate his sentences, always letting himself some ground to defend himself if something goes wrong. How he would retaliate if he thought someone wronged him, or someone he cares about, one way or another. And okay maybe what he considers as wrongdoings is very subjective, but meet them and you find yourself confronted with a particularly violent and vindictive vampire. Enzo would have thought the others would have noticed it at this point, particularly the wording thing. But since he has arrived, they were still as careless as ever with their words and as clueless about Damon’s.

He is pretty sure the only person who caught on is Elijah, but it is probably because the Original vampire is as careful as Damon with his phrasing. Hell, the two practically made a game out of it, see who will be able to outword the other first without anyone noticing it—except Enzo who usually watches the two going at it with amusement. And keeps score. At the moment, they’re tied. Damon won the last point after the questioning and suspicious look Klaus sent his brother. (The victorious subtle but not really smirk Damon sent to Elijah made Klaus glance pointedly at the younger vampire. All it did was make Damon smirk more obnoxiously, this time mockingly at the hybrid. Enzo was already planning how to steal Klaus’s blood to cure the idiot from werewolf venom.)

“You don’t make a habit of showing your caring unless you actually do care, and even then you have to know what to look for. And you haven’t stopped since then. You think I haven’t noticed how you always seem to have blood bags close at hand. How you always make sure to be between me and the biggest threat in the room—which, I see how you keep flicking your eyes between me and Stefan, as if you don’t know whom to stay close to. Sometimes you look like you’re one blink away from kidnapping us out of the situation. Or one of us so that you can completely focus on the other. It’s cute in a way. Pretty sure Stefan thinks it’s unsettling the way you stare at him, but at least I get to laugh at his growing paranoia.”

A small laugh escapes Damon’s mouth. This little feud between Enzo and Stefan never stops amusing him.

“I love you. And I know you do too.” Right, this is what it was about originally. “You show it to me every day. I don’t need you to say it all the time.”

Damon simply stares at him in response, a small frown appearing between his brows. “It doesn’t mean I couldn’t say it more often.”

“And it is nice hearing it. But it doesn't mean I need to hear it, you already show it to me every time, every day.” When he sees Damon's brows furrow deeper, lips thinning in displeasure, he adds. “Stop being a stubborn dolt and just accept it.”

Now at the risk of incurring Damon’s wrath, Enzo's lips turn up in a small smile at the face the other vampire is making—which is not a pout because big bad vampires do not pout. (And it's not big bad wolfy who will disagree. His expression when he was told by his brother that his idea of turning Mystic Falls inhabitants into vampires so the littlest Gilbert could complete the map better stayed an idea was not a pout. Enzo sometimes looks at Damon and Klaus and can't help but laugh because no wonder these two can't get along, they're just too similar in the worst possible way.)

“I’m not saying all this to make you feel better. I am telling you. I have never doubted it. Believe me, when you’re being all you,” at the confused tilt of head he gets, he simply smiles, “it’s not hard to tell. I mean, even your brother knows you love him and you are a lot meaner with him. And… and I have no idea what we were talking about but I love you, you love me, we love each other, it’s nice.”

Damon raises an eyebrow, all judgment and wow, Enzo can see the resemblance between both Salvatore with this expression. “It’s nice? Really?”

“Shut it! I didn’t really plan on being all emotional today.”

The light amusement on Damon’s face straight away dies out and Enzo kind of wants to hit himself for it.

“Sorry. Today just felt… too much.”

Enzo smiles sadly and cups Damon’s face with his left hand, making sure to look him in the eyes. “Want to talk about it?”

The answer is obvious on Damon’s face, but after sighing, he still answers. “I thought I was doing okay, but they started talking about the most efficient way to kill as many supernatural creatures as possible. And it was too much because they are basically talking about mass murder and, I mean, I don't particularly care but… I don’t know, today I didn’t feel like listening anymore.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, there was no progress on this front after you left. Doubt there has been any since I left.”

“Give them a few hours, they’ll come up with something. They can be particularly ruthless when it comes to their interests.” With a slight frown, he adds. “I better find a good place to hide the stake.” At Enzo’s questioning glance, he says. “I don’t trust them with something like that.”

Something in the way Damon said this sounds strange to Enzo. But aware the raven-haired vampire will not answer him, he doesn’t push. “What about your human buddy? Can’t he dissuade them from doing anything stupid?”

“You really think they’ll listen to Ric? I mean, Jeremy might but that’s all. And even then, the others can easily talk him into whatever shitty plan they think up. Believe me, it’s easier than it seems to convince little siblings to do what you want.”

Seeing how just thinking about what the Scooby Gang could come up with seems to suck out all of Damon’s energy, Enzo brings his other hand to the other’s face before kissing him. Damon instantly relaxes at the contact and leans forward to deepen the kiss. Thanks to their dampened need to breathe, the kiss lasts a few minutes during which Enzo lets himself think of nothing. Simply Damon seated between his legs, solid and real. His hands holding the dead-cold skin. One of Damon’s hands resting on his hip and the other gripping his knee. Enzo lets a moan escape when he feels Damon’s hand slides under his T-shirt, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Feeling the other’s lips stretching into a smile, Enzo retaliates by biting them, fangs out, savoring the taste of blood on his tongue and the grunt accompanying it.

Finally breaking the kiss, Enzo’s attention zeroes in on the already healing bite and resists the urge to reopen it. A temptation starting to be too strong when Damon almost makes a show of licking his lips to get rid of the blood. So instead, Enzo focuses on the blue eyes already looking right at him. He lets himself a few seconds to lose himself in being Damon’s sole focus, gently stroking his cheeks, watching how the raven is leaning in at the movement, not breaking eye contact. He smiles, a tiny little thing, when Damon turns his head, taking his thumb in his mouth to nibble at it, not even piercing the skin. Sometimes Damon has the cutest little habits.

“Feel like doing anything?”

Damon lets his thumb go and stops to think, observing the younger vampire closely—probably (certainly) to determine what Enzo wants—so Enzo makes sure to keep his expression open, letting him know that the choice is entirely his, that he is okay with whatever he decides. After several seconds of scrutinizing, Damon seems to come to a decision. Still fixated on the other vampire, he slowly shakes his head.

“Not really. Not today. Can we just…” He seems to hesitate—shy as Damon Salvatore should never be—before gesticulating his hand between them and the bed.

Enzo doesn’t wait to agree, having immediately understood what Damon meant.

