#real life writes the post

[deadgodjess]

This is the funniest fucking thing I've ever seen

[homoqueerjewhobbit]

Reading fetish erotica with absolutely pristine and morally upright consent and neat and tidy safer sex practices is like watching a Fast and Furious movie where they stop at every stop sign and signal for every lane change and always obey the speed limit.

[officialspec]

ill be honest as much as i love to criticise the use of fatphobia for comedy ill never be able to hold the fatphobic jokes in kung fu panda against it

like yea those movies are guilty of dipping into The Usual Tropes for a cheap laugh but not only is the character writing for the fat characters the strongest and most sympathetic ive Ever seen literally just the character designs of the pandas in the 3rd movie get me choked up sometimes. theyre all so appealing and clearly treated with the same care and attention as everyone else without copping out and making them Barely Fat. po is already a size that doesnt exist in film protags and hes still the thinnest person in that whole village and that meant a lot to me

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Smell Check [Easy: Failure]

MDZS Disco Elysium AU part 1 (part 2 - part 3)

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

ok so. forgive me for a second but i've been abnormal about skizz and ren since the hiatus between third life and last life and holy shit this season is already not helping.

let's talk about skizz, ren, undying loyalty, and golden apples, shall we?

so the thing that you need to understand about skizz is that he is loyal to a fault. impulse literally says this exact thing about him in limited life, and skizz himself says himself: "you know me and my factions, i never turn." the second thing is that the first person their loyalty manifests for in third life is ren. he and ren run into each other on the second night when ren is getting accosted by mobs outside skizz's door and skizz gives him a place to stay the night. ren decides to trade skizz for his leather, for the upcoming enchanting buisness, and gives skizz a golden apple in exchange. skizz thinks this is wildly more than he deserves but is very thankful. skizz doesn't say it here, but this is the moment he swears his loyalty to ren.

throughout third life, he is willing to do or get basically anything for ren. the two of them literally die together to the tnt trap. when ren dies on the alter and everyone thinks martyn betrayed him, skizz is the first person to get there in the morning. he's in half broken gold armor and borrowed tools from bigb and he still tells ren "get behind me", still tries to protect him from martyn. when skizz is on red, he goes a bit crazy, but he channels that bloodlust into protecting ren. he kills jimmy in the red desert, he kills cleo when she tries to attack ren, he chases down impulse when he betrays dogwarts and dies trying to kill him.

when skizz dies in third life, he's got an unused golden apple in his hotbar. after he dies, he remembers the first time he met ren, etho, and martyn, and he spends quite a bit of time on his memory of ren and ren appears in his first memory of etho. after he dies, ren wields a blade named in his honor.

skizz spends third life loyal to ren- he dies for him and he dies with him.

in last life, ren and skizz end up on completely different sides, and it very quickly gets bad because when ren becomes boogey, he kills skizz. he lures him into a trap. he tells skizz he loves him. skizz literally says "i am broken hearted" when ren kills him. ren holds no regard for the relationship they used to have and yet skizz cannot help but compliment ren's skill with the trap, outright says he can't be mad at ren.

and then it only gets worse because skizz tries to storm ren's tower with impulse after they've gone red. and that! doesn't go well! and while skizz is retreating, while he is eating the golden apple in his hot bar, ren shoots him dead.

and that is the last time they've spoken. two years ago.

because skizz isn't in doublt life. and ren isn't in limited life.

and when skizz's time comes in limited life, he ensures he doesn't have a golden apple in his inventory this time. this time, he hands the apples off to his teammates, where he knows they will go to good use. and then he hands etho a diamond fucking axe (red winter is coming) and asks him to execute him for the sake of their alliance. ok! sure! fill ren's role more explicitly, why don't you!

and that first session of secret life genuinely only made it worse. when skizz is talking to tango and cleo about their alliance, skizz says he wants to give leadership over to someone else: "i want to be more of a soldier than a leader this time." cleo says she'll fill the roll of leader- she doesn't take orders well - and then seals their alliance by giving tango and skizz a golden apple each. because of course she does.

and well, we all know that didn't really work out, so that's one person off the list that skizz can fill the dogwarts shaped hole in him with, so then he goes to bdubs. he says he'll lay his sword at bdubs' feet. he says he'll win bdubs with his loyalty. he calls bdubs "my leige", jesus christ dude, you couldn't be less subtle unless you straight up called him ren's name.

skizz has been (whether accidentally or on purpose is up to you) trying to recreate the experience he had with dogwarts, and particularly what he had with ren, since the moment dogwarts fell. he can't have it with ren because he missed his only chance in last life, so he'll fill the void with whoever he can. his fellow soldier. ren's successor. ren's new kingmaker. anyone. and it's never gonna work. i need ren to come back for like, 900 reasons, but i especially need him to come back so skizz can have a shot at making it to spring.

