#long post so under a cut!

[ink-the-artist]

Rabbits

Some bonus art, I initially started making this in a totally different art style but changed my mind about halfway through lmao, here are the parts I finished

[milkywayes]

■■■■ Shepard / earthborn / sole survivor / soldier. lovingly annotated.

scar refs (censored nsfw) under the cut >:) since I drew it and all.

[trigunbookclub]

Bookclub Round 2!

Hello and welcome! This is an online bookclub dedicated to reading through the Trigun manga series (which is Trigun, followed by Trigun Maximum). This time around, we'll be reading one omnibus volume about every month to celebrate the Dark Horse deluxe editions releasing! You don't have to read that version, @trigun-manga-overhaul is a fantastic fan translation project, and a great alternative! (Though please, if you can, support Nightow and the official releases!) All official images used in promotion of this event are from Overhaul.

Schedule

Trigun Deluxe Volumes 1 and 2 of Trigun - September 10th-October 7th

Trigun Maximum Deluxe Vol. 1 Volumes 1, 2, and 3 of Trigun Maximum - October 8th-November 11th

Trigun Maximum Deluxe Vol. 2 Volumes 4, 5, and 6 of Trigun Maximum - November 12th-December 9th

Trigun Maximum Deluxe Vol. 3 Volumes 7, 8, and 9 of Trigun Maximum - December 10th-February 24th

Trigun Maximum Deluxe Vol. 4 Volumes 10, 11, and 12 of Trigun Maximum - February 25th-TBA

Trigun Maximum Deluxe Vol. 5 Volumes 13 and 14 of Trigun Maximum - TBA

Guidelines and Info

Have fun! This isn’t meant to add more pressure or stress to your life, just to have fun reading a widely beloved manga <3

First-time readers and re-readers are both welcome!

Post your thoughts/theories/questions/graphics/edits/memes/etc. to the #TrigunBookclub tag on Tumblr, Twitter, or Bsky to participate with your fellow fans!

If you post spoilers for future volumes, please use the tag #TrigunBookclubSpoilers to help new fans enjoy reading along with the community.

Nightow’s artwork is beautiful, but sometimes readers find the action/dialogue a bit hard to follow. Feel free to ask for help deciphering things!

While the manga is a brilliant story, it covers very dark themes. They are spoilers, but if you trigger warnings, there is a Does the Dog Die page for the manga. There’s also a chapter-by-chapter TW list on Tumblr.

If you fall behind or come in late, no worries! Feel free to hop in at your leisure, just know the main tag will have spoilers for the current volume.

Supporting Dark Horse and Nightow is highly encouraged, but if you're looking for a place to read because you don't have a deluxe edition/want to read online with a different translation, check out @trigun-manga-overhaul!

Be kind to others! This is supposed to be a fun experience for a franchise that a lot of us love or are interested in. Harassment will not be tolerated.

And that's all for now! Follow this blog for updates, and I hope you have a great time if you decide to join!

[starflungwaddledee]

i wanted to do a piece to commemorate all the amazing waddle dees who entered the @kirbyoctournament this year! as starstruck is the last dee standing in the mainline tourney, that's a big legacy to carry, but she's doing her best...!

if you want to help her keep fighting the fight for the Humble Waddle Dee against all these super cool knights, dark matters, gods, and ancients, you can vote for starstruck here!

additionally with the first round of second chance voting now open, all these dee's are back for more, and you can give them your vote in the second chance bracket!! sadly a few of them are up against each other, but from top to bottom, here are links to vote for your favourites!

galaxia // ideena // pip // fondue // starry // mimi // daisy // rainbow // wadhat // wridee // stellar // rope mf // keyper // seam // lemon // flower // and of course starstruck being squished to within an inch of her life there 😂

character credits, from top to bottom!

galaxia @centellazul // ideena @tazmilygray // pip @emmyp0ps // fondue @moonmacabre01 // starry @staring-at-a-blank-pagee // mimi @clownie-rainbow // daisy @starrygoober // rainbow @cali-kabi // wadhat @iwontusethis255 // wridee @mxmanynames // stellar @drawscutestuff // rope mf @mint-termsandconditions // keyper @bloodiegawz // seam @cloud-the-forgotten // lemon @snazzyladreal // flower @eliastheownerof0axolotls

i hope you all enjoy it!! best of luck to everyone and their wanyas in the tourney and second chance!! 💖🙏

[thebramblewood]

The first meeting of the Vatore Book Club has commenced.

