#too short to ride

[subestu]

Round 1: Introduction

[yahoo201027]

Day in Fandom History: July 20…

Steven, Peridot, and Amethyst decide to have a day out at the Amusement Park by the pier, but their day gets interrupted when Peridot can’t get into not one rollercoaster ride due to her height. “Too Short to Ride” premiered on this day, 8 Years Ago.

[porksod]

the way mr smiley isnt bothered by a flying tablet near peridot

[commaclear]

what's an ask you've never gotten but want to awnser? if there's none than what's your favourite fic you've ever written?

Q: Why do they all seem to carry lube in their hotbars in Too Short to Ride?

A: I genuinely don't know, but it's a really good question that no one has ever asked, and for some reason you all just accepted it

[chronologically-challenged]

I think that the party's communication issues can be summed up as "man, is it awkward to tell someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with them if you've only know them for a few months? Probably."

[lexithwrites]

Regulus: babe, I wanna ride

Remus: okay, let me get our helmets—

Regulus, undressing: no, not the bike

[sevenines]

i saw this tweet and found it interesting for two reasons. one is that some people base how good cartoon network would be to toh by how it treated su, and despite the fact that su’s treatment by the network was considered poor at the time, now its thought to be exceptionally good in comparison to modern shows.

two is how exactly su got impacted by a limited budget. a common criticism is how characters like connie, peridot, and lapis are left out of missions. but balancing a lot of characters is not only hard but also costly (extra animation, extra voices—it’s been revealed that the show is limited to a set number of characters per episode otherwise they’re over budget). animation mistakes are not uncommon since retakes cost extra. the entire reason the original show got cut short was due to loss of funding!

[heich0e]

au in which touya ends up having to watch natsuo put his hands all over you because you took something offered to you at a sketchy warehouse party that has you panting and whimpering and burning up and his own hot hands can't provide you any comfort but his little brother's cool-quirked touch can

[yuwuta]

tennis/fencing player yuuta what if i kms he wouldnt be getting any practice done if i was around

so real…. whenever tennis is involved, it has his attention, almost completely undivided. so even though you’re flirting with him, and keep pretending to flip your skirt up, and keep pouting, the only thing on his mind on the court is helping you LOLLL he’s in coach mode fr and it’s cute because even when you’re whining, “yuutaaaaa it’s hard when they’re coming this fast! why don’t you come show me again how you do it,” in such an obvious attempt to get him close to you, but yuuta just shakes his head from across the court and tells you, “i’m sorry, i’ll go easier. you can do it, honey, i believe in you.” he’s so genuine—you’re trying to get in his pants, and here he is putting his full faith in you :((

it doesn’t stop you, though. momentarily, maybe, he tugs on your heart strings, so put some actual effort into practicing, but there’s always a tipping point when the court is littered with loose tennis balls, and you’re frustrated because this is way harder than it looks and because yuuta looks way too good in his practice clothes, and it doesn’t help that he finds any excuse to praise you, no matter how small your progress might be, and now it’s getting hotter outside and he’s sweating a little bit and you need this to be over now, but yuuta’s already going on about whatever exercise you two can try next. you need to take matters into your own hands, because clearly your flirting isn’t getting you what you want from this far, so you sigh, and skip your way over to half-court, reach over the net, and pull him by his collar for a kiss.

you can literally hear him squeak and then get himself together, put a hand on your waist and kiss you back. he’s red in the face now, and it’s not from practice, and you always find it endearing that no matter how long you’ve been together, yuuta hardly ever seems to know when you’re coming on to him; and when you he does get it, he’s still as flustered as when you first met. you find his blush so cute, you have to kiss him again, and again, and again until he’s pulling back, and stuttering, “okay, okay—we just, let me pick up the balls real quick—” to which you groan and grab him by the collar again, arching your foot to step on a rolling ball, squishing it with more force than necessary, and warning him, “that will be you if we don’t go now,” which makes him squeak in a completely different way, nervously nodding his head, “r-right, yeah, okay—i’m sorry, come on let’s—” he pauses to jumping over the net to your side, bends down to secure one arm under your knees and lift you up bridal style, “we can clean up later.” 