[ominousblob]

//Ive always been a little jealous

[spooksier]

also btw that passage about media consumption as activism and the idea of "gayboring" (this post) are twin sisters to me because when you see media consumption as activism and therefore as a reflection of real life, any gritty or unsavory or "weird" aspects of any marginalized culture/community gets completely sanitized in favor of portraying an "ideal" form of that community in the eyes of consumerism (i.e.: boring and safe and non-confrontational)

[stobinesque]

@steddie-week day 2: fluff | 1.8k words | teen and up

The door to the apartment slammed shut, followed by the jingle-clang of keys landing in the ceramic bowl Robin had made for Steve two years ago.  

"Babe?" Steve looked up from the magazine he'd been flipping through and frowned at the stormy expression on Eddie's face. 

Eddie barely acknowledged him, just swept past with stomping feet, dropping an absentminded kiss to the top of Steve's head as he made his way into the bedroom. A few moments later Steve heard the telltale thunk and flop of Eddie's bag hitting the ground and the man himself hitting their bed.

Ah, so one of those days.

Steve set down his magazine, folded his reading glasses neatly atop it, and pushed himself up from the couch to make for the bathroom.

~*~*~*~

Eddie wanted to die. Nope, no, he wanted to commit a homicide. 

Actually, scratch that, being wanted for murder sucked.

What he wanted was for the world not to be full of a bunch of entitled little shitsacks who had never been taught how to talk to another human being who didn't have a white collar around their neck.

At least his bed was there to support him. The mattress was a little lumpy, sure, but nothing could outmatch the satisfaction of dramatically flinging oneself onto a flat surface after a shity day at work. 

The sound of running bath water filtered into Eddie's awareness. 

Okay, maybe one thing.

Steve usually allowed him a few minutes to sulk and brood when he got home feeling like shit. Sometimes interacting with any human (even someone he would literally—and nearly did—die for) was just too much. 

"Eds?"

"Mmph." Eddie spit some of the hair that had landed in his mouth out, but didn't bother to raise his head more than half an inch off the bed to do so.

Steve chuckled. "Okay, five more minutes—otherwise the water will get too cold. I'm gonna go make us some tea."

Eddie raised an arm and waved vaguely in the direction of Steve's voice in acknowledgement.

He let himself drift for his five minutes to the sound of Steve puttering around the kitchen—grabbing mugs, teabags, the sugar jar—before peeling himself up off the bed when the shrill whistle of the kettle pierced through the relative silence of the apartment. If he wasn't in the bath by the time Steve made it there he'd be in trouble. Which could be fun, but it wasn't what he was in the mood for today. 

Eddie stripped off his—itchy, sweaty, suffocating—uniform as he padded over to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he went.

~*~*~*~

Steve waltzed back into the bathroom with two steaming mugs in his hand to find Eddie already situated in the tub, knees pulled up under his chin, hair piled up in a messy bun, and one hand dragging lazily across the surface of the water. 

Steve set both mugs down on the ground next to the bath. "Hey, baby," he murmured, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple.

"Hi." Eddie's voice was low and subdued.

“Bad day?” Steve asked as he pulled his shirt up and over his head.

Eddie shrugged. “You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve shucked off his jeans.

Eddie shook his head. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay.” Steve folded his clothes, set them in a neat stack atop the closed toilet lid, and carefully lowered himself into the bath behind Eddie.

The water was just a touch too hot for his own comfort, but Eddie ran cold and preferred his baths on the scalding warmer side. (Shared showers were a trial. Eddie insisted that Steve was trying to murder him with frostbite. Steve maintained that Eddie was trying to boil the both of them alive.)

Some of the tension had already bled out just from being in the bath. Eddie’s shoulders were no longer curled up around his ears—instead, he was slouched forward into the water. 

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist and pressed a kiss to the patchy birthmark high up on his back, smiling when Eddie responded with a humming little sigh. “Wash my hair?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Eds.”

Steve reached over to grab the shampoo and tiny bucket they left in the shower just for this. “Wanna drink some of your tea before I douse you?”

Eddie didn’t say anything, but reached out blindly to grab one of the steaming mugs next to the tub. Steve didn’t bother holding back a snort that he’d managed to grab the “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Crabby” mug they’d nicked from Wayne. 

Eddie took a slow sip of the tea, and the second he’d set it back down and straightened back up, Steve dumped a bucket of warm water over his head.

Eddie spluttered. “Babe, what the fuck!”

Steve snickered from behind him. “Just wanted to make sure you were here on earth with me, bedhead.”

Eddie shook his head like a rain-soaked dog. “You could have at least taken out the ponytail first!”

“I suppose I could have,” Steve said, lips twitching up into a smile as he reached up to start pulling Eddie’s dark curls from where they’d gotten tangled in the hair tie. “I got you talking again in something other than a monotone, though.”

“Maybe I was enjoying playing the dark, broody hero.”