(Someone needs to remind Damon that it is alright to simply want to cuddle without sex involved. That if he wants someone to hold him, he just has to ask.)

(Realizing that the love of your life you spent a century and half trying to save from a fate worse than death lied to you and only used you for sex had certainly led to some serious self-love issues. Enzo would really like to have more words with Katherine Pierce. In retrospect, maybe he should have burned her the first time he met her. Because she damaged Damon so deeply Enzo has a visceral need to hurt her. And Enzo could appreciate the irony)

“Yeah, we can.” Letting the other go, Enzo takes his place back against the headboard and puts his arms around Damon’s waist when the older vampire pushes himself against him. Damon immediately grabs one of his hands in his before he starts playing with it. When Enzo doesn’t feel the other vampire relax after a few minutes, he puts his free hand on Damon’s tight, stroking the covered skin. At the light tensing of the man in his arms, Enzo begins to delicately put kisses on the exposed skin in front of him. He keeps doing so, butterfly kisses on the neck, nothing more, and his hand rubbing lazy circles on the other’s tight, not moving higher or lower, until he feels Damon slowly relaxing in his embrace once he is certain Enzo has no intention of going further.

The air around them feels lighter and lighter every second Damon unwinds a bit more until Enzo doesn’t feel like he’s about to be struck by lightning anymore. Instead, all he feels is warm contentment, and he lets himself be lulled into a soft feeling of security he doesn’t think he has ever been able to feel until Damon. Because there is something about the older vampire that makes him feel safe, that tells him he can let his guard down because he knows the other won’t let anything happen to him.

“How about we stop existing for a few hours?” Damon simply hums in response. “No original vampires, no magical map, no cure, and more importantly, no teenager drama. Just you and I between four walls, against the outside world.”

“At least there is no cement wall between us.”

“At least there is nothing to prevent us from cuddling.” He lets a short laugh escape at Damon’s groan.

“Please don’t call it that.”

“I’m calling it how I see it.” To emphasize his point, he tightens his hold and shoves his face in the junction between Damon’s neck and his shoulder. “I’m cuddling you.”

“You’re strangling me. You planning on letting me breathe at some point?” His only answer is the tightening of the grip around him, efficiently constricting his lungs. “Very funny.”

The dry tone only causes Enzo to drop a kiss on his neck followed by a nip right on his pulse point. “You don’t need to breathe.”

Damon huffs before slapping one of Enzo’s legs. “I do. And I’ll need to, eventually.”

“Admit we’re cuddling and maybe I’ll let you.”

“Maybe?” The clutch Damon’s in tightens a bit more.

“I’m very comfortable in this position.”

“You’re trying to crush my rib cage.”

“Cuddling.”

“Cuddling does not involve broken bones. Nor asphyxia.”

“That’s what you think. You just haven’t cuddled anyone in a long time.”

“We— You’re the one who spent decades as a rat lab, what do you know?” He simply gets a hum in response. “Plus, I’m the one who was stuck with a clingy angel-faced little sibling.”

“It was like two centuries ago. Doesn’t count.”

“It was never-happened ago for you. I win.”

“Okay little spoon, whatever you say.”

“How do you even know about that?”

“I’m catching up on modern slang.”

“Please, never say that word again. It sounds wrong coming from you.” Enzo decides to not answer and instead bites the skin on Damon’s neck before sucking. The other vampire inhales sharply. “If you’re hungry, there is blood downstairs.”

Enzo lifts his head to place it on Damon’s shoulder. “And risk bumping into the gaggle of murderous babies. No, thank you.” He sweeps the room with his eyes. “You should have blood in your room. Why don’t you have blood in your room?”

Damon doesn’t answer, preferring instead to settle more cozily against the younger vampire with a faint sigh of content. Enzo adjusts his grip until they’re both comfortable. Damon takes his hand once again, fiddling with his fingers and his ring. With Damon’s fixation with his hands, Enzo is half worried Damon is going to steal them. Or his ring. Damon looks like the kind of person to steal jewelry because he likes it.

After a few minutes of silence, Enzo leans his head toward Damon, chin hooked on the other's shoulder, a small smirk on his lips. He can feel Damon shift at his movement. “So,” from the way Damon freezes, he probably already knows he won't like what he'll hear. It simply makes his smile widen. “What about snuggling?”

Without missing a beat, Damon answers. “I'm disowning you. Starting now and ending never.” But, despite his words, he doesn't move. On the contrary, he leans further backwards and Enzo can't resist. 

“Looks like to me you do want more snuggles.”

With a grunt of disgust, Damon makes a move to extract himself from the other's embrace cuddle but Enzo tightens his grip. “Okay, okay, no cuddling and no snuggling. Just you and I against the outside world.” Despite his words, he makes sure to snuggle the other vampire as close as he can. “So, what do you say? We pretend the outside world doesn’t exist and we stay here where nothing can reach us?”

“I like the idea.”

Enzo smiles and starts stroking Damon’s arms with the tips of his fingers until the other is completely relaxed and nearly asleep. He drops a small kiss on Damon’s lower jaw and shifts a bit so they are both comfortably settled. He waits until he’s sure Damon is asleep before picking his phone to write a quick message to Alaric to tell him to not bother them until at least midday the day after. Message sent and not waiting for the confirmation the hunter saw it, he puts the phone down, adjusts his grip and lets his head fall against the headboard, listening to Damon’s breathing gradually lull him into sleep.

They have tons of problems to deal with, but for now, he’s content enough to ignore them. They’ll have all the time to worry about them tomorrow. And the day after. And every day that follows. His last thought before succumbing to sleep is wondering if he'd be able to convince Damon to ditch Mystic Falls and its seemingly never-ending troubles.

END

so this ends up being longer than i planned, sorry for that but i hope you liked it i had fun writing it

i'll probably edit and post it on ao3 at some point, there are stuff i haven't been able to fit here so we'll see

also damon might seem a bit out of character but you should remember that the guy came back from a future where he saw everyone he loved die and he was having a bad week

[artzybumpkin]

Dude's down on his luck, nowhere safe to go, and then out of the blue his estranged brother he hasn’t heard from or seen in over a DECADE reaches out to him requesting he come to some buttshuck nowhere town in Oregon STAT....

All the while he's about to pop....

....

What could possibly go wrong??

[caelanglang]

dear diary… one day I met the little prince…

but just as the storybook said… we got separated… all I know is that somewhere out there… we see the same stars…

ps. they found each other again...

