#thanks for the tag love ❤️

[gentlebeard]

If I could hold you for a minute, Darling, I’d go through it again

For @edsbacktattoo & @stedesearring 💕 Show: Our Flag Means Death - Season 1 & 2 Music: Francesca by Hozier YouTube

[felsicveins]

HELLOOOOO ! I JUST WANNA SAY THAT I ABSOLUTELY ADORE YOU ART SM !! I LOVE THE JD EX HUSBAND DRAWINGS SM THEY MAKE ME LAUGH !!

BUT.. DO YOU HAVE ANY LEFT OVERS OR SCRAPS OF CORY. HE IS MY FAV (also who is your fav ex?!) (sorry for writing in caps 😭)

Floyd and Cory go shopping 🧡

[ceilidho]

How far do you think Johnny could take it with a clueless reader? Like before she starts to think hey wait maybe this isn’t just what boy best friends do?

I mean. They’ve probably fucked a couple times before she confides in a friend that it’s tough dating when you have a guy best friend because that’s basically admitting that she’s currently sleeping with someone and her friend is like. What are you talking about. I have two guy best friends and I don’t sleep with either of them.

[wanderingaldecaldo]

📸 by @breezypunk | commission detes

Breezy, am I so predictable that you know how to murder me in two pics? 😩😩😩

[wolfavens]

the i-can't-believe-i-missed-simblr-gratitude-day-because-of-work post 🙈

one day too late but here is a big shoutout to old and absent friends, new inspirations & lovely simblr folks that brighten up my dash every day! you are amazing and i'm so happy i found you all! ❤️

@eslanes @streetlites @thegloomiestwhim @igglemouse @dreamsascend @wannabecatwriter @warmsol @pleuro @windslar @ellemant @tau1tvec @folkbreeze @jarakio @noeyinthemist @raiiny-bay @capptrash @orphyd @nihilismtrcit @mireuja @lilamausmaus @nekrophoria @bakersimmer @omgkayplays @thebramblewood @oatberrytea @neishroom @void-imp @simelune @aliennooboo @lucidicer @puretopia @quietwaters @nolan-sims @forest-void @buglaur @rebouks @softpine @softdawn @peonypyxels @gerbits @lazysunjade @sloedancing @radioactivedotcom @intramoon @tabbyrhsims4simblr @goodnightlittlewing @medleymisty @treason-and-plot

+++ many more tumblr wouldn't let me tag 😭

[shuploc]

Have you ever drawn woman? Id love to see some in your style!

LMAO, I have, but yeah, not really as much as I've drawn guys. As I mentioned in the previous ask, I just really love striking, prominent features, and women tend to be a lot more polished and round and... idk, perfect, in a way. How I draw is very messy and sketchy, and when I draw women, those sketchy lines tends to just make them look old...

If I could live off of just drawing whatever my heart desires, I would have been drawing way more women too. But everything I post online is made in my free-time, so I just draw whatever I'm most obsessed with at the time. And that just tends to be men 😅

[syrupsyche]

— im the protagonist of my own life

❤️

[buglaur]

thank you for tagging me @wistfulpoltergeist, we're hair twins 😌

i tag you 🫵🏻 picrew link

[tiney-tadpole]

Hellow can I have more info on these guys pls???

YES, these are actually two of my most important ocs lore wise. Amarelyss(left) is the sun god and Deuluv(right) is a reincarnated piece of the moon god. Slightly long post :3

A few centuries after the world began, there was a divine war among the gods, Amarelyss is the only one who went unscathed. Ironic because she's the one who started it. She only survived because her moon sacrificed themself to end the war. They crashed into the ocean, tearing the world in two and shattering themself three different pieces. Each piece later reincarnating into its own person.

Deuluv specifically is her body and soul reincarnated. He was born from her corpse in the deepest part of the pocket dimension that was created when she broke the world.