Steve pinched Eddie’s side, which resulted in a high-pitched squeak, and a wild flail that had water splashing up around them. "Behave," Steve chastised—though the warning was undercut by the laugh of unconcealed delight he barked out as Eddie’s arms swung around him. 

"You're the one assaulting me in my time of suffering!"

"Suck it up, buttercup,” Steve shot back, combing his fingers through wet curls and gently detangling each and every knot he ran into. He couldn't help but rub the silky-soft strands between his fingers as he went. Steve's own day had been slow and uneventful, but a quiet sort of unease had been hovering at the edges for hours. Drawing Eddie a bath and settling in behind him to wash his hair helped settle Steve back into his body just as much as it did for Eddie. 

Steve began working shampoo into Eddie's roots, massaging his fingers into his scalp, and Eddie's head tipped back as he let out a pleased hum that sounded almost like a purr. "Love your fingers in my hair, Stevie," he mumbled, sounding a bit hazy.

"Yeah? Is that the only place you like my fingers?" Steve asked, right into Eddie's ear. 

Eddie scrambled back upright and turned to face Steve with an alarmed expression on his face. "No! Why would you think that? Did I say something to make you think that? Please, I’m so sorry, baby. Please know that I love your fingers anywhere on me. Or in me. What if they went somewhere else right now?" 

Steve laughed, grabbing Eddie's shoulder to turn him back around with one hand, and dipping the bucket back into the water to rinse the suds out of Eddie's hair with the other. When Steve was sure he'd thoroughly rinsed Eddie's hair he leaned past him to grab the conditioner and whisper in his ear, "You can get them somewhere else a little later if you're good for me, baby," before leaning back and clicking the bottle open.

"I'll be so good for you, Stevie. Just tell me what I gotta do."

"Keep still and don't sass me for the next five minutes."

Eddie's mouth opened and then immediately snapped back shut as he clearly decided that whatever his response to that was gonna be probably qualified as "sass."

"Good boy," Steve said simply, dropping another kiss to Eddie's back. 

"I can be good when I wanna be," Eddie grumbled. 

"Careful," Steve shot back, gently chiding. He methodically worked the conditioner through Eddie's hair in sections, tugging gently as he did, just for the soft satisfaction that ran through him every time Eddie let out a soft gasp in response to it. 

"Always careful, Stevie," Eddie mumbled back, eyes fluttering shut. 

Steve reached down to brush one hand over the scars running down Eddie's side. "Not always," he whispered, just a little sadly, as he pressed a firm kiss to the mostly-faded ring of scars at his throat. 

"Mm, don't be sad, baby."

"Not sad. Just glad you're alive."

Eddie was quiet for a stretch, and Steve chuckled. 

"What? What were you gonna say, asshole?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, love," Eddie replied, all faux innocence.

"You were gonna say something sassy just then, that's why you went all quiet. So, out with it, come on. How were you gonna sass me in response to me saying I'm glad you're alive?"

"Promise you won't hold it against me?"

"Yeah, baby." Steve leaned over to press a kiss to Eddie’s nose. "This one's a freebie."

Eddie looked over his shoulder with a wide grin, and a twinkle in his eye. "I was gonna call you a sap."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, fuck me for being happy my boyfriend's alive I guess."

"I was actually hoping that you would fuck me," Eddie replied. 

"You're pushing your luck, Eds," Steve warned, yanking lightly at his hair. 

"Sorry, baby."

Steve ran his hands up and down the sides of Eddie's arms. "All forgiven, Eds." 

Steve let his hands drift as he waited for the conditioner to rest—digging his fingers into the dense coils of muscle in Eddie's neck, smoothing his palms down the ridges of Eddie's spine, ghosting his hands up Eddie's sides. When time was up, he grabbed the bucket, turned on the tap to fill it with clean, warm water, and spilled it over Eddie’s head. Steve combed his fingers through the chestnut locks again, making sure he’d thoroughly rinsed them once more. The two of them fell still and silent, like two little stones in the river bed. 

Steve loved this. The quiet trance they fell into, as Eddie relaxed into the water, and Steve pressed kisses into his lover’s skin, and they both forgot the mugs of tea that Steve made. 

Steve separated Eddie’s hair into even sections, savoring the feeling of freshly cleaned locks passing through his fingers as he wove the strands together—over-under, over-under, over-under—and plaited Eddie’s hair down the length of his back. When he was done, he flipped the end of the braid back over Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie leaned further into him, pressing the length of his back against Steve’s chest.

Steve let his hands start wandering, and Eddie let out a soft gasp of surprise when the pads of Steve's thumbs brushed over both nipples. "Steve."

"Shh, I got you baby," Steve murmured, and let one hand drop down to where Eddie was stiffening up beneath the water.

"I know you do, Stevie," Eddie whispered back on a sigh and a gasp. "I know you do."