[mewtwo24]

Not to be That Guy but like.

Am I the only one that can't stop thinking about how Tianlang-Jun says about Luo Binghe that he pretends to be cold-hearted like his mother. The hint of fondness there, the heartache in that utterance.

Like it drives me absolutely insane. Imagining her putting on a front of strength, cold and driven and unrelenting. Why does TLJ say that about her. Did she secretly look for solutions that meant reconciling with demons instead of hurting them when her sect wasn't looking? (I wonder this because I feel like his weird fondness for SQQ would lowkey track if it's connected to the woman he once loved.) Did he mean that she was tasked with basically assassinating him and she fell in love with him instead (re: failed step one)? Did he mean that she was fond and doting in her own way (e.g. conceding he was attractive, paying for his exploits and humoring him)? Did he mean that, like LBH, she thought that power would be the thing to protect her--and that it was disguising a person who was deeply and privately wounded? All four????? I don't need sleep I need a n s w e r s

Did she know about the Huanhua Palace Master's skeevy ass intentions before she met TLJ? Or did those only come to significant light after she fell in love with TLJ? Is that why she never anticipated that level of betrayal, because initially she had no intention of being with anyone romantically? And HHPM just assumed she would be under his thumb forever?? Was she furious at her own indiscretion or did she try to use the pregnancy as a bargaining chip, a way to try to stop the immortals of Cang Qiong Mountain from attacking TLJ (plus the bonus of marriage entrapment no takesies backsies this is where LBH gets it from)? Did she try to use that claim on her to dissuade HHPM from his covetous advances, framing herself as tainted so that she could finally escape? Did she dream of a life by TLJ's side, far away from Cang Qiong Mountain?

Like. Literally every single permutation of what this could mean guts me to hell. Do you ever just cry about tianxi because I--[loud bawling noises]

[canisalbus]

Looking at your art summary your art has gotten a softness to it that it didnt have before (said positively). I hope this is, in part, because life has been kinder to you than it was before, if only because you deserve a good, kind life. I hope the new year greets you like an old friend.

.

[sskk-manifesto]

Bungou Stray Dogs: Dead Apple and how “ability users” (opposite to “normal people”) learning to accept themselves through the acceptance of their own abilities is a queer metaphor of acceptance of own's sexual orientation and gender: an essay by me

[fisheito]

"I'm a healer but--" duo

[sysig]

An eye for a life, unquestionably worth it (Patreon)

[mimikusu]

A: I'm goHh-nnHa! ... Hh'ApTSHhhiew! ... sneeze.

B: Bless you! Next time just do it!

A: My, don't you think it's polite to adress the matter beforehand?

B: So I can do what? Duck and cover?

[archangeldyke-all]

Butch trucker Sevika? 👁️👁️

sugar......... your mind.....

men and minors dni

she drives an 18 wheeler across the country. she loves the job. it's just her (with little slayer by her side) ((yes i'm bringing slayer into this i love that little imaginary dog)), and it's always quiet, just an audiobook playing in the background, and she gets to travel and see places she never would have before. she loves it.

you work at one of those mega gas station/ rest stops in the middle of nowhere. your job mainly consists of selling people various snacks from the convenience store or checking out shower stalls for various truckers that come through or re-stocking the spinning hotdog rollers.

sevika stops at your gas station one day to fill up and grab some chips for the long trip ahead of her.

when she sees you, she's starstruck.

she's absolutely silent at the register as you ring her up, just flabbergasted by you and your beauty.

you seem to barely notice her, exhausted at the end of your shift. sevika's grateful for this-- because she's absolutely mortified by her behavior. she's never been this flustered by a girl before.

but she makes it her life mission to get you to notice her.

any time she's even in your state, she makes a long detour to go see you at the gas station.

half the time she goes you aren't even there. she ends these trips cursing herself for being so stupid. but when you are there, she promises herself she won't stop visiting you at the gas station until you tell her to fuck off or she makes you hers.

she quickly becomes a familiar face for you.

you always smile when you see her, asking her how her route's going. she answers honestly, getting tiny giggles out of you when she starts cursing out stupid drivers and the rain.

you think she's fucking adorable. she'd hate it if she knew that's the first word that comes to mind when you think about her.

sure she's ripped and handsome and looks like she could fuck you for days at a time, but she's always stuttering and cursing and stealing glances at you from the aisles of the gas station.

sometimes, late at night she'll come in and stay for a bit, just watching you work, making sure nobody gives you trouble. you always notice. you think she's the sweetest woman you've ever met. (even though you haven't really met her)

one night she catches you after your shift, sitting on a bench outside of the gas station and having a smoke. she pauses on her way in-- not sure if she should act like she really comes here for snacks or just give up her act and talk to you.

she doesn't have to make a decision though, because you decide for her.

"hey." you say, giving her a friendly smile and a wave. she gulps.

"hi."

"long night?" you ask her. she clears her throat and nods.

"yeah. how about you?" she asks. you giggle and shrug.

"the snow's got everyone staying inside so it was pretty slow. good to see you though, i was wondering when you'd come around again." you say, giving her a sweet smile and fluttering your eyelashes at her.

sevika melts.

you offer to share your smoke with her and she takes you up on it. you guys sit on the bench for hours, chatting and giggling and getting to know one another.

at one point, sevika walks you to her rig to introduce you to little slayer. the dog absolutely loves you (she can tell her mama likes you so she's on her best behavior,) and you think little slayer curling up in sevika's big burly arms is about the cutest thing you've ever seen.

at some point, sevika's phone starts ringing-- she's running behind schedule for her shipment. she apologizes and waves goodbye to you, and as she goes, you call after her.

"come back soon!"

she grins the rest of her ride.

sevika finally works up the nerve to ask you out a few months later. you giggle when she does.

"don't you live like, ten hours away?" you ask. she shrugs.

"i could drive here, like in my car. or i could get a delivery here, spend a few days here before i gotta make another. up to you." she says. you giggle and agree.

but when the big day comes, a blizzard rolls through town. you text sevika asking if she'll be able to make it, but don't hear back. you spend your shift depressed and a little heartbroken, missing sevika and knowing you likely wont see her for another week or two.

but as you're wrapping yourself up in your layers getting ready to go home, sevika's rig comes pulling into the empty parking lot. you gasp.

sevika comes tumbling out of her truck, sprinting up to you with a wild look in her eye.

"you're still here!" she exclaims. you let out a disbelieving laugh.