Previous / Next

Helena: Caleb, are you in here? [telepathically] Caleb?

[silence]

[under breath] Where are you? You promised you’d show me more today.

[picking up journal] Hmm. These definitely weren’t here before.

[begins reading]

May 25, 1918: Another night daymare. Same as all the others. Calloused hands squeezing my throat, phantom fists pummeling my stomach, shrill bursts of laughter assailing my ears, sky of taunting stars, blinding white moon, a monstrous form looming over me… Straud insists I should no longer be able to dream. One more bold-faced lie from a man who speaks arrogant, empty words just to hear his own voice - and endlessly, endlessly. I already tire of his dull speeches.

July 10, 1918: The days stretch eternal in this crumbling mansion. I am Straud’s prisoner, though he claims I am free to come and go as I please. Yet he prattles on with excuses as though he does me a favor by denying me. I’ll not be allowed off the grounds until I bend to his will, until I  have suitably mastered discipline. How I loathe that word! I’ll be sick if I hear it once more.

September 8th, 1918: Killed two men last night. Only meant to step out for fresh air but instead found drunken idiot humans stumbling unknowingly across town lines. Their thoughts came to me easily. (So the old man taught me something after all.) Vile and crude remarks on my body, naturally. My vision flashed white with rage, and my body convulsed as if to split in two. Their taste of their blood was exquisite. It’s a funny thing, though. I kept expecting the swell of remorse to arise, but it never did, even when my brother, drawn by the cacophony, flinched away at the sight of my monstrousness, truly frightened of me for the first time. Further reflection is required, but for now I must depart. Straud requires placating.

Helena: [thinking] This is Lilith’s diary?

[flips to final pages]

February 22, 1921: Caleb’s birthday tomorrow. If it passes, he will be 27. He will continue to outpace me in physical age. He will eventually die. I’ve promised it will not. All week, he has been nervously pacing and eerily silent, too afraid to ask the obvious question: Will I truly make him like me? I know how to do it, but thirst remains a constant presence in the back of my throat. I suppose I will take it up with Straud one last time, though he will respond as usual. He believes the gift should be offered only to those who have been deemed worthy. But he grows uncomfortable when I ask how he determined my worthiness. I know he saw me merely as an opportunity, a flimsy young girl in distress who could be easily remolded in his image. I disappoint him every day. We must be free of him soon.

-

Vlad, telepathically: I can still hear every thought that passes through your mind, girl. Your barricades are sloppily constructed. And, no, my position has not changed.

[zivazivc]

Sorry if this has already been asked before but why did the band break up? And did they break up on decent terms? Do they still talk to each other sometime?

It has been asked before, I just never answered jshfbdjcbh I'm still piecing everything together and stuff is changing or getting tweaked all the time, so I'm always super hesitant about answering these types of questions, afraid that people will take whatever I say as the final answer. So basically what I'm going to answer now will already contradict what I told some people already. And maybe in the future the story might go a little differently too (although I'm pretty satisfied with the current events)

Uhhh, get ready for a long info dump. I didn't expect I'd write this much...

Floyd basically stayed with the band for 8 years (from 14 till 22) and got pretty messed up in the process. The rest of the guys are all quite older than him so I guess I could say they were more responsible, or at least had a better understanding of their own limits (also they grew up in this kind of environment or grew up aware of it, while Floyd was oblivious and naive about all of it) and while they do get drunk and do drugs often, none of them are really dependent on them. They are also pretty good judges of character and know how to avoid trouble. Floyd on the other hand drove in with no breaks and constantly got himself in trouble that the rest (mostly Les) had to drag him out of. He also developed bipolar during this time (in my story Floyd constantly fluctuates between being saturated and being desaturated because of this) and his manic and depressive episodes started getting out of hand after his teenage years. (None of them are aware it's a mental disorder that's making him act so out of character.)

Floyd was becoming miserable because of this and all of his problems pilling up, and started blaming Les for the way he was. Les never argued this which only fueled Floyd to blame him more. In the end he was getting so frustrated and irritable that Floyd constantly tried starting arguments with him, even putting him down and getting aggressive at times because Les gets very unresponsive and closed off during personal conversations (guy is a giant onion of suppressed trauma that Floyd is hellbent on peeling open).