He looks close enough to the daemon who inhabit this underworld, so they always assumed he was one of them. Their queen found and adopted him, and eventually he became ruler. The underworld is slowly dying because it has no sunlight, and thus no magic. Resources are scarce. He is constantly sacrificing vast amounts of his own magic to hold it together and keep it from crumbling into the abyss.

He's trying to find a way to bring the underworld to the overworld. He's made a lot of deals with foolish folk from the overworld who are desperate, promising them power, love, wealth, whatever they may want. All lies, but if he can just get them to open the tiniest rift he could take it from there. He had no problem lying to and manipulating overworld folk if it could get him what he needed. All his efforts have ended in failure, Until the day Amarelyss took notice.

She lives at the highest point of the world where the sun never sets. With her angels and her cathedrals and her dragon and EVERYTHING she could ever want. Except her moon. It was all hollow. She felt a familiar presence one day though, the light of her moons soul had come back in the form of Deuluv.

Through a series of manipulations she was able to bring Deuluv up to her mountain. She was the sun god, she promised to share her light with the underworld if he came with her. So of course he went with her, he would sacrifice anything for his home. His freedom was a small price to pay. He really didn't care what she wanted with him. To her credit, she did at least keep her promise.

Amarelyss' full plan is to find the other moon pieces and revive them proper. She still needs to find the moons divinity and her memories. A small black cat and a book that can only be read when held up to a mirror. Her obsession with reviving the past will eventually lead to her downfall. She was never satisfied with what she had and it almost destroyed the world for a second time.

Writing this made me realize I do NOT have any good finished or recent art of her 😭😭😭 I need to get on that.

I do have a picture of their kid though, Eclipse. His lore needs more thought.

[onlyhereforangst]

before & after (& in between) coloring challenge 🎨🌈

tagged by: @leclercpiastri 🩷

one of them is from a wip oop

tagging: @kiekiecarrera @erinchristmaselvis @artemisscabin @timlucys @americorys if you want to show off those amazing skills i know you have 😏

[sothischickshe]

I was tagged by @entwinedloop (thank you! 😘😘😘) to: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern! 🕵️🕵️🕵️

Let's go!

1. Shattering your silence; passing round the chalice

Gertie’s truly is a shithole.

2. upon your ignorance (and the gray despair) of your ugly life

Even in the dream, his head aches.

3. around here we say birds not bitches

She – Beth – draws damp air in through her nostrils, exhales out of her purse-poised mouth.

4. filing her nails while she's dragging the lake

He’s about to knock.

4a. chapter 5 / how this earned its updated date

Sometimes (not how’d strike as a strict ‘often’ though there has been firm occasion), Elizabeth enjoys punishment.

5. do you like drugs (tonight)

“So,” Annie says, shimmying her upper body the oblique way that makes those lengthening waves surge at her shoulders. “Given any more thought to the motorbike?”

6. found my thrill

Once Jimmy closes upon a nugget – be it sizeable cobble; mere fragment; heck, even a solitary gravillon – it’s lifted.

7. (a) time to kill

It happens amid a blur of almost pure, concentrated instinct.

8. waiting for someone who needs me

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. 

9. It’s a dirty dirty game but (you should’ve called before you came)

It’s not like Beth hadn’t known.

10. a time to every purpose (under heaven)

It starts as merely a stray pleasing notion.

Patterns! 👀 Um well I appear to have stopped starting every first line with 'it' dfghji hh otherwise... Well fairly short sentences & generally a sense of being thrown straight into the action or at least set up? Vaguely tight pov, as opposed to like omniscient narrator. And def too much b/rio lol

Tagging: @fairhairedkings @bourbon-ontherocks @misshazelevers20 @kenrune @nottonyharrison @peachraindrops @unicornscully @veronicamarz @lunafeather & YOU if u wanna 🏷️🏷️🏷️🏷️🏷️

[freshairforrabbits]

"He wonders what Jake's daddy used to call him. He wonders what Jake drew on his cards."