"what are you doing here?!" you ask, wrapping sevika up in a hug. she's just in a wifepleaser and sweats-- she hadn't grabbed her coat before running out in the snow to greet you. she sighs against you.

"i'm sorry i missed your text. i had no signal with all the snow." she says, bashfully rubbing the back of her neck. you giggle.

"you're adorable." you say, shooting up to kiss her. sevika's shocked against you, sighing against your mouth and wrapping her arms around you.

you guys end up spending the night in her truck, talking over chips and sodas, watching the snow fall and cuddling together on the little twin bed in the back, slayer sleeping on top of you.

it becomes a pretty frequent occurrence, even without the snow.

sevika will come by to visit you while you're finishing up work, perfectly timing her mandatory 8 hour break so she can spend time with you.

sometimes you'll take her into town and show her around.

sometimes you guys just chat in her truck.

(sometimes you take her back to your place so you guys can fuck in a bigger bed.)

but eventually, you and sevika are going steady.

it's pretty hard, with only being able to see her once a week and the two of you living across the country from one another. but on your one year anniversary, sevika comes to visit you at work when you aren't expecting her.

she grins at the sight of you lighting up behind the counter, barely able to contain your excitement as you check out the guy in front of her. when it's her turn, you jump over the counter and into her arms.

"what're you doing here?!" you ask as you pepper her face with kisses. sevika giggles.

"i got a surprise for you." she says, shrugging. you pull away from her with a grin.

"well, show me!" you exclaim. sevika giggles as she presses a letter into your hands. the letterhead is from her company, and you furrow your brow as your eyes scan the text, then suddenly, you burst into tears.

sevika takes it the wrong way.

"i can reject it, you know." she says uncertainly. "i don't have to..."

it's a permission slip, allowing sevika to relocate her primary location to your town. you giggle at her words and wrap her up in a hug.

"don't you dare." you whimper against her. she melts in your arms, pressing kisses to your head. "will you move in with me?" you ask as you pull away. sevika grins.

"i was hoping you'd ask that. nobody's renting around here." she admits. you smile.

"my landlord doesn't like dogs, but slayer's not really a dog. she's like a fiesty gerbil." you say. sevika laughs.

"i'll just fight 'im if he gives us shit." she says. you grin.

there's a line forming behind sevika, and her truck is burning gas as it idles in the parking lot, but you don't care about either as you lean in to capture her lips in a kiss.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian

[emedeme]

A tale of the first winter in the Underworld ❄

[concreteburialplot]

The Wonder Of You

pairing: nicholas ruffilo x fem!reader

masterlist: here | crossposted: ao3 | word count: 4.5k

summary: you surprise your boyfriend with festive lingerie for his birthday. he shows you just how grateful he is with all the love he has in his corazón.

warnings: sweet, soft, FLUFFY, making love, soft dom!nick, festive (xmas-y), established dom/sub relationship, quite domestic, fingering/handjob, oral [m receiving], throat fucking, p n v, creampie, praise, again nick has a big fat one sorry it's just canon at this point - massive cocks are rare but he's got one ok, 18+ MDNI

a/n: happy birthday nicky🩷

And when you smile, the world is brighter You touch my hand, and I'm a king

Your kiss to me is worth a fortune Your love for me is everything

I'll guess I'll never know the reason why You love me as you do

That's the wonder The wonder of you

- 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙔𝙤𝙪 // 𝙀𝙡𝙫𝙞𝙨 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙮

Your boyfriend sits in the living room while you spend time curating the perfect set up for his birthday in your bedroom. You already lit the candles, mostly unscented but some which smell like a warm campfire and one that smells like candy cane, because you know he likes that one especially. There’s a playlist softly playing in the background, curated with a mix of his favorite songs that set a tone, lots of Deftones of course.

You undress and pile your clothes on top of the hamper before slipping on the set you bought for his birthday. It was lacy red triangles covering your breasts and it flowed down over your torso in a light mesh. You step into what is really a joke and an overstatement of being called underwear – it was just a couple of straps, completely bare in the middle between your legs. A pair of puffballs hang just above your ass and the edges of the babydoll top are lined in white fluff. Stepping in front of the full-length mirror you smooth out the mesh and take in your silhouette. Your immediate reaction is discomfort, feeling like these are clothes you don’t belong in. The outfit is too revealing, too holiday-y, too colorful, too much.

But you know how much he loves Christmas and how much he won’t care what you’re wearing once he sees you in lace. Man brains are quite simple after all, he probably won’t be able to tell you the color of the outfit when he’s done with you.

You sigh, making a mental note to push your insecurities to the side for the night and try to just embrace your sensuality for him.

Your hand hesitates before turning the doorknob and peaking your head out. He must’ve gotten bored since you see him working on some tattoo design on his iPad.

“Okay. Ready.” You say quickly before shutting the door and making it to the edge of the bed. You sit and unwrap a candy cane to suck on.

It’s clear he was unsure what exactly he was walking into by the surprised look on his face as he takes in the room before landing on you.

“Oh.” His eyes wide and locked on you. “This is what you’ve been working on?” He asks, crossing the room over to you. “What’s all this for?”

“Your birthday silly.” You place the end of the candy cane in your mouth and pull it out with a pop, your eyes fixated on his.

He glances over at the clock on the nightstand reading 11:14 pm. “Well, it’s not my birthday quite yet.”

“I figured we could start off strong.” You shrug, “I’m sure by the time we’re done it’ll be your birthday anyway.”

“Quite a bold assumption, with how fucking good you look.” He jokes, not being able to stay off your body.

“Mmm.” You hum around the candy cane before pulling it out to speak. “I’m sure we can make it last.”

You find his wrist and carefully bring it down while you part your legs for him, letting his fingers find your exposed pussy.

His eyes round at the discovery, “Fuck you’re so wet already.” He mumbles, cupping your cheek to tilt your face up to him. “You’re this wet just from wanting to please me?”

You hum an “mhm” around the sugary cane looking up at him.

His fingers glide up your folds exploring you while his eyes can’t look anywhere besides your occupied mouth. “Fuck baby.” The hand on your cheek slides down to around your throat, gently with no pressure. “I need that to be my cock in your mouth.”

You knew it wouldn’t take long for him to slip into his usual self. You hook your finger at the curve in the cane and slide it past your lips, letting your lips stay parted for him.

“Mmm.” His hand around your throat slithers up to your jaw and tugs his thumb across your lips before dipping it into your mouth. You instantly wrap your lips around his finger and suck on him just as you would his cock. Your eyes never leave his as you do so.

