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burnbeforepod · 2 months

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Claire the Nerd by Charlie

You wake up one morning and look in the mirror and see a different face staring back at you . . .

Claire was the most popular girl in the school. She was the head cheerleader and was dating the captain of the football team. She used to have blond hair and blue eyes. That was before something changed her life forever . . .

One Monday morning when she was getting ready for school, she went into the bathroom to do her make-up but didn’t see her usual blue eyes staring back at her in the mirror. She saw the face of one of the nerdy girls she always bullied. She had auburn hair and dark brown eyes. At first her reflection was hard to see and she wondered why. On her sink was a pair of glasses, so she picked them up and once she looked through them she knew that she had switched places with a nerd!

Claire went back to her room to find that she wasn’t even in her own house! There was definitely something wrong there. All of her designer outfits in her closet weren’t there. Instead she found jeans, tie-dye T-shirts, button down shirts, and suspenders. She tried to find something “wearable” for school that day. She also met the other girl’s family downstairs but they didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t their daughter at all. She walked to school and saw her popular friends but when she tried to talk to them and tell them what had happened they ignored her and walked away.

Claire found the girl’s schedule and found that she would have to go to all Honors classes. Claire actually was a smart girl but if she told anyone that she would be unpopular. She didn’t know what to do. No one would believe her if she told them that she was the most popular girl in school stuck inside the least popular girl’s body. All through the school day her friends who still didn’t recognize her pushed her around and made fun of her. Now she knew how the other girl felt. How could this have happened? Claire never thought she had done anything wrong. She wasn’t nice to unpopular people only because they weren’t worth talking to.

During lunch that day she saw someone who looked like her old self holding hands with her boyfriend. She was furious! No one could touch her man without getting seriously hurt. So she walked up to the couple.

“Why are you holding hands with my boyfriend?” She asked outraged.

“I don’t even know your name, so how could I be your boyfriend?” The guy asked.

“I handle this,” The girl in Claire’s body told him.

“Why did you steal my life?” Claire asked when he had left.

“I wanted payback on you,” The girl said. “You’ve been mean to me since 6th grade. I wanted to be the one people liked for a change.”

“Look,” Claire said gritting her teeth. “If you don’t switch back with me, you will be sorry.”

“That’s impossible,” The girl said. “When I talked to the fortune-teller person she said that we would only switch back if you learned not to be mean again.”

“Maybe I won’t be if I get my life back,” Claire said.

“You’re wasting my popularity time,” The girl said. “I have a boyfriend to get back to.”

The girl walked away leaving Claire standing alone in the middle of the lunch room. She didn’t even know where to sit. She couldn’t be popular looking how she did. Then she noticed a table with nerds yelling out to her. She got her lunch and sat with them.

“Hey, Angela!” One nerdy girl yelled. “Aren’t you sad its lunch and we’re not in class learning?”

“No,” Claire answered. “I’m sad because that girl stole my popularity.”

Everyone at the table laughed like she was telling a joke.

“That’s a good one,” One boy said still laughing. “Claire, the most popular girl in school stealing your popularity.”

The boy who said that had blond hair and stone gray eyes. If he wasn’t wearing a nerdy outfit and glasses, Claire might have actually thought he was cute. But she didn’t have time for that. She had to figure out how to get her life back from the new “her”. How could she learn how to not be mean? It was something she had always done to get out her emotions.

When the school day ended the nerd boy met her by her new locker. He looked as though he was waiting for her.

“Come on, it’s time to go to our club.” He said.

“What club?” Claire asked him.

“What do you mean ‘what club’?” He asked. “The Nerds Unite club that we made.”

Once she had all of her things he rushed her to a classroom. All of the nerds from lunch were there. They were talking about what they could do to ignore bullies that were always picking on them. Claire was amazed that they actually had a club on how to avoid her. She wasn’t really that mean, was she? They talked about taking a different route to class, not looking directly into the popular people’s eyes, and ignoring what they say when they make fun of you.