[soltoes]

some studies from the passenger. i think if benson had listened to ramshackle glory he wouldn't have done all that

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO HAVE CORRECTLY PREDICTED THE HEART SPOT ON BARNABY’S CHEST

IM IMMORTAL & NEVER GONNA DIE

[yahoo201027]

Day in Fandom History: July 20…

Steven, Peridot, and Amethyst decide to have a day out at the Amusement Park by the pier, but their day gets interrupted when Peridot can’t get into not one rollercoaster ride due to her height. “Too Short to Ride” premiered on this day, 7 Years Ago.

[deejadabbles]

Take a Ride (Rex x fem!Reader) Spice!

Summary: Rex had always had amazing thighs, but now there was only one fantasy you wanted to fulfill with them.

Fem reader, no mentions of physical description.

This is a 18+ content! Minors be gone!

A.N: So, after @littlemissmanga gave her analysis of Rex's armor in this post, I had way too many thots about how to abuse that armor. This is the result! Nothing but filth here folks. I sort of had a jedi reader in mind when writing this, but that's never explicitly stated, just has general "forbidden relationship" vibes.

Word Count: 3388

Warnings: Thigh riding, slightly dominant Rex, secret relationships, dirty talk, armor kink (sort of?), clothed male, praising, mutual masturbation, porn with minimal plot (riding Rex's thigh into the sunset. that's it. that's the plot)

Rex was a smart man. Observant, tactical, intuitive. And you were an open book to him.

Or at least, that’s how it felt whenever you locked eyes across the room. You didn’t have to spell out your desires to him, not now, not after so long of learning every inch of each other. He didn’t need you to bite your lip or bat your eyelashes, it was all there in the subtlety of your gaze, the rise of your chest, the clench of your fingers.

All he had to do was catch your gaze, and he knew what you wanted.

It was good, for so so many reasons, but paramount among them was the fact that you could hardly flirt so openly with him. The two of you had to learn to communicate with nothing more than the smallest of gestures, the shortest of glances. The only times you could truly call out to each other, beg for each other, demand each other, was in the stolen moments of a locked office or cheap hotel on Coruscant.

So really, it shouldn’t have come as a shock, that he could read your wants, when he caught you staring at something more specific than his whole (damn sexy) person.

No one could blame you. Rex always had amazing thighs, you loved biting them as you teased him mercilessly, loved gripping them when you had him moaning at your mouth, and you loved being tangled in them as he buried himself inside you. You had always loved his thighs, but this made something new flare in you, now that you had noticed a certain…detail in the new clone armor.

How had you never noticed it before? Every free moment you had near him was taken up with staring him up and down, knowing you’d never get your fill of him. You had memorized every inch of his body, gazed endlessly at the armor that kept him alive day after day.

So why had it only been when he pounded you from behind while in full armor that you noticed his tassets had ridges to them?

Your body throbbed at the memory, the way he had sought you out the moment he was back on the ship after weeks apart, the way he had ripped your clothes off with such desperate need, the way he took you hard and impatient.

It was only in that moment that you felt them digging in, the subtle little peaks cresting the full length of the armor piece. And now they were all you could think about. Rex had always had amazing thighs, but now there was only one fantasy you wanted to fulfill with them.

Rex was observant and tactical and intuitive. He knew all your subtle looks and gestures, so, it didn’t take him long to figure you out when you started staring at one part of him in particular.

The first time he caught you staring was during a briefing. To your credit, you were still listening to Anakin’s report, you were just also stealing glances because you were a skilled multitasker. You had been feigning contemplation, letting anyone who might look your way think that you were staring at nothing in particular, while you were actually focused on those little raised ridges. When you sensed you had been ‘gazing absently’ for too long, you made yourself look up- only to catch Rex’s eye.

He tilted his chin up just the slightest bit before looking away.

In the private language of your subtle gestures to one another, that might as well have been a knowing smirk. 

Of course, he knew you were thinking about him, but, he probably didn’t know exactly what you were thinking; besides general heat and need, right? Force, he probably assumed you were staring at his codpiece, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. The knowledge of your exact fantasy was safe.

But that was an assurance that became harder to hope for the second time he caught you staring.

You were helping him run drills, stopwatch pulled up on your bracer, clocking every trooper who ran Rex’s course. At first, Rex had been pacing along the end of the track, hands behind his back in an authoritative stance as he watched his men work. Then he stood to the side, hands on hips as he barked orders. If both of those hadn’t been distracting enough, then he had propped his leg up on a crate as he called for them to keep going and live up to the 501st standards. 