Eventually there was one fight too many, terrible things were said, some objects flew through the air, and Floyd walked out (or Hed kicked him out, I haven't decided yet) with the promise of going home and never seeing them again.

So, yeah, it was very messy and Floyd was the primary asshole, even though he's not really to blame either...

But Floyd didn't make it home (was too scared to sneak through Bergen Town to get to the tree (i don't think i can judge him for that either)) and he just returned to the reckless lifestyle, this time without anyone being there to keep him safe. So if he was messed up before, this is the time period where he got absolutely fucked up. This is also when he got heavily addicted to sour worms. And when he chronically slept around (half the time just to get offered free worms or have somewhere to sleep, other times because he was having manic episodes and was feeling hypersexual). (This is also potentially the period when he had the two eggs with that techno troll, but I'm still thinking if I want that to be canon to the story or not.) During this time he also grew to become very anxious and his self-confidence went to shit when he was being himself.

Then after about three years of that, he bumped into Les at some party. He wanted to dodge him out of shame but Les grabbed his arm and manhandled him outside to talk. Floyd felt like shit about the way they had split up and tried apologizing for all the stuff he had said and done to Les, but Les wasn't having any of that because he wasn't angry at Floyd, he was just worried about him. Les is also insanely empathetic like Floyd, and he knew that Floyd never really meant any of it, and that he was just looking for an outlet when he was hurting. Also he does think he is to blame for the way Floyd ended up.

Les wanted to know why he didn't go home like he had said (because that was the only reason Les had even let him walk out in the first place). A few exchanged words later and Floyd broke down telling him all the awful things he'd done, and Les promised to help him, feeling insanely guilty. Floyd wondered if he was allowed back in the band but Les made it clear that the band wasn't good for him and that he was never taking him back. Instead Les helped him go though rehab. I don't think trolls have those institutions (or at least not many are aware of them or how they work (I'm sorry but I refuse to believe the Trolls world has internet and cellphones, Mountrageons can keep that for themselves lol)), so it was more or less just Les finding Floyd a job and his own place to stay in the middle of bumfuck nowhere where he had no option but to detox, and constantly checking up on him to make sure he was doing okay. During this time they grew pretty close again. Or maybe the better term would be that Les slowly started putting his walls down again.

Hed needed a while to warm up to Floyd again. He's almost as protective of Les as Les is of him, and he resented Floyd for the way he had treated him.

Flea is pretty phlegmatic when it comes to any sort of arguing or drama. He was casual about seeing Floyd again, they were never super close anyway.

And Liv, she left the band when she and Hed broke up (haven't decided if that happened before or after Floyd left), so Floyd didn't get to see her again after bumping into Les at the party. And I haven't thought yet if they'd ever meet again somewhere later in life. But if they did, I think they'd both be happy to see each other.

Anyway...

Floyd managed to detox and successfully kept the job for about a year, but then he became manic again and messed it all up. After that he returned to his nomadic lifestyle, but he never fell as hard as those three years again. In my story Floyd's life is a constant cycle of getting his life together and fucking it up and booking to the next place. And he and Les are trapped in a never-ending cat and mouse game where they're both trying to fix each other.

So, uh, Les and Floyd are still very close and see each other somewhat often...

(sometimes monthly, sometimes yearly)

Yeah...

I am so fucking obsessed with them I'm gonna hurl. Please take this song before I combust:

[spooky-month-archive]

Every unused version of the crash scene (the rest are under the cut)

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to france to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did i—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the original car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[tahopo]

silly bonus (yes this is a gnomeo and juliet reference):

[starrystevie]

steve falls in love with eddie because he's this perfect amalgamation of everyone he's ever loved.

there's nancy's curly brown hair, of course, but also her fierce stubbornness and her bashful little smile when steve is being purposefully obtuse. there's tommy's passion, his impulsivity, his need to get under steve's skin in the best way possible. there's jonathan's quick remarks with a crooked grin and heather m's soft touches on bruised skin and robin's flailing hands when she talks that steve loves so much.