The rest of the week Claire had to spend a lot of time with the nerds while she thought of how she could get back inside her body. She actually tried asking the nerds what they would do in a situation like that but they didn’t laugh, they said the same thing that the real Angela had told her. She would have to learn not to be mean. During that week, she still couldn’t help it though. She was mean and in a bad mood. She didn’t know any other way to act. Claire did try but she couldn’t see any other way to pass the time than make fun of people.

That Friday, the nerd boy whose name was Ethan, walked her home. Even though she had been mean to him too he still was nice to her. She felt strange. She had never felt this feeling with her popular boyfriend. But with Ethan she felt complete, almost like she didn’t have to be mean. They walked by the park and sat down for a few minutes.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Ethan asked looking up at the sky.

“No,” Claire said.

“You’ve been in a bad mood all week,” He said. “Why?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” She replied.

“I’m smart,” He said. “I’ll catch on eventually.”

So she told him. He listened and had a serious face on the whole time. When she was done he tried to tell if she was lying.

“So you’re really Claire?” He said. “That would actually explain a lot.”

“I guess I should go since you hate me now,” Claire said standing up.

“No I don’t hate you Angela, I mean Claire.” Ethan said standing up next to her. “I want to help you. You’re upset so I want to help you.”

“Really?” Claire asked facing him.

“Yeah, I don’t care who you are. I never turn away someone in need.” He told her.

“But I can’t help being a little mean,” She said.

“I’ll teach you that there’s more to life than being mean to people,” He replied.

And he did. During the weekend, Ethan talked to Claire about all the other interesting there was in life. She finally started to get it and gave him a compliment. When school began again on Monday, she went around giving people compliments. When Claire saw Angela at lunch, she confronted her again.

“I want my body back,” Claire said. “Cute shoes by the way.”

“Thanks,” Angela said. “Yeah, there was a catch. If you didn’t be nice by the end of last week you would be stuck like that forever.”

“What?!” Claire yelled. “You could’ve told me that!”

“Why would I want to give up my popularity so I could go back to being picked on again?” Angela asked.

“We could try to be friends,” Claire suggested hopefully.

“Nah,” Angela said. “You made your choice when you tortured me every day since kindergarten.”

Angela turned on her high heels and walked back to her crowd. Claire was stunned. She could never go back to her old life. But then she realized that she didn’t need that anymore. She now knew that life wasn’t about being popular, pretty, or mean, it was about caring and being nice no matter how ugly you looked.

“Are you back, Angela?” Ethan asked.

“No,” Claire said. “I’m still Claire and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I’m actually glad,” Ethan said. “I wanted you to figure that out so I could tell you how I feel . . .”

He didn’t get to finish. Claire pulled him into a kiss and they lived dorkily ever after . . .

#burn before reading #new podcast #old writing

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inkylizard · 1 year

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i did the cover for a burner zine!

a zine turns out to be pretty safe practice for calling a thing finished and letting it out into the world without trying for perfection.

#The maze is solvable #Burn before reading

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ohno-the-sun · 6 months

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Hmmm what were you reading?

#sundrop #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sun #my art #you were not supposed to look in the cupboards #files kept secret by everyone #but a burning curiosity made you look #you could barely read a page before it was snatched away from you #you can’t quite tell if he wants to protect you or himself

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 3 months

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The girls are plottinggggg

[First] Prev <–-> Next

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #wen chao #wang lingjiao #Realizing she was supposed to have an upper lip mole was a cold slap in the face. So sorry ma'am. I won't forget again.#They are evil dumbass 4 evil dumbass and I think we are all missing out on the sheer potential of the comedy between these two.#They have way too much power and are using it for the wrong reasons - which makes them truly great villains.#And when things don't go their way they become piles of whining sludge.#Wang Lingjiao is forever fascinating to me even though we only get crumbs about her.#She's a servant girl who's greatest asset is her beauty and her attractiveness.#Meaning she's had a life being in the gaze of people with significant positions of power over her.#I can't help but read her childishness and petty tantrums as someone who has finally been given the chance to not feel powerless.#If she was a more virtuous type we might 'like' her more but honestly...I don't think she would have survived to this point.#WLJ has only known power hierarchies her whole life. Probably accused of seduction before she even understood what that meant.#I love contrasting her with mianmian because they have similar(ish) backgrounds but different approaches to moving forwards #But WLJ's story is about flying too close to the sun and mianmian's is about going too close to the water.#Like the sea mist dragging her down into complacency - all the sect powerplays are mandatory to 'go along with' if she wants to climb-#-the social ladder. Yet she is the cautionary tale (and a foil to JGY as well) she leaves before sacrificing her own morals.#Mianmian flies away with her wings only slightly plucked while those who sacrificed everything to reach for the top crash and burn.