That did you in.

The way his thigh was level, lined like the perfect seat, was too much. Your mind was racing with the most impure thoughts, the ideas of what the hard, angled plastoid might feel like made heat fill you almost instantly. It just might be the perfect shape, slotting perfectly against your clit, between your folds. And with Rex being the one under that armor piece? Maker, you knew he’d buck and roll you perfectly against it, make sure it moved just right for the friction you’d crave and-

Kriff!

You almost- almost didn’t stop your watch in time when Fives came darting past you.

You could already feel the mess pooling in your panties, just the thought of it all making you wet- that would be fun to deal with for the rest of the drills. Somehow, you managed to keep your voice mostly steady when you called out Fives’ time, but, when you met Rex’s eye again, you knew you were caught. He held your gaze firm, a silent knowing passing between you, that he had heard the barely there shake in your voice. The stare was practically a smug scolding, reminding you that it would be a long time before you could change out of the sopping underwear. He allowed his gaze to slide south, glancing over your core as they turned to Fives. Something no one but you would notice.

Considering all the other times you had stolen glances at his thighs, you had thought that he wouldn’t make the connection, having only caught you twice. But you should have known better, you should have known he’d figure you out.

Once the drills were done and everyone was making their way out of the simulator, you trailed far behind everyone else, trying to get your breathing under control. Keeping your mind out of the gutter for the rest of the training had not been easy and you were ready to change into clean undergarments.

Until you passed an adjacent corridor and felt hands grab you.

You gasped as they pulled you in, but the familiar feel of your captain filled your senses as your back hit the cold wall. Lips closed over yours before you could so much as blink up at him, gloved hands scrambling to find your wrist and pin them beside your head.

“You should know better than to look at me like that in public, mesh’la,” Rex growled against your mouth.

“You’re one to talk,” was your panted retort as you glanced down the empty, but still very open corridor. This was not like Rex, he never indulged in you in such an easy place to get caught. As appealing as the fantasy was, neither of you could stomach what would happen if you were caught.

He hummed in response, even as his legs started moving, “That look of yours worked me up too much,” one slotted itself between your thighs, shoving them apart as it pressed into you.

And you let out a shaking moan.

Rex only chuckled as you clamped your hand over your mouth, face hot as he pressed his armored limb against your throbbing center. “So, that is it,” he mused into your ear, “That’s what you’ve been thinking about. You think you're so sneaky, stealing looks at-”

He paused suddenly, going stiff as you heard it too: armored feet closing in. Rex flew off of you as fast as lighting, but you still barely had time to lower your hands into a dignified position before the troopers rounded the corner.

The men instantly saluted when they saw you two, but otherwise paid no mind as they marched by. Still, it was enough for both of you to come to your senses. Rex still looked at you out of the corner of his eye, breathing just a little ragged as you both waited for the group to be out of earshot.

When Rex spoke again, it was low and clear. “My office. Tonight,” the pupils of his eyes were still blown wide as he flicked them downward, to where he had likely felt how soaked you were. “And don’t change out of those.”

“Sir yes sir,” you hummed, because you knew it would make him just as wet as he made you. The shuddering breath he let out told you it took all his willpower not to pin you against that wall again.

The night couldn’t come fast enough.

It was only through years of self-discipline that you were able to get any work done at all, between your mind replaying that scene over and over again. Rex’s body holding you at his mercy, his hot mouth devouring yours, even the thrill of almost getting caught. Above all though, you ached at the brief preview of his thick tight bucking up against your core.

You were glad you hadn’t bothered with changing (as per his orders), because the clean pair of panties would have just been ruined as you turned the memory over in your head again and again. 

Getting through your daily reports was the worst part, Rex’s words coming back to you between each line of text you managed to type. Of course, it was almost a blessing, because when Skywalker came by to check on you, you still had a pile of work to groan about: the perfect cover. Everyone would think you were busy working all night, not sneaking off for a secret rendezvous.

And when you finally thought it was late enough to slip away unnoticed, you never flew through reports faster.

The corridors were empty save for the occasional trooper who saluted you, so there were no setbacks when you reached the door of his office. 

“Enter,” came his voice after a short pause when you knocked.