there's even the dorkiness of his kids that only amplifies when eddie's around them, all their talks of fantastic worlds that steve knows nothing about but nods along like he gets it. there's the bright blinding smiles that seem to pull at every face in the room when they win, hooting and hollering in a harmonious chorus.

steve falls in love with eddie for all of those things but also for all of the things he possesses on his own. his charm and his wit, his need to make steve smile every waking moment. the way he knows when steve needs quiet and dark so he closes the blinds before wrapping him up in his steady arms.

eddie falls in love with steve for all of the things that seem new to him.

he's never had a guy treat him like steve does, never had soft smiles and cards on valentines day, never had date nights or kisses in the daytime or a hand that fits gently against his own. he doesn't feel like a dirty secret pushed away to closets and out of windows. he doesn't see the quick glances around to make sure no one's watching before he gets into steve's car like he's used to getting with old partners. he doesn't get shushed or ignored or heartbroken.

he's used to being shrouded in darkness but steve is like sunshine, his love warming eddie like sunrays in and of themselves. he's used to confusion and questions but steve makes him feel wanted. makes him feel loved back.

steve is protective and smart. he sees through the bullshit eddie's built up around himself and holds him when those walls inevitably crumble down. eddie falls in love with steve because he sees him for who he truly is and loves him because of it.

they fall in love with each other because their jagged edges were made for one another, like puzzle pieces in the wrong box finding their way back home. they fall in love with each other because nothing else has ever felt more right. they fall in love with each other because everyone they loved before was a trial, a test, pushing them together whether they knew it or not.

[ink-the-artist]

Rare @uncleflutus sighting

[zsofieia]

uhh hey everyone i’ve decided to bring this out of the vault so um…………..

[musette22]

For the nonnie who asked: here are some of my all time favourite lengthy Stucky fics (30-200k, mostly multi chapter):

Not Easily Conquered by dropdeaddream, WhatAreFears

This, You Protect by owlet

Home Is Wherever I'm With You by cydonic

Lucky Seven by BetteNoire

Political Animals by @spacerenegades, Deisderium

Wishes and Words by wearing_tearing

A Company Man by @whtaft

Push It Real Good by spoffyumi

The Size of Perfection by @phoenike

Like Real People Do by 2bestfriends

Easy Work For Easy Pay by AustinB

Prince Charming by Brenda

What's in a Name? by levi_cas_tho, maichan

Critical Feline Mass by Kryptaria, zooeyscigar  

Ipseity by SkyisGray

Circling Back by chaya

Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) by spitandvinegar 

The Necrofloranomicon by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)

with all my skin and bone by unicornpoe

He's All That by @spacerenegades

Monoclonius by Zenaidamacrouras1

oh meet me, my darling, where the sun sets over the barley by charlesdk @trancowboy

Coming Home by charlesdk @trancowboy

The Settler by charlesdk @trancowboy

Waking Up Slow by odetteandodile

Family Placement by notlucy

I Held You in Gloved Hands (And I’m Not Letting Go) by @voylitscope

then a small thing happened by BeaArthurPendragon

North Fork by BeaArthurPendragon

Itsy Bitsy Yoga by wearing_tearing

All Those Little Pieces by Ellessey

Bucky Barnes Gets His Groove Back & Other International Incidents @silentwalrus1

Scents and Sensibility: The Working Assassin's Guide to Supersoldier Seduction by galwednesday, silentwalrus, skellerbvvt

Coming Home For Christmas by Chiyume

Chase the Lightning From the Sky by SilverSlashes

These next ones I haven't had a chance to read yet, but I love these authors' other fics so I'm sure these are brilliant too!

lane lines by @sparkagrace

Till It Bleeds Daylight by @cable-knit-sweater

Backhoe by @zenaidamacrouras1

hey now, you're an all star (get your game on, go play) (WIP) by @buckyismybicycle

I was alone, I took a ride (I didn't know what I would find there) by @otp-holic

Till there were no more wolves in the West by @dharmasharks

better to speak or die (WIP) by @between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place

Atoms by @andrea1717

I'm sure I'm forgetting some brilliant ones, so feel free to add to this! Also, please check out these authors' other works too, they're all brilliant <3