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beescake · 2 months

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PLEASE PLEASE MEGADUMP THE ARASOL!!! PLEAAASEE MR BEESCAKE I AM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU

HFHGHD GLADLY aaa i’ve been adding notes to it here and there for months but just hesitant to post it bcs im 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂

also this is just my own takeaway of the events, it doesn’t necessarily comply to the Ultimate Truth of Canon-Alignment or represent the actual facts of what hussie intended! v sentimental smh but hopefully its still interesting to read

i love when characters inform each other by proximity, it's one of my fave things to see in media :') it feels even more significant when two characters deliberately choose to stick together, so that when one operates, you can tell the other is similarly aligned in associative solidarity.

sollux is a keystone of this trope — whoever he aligns with is a wordless statement, a nod of approval. this stood out to me bcs the main four humans were alr friends by default, but once you reach hivebent you realize the trolls can actively choose who they want to hang out with.

and as we all know, after assessing every troll's biases/loyalties, sollux is the only one who maintains his selective preference for innately Good 👍 people.

aradia is such a beautiful character honestly, she evokes such incredible feelings in me. she might not have been consistently written with care but the best parts of her character are truly stunning. i think it's easy to remember sollux as the self-sacrificing one bc he's so open about it (and his friends frequently react to his Moments) but when you compare him to aradia, it's always struck me

how much more. raw it is

to be so alone as an agent of time, having to orchestrate immeasurably harrowing events nobody understands or gives a fuck about

with your role painted in the story as one who must tend to the needs of the narrative, responsible to match every next note

because when you're given the capabilities, it becomes your duty to carry it out.

it becomes expected of you to keep experimenting and arranging the machinations to work for everyone, dusting off hundreds of necessary failures to keep going

and having to be so unwavering in your drive knowing miserably that there's no one who can help you but yourself.

or alternatively: to make things fun! so other people won't think twice about letting you go off on your own.

sure she's had some very good buds, notably thanks to Team Charge v Team Scourge antics.

and yet, at the end of the day, the one friend that kept choosing her time and time again was the friend with the highest standards.

i can see why people like to define arasol as moirails/matesprits but surprisingly i find the nondescript, unlabeled aspect of their relationship more straightforward to understand.

there's no shortage of people who would accommodate sollux. most of the surviving trolls are his oldest friends bcs he’d chosen them well. his transparency with his feelings had built him strong friendships that won’t falter or break, regardless of how much of a dick he can be. they’ve already seen and accepted him at his worst, and they still like him for who he is.

contrast that with aradia, who'd been so approachable, friendly and reliable in her exchanges it was super fun to talk to her. but the moment she became depressed, all her connections broke down.

her friends became hesitant to interact with her (until she became god tier, “happy” and amicable again) because her gloom and resignation didn’t serve them. she dealt with it alone.

there’s def something of note here abt the disparity between the way male & female characters are written+perceived in homestuck (esp parallel arasol with davejade) but i won’t go into that lmaoo

with this in mind i like to think of sollux as a gift to her, a loyal companion given to complement and commend her resolve. she's capable of doing so much alone but hussie took the time to build her and sollux's relationship as one of a unit; a set.

the ambiguity of their status does complicate things, but i do believe it makes sense with their characters. aradia's relationship with romance is a rocky one, the dubious stringalong equius had with her is a pointed reminder that her feelings of attraction are ultimately controlled by the author writing her.

unlike the other trolls who can openly address and own up to their crushes, aradia had romantic emotions forced upon her (especially when hussie implies 'she kissed equius back on her own volition'). and it seems like her character is so intrinsically neutral abt attraction that even when forced by the almighty powers above, she's unable to retain it wholly.