[goldenhypen]

⋆｡⠐ happy ✧｡♡

✴︎｡⠐ birthday ⠐⚬⋅｡

⋅｡⠐ to the kindest cutest most loving cheerful hard working greatest prettiest handsomest funniest hottest jakey sim 🦭 ⚬♡⋅｡

⎯ ⋅ ♡ ⋅ ⎯

jake, my love and admiration for you go beyond words. thank you for blessing me with so much joy and love in my life. you’re an inspiration to so many and i’m so grateful for you and incredibly proud of where you are and who you’ve become. and you deserve all the best things, or at least to have the best birthday of your life this year <3 eat well and celebrate lots my love <3 i love you and happy birthday <33

[deadgodjess]

You ever think about how they could have had Jadzia Dax go on a long mission deep into space for some amazing research opportunity? Have an episode of her and Worf grappling with whether she should go or not because they had JUST got married?? They finally agree she should go and you have a whole other episode of everyone else giving her a great send off (including her and Worf racking up and impressive number of sex injuries) and she gets to go off on an amazing voyage and the following episodes can include bits and bobs of Worf dealing with missing his wife and being quietly adorable over her messages to him and they send each other increasingly hilarious klingon poetry over the remaining series and like maybe near the end Jadzia comes home and they rack up enough sex injuries Bashir considers moving into their living room to be on hand.

But nah, just kill her off I guess.

[righteousenjoymentofthunder]

not to be tragic about this but the parallels between lee jihye and na bori + yoo joonghuk and kim dokja are!!! in every universe but one, na bori dies at jihye's hands, her last words always jihye that she has to go on so that her sacrifice means something. this is what drives jihye through scenarios initially, protecting herself and others despite the overwhelming grief of having to kill her best friend with her own two hands - at least, until yoo joonghyuk finds her.

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [3/?]

part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇‍♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T

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

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

—

It’s fine, until it isn’t.

—

Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe. 

His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes. 

Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening. 

Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.

All he has to do, now, is just see it through.

—

Yves wakes up coughing.

He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.

He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.

Fuck. This is not good. 

One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.

“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”

The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.

The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.

But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest. 

He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.

One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.

For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.

Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now. 

Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.

“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”

Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.

Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.

He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.

Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.

Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”

“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.

“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”

“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.

Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”

“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”

“What time is it?”

Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”

“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”

His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.

“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”

It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”

“What?”

“Were you unable to sleep last night?”

It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.

But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday? 

“I slept fine,” Yves says. 

There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.

“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”

“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”

“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”

Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”

“Bless you.”

“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.

“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.

“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”

Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.

“What do you need?” he says, instead.

Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.

“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”

“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”

“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”

Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.

“You should sleep, seriously,��� Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”

Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, softly. 

Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.

The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try. 

The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.

Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.

Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.

In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.

He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.

Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.

It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.

Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.

But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?

It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case? 

It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.

The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.

—

When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.

When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.

He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.

He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—

“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.

There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless. 

It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.

He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts. 

It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.

Then he shoots off a quick text—

Y: thanks for the cold meds :)

Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)

Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh

Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:

V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon

V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch

Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.

His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.

Y: jealous! have fun! 

His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.

V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep

V: Do you want me to bring anything back?

Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance

Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️

Then he sends back to Vincent:

Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch 

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.

He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.

—

The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.

It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married. 

They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.

It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.

The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.

“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.

“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”

Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”

Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”

“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”

“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.

Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”

“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”

“Just because he’s funny?”

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”

“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”

“Coming,” Leon shouts back. 

Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.

—

When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.

He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.

“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”

She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.

He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.

“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”

“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”

“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”

For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.

“I’m terrified,” she says.

“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”

“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”

She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”

“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”

“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”

Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.

“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”

“I guess,” Genevieve says.

“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”

“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.

Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”

Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”

“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”

She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.

“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.

As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.

“There was never any doubt,” she says.

When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.

“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.

“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”

“That you wanted to be with her?”

“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”

“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.

“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”

—

When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.

The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.

He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.

His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.

Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.

“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.

“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”

“They were very nice,” Vincent says.

“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”

“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”

Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”

“Do you believe in mbarriage?”

Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”

“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”

Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”

“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”

“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”

“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.” 

“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.

His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.

“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”

The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.

“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.

Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”

“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day. 

He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”

“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”

“Yves—”

“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”

For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.

“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.” Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how. 

But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it? 

“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.

[ Part 4 ]

[yunmeng-jiang]

that man does NOT think of wei wuxian as his gege

[sunsetsandsunshine]

~ 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚋𝚛𝚘! ~

💜🐢🧡 𝙵𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢: @savemeafruitjuice💜🐢🧡

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚎…𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝…𝚘𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚎!!!˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝙷𝚞𝚛𝚝/𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: 𝟹,𝟺𝟼𝟸

𝙻𝚎𝚎: 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 🐢💜

𝙻𝚎𝚛: 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚢 🐢🧡

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗…𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 (𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕), 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛.