Trippy art inspired by the gut wrenching, knife twisting fic i've been afraid of changing ('cause i built my life around you) by @kayjaydee17 (obviously read the tags for the fic of course!)

[click for the crisper image cause Tumblr nerfed it rip]

[montrealmadison]

olliewicks and 37 !!

abby, it’s only appropriate that i write these two for the very first time for you. ❤️

37. olliewicks + Anything You Want (Not That) by Belleruche for @zimms

Forgive the doe eyed relentless attention If it's on, I'm on, and there's no more use in pretending Close to the chase, it's clear you've had fun playing Some liberties, well you've surely been taking

Halfway through December, with the night becoming morning and the tub juice lighting him on fire, Oliver O’Meara thinks he’s having a pretty good freshman year.

Or—frog year. Right. New team, new lingo; he knows how this goes. The guys here call him Ollie, same as they have everywhere else. The ice at Faber is bigger, better kept, but his skates dig into it just the same. He goes to class (most of the time), hits up the kegsters, tries his best to get in with the upperclassmen, successfully makes one entire friend.

He’s a simple guy. Doesn’t expect much. 

So the fact that something is starting to feel different is rubbing him the wrong way.

read more below or on ao3 | request a fic here

The Haus is high off the win—literally, Ollie thinks, watching smoke drift past him out the open front door. They destroyed BC tonight, four-nothing, and Jack only shouted at them twice, which at this point honestly passes for kindness where he's concerned. Shitty has been incandescent with joy since they hit the showers. He’s dragged every member of the team into at least two keg stands with his own set of complicated strip rules and is now down to nothing but one sock and a giant smile, which was the final warning that prompted Ollie to move to the porch. The parties here are way better than in high school, he has to admit, but only in small doses.

Salt crunches beneath him when he sits down on the steps. It’s cold out. Not as bad as it is at home this time of year, but not warm enough to justify him sitting outside in shorts and a hoodie, sweat chilling quickly in his hair and his breath smoking out in long billows. He half-expects someone to come outside and yell at him to put a coat on, but no one does. To fill the silence, he takes another sip of tub juice, lets it torch his throat all the way down.

Maybe everybody feels like this freshman year: unmoored, self-conscious, either too loud or too quiet. It’s not bad, it’s just—different. Not having his brothers around. Playing hockey that really means something. Making friends on purpose, not just because they’re the only ones available. Going to parties where people sort of know you, where they call your name; where your teammates smile and smell like cinnamon and weed and have nice asses and ex-boyfriends; where that’s okay, it’s all okay.

Maybe, if he’s feeling like this on a night when he’s supposed to be happy, he shouldn’t be drinking alone. He’s about to pound the rest of his cup and risk going back in for a refill when someone knees him in the back.

“Ow,” Ollie says, which is a great first thing to say when you’re potentially going to have to kick someone’s ass. “Bro, what the fuck.”

He turns around, ready to defend himself, but it’s only Wicky, carrying two Keystones with the tabs already popped.

“‘Sup,” he says, grinning like he didn’t just commit an act of warfare, and hands one over. The can’s cold, as are Wicky’s fingers when they touch. “You’re thinking loud. Want a buddy?”

“Yeah,” Ollie agrees, more out of surprise than anything else. He takes a sip and finds that even watery beer is a welcome change from warm Everclear and foot stank. He tosses the rest of the tub juice into the bushes in a wide arc, sends his cup tumbling after it. “Thanks.”

Wicky sinks down beside him, close enough to throw off heat but not enough to touch. He’s in sweats and a beanie, dirty old Vans, that half a smile he always wears. Ollie’s not used to feeling like it’s directed at him and kind of waits to feel uncomfortable about it, but he never does. Beyond their little sliver of porch, it’s starting to snow.