“Oh, what a good girl, getting a head start.” He praises which only fuel you.

You hum and nod around his finger while your hands fumble to find his zipper. You waste no time trying to palm him over his jeans, you don’t want to keep him waiting on his birthday after all. You tug his pants and underwear down past his knees, letting his hard cock spring free smacking against his stomach. No matter how long you’ve been together the sight of his size never ceases to amaze you. It never fails to fill your tummy with excitement and fear.

You don’t hesitate to begin working his length in your hands. His skin is silky smooth to the touch and the blood rushing through his member makes his veins so prominent beneath your fingertips.

The feeling of your hands has his eyes fluttering closed for just a second. His fingers never halted between your legs, now slipping into your entrance.

He leans down and presses his forehead against yours before pulling his thumb from your mouth. His gray-blue eyes lovingly track yours as he holds your jaw gently. “You are so pretty.” He says softly in the space between you two, so quiet you’d think the room was full of people and he only wanted you to hear.

A blush coats your cheeks, and you shake your head. “No, no. I look so silly.”

“Uh uh,” He nudges his nose against yours sweetly, “You know better than to say no to me.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, because for some reason it makes you feel so safe when he asserts himself like that. “Yes sir.” You reply meekly.

The edges of his lips tug up into a grin, “That’s my girl.” He whispers.

He pulls away just a bit to glance around the room, the red LED lights with the Christmas lights hung around the room and all the candles lit. “You did this all for me?” He asks quietly, holding your chin up.

“Of course.” You whisper back, looking up at him in awe. Even when his hair in a messy bun and thick rimmed glasses, he’s still the most handsome man in the world to you. “You work so hard. You deserve a little fun. And what’s more fun than having me be a toy for you?”

A chuckle escapes his lips, “While I can’t argue with that, I don’t need all of this for my birthday. It’s just another day to me, you know that.”

“I know. But I love you.” You state softly, nuzzling your cheek against his palm. “You deserve everything, and I just want to make you feel good. I want to show you how much I love you.”

“I love you too.” He smiles and leans down to your lips pressing a long kiss against them. “Well, let’s get that pretty mouth of yours to work then, hm?”

Rosy-pink tints your cheeks and a flurry of butterflies swirl in your tummy. You nod and let him pull his fingers from you. He slips them into his mouth and sucks them clean, humming at your taste. “God, you taste so fucking good.”

“Sh.” You wave off his compliment, mostly because it worsens the warmth on your cheeks.

The bed squeaks a bit as you readjust to lay flat on your stomach to be level with his cock. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. Thick and massive, the first half of his shaft a darker shade of his olive skin tone, with the second half much lighter. His tip swollen and pink with a driblet of precum pooling at the head.

You take no time in licking a fat strip up his slit before taking his head into your mouth. He lets out a grunt at the stimulation of your warm mouth around him. His hand finds your head and tangles his fingers into your hair.

You savor him, rolling swirls on the underside of his cock and then circling around the tip. His head is so big it almost fills your entire mouth, so you use your hands to take care of the rest of his length as you begin bobbing on him.

“Fuck.” He groans, tugging at your hair a bit, “Fuck that feels so good.”

You swoon at the praise which makes you work harder. Your hands working him, squeezing around his shaft for extra stimulation. You move up and down on him, taking as much of him in your mouth as you can, letting him hit the back of your throat each time.

“God, look how good you are for me, taking me so well.” He grunts a bit, rutting his hips for work just a little, knowing that too much might hurt you.

Your heart swells at his words and the noises he’s making, you can tell how much he’s enjoying himself and that’s all you wanted. You wiggle your ass up a bit just to show off just how little the strappy lingerie covers you.

“Mmm.” He hums, his hand running down your back and squeezing a cheek before landing a hard smack against it.

While you half expected it, it still stings but it’s exactly what you wanted. You know he won’t hurt you too much tonight since he’s being so sweet but usually, he loves hurting you and you love taking it.

You whine around his member and take him even deeper down your throat. You try your best to suppress a gag the deeper you go on him, but it’s not that successful. His fingers curl stiffer around your hair at the sound and swivels his hips forward ever so slightly, enough to make you gag again. He chuckles at your struggle, deriving twisted pleasure out of it. When you don’t give him a warning sign he pushes further down your throat. His favorite thing is testing just how far you’ll go for him. He loves how hard you work for him, and he doesn’t take it for granted, he loves watching his best girl choke on his cock. 

You whine around him again and look up at him with your eyes filling with tears from the pain of his girth in your throat.

His lips pull to a sinister smirk at the sight of your makeup running down your face. “Oh my, look at you.” He loosens his grip in your hair and instead combs through it as he speaks. “You look so fucking gorgeous with your pretty mouth full of my cock.”

The praise alone has you nearly dripping on the bed and fills your heart with loving pride. You want nothing more than to please him and make him happy, especially on his birthday.

You moan with your mouth full and looking up at him through your thick lashes and he looks down at you in awe.

“Can I try something with you, my love?” He asks sweetly, as if he doesn’t have the power to command you to do whatever he wanted.

You pull off of him with a pop, nodding with a string of drool still hanging from his tip to your mouth.

“How about you lay on your back for me huh? Hang your head off the edge of the bed.”

Fear slithers up your spine at the idea of him having that much more access to your throat from that angle.

Nick picks up on your hesitation and bends down to your eyelevel, taking your chin gently between his fingers. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to baby. But I promise I’ll be gentle, okay? You can pat my thigh if you need me to stop.”

You tug at your bottom lip in thought but ultimately agree with an “okay” in an already raspy voice. You do as he asked and flipped onto your back, letting your head hang just off the mattress edge.

“Good girl.” He stretches out the words as he watches you put your body on display for him.

His leans down you as soon as you’ve settled. He uses both hands to gently finish brush all the rogue hairs away from your face and neck. His tattooed hands then find your cheeks and cupping them. “You are so goddamn beautiful.” He smiles, just taking in the wonder of you. “I can’t wait to make a mess out of you.”

You beam up at him and he can’t help but widen his grin. His thumb rubs your cheek tenderly before leaning down to press a kiss to your messy lips. He nudges his nose against yours, “I love you so fucking much, Princess.” He whispers.

Your heart swells at your favorite petname. With the way he treats you, he always made you feel like a princess, and he always made you feel so taken care of, so protected.

You were his. Completely, totally, entirely.