however, looking back to pre-game when she could actually "choose" her own feelings, she did have a crush on sollux.

their soft spots for each other were so obvious to the point where other people could see it.

taunting aside, when vriska comments on their unit as bf/gf it actually informs the audience that arasol's relationship is romantic in nature despite not aligning with the quadrant system.

even while dead, aradia could still describe her care for sollux, expressing that she would like to see him happy. if they had more time to explore their relationship on alternia, it's possible they could've settled in a quadrant once they grew older.

but going back to the lack of labels, their dynamic was affected once more when aradia became god tier.

to me, her ascension was both the perfect culmination and possible closure of her character. it's the light at the end of her journey toiling through countless of timelines where she had to actively assess and participate. that's why it's cool to see her being silly and having fun giving guidance, passively exploring and watching other people do their parts.

and yet the joy of her freedom makes it hard to explore further introspection. if we take her by her word, she'd already come to terms with the hurt she's been through and forgiven those involved.

i can't help feeling attuned to how impersonal and detached it can be, to devote and meld your identity so completely with your designated position as Maid of Time until you've become hard for your old friends (and even some readers!) to personally connect to.

idk post-canon but i assume there’s some degree of similarity to be bridged here with aradia's god tier and how the hs2 humans' Ultimate forms was described as a consolidation of all their possibilities. since aradia's classpect is inherently of service to Time, going god-tier may have elevated her beyond personhood with the "game construct" possessing her entirely. sollux doesn't realize the extent of it bcs he's still mortal, but a part of him may have subconsciously understood this.

i think there is a core aspect to aradia that was lost to the dehumanizing glory of god tier — a core aspect that may have contained an element of why sollux enjoyed talking to her in the first place.

to him, aradia hadn't just been a nice girl, she was a cool girl. despite not having much in common, he's still willing to chill next to her so she's not alone while she does what needs to get done.

back on alternia, they held a mutual and equal-level regard for each other that could've definitely settled into something permanent. but now, he's placed himself in a position where he can be kept around or left behind at will. the parameters of the relationship are largely in aradia's court, so any label she suggests to identify their relationship with he's likely to accept.

but that's why it's so difficult to label it. because god tier aradia may not necessarily Want quadrants or relationship labels. rather than the initial romantic attachment, their commitment to each other had evolved into one fundamentally of companionship.

no label? ok fine. no matter what, he still thinks she's a good soul worth latching on to. the best, actually. aradia > everyone else.

even if it gets stilted at times. there's an unexpected struggle to connect when sollux's go-to default for talking points is his feelings about things, and aradia may not want to talk about emotions all the time.

not to mention god tier aradia became an observer, especially of chaos. but sollux's avoidance of involvement comes partially from his innate pressure to get involved if something goes wrong. and he can't always tell when something goes wrong, because aradia doesn't mind if things go wrong anymore.

it's a non-negotiable preference that causes them to take the occasional time apart, a new boundary that wouldn't have existed before the game and aradia's god tier.

but just like how his friends tolerated his moods, sollux accepts aradia as she is. with no quadrants, their connection doesn't break down because there's no implicit romantic expectations to be disappointed by or resentful over.

sometimes when i see hs content that deliberately distances sollux from aradia, i assume this is the dissonance people might have felt. people might find it "easier" to be cynical about them bcs of this strange tension.

but idc lmao. grab that shit by the neck

lack of easy resolutions and cleanly tied ribbons is pretty standard of homestuck and imo it doesn't make arasol's dynamic any less incredible. with the right affection and consideration, there's still so much potential to develop the nuance of their relationship outside of the popular quadrant-based depictions.

hs has a lot of really great character compatibilities but the way aradia and sollux are in their own special orbit is why i can write this much about them in the first place. it's that frail innocence between first loves that makes it so sweet to me, two kids who grew up too fast playing guesswork without being clear where they're going.

ultimately i do think you're meant to feel a little tragedy for just how much they care for each other, even if they can't quite establish it in simple terms.

maybe they keep taking breaks to progress their own paths. maybe they remain as anchor partners while seeing other people. but even if you decide to separate them, they're still (awkwardly) texting each other updates all the while. and when they reunite it feels like coming home.