(𝙰/𝙽: 𝚃*𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝙳𝙽𝙸. 𝙱𝚞𝚑-𝚋𝚢𝚎. 𝙰𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚜. 𝚂𝚊𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚊. 𝙵𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕…)

𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚐𝚜𝚜𝚜𝚜: @tiggleebug @what-youd-expect @veryblushyswitch @someone1348 @titters-and-tingles

@odder-outlet @itzsana-kiddingmenow @kanene-yaaay @turtletimewriting @mysteriouslee

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐…𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 😖. 𝚂𝚘, 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚕𝚣 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 💞✨‼️

𝙰𝙻𝚂𝙾 𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙻𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙼𝙽𝚃 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟸 𝚂𝟸 𝙸𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙽’𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝚃‼️‼️‼️

𝚃𝚆: 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜/𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜/𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

It was currently 2:00 in the morning. And the only things keeping Donatello Hamato alive at the moment were cans of Red Bull, Dr. Pepper and a slice of pizza. And by ‘slice’, he means the entire box.

Which…the more and more Donnie thought about it, that was a hell of a combination to consume for the rest of the night. Also super duper concerning. But it kept him 101% awake, so he couldn’t really complain all that much.

But why was the young scientist staying up so late you may ask? The second youngest was currently working on the de-mutagen mutagen to un-mutagize Mr. O’Neil (try saying that 10 times fast). The tallest turtle has been engrossed in the project for weeks; his eyes have been stuck to his computer as if someone glued them there.

But…why would Mr. O’Neil need ‘de-mutagen mutagen?’ Well…you, my friend, ask the good questions at the wrong time. You see, Donatello and his brothers kinda…maybe…accidentally…spilled mutagen on April’s Dad…

Accidentally! Accidentally. It wasn’t really as bad as it sounded. I mean, how would you react if you saw your Dad turn into a mutant and start flying all over New York? Pretty cool, right?

…Alright. Maybe it was as bad as it sounded.

Turning April’s Dad into a bat…creature-like…thing wasn’t a part of the plan in all honesty. Which was why the tallest turtle of the four was so stubborn on getting this freaking blob of green slime disgustingness finished.

I mean…it was him and his brother’s fault that the scientist got mutated in the first place. And as well as Donnie knows, that’s April’s only family she has as of right now. And that just makes this whole mutation situation (<- hey that rhymes) even worse.

Donnie knows all too well what it’s like for a family member to go missing out of his control. I mean, have you met him? Or literally anyone in his household? It wasn’t out of the ordinary that they would (or could) get kidnapped, captured, or held hostage from time to time.

I mean, the sky’s blue. The grass is green. They get taken from away each other on a daily basis. Duh.

…Anyways; steering away from that sad but true fact, Donnie’s family was, well, his family at the end of the day. His comfort.

And so to just…take that comfort outlet April once had and not do anything about it seemed…inhuman.

I mean, he wasn’t human…not human in the slightest, really. But you get his point.

Huh. And…speaking of family, if Leo was in the second youngest’s room right now, the young leader would’ve said some statements along the lines of: ‘Donnie! Sit up! Your backs built like a shrimp!’ or ‘Don! Stop typing and sit up straight before your back looks like a crooked tree!’

And in all honesty? He should probably fix his posture. But Leo reminding him every millisecond of the day makes him not want to…

Besides, it’s not like he was using the computer for shits and giggles. He was using it because he needed to use it. Because he had to use it.

I mean, the more and more he thought about it, wasn’t it really his fault in the first place? He was the genius. He was the scientist. He was supposed to know the answer to every. single. problem.

Even if the problem was…well, himself.

But what could he even do at this point??? April cut all contacts with him, Mr. O’Neil could be who knows where, and Donnie just ran out of pizza!

Triple. kill!

Well…perhaps using that kind of phrasing isn’t appropriate at the moment, but your picking up what’s he’s putting down, right?

…oh God, he’s starting to sound like Leo…that’s how tired he was.

The scientist groaned, resting his head on the table and rubbing his arm in irritation.

My gosh did he miss sleep.

Even if he got, like, 3 hours on a daily basis…it was 3 hours of sleep! Which is something he rarely got anymore since everything has happened.

He rubbed his arm a tad bit harder, glaring at his computer screen as if it was the most disgusting thing to ever make way on this planet.

And that’s saying a lot. I mean, have you met Raph?

The purple banded turtle sighed in pure annoyance, tapping his other finger on the desk in a repetitive motion.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

At least this he can do without screwing it up. Like he’s done with absolutely everything.

Donnie tapped faster.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“You look like absolute sugar honey iced tea, broski.” Donnie jumped at the sudden voice, stumbling out of the spinny chair he was sitting on as he grabbed his bō staff which was planted on the floor. He drawed the staff, only to find his baby brother with his hands slightly up in a surrendering position.

“Oh. Hi, Mikey…” The taller turtle relaxed, dropping his staff in complete exhaustion and sinking into his chair like he wasn’t about to chop the other into pieces.

God, did he want sleep...

“Why are you up so early, Dee? It’s, like, 3 a.m. now…” The youngest turtle asked as he walked over to his older brother, pulling up another spinny chair as he sat next to him.