You belonged to him, and he belonged to you.

“I love you too Nicky.” You reply softly in the same low volume.

You let there be moment of comforting silence between you, your foreheads pressed against each other, his hands lovingly holding your head. You revel in the deep adoration you have for one another.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay my doll.” He presses another peck on your lips before returning to his original standing position.

He takes hold of his member by the base and uses it to press his swollen head against your partially parted lips. You open up for him, giving him full access to your mouth. He slides his length in, moving past your tongue immediately going for the throat. While the new position allows him to get deeper, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it doesn’t trigger your gag reflex nearly as much as the previous position. This discovery allows you to relax and let him have his way with you.

He starts slow to test the water with long deep strokes but soon picks up speed. His hips thrust in and out of your mouth vigorously getting lost in it.

“Gah -  fuck.” He groans out in a hiss. His hand smothers down around your neck, pressing down on the sides a bit. He wanted to feel himself destroy your trachea.

He leans forward a bit, only shoving himself down your throat more, to trace his fingers down your front finding your closed, bent legs. He taps your thigh softly, “C’mon baby, let me see that pretty pussy of yours.”

You didn’t think it was possible to feel anything other than the monster in your throat but still, your cheeks heated up and a flutter grew between your legs.

You bend to him, like you always do, obeying him out of devotion not out of direction. His hand slides down your inner thigh as you spread for him. You feel a tinge of insecurity and maybe embarrassment in your revealing lingerie, the crotchless thong offering no coverage for you.

His fingers glide up between your folds, circling around your clit before reaching further down and gathering the juices at your entrance. From this angle he can’t dip inside you but god just the proximity of his touch has you pulsing around nothing. He retracts his reach and brings his fingers to his mouth, slipping them in desperately needing the taste of you. He groans around his fingers covered in your slick and continues to roll his hips harshly into your throat as he savors you.

“God, fuck baby.” He groans and slowly pulls from your throat. As uncomfortable as it was having him lodged there, it brings a vague feeling of emptiness. You love having him inside you, one way or another.

Drool connects his member to your mouth in strands, his cock coated in saliva.

“I need your fucking pussy baby. I need to feel you.” He says, slipping out of the rest of his clothes, his body on full display.

His body was tattooed almost completely. Most people wouldn’t consider a body like his anything special perse, he wasn’t muscular or toned really, mostly just lean. Except for some muscle in his arms from playing bass and lugging around instruments all the time. He’d been very skinny most of his life but as he’s gotten older there was thin extra layer around his tummy, which you loved. As long as you’d known him, he never liked to show much skin, he was never one to be shirtless for no reason. Which you never really understood because to you, he was the most attractive man in any room. But since he wasn’t fond of showing skin, there were parts of him only you got to see. Tattoos only you knew were there and knew the stories of. Tattoos only you got to trace with your fingers and your tongue.

Loving him and catering to him was an art only you knew.

You nod and sit up, but before you even get a chance to breathe, he’s grasped your thighs and tugged you the edge of the bed. He whisks you up prompting you to wrap your legs around his hips. Your arms slink around his neck and you once again press your forehead against his, this time getting a good view of his eyes. In the dim light with the faint red glow from the light strips, his eyes look extra green. You loved how his eyes could change depending on the setting. It amazed you how no matter the color, blue, green or grey, they always looked perfect for him.

“You are so, so good for me. I couldn’t ask for a better girl.” He says softly.

“You mean that?” You ask past the strain in your throat, leaning forward a bit to be even closer with him.

“Of course, my darling. Look at all you’ve done for me, and how good you make me feel.” He gushes.

“I do?” You hum ghosting against his lips.

“Mhm.” He hums back.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, you reciprocate, tangling your fingers in his messy black hair before lengthening the kiss. It’s soft, sweet, loving, patient.

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to escalate into a passionate flame. He climbs up onto the bed clumsily with you still wrapped around him. He carefully drops you in the middle of bed, your head landing on plush pillows without interrupting your kiss.

Your lips and tongues dance together as his hands wander your body. His soft hands gliding your every curve beneath the thin babydoll mesh. He detaches from your lips and begins kissing down your neck. His breathing is rapid and needy.

“I love you. I love every part of you,” He says hastily between open mouth kisses. “Every fucking part.”

You’re dizzy with how much you love him. “I love you too.”

He’s so fucking worked up that he’s already rutting the tip of his cock up and down your folds, putting pressure against your buzzing clit.

You whine at the sensation of his tip against your sensitivity and his sucking on the weak spot on your neck. Your hand tangles in his hair, gripping it with need.

As much as you don’t want to interrupt the sweetness of it all, you need him in a much different way. “Please fuck me, fuck I need your cock so fucking bad please.” You beg, the ache between your thighs screaming for relief.

He chuckles against your neck, even though you can tell he needs it just as bad. It doesn’t take much to bring you both back to your normal depravity. “Hm. You’re gonna have to do better than that. What is it you need baby?”

You groan a bit in defiant impatience. “Your cock. I need your fucking cock.”

“Hm. A little sassy are we? Not even a please that time.” He rolls his hips into you, sliding the underneath of his length between your soaked lips. “Let’s try again. Be more specific, what do you want?”

You huff, over his delaying. “I want your big fat fucking cock to fuck me raw. Please.”

“That’s my good girl.” The edges of his lips curl to a smirk, “Well. I think we can arrange that.”

Before you could even respond he’s already pressed his tip into your entrance. He wants to ram right into you, you can tell, but he knows better than that. He’s gotten really good at knowing how to stretch you out properly. His thumb finds your sensitive nub and begins rolling tight circles into it to help you relax around him.

“That’s it baby.” He reassures you. “You’re doing so good for me.” He fills you slowly, inch by inch carefully until he’s bottomed out. You hiss at the pain of him inside you. He fills you entirely and the stretch burns at first but sweetens when he begins moving in and out of you. Deep grumbly groans fill his chest at the feeling you tight around him.

“Fuck.” You wince a bit but let your eyes flutter close.

His movements start slow, but you feel his restraint bubbling beneath your fingertips like a volcano. “You’re doing such a good job, Princess, taking me so fucking good.” He groans into your neck.

His fingers work diligently on your pulsing clit, helping ease the pain a bit. You’ve been worked up all night thinking about this moment, combined with how his cock reaches the deepest parts of you and how his fingers work where you need him, you feel like you could explode any second.