[acrobattack]

bliss redesign based off one I made in my teens

thought process + various other bits and bobs under the cut

I was 15 and annoyed by everything that moved when this character first came out, so in my own head I was very much making a Point with this redesign. Hence, I made very minimal changes. I wanted to work with what was already there and basically just make the existing design more thought-through. Little breakdown ahead (keeping in mind i myself am very much An Amateur who doesn’t know shit and am just ranting about my opinions and i also haven’t seen a single second of the 2016 reboot so i don’t know much about Bliss to begin with)

1. one of my Biggest pet peeves with Bliss is that the powerpuff girls each have bangs that are simple, memorable, and iconic while also being unique from each other and being reminiscent of irl little girls hairstyles. It’s very neat and clever and I like it a lot

and then Bliss has this confusing jumble of shapes that looks like it changes in style halfway across her forehead

i have absolutely no idea what the intent is here. My only guess is maybe it’s meant to look weird on purpose like she was trying to cut it herself or something (I suspect it’s something like that since she seems to have normal looking bangs as a little kid from what I can see) but it doesn’t really come off that way if that’s the case. It just looks like baby’s first PPG OC where you Understand that it’s meant to be hair and that it is made out of shapes but have 0 understanding of hairstyle or character design in general. Heck I might have put this exact hairline on a character in the past at the age of like 8

So in my redesign she’s got 5 even notches across her bangs, not thee most exciting change but it does the job I think. It is pretty reminiscent of Blossom but they look different enough from each other that I wasn’t too worried about it

2. low-hanging fruit time, Bliss’s hair color is horrible on the eyes. I’m bewildered at the decision to do this, especially since there is just so much of it, I struggle to think of how she could exist in any scene without hogging all the viewer’s attention constantly. That said, I understand they wanted her to have an unnatural hair color to really signal that she is a Fresh new Teen character from the late 2010’s, which is. Whatever, that’s fine, so she gets purple hair now. I kept the streak for the same reason, especially since she’s got a lot of hair, so no harm in a little extra interest in there.

I also learned recently that her hair glows sometimes? which i did Not know when first drawing her but well i think the darker color helps anyway. It adds some contrast for when she’s normal vs when she’s glowing and makes the latter appear more,, idk threatening or powerful or whatever the mood generally is when she’s doing that.

I did re-add that toothpaste blue to her eyelids though. I like to think it’s also the color of her lasers. It’s a cute color, just not as like 70% of this character’s palette

3. real talk I was drawing this from memory and didn’t mean to change the way her hair flares out from her head. realistically I think the original is fine, maybe just a little boring but fine, so that part of the redesign was an accident. Only thing is, it’s in the exact same position in every screenshot I’ve seen? It doesn’t seem to whip around when she’s flying or anything which looks weird and probably looks weirder in motion, especially since it takes up so much space onscreen. Idk it’s a strange decision, esp since the original show liked to use the ppg’s hair to emphasize their movement, so I’d just bring more movement into her hair. I mean if nothing else it’d make her look cooler.

very very rough little visual of what I mean

I also ended up making it shorter in my redesign—again, not really intentional, but I think it’s better that it eats up a little less of her silhouette

4. Her headband is largely the same, I didn’t hate the idea of her having an accessory, so I just toned down the colors. I’m not personally a fan of the powder blue and that pink heart is very bright and just doesn’t go with the rest of her (once again the color of her hair is doing it no favors). I also moved the heart over. Not necessarily needed I think, but I feel like it reads quicker as a headband and not a weird crown that way+introduces some asymmetry into her design that I think is nice.

5. my biggest gripe other than her bangs are her hips. I’m not against adding anatomy to this character design to make her read visually as older than the girls, but it’s so awkwardly done and distracting. I feel like it even interferes with her line of action more often than not (which is not helped by her unmoving hair).

Part of the issue is she still has the teeny tiny torso, just… with those square-ish hips slapped on, which makes her legs look all gangly and stretched out. I tried to balance out the proportions more in my redesign, as well as change the hips to a flared skirt. I think it helps differentiate her from the girls and still implies hips underneath, it just also functions as a less clunky transition from her torso to her legs.

Lengthening her torso also allows the stripe to look more like a belt above the skirt, which I think helps to sell her as “similar, but not the same” from the ppg

6. Her leggings(? Idk Im not a fashion person) aren’t a bad idea I think. like a more mature version of the girls’ stockings, but I think the white makes them look really distracting. It would help to make them a darker color I think, but since I wanted to keep them reminiscent of the girls’ socks I kept them white and just shortened them.