When the door slid open, you were greeted with the sight of him sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide, and chin resting on his fist. You sealed the door the moment it closed, not taking your eyes off him as it locked.

“Finally,” Rex hummed, a hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Then he beckoned you closer with the hand that wasn’t supporting his head, “Come here, cyare. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice, you made your way across the room, shifting off your first, outer layer of clothing as you went. The garment fell to the floor as he slid his chair back, leaning forward to pull you between his legs. 

Rex’s hands were instantly pushing your shirt up, “Take this off, sweetheart, I want to have a nice view.”

A whimper at the combination of his words and hands left you, but you did as told, stripping your top half while he pulled at the belt of your pants. Fingers worked their way across your skin as he slid them down your legs. He had obviously regained his patients in your hours apart, because he took his time sliding his hands over the backs of your legs as he made his way up to your underwear.

Only then did he take his eyes off your body, lifting them to meet your own, right before his hand cupped your pussy. Your head fell back with a moan as he massaged you through the fabric and hummed with approval at the wet state of them.

“You’ve been like this all day, haven't you, mesh’la?”

“Yes,” you breathed, but managed to look back at him again, “that’s what you do to me, Rex, just thinking about you gets me wet.”

Once upon a time, Rex would have turned red at such filthy, bold words, so awkward and unsure of himself, but you two were well past that now. 

He proved it when he said, “Oh, I know what you’ve been thinking about, cyare.” 

Rex always struck fast when he had a plan in mind, and here with you was no different. He grasped your hips, those big hands of his able to move your body any way he wanted, and he wanted you against him. 

An ‘oh!’ of pleasured surprise rang through the room when he pulled you down to straddle his thigh. He didn’t say a word as he shifted you, lining you up perfectly with the ridge of his armor. However, when you tried to rock yourself against him, his hands gripped your hips in warning.

“No. Not yet,” he said and despite the firmness, his tone was gently patient, “You don’t move until I tell you, mesh’la.”

Your skin prickled at the soft command, you loved it when he got like this. “Anything for you, Captain,” you made sure your own voice was delicate, practically a moan of its own.

And oh, did Rex’s smile turn dangerous as he said, “Good girl.”

With that, he kept his eyes on where your still-clothed core met his armor, and started pulling you forward. Pleasure rippled up your body instantly, and he let out a pleased chuckle when you had to reach out to grip his shoulders for support.

“You’re already soaking my leg. Just thinking about this got you so worked up?” Rex let out a little mock of a disapproving noise, then started back in on the sentiment he wanted to say back in that hallway. “You thought you were so sneaky, stealing glances at me like that.” 

His hands gripped your hips harder, digging in just enough to leave a faint mark as he kept dragging you forward against the hard length of plastoid, sending pulses of pleasure through your core. 

"You don't think I notice, the way you look at my thighs? Is this what you were imagining? Were you thinking about how perfect it might feel, hard between your legs?" He finally looked up from the mess you were making of his armor, eyes locking with yours again, "Tell me how it feels, cyar'ika.”

The answer came out like a needy whimper, “Perfect!” The ridge got higher and more pronounced the further up you went, and it pressed so deliciously against your clit. “Maker, it feels perfect- you feel perfect, Rex!”

He hummed approvingly, then looked back down at his handiwork. Rex heard the sounds you let out as he pulled you higher and higher up his leg, and as always, he was a smart, intuitive man.

“Right here,” he whispered, seating you right at the point where the peak of the armor was highest, digging into your most sensitive spot delightfully. “There we go, perfect.” 

That’s when Rex started rocking you back and forth in short motions, making rapid bursts of pleasure coarse through you. He was testing the waters and loving the resulting cries you let out. 

“Just the right spot for you, and the perfect view for me,” Rex hummed in approval.

He wasn’t wrong, your bodies were close, but not so flush against each other that he couldn’t see you grinding against him. Unfortunately, that’s when he stopped his rocking motions and let go of your hips.

You didn’t bother hiding your whimper of disapproval, but he only cupped your face lovingly.

“You’ve been a good, patient girl, cyare. Now, I want you to get yourself off. Ride me until you come, understand?”

“Yes- yes, sir.” Your mind was so hazy with need, but, the desire to please your Captain broke through the blissful fog, “but what about you?”

“Me?” he chuckled again as he dropped his hands and leaned back, eyes drinking in your almost naked body, “I told you I wanted a view, and I’m going to enjoy it.”