“I’m trying to go slow baby, but you just feel so fucking good.” He says between the breathy moans that escape him. His actions match his statement, his hips working in quick but deep thrusts in and out of you.

You whine loudly at his words, only worsening you impending climax. Tingle fill your body down to your legs that wrap around his waist. You love seeing and feeling just how much he can’t control himself with you. The knot in your tummy is so tight it feels like it’s about to snap.

“I’m close.” You warn hastily, unsure of how much longer you’ll last – and you know he won’t like it if you don’t ask for permission first. “Can I cum? Please – fuck, please I’m so close.”

His fingers on your clit speed up just a bit to help you over your finish line. “Cum for me baby, c’mon cum all over my cock.”

Bright ecstasy blooms from where he works on you, sending a blazing buzzing across your skin. Explosions fill your tummy and your heart beats so fast it feels like it could rupture.

“Don’t fight it Princess, go ahead, give in to me.” He hums just beneath your ear.

Your nails dig deep into his back as your spine curves violently up from the mattress. Screams curses and moans rip through your chest and fill the room.

“Oh my, there we go.” His thrusts speeding up beginning to chase his own orgasm. “That’s my good girl, cumming so hard for me.”

His deep raspy voice and the way he’s talking you through with a bit of overstimulation from his persistent fingers pushes you over a different edge, feeling yourself squirt your juices all over his cock.

“Oh, look at that,” He lets out a strained groan. “I know it’s so much isn’t it?”

You cling onto him, biting down on his shoulder as you ride out your orgasm. His thrusts get quick and sloppy and hard, probably getting pushed over his own edge by the way your walls spasm around him.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He growls, his hands sliding beneath your thighs and hooking behind your knees to keep you in place. He slams hard into you repeatedly until he goes rigid, and you feel his cock twitch inside you – which with how large he is, is a bit painful but you love it. Milky white paints your walls and fills you up fully, pouring out of you before he even pulls out.

He rests atop of you and lets himself soften a bit before pulling from you. It’s an odd feeling being so full then being so empty, but at least you have his cum pooling inside of you for now.

He falls next to you and your chests rise and fall in time. After you’ve both come down a little, you look over at each other with glossy eyes and soft smiles.

-

After you both have showered and cleaned up, you change into some cozy pajamas. A unplanned cold front had rolled in so the warmest pajamas you had were matching Christmas ones. Nicholas lit the fireplace while you made your signature hot chocolate.

You cozy up next to him on the couch, beneath a blanket and a cat or two. The fireplace warmth and the lit Christmas tree are the only things lighting the room besides the glow of the mostly full moon from outside the window. You nestle your head on his shoulder and watch the fire crackle beneath the hung stockings – one for each of you and for each cat.

The heat of the hot cocoa almost burns your tongue – just almost, just like you like it. The hot drink fills your chest, warming you from the inside. Your eyes drift to the lit Christmas tree you had put up just a couple days ago. You can’t help but smile at how each ornament has a special memory attached. You take it in and appreciate it now because it is a miracle the tree lasted even this long with the cats trying to climb it every chance they got.

Even though you wanted to wait, he was so excited to put it up after Thanksgiving that you couldn’t say no. You can rarely say no to him, especially when his eyes are so bright. Holidays weren’t ever your thing, but he always made them so special. Being with him is a dream, so you savor the magic he brings.

You’ll love the holidays, as long as you have him to celebrate with.

You snuggle into him shivering a bit before looking up at him, catching him admiring the fire and the tree too.

“Hey.” You say quietly to catch his attention but not disrupt the peace. He looks down at you, with eyes so fully of contentment. “Happy birthday.”

The edges of his mouth curl into a happy grin. “Thank you, my love.” He kisses your forehead, “You didn’t have to do all of that for me.”

If you were more awake, you’d tease him and ask if he was complaining but you were far too drained for that.

“I know, but I wanted to. Because I love you.” You plant a peck on his shoulder.

“I’ll never understand why you love me as you do.” He states, using the hand not occupied with a mug to find and hold yours. “But god, am I grateful. You truly are the love of my life.”

You can’t hide the wide smile that stretches across your face and the blush that coats your cheeks. “And you are mine, Nicholas.”

tag list; i don't currently have a general tag list for all my fics so if you'd like to be added to that pls lmk!

a/n; thank you for reading if you did! i'm not that good at writing smut or fluff so sorry if it wasn't that great! this is probably the fluffiest thing ive ever written and im embarassed 🫣

Thank you for any support you guys ever give me on any of my works, it truly means the world to me that you guys enjoy my words and lil plots.

let me know if you liked it! i love hearing your thoughts🥰🩷

[dootznbootz]

There's something really fascinating about how Athena treats Diomedes so differently from how treats Penelope and Odysseus (even Telemachus but that's a lil different too)

Athena has basically known Diomedes since he was born (some even say that she had a say in naming him) because of Tydeus. I don't think it's far-fetched to say that in a way, she possibly "molded" him. And Diomedes is kind of known for being the "perfect warrior king". He's respectful of the gods and most of his comrades, an incredibly skilled soldier, and has already achieved so many things despite being one of the youngest kings in the war.

I sadly think that's why Athena treats him so differently than Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus.

She cares for him, but it's still "distant" in a way. Or almost in an "I molded you. You will react the way I would want you to therefore I will not be surprised."

When it seems like she's known her other favored mortals for less long, she didn't get to "mold" them. They surprise and bring something "new" for her. She sees her little tricksters' scheme and plot and watches with intrigue but watching the perfect warrior is a "Yes, perfect form. That's what I'd do."

I mean even how her favored mortals pray to her tells you a lot about the relationships they have.

For example, in the Iliad, Odysseus doesn't need to really give as much reverence to her to "earn her favor" during book 10's Night Raid.

Odysseus rejoiced, and prayed to Pallas Athene: ‘Hear me, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, you who are with me in all my adventures, protecting me wherever I go. Show me your love, Athene, now, more than ever, and grant we return to the ships having won renown, with some brave act that will grieve the Trojans greatly.’ And Diomedes of the loud war-cry followed him in prayer: ‘Hear me also, Atrytone, daughter of Zeus. Be with me as you were with my father Tydeus in Thebes, when he went there as ambassador for the bronze-greaved Achaeans, camped there by the Asopus. A friendly offer was what he made them, but on his way back he was forced to take deadly reprisal for their ambush, and you fair goddess, readily stood by him. Stand by me now, and watch over me, and in return I will offer a broad-browed yearling heifer, unused to the yoke. I will tip her horns with gold and sacrifice her to you.’