7. Not really sure what Bliss is wearing on her feet. I think they’re Mary Janes, but they’re drawn a bit different from the girls’ and I honestly think it’s too babyish a shoe for her to wear. I’m not sure what she’s actually wearing in my redesign either honestly, but the goal was just to make them look like the girls’ Mary Janes while clearly being something different.

8. Uh her signature color is something I’ve contemplated changing a lot but to be real I think it’s fine. I feel it was a very bad idea from a marketing standpoint because people were hype about Bunny and would obviously be mad they didn’t get her once the character actually dropped (and in the long-run she would just end up being overshadowed by the character everyone has already assigned that color to) but I’m personally not bugged by her being purple beyond that. If I were to draw them together though I think Bunny would have a more pinky shade of purple and Bliss leans more blue.

Loosely on the same topic, because of Bliss I’ve had a running headcanon that “only child” types of powerpuffs tend to come out purple. Kind of like how trios tend to have a red, blue, and green. It’s a fun little piece of fake lore to rotate around in my brain

Anyway with all that out of the way, here’s some redesigns I decided to have some fun with. Wasn’t being too precious about recognizability or simplicity or anything like that, but I did run out of steam partway through. There’s also one based off Whoopass Bell bc idk, why not

Finally, here’s some OCs I only ever drew once before out of a desire to give Bliss her own teen girl archetypes to form a team with. This is Bee and Beetle, who I’ll probably definitely forget about again immediately after posting this

[front-facing-pokemon]

[desultory-novice]

Apologies AU - Good Ending Drop

Hey, everyone. It was my goal to finish Apologies in tandem with the Tournament, but for health reasons, I won't be able to as I planned. Because I tied the story to the tournament and don't feel like untangling it again and making everyone wait more, I'm going to give you all the ending spoilers, as I promised I would if I became unable to finish the story.

What I'm about to describe is THE Good Ending. The True Ending I had planned out almost from the beginning!

-

In the main-verse...

Susie, who sees too much of herself in Adeleine, decides to take matters into her own hands to bring the girl's older brother back.

She takes the vial of Dark Matter Swordsman DNA that was harvested from King Dedede. Meta Knight catches up with her and argues against it. It's foolish, dangerous, and liable to be nothing but painful to all parties involved. But Susie anticipated interference and asked Zan to bodyguard her. When Zan arrives (late) to the lab, the argument has caused the vial to begin to react to all the negativity in the room. Zan recognizes its contents as Dark Matter and insists on calling Lord Hyness, who in his own quirky way, analyzes their problem and suggests that while the contents are too weak to survive on their own, a resurrection could be possible, using Void's powers to mimic a hive queen, supplying whatever creature emerges the power to survive on Popstar without burning up into ash...

-

In the tourney-verse...

White-Haired Noir is at peace with his life and has come to accept the death of his precious little sister many years ago, but...a part of him still wishes to make Adeleine happy.

Using his fairy-born dimension sight, he discovers an Alternate Noir who is 98% percent compatible with main-verse Noir. This is the Purgatory!Noir from the Re_Birthday post. And he drags this unstable, utterly clueless Noir out of this peaceful void without his permission and secretly "volunteers"  the massively confused, un-alive but un-dead teen boy for the Kirby OC Tournament.

It is White-Haired Noir that is the "good" voice on phone and in Noir's head, encouraging rationality. His goal? Get Noir some friends. Get him to face up to/open up to people about his past. And get him caring about his life enough that he wants to live...! 

White-Haired Noir has seen what the main-verse Star Allies are attempting and knows that the odds of them actually bringing "Noir" back instead of just an emotionless monster are low without a compatible "Noir Soul" (haha) to inhabit the new vessel.

Over the course of many in-tourney events, including Noir learning to have faith in the sibling bonds he built with Gooey despite being Dark Matter at the time, learning to separate himself and Adeleine as individuals instead of clinging to her to his own neglect, privately opening up to King Dedede, who put the pieces together post-possession, about some awful stuff Noir put up with for years in secret from Raquelle's father (who privately loathed Neichel AND her kids and took it out on Noir) to "pay" for Adeleine's good life...