“Good fucking game,” Wicky says after a long minute, throwing a shoulder in Ollie’s direction. His inflection is familiar, round and Midwestern, and reminds Ollie so much of home that it almost softens the blow. “Tired of cellying your assist?”

“Tired of Holster kicking my ass at pong,” he retorts. Wicky laughs and dodges the elbow Ollie aims his way. “Didn’t see you rushing to my defense, man, I had to play with Hardy and he’s about as useful as—”

“Nah, nah, I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” It’s sincere. “I got you next time, sorry. Got distracted.”

“What could be more important than riding to my rescue?”

“Key lime pie?”

“Ah.”

Ollie elbows him one more time, just for good measure and because Wicky claims not to have saved him any, before they drink their beers and watch the street turn white and he goes back to thinking.

Maybe it’s Wicky who’s different. Not in the way that Bitty is different, like nothing this team has ever seen, like the kind of person who merits special coaching with Jack by day and stands on the arm of the sticky green couch to deliver an impassioned performance of some Kesha song by night. No, the thing about Wicky is that he’s… bright. He puts his head down in practice and works the same as Ollie does, doesn’t ask many questions or draw attention to himself. They go to the dining hall and practice and the library together; mundane shit. Somehow, Ollie can’t stop noticing him anyway.

“You good, dude?”

Wicky’s voice is low, but Ollie’s so tuned into him in his head that it sounds loud. He turns, tipsy and slow, and finds Wicky still wearing that smile.

Oh, shit, Ollie thinks, hoping the cold and the beer serve as cover for the flush that immediately crawls up his cheeks. Oh, fuck.

Because here is the goddamn thing.

Oliver O’Meara is having a pretty good freshman year, but that’s all he ever expected it to be. Go to school, play hockey, have a little fun. Look, he gets that maybe there’s something in the water here that lets Shitty hug the Jack Zimmermann on the daily without getting both his arms ripped off, or facilitates the freaky mind-meld between Ransom and Holster, or enables Bitty to get on the ice with them at all. But Ollie’s never felt like a main character, not even in his own story. Everyone else probably has better reasons for coming to Samwell, life-changing ones. Ollie feels a little like he just ended up here because of some force of nature greater than him, like the broad strokes of his life have been sketched out and the details have all been left for him to make up.

Wicky is the only person who’s ever made him wonder how it would feel if, maybe, he could be different here, too.

“Ollie,” Wicky says, now sounding distinctly amused. “Earth to O’Meara. You wanna get out of here, brah? Not having fun?”

He’s pretty sure that get out of here isn’t intended that way, not yet, but it could—oh, God, it could. 

“No, I’m good,” Ollie says, feeling everything and nothing like himself. He stands, feels his knees ache with the effort of the day, knows he isn’t done quite yet. He sticks out a hand. “One more song and then late night?”

Wicky’s at his feet now, trusting eyes and curling hair, a face Ollie’s only just started to get to know but somehow thinks he won’t ever forget. He takes Ollie’s hand and pulls himself to his feet, but he doesn’t let go right away. Ollie kind of loves that. “One more, huh? Only if you’re gonna dance.”

“Deal.”

“‘Swawesome,” says Wicky. It sounds like a promise.

(Inside, on the dance floor, when that same hand wraps warm around the back of Ollie's neck like a question and an answer all at once, it feels like one, too.)

The next weekend, they win again. Ollie’s on the ice when Ransom wrists in the last goal and everyone shouts, and when they all pile in for the celly, Ollie finds Wicky’s bright blue eyes (oh, shit) and winks, and Wicky reaches up with one gloved hand and catches it like a kiss.

Alright, Ollie thinks. Game on.

[suddencolds]

Fool Me Twice [3/?]

I had a stressful week and was sort of considering dropping/discontinuing this fic, but then I ended up having fun writing this part last night :’) So here’s part 3—definitely a little different from what I usually write (and I was a little bold with certain decisions, haha). Enjoy! 