(Book 10, A.S. Kline)

Diomedes brings up his dad and offers a young heifer (granted that could just be how Diomedes is with every immortal) while Odysseus doesn't and is basically like "Yo, help me out like you always do!". Odysseus is much more casual and personal with Athena. And with Penelope, Athena takes the form of one of her sisters to comfort her!

While Athena also most likely has known Telemachus since he was a baby, she's still closer to him than Diomedes.

Imagine that. You're basically molded by a goddess since birth, listen to her and other immortals dutifully, basically become her perfect warrior, and yet you can't seem to reach that familiarity with her. The same warmth she has for her other favored mortals.

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [5/5]

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

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was I out for long?”

“A couple minutes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”

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

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

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

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

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.

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

“Take the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

“The bed’s warmer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vincent says nothing, to that.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly. 

And Yves—

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

—

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

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

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

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

“How’s the book?” Yves says.

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” Yves says. 

It has the opposite effect he intends it to.

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

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

“What things?”

“Kdowing my limits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”

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

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

“I don’t think that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

“I’d already finished eating.”

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

“Because you’re ill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.

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

Yves’s heart twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But when he allows himself to look, he sees—

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

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

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

—

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

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

Yves opens his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

EPILOGUE

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

“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”

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

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

This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding. 

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

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

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

[illicien]

Every so often I see... interesting takes about Zemo that leave me questioning if we... all saw the same stuff.

Like, you know he commanded a death squad before his fam even died, right? This man is not a good dude. Sure, maybe it was in the name of his country but also... his country was a shit show and he said as much.

So I am absolutely perplexed by the number of "he wouldn't do x" and "why does everyone make him so toxic" kinds of things. He actively waterboarded Vasily Karpov like one of the first times we saw him. He was put in the RAFT because he is a fucking terrorist.

This feels like another one of those things I guess that reminds me of Hannibal. Him being polite doesn't make him any less of a cannibal. You can be both polite and a bad person.

[rockingrobin69]

Erm, hello there, may I perhaps have a trick, with some treat vibes?? Pretty please???

Hello my love! Here's some soft smut for you, rated E.

Most Favourite

“I’m not asking for much,” Draco said, reasonably, “only to be your favourite person in the whole entire world. That’s it.”

Harry, still laughing, wiping his face on his sleeve: “Oh, that’s it.”

“Yes! You don’t even have to love me or anything. You don’t need to make any romantic grand gestures or, or, keep finding new ways to please me, or—although this feels fairly nice.”

To the stubble-rough kisses Harry couldn’t help but pepper on his soft inner thigh. “Fairly nice?”

“Fine, it feels fucking fantastic, happy?”

The grin on his face was starting to ache in the corners. “Delirious,” Harry said, and settled himself between Draco’s legs, mouthing the gap under his briefs. “C’mon, baby, help me get these off.”

Draco was mumbling something about getting off, but he did lift his sweet arse so that Harry could pull the boxers down, kissing the soft, fuzzy skin he was baring. To the perfect arch of Draco’s foot, curling with ticklish pleasure; back up to nuzzle behind his knee, to lather his thigh with warm licks and to bite the supple, fleshy part of it till Draco squealed.

“Oi! Brute. You didn’t answer my question.”

“There was a question there?” grinning into blond pubic hair. “Sweetheart, you’re gorgeous.”

An indignant shriek. “You know that wasn’t it!”

“My love,” sprinkling adoring kisses on the base of Draco’s cock, “my sincerest apologies, but I’m a little bit busy, see,” and the sharp breathing and the stirring interest and the lovely pink on Draco’s cheeks when he looked up assured him Draco supported the endeavour. Still, and only savouring it a little: “Would you like me to stop?”

Draco had the cutest pout. “No?” he said. “No. Just—I know it’s terribly childish but I need, ah,” voice melting when Harry traced a wet finger down his crack and round and round his hole.

“You need?” a little cruelly, making up for it with a generous lave of his cock, which had conveniently, fantastically, started to drip.

“Harry,” more a moan than a demand now. “Don’t—ah—change the subject. I—hngh,” trembling under his hands, the dearest and most beautiful little menace Harry’d ever seen. “More!”

“More?” incredulously, enamoured, “oh, no. I think you might need more.”

Squirming and convoluting, entangling himself in the sheets, already so frantic and truly, Harry’s barely even done anything. Apart from teasing him and teasing him and maybe sucking with a little more vigour now, tongue slipping on the vein on the underside of Draco’s perfect cock, and the finger Harry didn’t realise had gone a full knuckle in kept going in circles and, huh, Harry still had his clothes on? Hot, but unnecessary.

With only one hand, and a smidge of his concentration, Harry managed to rid himself of the shirt, and halfway done with the jeans (“Ah, ah, Ha-rry, fuck, ah, gods”) and fuck, if his boxers just, down to the knees right that will do, and in desperation and with the scorching heat of Draco all around him he nearly missed the wail, which would have been a real shame. Every minute of this was a miracle, and—the look on Draco’s face. “What is it?” with a sudden pang of dread. “Darling?”

“I just,” Harry didn’t know if this was good-sobbing or bad-sobbing, but his heart clenched anyway, “I need to know it’s possible. I know you have so many, ah, fuck, there are much better people in your life and, and, Harry, I can’t think when you’re doing that!”

“Doing—” he realised his finger was still moving. Made it stop. “Draco, if what’s possible?”

“If I could ever be your…” desolately looking away, and Harry’s chest was a riot and nothing made sense besides—

“Favourite?” blinking at the contorted face, at this ridiculous, ridiculous man, “you want to know if you can be my favourite? Bloody—absolute ninny, of course you already are?”

“Am what?”

Harry shook his head, words failing him for a moment, then leaned down to pet Draco’s cheek. “A wanker,” he laughed, and kissed his cheek. “A git,” kissed the other one. “An absolute twat,” the tip of his nose. “And my absolute favourite person. You berk.”

Draco laugh-sobbed, eyes big and grey. “Really?”

“Really,” unable to look at him, trailing kisses down his neck, his shoulder, his sides.

“And you couldn’t bloody say so when I practically went and made a gigantic arse of my—argh!” when Draco’s cock was back where it belonged. “Merlin! Give a man a warning, will you?”

Harry shrugged and resumed his very important mission of sucking another confession out of Draco. Maybe if he made him see stars Draco would admit that Harry’s his favourite, too.