And lastly, using the power of wishes to interrogate if THIS Noir's true wish is to die and be free, to have never been born, to have had a normal "perfect" life, or if he simply wishes for a second chance to be with those he cares about... White-Haired Noir determines that Tourney!Noir is ready and reveals his plan to him. Noir confesses to him that he really does want to live and be with his family again and offers up his stronger soul for Susie and the gang's vessel.

-

Back in the main-verse...

The experiment is a success! They have brought, well, something back. It is not quite like Dark Matter Swordsman in form, nor is it exactly a human boy. It looks a little bit like a spiky haired-Gooey.

After some tense questioning of the emotionless, memoryless, unresponsive goo, it...suddenly seems to awaken. With the voice of a deeply shaken and scared young boy, the violet-eyed blob questions the mad scientist, cultists, and masked man surrounding him... Where the hell is he? And where are his little brother and sister?

Meta Knight welcomes Noir back to the world of the living.

Later, after Noir has time to dress himself in an appropriate scarf, Adeleine and Gooey are brought in and it is a happy and tear-filled reunion all around as Noir confirms that, while this form is strange, it's not dangerous and he's not in pain. He is then re-introduced to King Dedede, whereupon it's revealed that even though Noir likes him, he's still a snarky teen punk at heart, as he sasses the king horribly. (Dedede has gained another kid, but at what cost? XD)

...And that's it.

That's the ending to Apologies I've held onto for nearly a year.

For reading through all that, here is a short comic I drew a while back of the reunited family having a snowball fight in White Wafers.

-

(Not to unnecessarily over-explain the story but because the comic is a little vague, I have to tell you that no, Noir does not ever return to human after his revival. I meant it when I wrote in several places that their parting on Shiver Star was the last time they'd see each other "...in this form." This is merely meant to depict a moment in which Adeleine, seeing her brother alive and smiling and laughing and having real fun for the first time in so long, is able to imagine his old self smiling and is at peace that her brother is finally free from the hurt and misery he bore up with for so long.)

(...And yes, he has a long, silly tongue just like Gooey. Which is why he hides all but his eyes behind the scarf. Gotta keep up that cool older brother look even as a little goo creature! While Noir can't become human - frankly, he doesn't miss having a human body, given the stuff in his adolescence and being over-stressed, underfed, under-slept and just overall sick all the time in his later teens - he does eventually acquire the ability to shift into his old "Swordsman" form for short bursts of time.)

-

(Lastly, you might wonder how I could have had this exact ending in mind from almost the beginning when so much of it is tied up in recent posts like the tourney? ...Well, originally what was going to happen to allow Noir to be properly resurrected into the Dark Matter Goo body is that the Dream Rod from Star Allies was going to appear in response to a grieving Adeleine's wishes to see her brother again, bringing Noir-as-Swordsman back. At least for a LITTLE while, as it would be revealed that with Zero dead, Noir, who was entirely composed of Dark Matter at this point, couldn't survive on Popstar. Every moment he was there, his body was burning.)

(Still, he lasts long enough to have one final talk with Adeleine that helps heal him from the torturous events of DL 3 - in which we learn a highly disappointed Zero drove Noir to the absolute breaking point, shattering his mind and his newly regained soul. Adeleine also tells Noir she has finally realized everything he did for her during their childhood and apologizes to him for not seeing it before. With dawn on the horizon, Noir asks to look over Adeleine's sketchbooks with her before the end... He dies one last time, peacefully, while Adeleine finally gets to properly mourn him.)

(Then, all the "main-verse" sections proceed to happen as stated above!)

-

(...Okay, okay. One last thing. There was also an alternate ending planned where Magolor, taking advantage of the fact that Merry Magoland was built on a nexus point, finds a way to reunite Adeleine and White-Haired Noir - still a teen in this version - using his theme park as a union point, as special birthday gift for Adeleine.)

(I was kinda fond of this one for reuniting the timelines, but it opened up a lot of questions such as, if Magolor made it so that Noir and Adeleine from two different dimensions can see each other as long as they're both in Magoland, could others from the WH Noir-verse see the main-verse this way? It invited too many questions, so that's why I scrapped that one and just let White-Haired Noir grow up instead.)