“Late. Why am I up so late. Morning technically starts after midnight. However, 3 a.m. is way too early to be considered part of the daytime. For most of the world, it is still dark outside at this time. And so, 3 a.m. is considered night.” The purple banded turtle rambled. Mikey blinked in confusion at his brother’s rebuttal, rolling his eyes playfully, “Nerd emoji…”

Donnie didn’t even counter the remark. He wanted to, obviously. Sibling bickering is a thing, y’know.

But he had to finish this cure even if it killed him. And how the way things were going, he would have to be revived 14-15 times in order to complete it.

Mikey looked at his older brother worriedly, seeing how focused and entranced he was on the computer. And usually? That would’ve been an amazing thing. Like Mikey here, Donnie would tend to hyperfixate on certain things and spend hours upon hours researching and de-coding and…

Well, you get the idea.

But ever since April stopped talking to them completely, Donnie’s been so…prone to figuring out a way to cure her Dad.

If there even was one…

And the youngest couldn’t even remember the last time he saw his immediate older brother in a bed. Sleeping. And that made the youngest worry. Worry beyond repair. And if you didn’t already know, he doesn’t do worry. That’s Master Splinter’s job…if you weren’t able to tell by all the grey/gray hairs.

“You're doing the tappy-tap thing; you only do that when you're nervous or stressed about something...” Mikey randomly said out loud.

Well…not entirely randomly.

Anytime the second oldest would do that, he would usually end up moving his hand down to tap onto his thigh, and then the light feeling would be overwhelming for him and so he would start scratching…

It was a domino effect that Mikey really didn’t want to go down if he didn’t have to.

The taller teen looked down at his left hand and…sure enough, yep. He was rubbing and scratching and tapping his arm like some crazy crack addict. He adjusted them so they were in his lap, trying not to fidget with any part of his body but soon started bouncing his right leg. “Sorry…” He mumbled.

“Wha-? No…you don’t need to apologize. I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself, Dee. That’s the only reason why I pointed it out.” Mikey rambled comfortingly, frowning a little bit as he saw Donnie’s face in a scowl. The elder’s hands tapped on the desk again, his nails gripping onto the table as he did so.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Mikey glanced at his brother sadly. He’s never seen Donnie this upset before…and that made Mikey worry. And again, Mikey didn’t do worry.

The blue eyed teen went into his pajama pants pockets and grabbed a rubix cube. He honestly completely forgot he had it in there and just happened to remember in this exact moment, but perhaps it was a good thing he forgot.

Because it was obvious his big brother needed it right now.

Mikey gave the other the cube, which he gladly accepted. The taller turtle frustratingly solved the cube…not because solving the cube was frustrating, but because he was frustrated with himself.

“You…wanna talk about it…?” The youngest asked gently. “No…no not really…” The older said as he looked at his computer blankly, solving the cube.

My gosh he needed sleep. And he knew he said that a couple times already but being tired was starting to get…well, tiring!

And you know what the worst part of all of this was?

He did the best he could.

The best he could muster wasn’t enough but at least he tried. Saving the world every day and night sometimes didn’t always go as planned.

But was that good enough? No. Of course it wasn’t. But at least he tried. He always tries. There hasn’t been one mission he hasn’t at least tried to do his part.

It's just kinda hard when you’re a 5'8 mutant turtle that the whole world is afraid of and yet you save their asses each and every day.

The irony…

And on top of it all, he hasn’t been making a smidge of process.

The mutagen still looks the exact same as it did a week ago. And the week before that. And the weeks and weeks and weeks before that…

“Dee…” Mikey started, looking at his older brother with sad, pleading eyes. “No. Stop. Don’t look at me like that.” Donnie scowled, “I’m not in the mood to be pitied.” Mikey returned the cold stare slightly, crossing his arms loosely, “Well, you should be in the mood to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Like hell you’re not.” The smaller turtle laughed bitterly, although nothing at the matter was truly ‘haha’ funny. More so ‘what the actual fuck— go to bed’ funny. “Your eyebags literally have a whole story arc right now. A plot and everything. You can’t tell me your not even a smidge sleepy.”

“That’s hilarious. It’s almost like I just did.” Donnie spat, glaring at the rubix cube as he continued to solve it.

The freckle faced turtle sighed, “Just…look. Listen to me for a sec, okay?” Donnie solved the cube, putting it on the table as Mikey held his hand.

“I know that your work is important to you. And I know you feel responsible for Mr. O’Neil’s mutation.” He started, squeezing Donnie’s hands comfortingly, which caused the elder’s hands to untense a bit, relaxing in the other’s hold. The smaller turtle smiled at the small but impactful motion.

He started up again, “We all do. But we’re not gonna get any step closer to figuring out the cure if our #1 scientist bro keeps working himself to death...”

“And by the looks of it? You’re 50% there…” The younger said as he let go of the other’s hand, getting a better look at his face. “How would you feel if I stayed up working on this all week? Wouldn’t you be worried?”