Part 3 ft. fake dating, a New Year’s celebration, drunken decisions, implied/referenced contagion (maybe)

You can read Part 1 [here]! (No additional context is needed aside from the previous 2 parts).

—

Margot’s decorated the bathroom nicely— a glass soap dispenser, tied with a singular golden ribbon that seems—intentionally or not—in theme with the decorations outside; a small, fluffy blue rug; a shower curtain lined with silhouettes of raindrops, and one of those scented reed diffusers, scented like bamboo and lemongrass. Neither of which he’s allergic to, to his knowledge, but with this cold, any small push is enough to send him over the—

“hhEH… hehh’IIZSCHEEW!”

The sneeze does nothing—or close to nothing—to relieve the tickle in his nose. Yves desperately hopes that the walls are more soundproof than they appear to be. He reaches blindly for the roll of toilet paper, if only to have something to cover the resounding—

“hEHh… hEH-hHEh-! hhhEH’iTSSCH-Eew! Snf-! hEHH… HEHh’iIZSCHEEw!” 

The sneezes scrape unpleasantly against his throat, enough that he coughs a little, after. He blows his nose into the handful of toilet paper and finds, even after, that his nose is still practically dripping. His excuse to Erika had been nothing more than that—an excuse—but he’s starting to feel as if this bathroom excursion was necessary in more ways than one.

The cold medicine from earlier is certainly starting to wear off, if the congestion settling in his sinuses is anything to go by. He’s tired, even though it isn’t especially late, and his throat is undoubtedly sorer than it had been before he got here. On top of everything with Erika, it feels like insult to injury. 

Erika. Where would he even begin with her? Now—knowing that she wants to be friends with him still—what can he do? Has anything she’s said tonight merited his forgiveness? Even if she hadn’t meant to cheat on him—even if she’d been planning to break up with him formally, even if she’d only made out with Brendon because she was drunk—does that make any of this permissible? She still lied to him. That night, when she’d gone to the party, she’d told him that she was just visiting a relative. The only reason why Yves had found her there with Brendon—the only reason why he’d shown up at the party at all—was because he’d been dropping something off for a friend.

She might not have chosen to cheat on him. But she’d still chosen to get drunk with someone she knew she had feelings for. Is that really any better?

And there’s this, too—part of Yves wants to forgive her. Part of him wants to move past everything, if only it means he’ll get to keep her as a friend. There was a point where she was everything to him, and maybe a friendship would be second best to everything if it meant he’d get to keep talking to her. That version of her that he remembers, walking with him through the 5am dark to crew practice, leaning into his shoulder.

Yves turns on the sink, lets the cold water wash over his hands for a few seconds before he cups his hands together to splash some water on his face. For reasons other than the cold water, his eyes sting. He shouldn’t have come here, he thinks. Seeing Erika again, after everything, feels like reopening a wound that had only started to close up.

Or maybe that isn’t right. Maybe he’s not over her at all.

From the other side of the door, he hears a sharp knock.

“I’ll - snf-! - be out in a sec,” he says. “I thidk Margot has adother bathroom if you need to go.” One that he hasn’t just sneezed in, notably.

“Do you need anything?”

It’s Vincent.

It occurs to Yves, all of a sudden, what an asshole he’s been. He’s the entire reason why Vincent is here in the first place, and here he is, locked in the bathroom, leaving Vincent alone at a party he wouldn’t enjoy to socialize with people he doesn’t know.

But what can he say? He’s far from presentable, right now—with the large, glossy bathroom mirror in front of him to confirm it—his face flushed, his hair a mess. There’s no way he can open the door, as it stands, and let Vincent see him like this.

“I could… hEHh… hEHh’iIIZSCHEEW! snf-! Ugh, I could use a dridk right ndow,” he says instead, which is more honest than he intends, except then he remembers he’s not supposed to be drinking. “Wait, fuck. I still have to drive.”