and well. more than anything, i like to believe that they do want to be exclusive.

they're just afraid. after all, they're still learning how to love, beyond the projections of the foursquare quadrant system they had inadvertently distanced themselves from since young.

they might not have everything figured out, but they'll get there eventually if you just hold them together and write them there.

optional post-canon segment:

one of the limitations of main hs is that (monogamous) relationships are often written as the go-to solution to wrap up character growth; it's an easy "patch" to imagine characters getting their happy ending because they have a partner, and those who don't end up with someone don't get that closure (most notably jade).

hs2 reaffirms this by suggesting that aradia's character cannot progress without letting sollux go, because happily settling in a relationship automatically locks your potential.

that pathetic panel of sollux staring emptily into the sky is still my fave hs2 spoiler ngl i find the impact of their parting so emotionally provoking precisely bcs they were written in original hs to be each other's forever, coming back together again and again

but now, they're subject to the decisions of the post-canon authors who might choose to deviate from that.

it's not new for them to part, but now there's an underlying worry that her dropping him off this time might be the last time. while i think the prospect of shattering their stability to make them grow separately sounds fun on paper, no amount of me desperately hoping for a good execution is gonna guarantee it

idk. i guess prediction-wise im expecting sollux in classic dramatic-hs2 fashion to tell dave to back off aradia LMAO. otherwise it's just gon be sollux and karkat pathetically watching aradia and dave from a distance swimming in their unresolved feelings for narratively-powerful time players smh obvs it sounds corny as hell but who knows its still plausible

srsly tho i hope they take the opportunity to develop arasol's relationship in a fresh direction that doesn't hurt me too badly...... and i hope they force sollux out of his comfort zone. i like watching him struggle :-)

#sorry if this isnt fully accurate heh its just my personal impressions/feelings #despite best efforts to simplify my annotations the wall of text still ended up massive #there's also a comparison i wanted to make abt characters who “broke up” from romantic expectations losing a lot of what they had before #dave(sprite)/jade‚ karkat/terezi‚ dirk/jake etc = which is why i think arasol was rescued by hussie on purpose. arasol endgame truth #ngl there mightve been more moments that shouldve been mentioned but i have no memories of... limited cloud storage #long post #ask #anon #homestuck #arasol #aradia megido #sollux captor #arapostings #2024 #vioart #not disqualifying acespec/qpr reading i think its also possible :]#if anything i dont understand fanon killing off aradia for their sollux ships haiyaaa why is this trope so damn popular #every time i open a slkt fic and aradia is dead i go outside and burn a tree. global warming could not come sooner #slkts who treat aradia like dvkts treat jade…. i punt u football style

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ghostespresso · 10 months

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staff logging on to tumblr dot com today

#staff sweetie i Promise you an algorithm would kill this webbed site #changing the way reblogs look/work would Absolutely kill this webbed site too #this is a Blogging Platform i dont want it to be like tiktok or twitter jesus #if you NEED to change something literally listen to the the Tumblr Users you pretend you cant hear #if money is what you need make your userbase Happy and you should be fine #the shop is fine blaze posts are fine ad free subscriptions are fine but dont get rid of shit that Works For You in favor of making money #someone really laced up their clown boots today im. so tired staff please dont #tumblr staff #EDIT: staff updated their original post to say we were all misunderstanding but #that doesnt stop the post from being stupid #the whole post was worded for Investors and then presented to the userbase #if you say 'we have big changes planned!' and dont put in the 'as options' its Your Fault that people read it as 'were changing everything'#staff isnt stupid. they know how they Should have worded it better than what they did #so yeah. someone Did lace up their clown boots before they hit post #edit pt 2 lol for the record i dont think tumblr would actually go through with all their changes in that post #they know how the userbase is and there are A Lot of us #i just dont like how? idk. condescending? the post sounded #and out of every place on the internet being being burned alive in the name of money #tumblr is the one place i know enough about to be Actually mad at lol #ive really liked some stuff staff has done in recent years #but talking to your userbase that way wasnt one

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cannedpickledpeaches · 2 months

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Insert Your Name (1)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to part two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve!