“You’re not smart enough for that.” Donnie mumbled, a small smug smile on his face.

Mikey gave his brother a playful punch to the shoulder, rolling his eyes playfully as his older brother laughed, tears welling up in his eyes. The blue eyed teen’s eyes widened in surprise, looking up at him.

“Are those…happy or sad tears…?” Mikey asked. “Probably both.” Donnie snickered, wiping away his tears, “Sorry. You know how emotional I get when I’m tired…”

The smaller teen hummed in acknowledgement, resting his head on the taller teen’s shoulder. “How about this: I’ll stay with you in you’re lab to help you go to sleep.” He offered, a small reassuring smile on his face as he looked up at Donnie once again.

“Okay…but what do I get in return?”

“A good night sleep.” The younger deadpanned.

“Touché…” Donnie hummed, now too tired and too emotionally drained to argue at this point. He yawned, standing up from the chair as the action was soon being followed by the other turtle in the room.

“Do not kick me while we’re lying down, got it?”

“Nooooo promises, bro-bro…”

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Okay…I feel utterly ridiculous.” Donnie mumbled as he crossed his arms in Mikey’s hold. Since Donnie couldn’t sleep, the youngest thought it would be a great idea to give him a hug just like their Dad did when they were turtle tots. Which, was to basically hug them from behind while the turtle being hugged was lying down slightly.

It helped them sleep on hard nights…and it seemed like Donnie was having a hard night.

“Don’t be. It’s alright.” The youngest smiled reassuringly, giving his brother another tight squeeze. “Dad did it exactly like this! You’ll fall asleep in no time!”

“Well, Dad’s a 6'2 mutant, Mike. You’re 4'6 while I’m 5'7. This hug is nothing but just pure awkwardness...”

“I’m 4'10!” The smaller mutant corrected, obviously offended by the false statement.

“Then I’m 6 feet tall.” Donnie chuckled.

“Okay, Mr. Wise Guy! Do you want this hug or not?!”

The elder chuckled, making no further comments as Mikey hugged him. The two sat in comfortable silence, enjoying each other’s company as the quietness overtook the room.

“I’m…sorry for being such a dick earlier…” Donnie murmured sadly, “I wasn’t being bitchy on purpose…I was just…” He paused, trying to figure out what he was going to say before suddenly losing the train of thought. “Stop thinking so hard. You’re gonna hurt your big brain.” Mikey pouted, poking Donnie in the cheek a couple times.

“And don’t worry about it. I didn’t take it personally. You were really agitated and tired so you had to let your Alpha male come out. No shame in that.”

“Still. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. So I’m sorry.” Donnie simply mumbled, before blinking in confusion a couple of times, “Wait. Did…Did you just call me an…Alpha male?”

“I sure did.” Mikey beamed proudly.

“Ugh…I hate you so freaking much, y'know that?”

“Suuuure you do. I’m the Alpha, I’m the leader, I’m the one to trust…” The youngest started to sing, rocking himself and Donnie side to side as the eldest tried to get out of the hug. “Ihi rehefuse to get comforted by ahan individual thahat knows thahat atrohocity by heart.” He snickered.

“Oh come on! I think I’m a pretty good singer!” The purple banded turtle only rolled his eyes at the comment, scoffing lightly, “Meehee and yohou hahave different definitions ohof thehehe word good…”

“Fine then! I’m a great singer!” Mikey challenged.

“Lihihike hell yohou are, yohohou bihig oaf.”

“I’m shorter than you, Einstein!”

“Doesn’t mehean your nohohot bihig…” Donnie mumbled giggly but smugly.

The youngest glared, jabbing Donnie in the side, causing the russet eyed turtle to shriek loudly in surprise. Mikey giggled, poking Donnie in the sides repeatedly. “The Boo scream from Monster’s Inc goes crazy, bro.”

“M—Mihihichael!”

“That’s my name~! What’s up? You need something?” The orange banded turtle asked teasingly, peering down at his brother who was now squirming uncontrollably.

“No? Well okay then…” The youngest mused as he continued to wreck his brother. “W—Wahait! Wahait! Ihihi’m gohonna wahahake eheveryone uhuhup!” Donnie squealed, leaning against his little brother’s chest as he squirmed in the hold.

“Then stop laughing then.” The younger one huffed, smiling even more as Donnie’s blush increased in volume and size. “Buhut you’re tihihickling me!”

“I think that sounds like a you problem, dear brother of mine. Maybe you should try being less ticklish and it wouldn’t happen to you!”

Donnie’s giggles became more frantic, turning his face to hide in Mikey’s side. The younger smiled at the shy gesture, ceasing his tickling for a moment.

“I promise I’ll stop when you want me to, okay?” Mikey said with a soft smile on his face; which, was nice and all but at the same time why did he have to be so nice about it???