“I can do it,” Vincent says, “If you trust me with your car. I wasn’t planning on drinking.” 

“I do trust you with my car,” Yves says. 

“What do you want? Champagne? A beer?”

“Whatever you find that will get mbe idtoxicated the fastest.” It’s half a joke.

“So you can wake up tomorrow with a hangover to go with your cold?”

“Hodestly? I can’t think of a better start to the ndew year,” Yves says.

A pause. “If it’s what you want.” It’s an easier victory than he’d expected—he supposes he can’t complain. He listens as Vincent’s footsteps recede.

He shuts the water off. Runs a hand through his hair, fixes some of the strands back in place. Blows his nose again, for good measure. His face is a little flushed—probably a telltale sign that he has a fever—but if he drinks, who will notice?

Vincent is back a couple minutes later. He knocks with the same, curt knock as before, and this time, Yves opens the door.

He’s standing there, looking no less charming than before, holding a cocktail glass. There’s an orange slice on the edge, and an elegantly placed sprig of rosemary—Margot’s doing, probably.

“Vodka and orange juice,” he says, by way of explanation. “Margot said it’s called a screwdriver.”

“She’s really committed to the orange juice,” Yves says, and takes the glass from him. “Thadks, snf! I’m sorry for disappearing on you.”

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something more. Yves braces himself for the questioning, but instead, Vincent turns away. “It’s fine.”

“And sorry about Erika,” Yves says. He thinks he sounds a little less congested now that he’s blown his nose—at least, for the time being.  “It’s just—it’s been awhile since I’ve seen her. But that doesn’t mbean—i mean, I don’t wadt you to have to worry about all of this.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” “I just want you to edjoy the party,” Yves says. “Well, as much as you can, adyways. I can handle myself.”

“I never doubted that,” Vincent says.

“That’s why you’re the perfect pretend boyfriend.” Yves tips his drink back, takes a couple large, indulgent sips. He doesn’t catch Vincent’s expression as they take their seats again at the dinner table.

“You’re back,” Erika says. “I was starting to think you were planning on camping out in the bathroom for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, it’s quite the complicated bathroom,” Yves says. “Thankfully Vincent was there to show me the way out.”

The rest of dinner is surprisingly uneventful—or maybe Yves is too tipsy to pick up on Erika’s passive aggression. Either way, he finds himself actually enjoying himself through the haze of the screwdriver and a few glasses of champagne. It helps that Erika hasn’t brought up the whole friend thing again, and it helps that Margot stops by a few times, whenever the conversation lulls, to change the subject to something utterly unrelated to his breakup. Yves isn’t sure how much of a role Vincent has to play in that. At some point—halfway through another sneezing fit—Vincent wordlessly gets him a stack of napkins, and Yves is not embarrassed enough to pretend he doesn’t need them at all.

After dinner and dessert (which Yves would usually help with, on the many occasions when he doesn’t have a cold, but which Margot does a perfectly impressive job with), everyone disperses again. Yves catches up with everyone he knows from college, introduces Vincent to them (“Don’t tell Vincent I said this,” he says, “But I think he’s way too smart to be on our team,” and Vincent laughs and modestly denies this), and wonders what he’ll tell them all when, inevitably, Vincent doesn’t show up to any of their future meetups. At some point in the future, Vincent will find someone, presumably, who he’ll spend every subsequent New Year’s with. Yves is a little too drunk to think about the slight pang in his stomach when he considers this.

It’s only when it’s nearing midnight that he finds himself out on Margot’s balcony with Vincent.

It’s a nice view of the city, with its rows and rows of glittering skyscrapers. Yves leans out on the railing. 

The alcohol has done its job of making him feel pleasantly warm indoors, but it’s too cold outside for it to have the same effect. He doesn’t realize he’s shivering until Vincent says, “Are you too cold?”