Notes and TW: I wanted to write something that simultaneously includes some fun Jade moments as well as my own thoughts on some tropes. This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

You’ve known the truth for a while—that this world exists inside a story. This is a world that revolves around a nameless, faceless, flawless main character. This entire world around you exists to serve one purpose: to present trials to the main character until she eventually finds a happy ending with her one and only. This world is created for “(Y/N).”

You are Friend A. Friend A is a foolish girl who puts (Y/N) into a dangerous situation, involving her with the mafia. (Y/N) is saved by a tall, dark, and brooding man who turns out to be a mafia boss. They will face dangers in the underworld until all threats are eliminated, and then they will live out the rest of their lives in blissful peace as though they are good people. Friend A is never mentioned again after page two.

You are Friend A. You are aware of that.

So why don’t you break out of your role in this story? Why should you play your part instead of using this knowledge to change the flow of the plot?

Simply because the plot is beneficial to you.

You are Friend A. You are a core member of the Leech Mafia. When (Y/N) enters the mafia, her actions flick the first domino of a long chain of events, eventually leading to the prosperity of the Leech family and expanding their influence. Because no matter what, this story caters to (Y/N)’s livelihood.

And why should you interfere with something that will eventually pay out big for you?

There she is now, coming down the street with a smile. Her indistinct hair is in a messy bun that she always throws together in seconds. Her pants emphasize her incredibly tiny waist, and her eyes sparkle with the light of constellations when she sees you. A light blush dusts her cheeks even though she doesn’t wear makeup, and she passes all the people captivated by her on the sidewalk, oblivious to their stares, because she doesn’t believe in her innate beauty and charisma—the beauty and charisma that the story says she has.

“Oh, there you are!” Her voice, clear and sweet, rings out to you. You wave back, just as you are supposed to. “You said you wanted to get sweets from the bakery that just opened, right? I’m so excited. I love sweets! I saved up some money just for this.”

A dialogue line full of exposition. You nod and lead the way.

“Have you seen their Magicam posts? The cakes are so pretty.”

Her giggles chime like bells. “I think the strawberry one is the cutest!”

Your small talk has little to no substance. It exists only to pass the time. To be honest, you don’t mind. If this were any normal day, you would have enjoyed this. You would have visited that bakery with (Y/N), gone home with a strawberry tart, checked up on the ledgers for the mafia, and slept while fed and content. But today is the inciting incident of the story, and you have your part to play.

A dark alleyway is where these things always take place in stories. Four men smoking and muttering ominously to themselves lean against a brick wall, hidden in shadow. Their eyes follow your every step. You make sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk so that (Y/N) passes by the alley. As expected, their hands shoot out and grab her arm.

“Hey, you there.” One of the thugs licks his chops. “Got a minute to spare, pretty thing?”

Generic “bad guy” dialogue. Of course, he’s talking to (Y/N). You don’t need to do anything yet except make sure the pieces are in place. A flutter of black fabric in the corner of your vision assures you that the main lead is ready and waiting.

“Get your hands off me!” (Y/N) struggles against his much stronger grip to no avail. The men pull us into the alleyway and corner us against a dumpster. Tasteful.

“Don’t be so harsh.” Another thug whose voice scrapes like glass shards to the ears grabs your shoulder. You don’t shrug him off. Right now, your role is to lay low and let the main character shine. “We just wanna show you a good time.”

“You can fuck right off! And don’t touch my friend.” (Y/N) shows off her generically headstrong personality now. She probably thinks that she should protect you. You are Friend A, without any special characteristics, a piece of cannon fodder that cannot do anything on your own. Even though (Y/N) doesn’t consciously think that way, this is how she perceives the world. She is not wrong for doing so—she’s being sweet, in the way that she is designed to be.

You don’t have anything to do while she shoots off her scathing remarks, so you take your time to observe the thugs. Just as the story you read describes, these men come from an easily identifiable rival mafia. All four have a tattoo of a handsaw on their bodies—the symbol of the Carpenter Mafia, the current major group in the Queendom of Roses. Common soldiers, no doubt. Not anyone of importance . . . yet.