Donnie nodded embarrassed, preparing himself physically and mentally. “Oh! And thanks for opening this spot for me, Dee.” The smaller mutant giggled as he scribbled his fingers against the crook of Donnie’s neck, which made the taller turtle flail around and try to hit him. “Hehey! Hey! That's not very nice!”

He pulled one of Donnie’s arms up and wiggled his fingers directly in his underarm. “NAHA— *hic* NOHOH!” The older cackled as he desperately tried to pull his arm back down as he hid his face deeper in Mikey’s side. The blue eyed mutant awed teasingly at the sight, chuckling to himself as his big brother laughed his heart out.

“NAHAT *hic* THEHERE! PLEHEASE!” 

“Nahat thehere?” Mikey faked gasped, “What about…right here~?” He giggled, squeezing right above the other turtle’s hip bone. Donnie kicked and squirmed as more hiccups followed.

“Awh…is my big brother tickwish~?” Mikey said as he buried his face into the crook of Donnie’s neck, giggling as the older’s cackles began to increase in volume at the teases. “ShuhuHUT yohOUR’E *hic* TRAHAP!” The purple banded turtle shrieked, trying to push at his baby brother’s face to try and stop him.  

“You’re hiccups are adorable, big bro~!” Mikey cooed, now noticing how red Donnie’s face have gotten due to all the laughing and teasing. Mikey stopped tickling Donnie but his face still remained in the crook of his neck, smiling at the giggly mess he made of his older brother. Donnie glared while laughing, pushing on his baby brother’s face.

“StaHAP!!! Stohop…”

“I’m not even doing anything!” The other laughed as he hugged Donnie, rocking him back and forth again.

“Lihiterallty dihihie…” Donnie giggly grumbled, trying to wipe off the grin happy smile his brother plasteed on his face. “Yohohou’re. the. absolute wohorst…” He giggled tiredly, curling in on himself as he swatted his baby brother away from him. 

“Now…do you wanna go to bed or should we…” The orange banded turtle trailed off of his sentence, looking down to his elder brother whom’s eyes started to droop.

“Pff. 'Night, Dee.”

“Mhm…”

Donnie relaxed in Mikey’s hold, which made the younger one’s eyes soften greatly. He pulled out his phone, taking a picture quickly and going into the family’s group chat:

👁💀👺💥Teenagers who are Mutants who are Ninja’s who are also Turtle’s🍕🌝🧫👼

Yo 😼😼😼

Mikey???

What are you doing up so early?

>:3

Ur lucky Don isn’t online here Leo

He would go on a full on RANT abt the ‘late’ and ‘early’ bs

I’m aware…

So what’s up, Mikey? You okay?

Yeah💕💥!!! I’m fine!!!

Just wanted to tell you guys that I’m in Don’s room catching some ax’s ✨✨✨

WJAT??

BAHAH EXCUSE ME

CAN I JOIN

NONO STUPID AUTOCORRXT

Z’S I MEANT Z’S. AS IN SLEEP

S L E E P I N G

LIKE SNOK MIMIMI TYPE STUFF

Jesus…

Mikey. Never do that again.

IT WASNT WVEN MY FAULTT

SO DOES THAT MWAN NO AXES???

SHUT UP, RAPHAEL

🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕!!!

Oh grow up, Raph

Yeaaaaah Raaaaaaph, grow up 🙄🙄🙄

🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕‼️‼️‼️

Anyway 😾

I came into his room bc he was working on the mutagen thing

Oh…

Poor Don.

He’s been working on that thing for ages

Thanks for doing that, Mikey.

I’m sure he appreciates it.

He better

My shell hurts from supporting his big ass

DAMN

Just go to bed, Mikey— b4 Leo kills the both of us

Love ya bro

See u when u and Don wake up

Love you guys too 💝💘💖💗💓

Mikey smiled as he turned off his phone, putting it on Donnie’s nightstand as he relaxed against the bed frame. He rubbed his brother’s shell comfortingly, humming a small tune softly.

“Hey, Mike?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for this. I…didn’t know how much I needed it…thank you. I love you.”

Mikey smiled brightly, squeezing Donnie a tad bit tigther, “Love you too, Don. Now go to sleep before you become more wrinkly than you already are.”

“Oh, fuck you…” Donnie chuckled, drifting off to sleep along with his little brother.

Things weren’t perfect. I mean, they never will be. They never would be.

But being apart of a team means your never alone.

And being apart of a family means you’re never alone.

And as long as Donnie had his…he’d be quite alright.

He can finish the mutagen later…as of right now, he needed to go the fuck. to. bed.

And thanks to Mikey, he can finally do that.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚FIN˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

(P.S.: If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging!!!)

[heartofalifer]

sometimes I lay at night thinking what exactly did daisy write in the description of alec hardy's tinder profile and what pictures did she use that made her think that could get women to swipe right on him. was it selfies? was it candid photos she took? was alec wearing that blue jumper on and reading a paper with his legs crossed in the photos? I need to know