“No,” Yves says, crossing his arms in an attempt to keep himself from shivering. “It’s… ndot that… cold out—hh-! hHehh’IIZSCHh-EEW!” Ugh. Very convincing.“That was bad timing, snf-!, I swear.”

“Bad timing, I’m sure,” Vincent says, his tone soft. “We can go inside if you want.”

“No,” Yves says, rubbing his nose. “It’s nicer out here, snf-! Also, I’m sure there will be fireworks at mbidnight. Which is soon.”

“So you’re taking the best vantage point all for yourself,” Vincent says.

“Yes, I— hHh-hHEH-!” He thinks it might culminate in another sneeze, but the tickle in his nose dissipates, very frustratingly, at last possible moment. “I got here first,” Yves says, sniffling. “Finders, keepers.”

“In that case,” Vincent says. Then—in lieu of finishing that sentence—he unbuttons his blazer and drapes it over Yves’s shoulders. 

Yves stares at him, disbelieving. The blazer is still warm—indulgently, comfortably warm—from Vincent’s shoulders. “There’s no way you’re not cold wearing that,” he says, gesturing to Vincent’s button-down shirt. It’s long-sleeved—a small consolation—but with fabric that thin, there’s really no chance he’s dressed warmly enough for this weather.

It’s starting to snow again—lightly enough that the snow melts into water when it hits the ground.

Vincent shrugs. “I grew up here. I’m used to it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Yves says, pulling the jacket closer. “Thadks.”

Inside, almost everyone who hasn’t left has gathered in the living room. Someone—Mikhail, maybe—is telling a story to the crowd, to raucous laughter. Then, after a bit, Margot says something, lifting her glass of champagne, and everyone joins her in counting down. Ten. Nine.

“Erika’s watching,” Vincent says, after a beat. Eight. Yves turns and sees that he’s right—he spots her somewhere in the crowd, in her sleek blue dress. When she catches him looking, she waves. Seven. Six. “She’ll probably be expecting us to kiss.”

Yves looks away from her to look at Vincent. Vincent, who’s here just because Yves asked him to be, who looks unfairly attractive even in something as forgettable as a white button-down shirt, who Yves will probably never have another chance to spend a night with again. The question is out of his mouth before he can think twice about it.

“Can we?”

He almost bites his tongue after. What is he thinking? It’s a ludicrous request—something absolutely unfitting to ask from a coworker, especially when he has a cold—and he’s certain he would never have asked it if he were sober. He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain himself, but—

Two. One.

Vincent leans in, briefly, and kisses him.

Beyond them, fireworks shatter into the sky. There’s the sound of cheering in the living room. 

The kiss lasts only a moment before Yves is wrenching himself away, taking a couple hurried steps back before his head snaps forward with a sudden, spraying—

“Hhehh’IIDSCHiiEW!”

—which, despite his efforts, almost certainly mists Vincent’s collar. It’s enough of a warning for him to lift his hand to his face and twist away to cover the subsequent—

“hHEH… Hheh’yISSCHEew! Snf-! Heh… hheh-!! Hheh… HEHh’iiDDZSChiEw!”

He feels heat creep up into his cheeks.  “I’mb so sorry,” he says, and means it for everything—for the untimely sneeze, for the kiss, for inviting Vincent to the party in the first place. “That was… I’mb really sorry. Oh, god, I really hope you don’t catch this. I would feel awful if you caught this.” His head swims, and he finds himself grabbing the railing to steady himself, muffling a fit of harsh, grating coughs into his hand. Usually, it would be his sleeve, but given that the sleeve he has on now belongs to Vincent’s very nice blazer, his options are limited.

Yves leans his weight onto the railing, sniffling, and shuts his eyes against the dizziness. He might be drunker than he’d given himself credit for. 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Vincent says. Yves doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see what he might be thinking. He really, really owes Vincent for all of this. “Are you tired?”

“Just a little drunk,” Yves answers. “We should probably head home soon.” 