In that case, you would give him more than a view, you’d give him a show.

Despite still feeling shaky, you managed to let go of his shoulders. Your half-lidded gaze stayed on his as you started trailing your fingertips across your collarbone. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched made you smile. Then, just as you started moving your fingers between the valley of your breasts, you rocked your hips forward.

That pleasure burst through you again, making you throw your head back, not caring how graphic you sounded as you took what you had been craving, what you needed. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Rex scolded, “keep your eyes on me, mesh’la,” his hand reached down and cupped his codpiece, “want you to look at me while you have your fun.”

You obeyed, whimpering as you rocked back and forth and met his eyes again. Maker, the way he looked at you, hand rubbing himself down while his gaze took in your wandering hands and your thrusting hips, only to dart back up to your eyes again. Since the first night he saw you bare, and all the other heated moments, Rex always looked at you like that. He looked at you as if you were the most intoxicating sight in the galaxy.

That alone made you quiver, but the way your climax was already starting to build had you shaking. You knew your body and knew how to get your end, and as much as you wanted to relish the moment, you weren’t sure you could last long with his hungry gaze watching your every move.

As your lower body pulsed with every rub against his thigh, you cupped your breasts, biting your lip at the added sensation. Pleasure wracked through you on both ends now, and it was hard to keep eye contact with him as you moaned and gasped.

Rex let out a pleased noise at the show you were giving him, “By the force, you look so perfect like this, my perfect girl-” his breath hitched on the last word as his hand continued to work at his cover cock.

You were close now, climbing to the peak, spurred on by him getting off from nothing but the sight of you. Fingers pinched your nipples, as your own thighs clamped on either side of his. Somehow, as your rocking became fast and shallow, you still kept your eyes locked on him, that coil tightening and tight-

“Scream for me, cyar’ika,” Rex growled, “scream my name!”

That’s what did you in, and his name came out a ragged wail when your orgasm ripped through you. It was a whole-body kind of climax, the kind that sent numbing ripples of pleasure all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes.

Rex’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you against the hard plate of his chest as you shook and heaved your ragged breaths. The armor was cool against your burning skin, and Rex rubbed his hands up and down your back with care.

“That’s my girl, doing as asked, keeping your eyes on me the whole time, making pretty sounds. Now look at you, so spent, you enjoy riding my thigh that much?”

Despite the fact that you knew it was a rhetorical question, you nodded your head against his chest, which made a chuckle vibrate under the armor.

“Well then, we’re going to have to do this again, aren’t we? I liked watching you get off like that, mesh’la. You were stunning.”

“Thank you,” you panted, sounding tired and half dazed, breath fogging up his armor, “thank you for always knowing what I want.”

Rex kissed your temple, then he was pulling your body into the position he wanted again, this time curled up in his lap as his hands wandered where they liked.

“You know giving you what you want, is what I want, cyare. Always.”

As soon as you were able to move without shaking, you were going to give this perfect man anything and everything else he may want.

Tag list: @blueink-bluesoul @dystopicjumpsuit @sinfulsalutations

@freesia-writes @wings-and-beskar (you two seemed interest so I hope you don't mind the tags lol)

[commaclear]

Im rereading tstr and "Yeah, he’s written in…” Wilbur trailed off as his cheeks started going pink. “Uh- Nevermind!” He gave a nervous laugh. “That’s- He’s just told me I, uh- I can’t wear my same jacket, and I have to dress up is all. Yep. What a prick.”

COMMA??!!

The greatest unsolved Comma mystery....

Sorry guys, I'm taking this one to my grave >:)

[treeangle-roots]

dumb & dumber

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [5/5]

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was I out for long?”

“A couple minutes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”

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

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

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

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

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.

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

“Take the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

“The bed’s warmer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vincent says nothing, to that.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly. 

And Yves—

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

—

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

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

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

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

“How’s the book?” Yves says.

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” Yves says. 

It has the opposite effect he intends it to.

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

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

“What things?”

“Kdowing my limits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”

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

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

“I don’t think that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

“I’d already finished eating.”

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

“Because you’re ill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.

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

Yves’s heart twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But when he allows himself to look, he sees—

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

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

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

—

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

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

Yves opens his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

EPILOGUE

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

“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”

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

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

This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding. 

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

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

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