“Okay,” Vincent says.

The apartment is indulgently warm when they step back inside. Yves hands Vincent back his jacket and lingers in the living room to say goodbye to Margot (he has the pleasure of watching her hug Vincent for the second time tonight) and to the handful of college friends that he recognizes. It’s a short walk to the car through the snow—just a few minutes, except he finds it to be more of a tedious walk than expected, and Vincent has to grab his arm a couple times to keep him from stumbling.

“Careful,” he says sternly, the first time.

Yves stares at him, tries to think about what sober Yves would say. He’s always been a little too honest when drunk.

“You are a godsend,” he says. “Thanks for coming todight. I kdow you hate parties.”

“I don’t hate parties. Are you always like this when you’re drunk?”

“Like what?”

Vincent laughs—a short, soft laugh which Yves wishes he could hear more of. “This is the fifth time you’ve thanked me.”

Is it really? “Ndo, I just am… hEH-!” Yves twists away from Vincent, just in time to let out a barely covered— 

“hehh’IZZSCHH-iIEW! Snf!” The sneeze jerks him forward, harsh—and loud—enough that he feels a twinge of pain in his throat. Luckily, Vincent won’t be here tomorrow to see him lose his voice. 

“Bless you,” Vincent says, reflexively.

“That’s definitely ndot the fifth time you’ve blessed me,” Yves says. “It’s more than that for sure. So I’mb allowed to thadk you more than once.”

“If you put it that way.”

Vincent drives him home. Yves directs the GPS to his address and tries to stay awake so he can talk to him, until Vincent says, “If you’re tired, you should sleep,” which Yves wants to protest. It seems rude to fall asleep in his own car when he’s supposed to be the one driving in the first place. But maybe Vincent is tired, too, from having had to socialize with strangers all night, and maybe silence would be preferable to him now. So Yves leans his head against the passenger seat window and shuts his eyes.

It feels like he’s only been asleep for a minute before Vincent taps him on the shoulder.

“We’re here,” he says, pulling the keys from the ignition.

“That was fast,” Yves says. He muffles a small cough into his sleeve. “Thadks again for driving me. I’mb sorry we stayed out so late.” He checks his watch—it’s close to 1am. It occurs to him that he has no idea if Vincent is a morning person, if this is considered late by his standards. If he’s tired, too.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says, stifling a yawn into his hand. Well, that answers his question.

Yves unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the passenger door, and gets out. It’s brutally cold out, cold enough that he has to fight back a shiver. “At least wait inside as I call you an Uber?” “You don’t have to do that.”

But Yves is already pulling out his phone, scrolling through their messages for Vincent’s address. It’s the least he can do, after everything.

Vincent waits inside with him for a few minutes. It’s a bit of a wait for his ride—probably everyone’s trying to get back home from their New Year’s parties at this time—so Yves makes them both some hot chocolate (nothing fancy, given the time constraints—just hot cocoa mix with some cinnamon and steamed milk—but Yves says “You should come again some time, I promise I can actually cook when I have more than three minutes”) and sits with him in the living room. He finds himself almost disappointed when the cab finally arrives.

“Get home safe,” Yves says.

“Thanks,” Vincent says. “I will.”

“And Vincent?” Vincent turns.

There’s a hundred things Yves wants to say to him. He wants to say, you didn’t have to do this. He wants to say, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. He wants to say, how can I make it up to you?

“Happy New Year,” he says, instead, and Vincent smiles.

[ Part 4 ]

[bhxrdy]

tagged by @itbmojojoejo @poetic-fiasco - thank you! 💕

challenge -> you’re starring in a movie with the last person you saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title.

it does so happen..... it's Finan. beautiful irish bastrd. sounds intriguing 🤔

tagging: @st-eve-barnes @persephones-journey @emilyhufflepufftlk @solinarimoon and whoever else who wants to do it 💕

[buglaur]