Thug Number One brings your attention back to the conversation by yanking on your hair. It hurts a little. Irritating, but you can bear with it. (Y/N) looks outraged.

“How about this? Since you’re so determined to save your friend, I’ll let her go if you give yourself to us.” He continues with his harassment by grabbing your cheeks with his grimy fingers. You inhale deeply and immediately regret it due to the smell of his breath. Your mind urges you to refrain from giving him a nice fist to the face. Not just from his treatment of you, but also from his gross proposition to (Y/N). Despite your respective roles in this story, she is still your friend. Hearing him throw those slimy words at her leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

(Y/N) puts up a struggle. “I won’t give you anything!”

“Do you think you’re in a position to make demands?”

She hesitates, looking at you with conflicting emotions warring on her features. Takes a deep breath, just as the story says she would. Then, with a wavering voice and a tough façade, she agrees.

You take your cue to run from the alleyway, abandoning her the way Friend A is meant to do. You don’t have to worry. After all, the thugs won’t be able to do anything before the male lead steps in and saves her.

There isn’t much time to waste until you get an update on the story. You hail a taxi to a neighbourhood by the sea. You tip the driver handsomely, bid him a good day, then walk another block before arriving at a mansion. There’s nobody here to greet you except the security guards at the front gates.

You scan the trees. Looks like he’s in a good mood. When he’s upset, he doesn’t usually climb. He hasn’t noticed you yet—his back is turned, his head buried in a particularly thick patch of leaves, and you’re downwind.

“Floyd!”

He turns so suddenly that you’re worried he’ll get whiplash. A grin lights up his face, and without a single reservation, he jumps right off the tree and lands smoothly on your side of the fence surrounding one of the Leeches' many properties. The sun shines across his handsome, sharp features. Of course, the twin brother of the male lead must be gorgeous in accordance with the axioms that govern this world.

“Handfish, how was it? Did Jade meet her?” Even though you are Friend A in this story, to Floyd, you are just his friend. He hasn’t given you a generic nickname like the “minnows” that he calls the family’s soldiers and staff. To him, you are an individual who is interesting enough to grant a personal nickname. Even if that nickname is “Red Handfish.”

“Yeah, he did. I saw his blazer.” You think back to the black fabric you saw before entering the alley. “I bet he’s doing the whole ‘I can’t let you live’ conversation with her.”

In the story, one of the thugs reveals Jade’s identity as a mafia boss in front of (Y/N) before he passes out. How a common foot soldier of the Carpenter mafia can recognize Jade, whose face is kept classified from lower-ranked members of the underworld, is worrying enough to warrant investigation. This could simply be a result of poor writing from the original plot, but you are also an example of the original story’s loose ends. If someone like you, who was meant to disappear after page two, can still have any significance and will instead of vaporizing immediately after you left that alley, then you can’t be too careful.

“Bet he’s being real smooth with it.” Floyd cackles, his raspy laugh reminding you of a chain smoker after five consecutive packs. “She’s gonna fall for it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Of course. We’re talking about Jade.” Even under regular circumstances, he’s charming enough to lure any poor, unsuspecting fool to their demise. “They’re going to come here any minute now. Let’s go inside.”

You pass the security guards and enter the Leech property. A perfectly paved ground with colourful stones and not a weed in sight. A marble fountain surrounded by neat, rectangular hedges. And of course, the enormous white mansion with huge double doors, which in turn have proportionally huge fancy glass windows. For (Y/N) to have a “perfect” ending, the world must allow her to escape her current life of scrimping and saving by marrying her into a wealthy family.

“I wonder what the little minnow looks like.” Floyd hums, sauntering into the living room. “I bet she’d break easily if I squeezed real hard, huh?”

“Don’t do that.” The two of you sit on a velvet couch. Floyd’s long limbs sprawl out and take up the majority of the space. You settle on the far end. “And are you going to keep calling her a minnow?”

“Dunno, haven’t met her yet.”

“She’s very pretty. When you meet her, I’m sure you’ll get the feeling that there’s something special about her.”

The story emphasizes how much Floyd adores (Y/N). She is supposed to become a sort of mood stabilizer for him, keeping him consistently happy in her presence. You wonder if that will actually happen. Floyd can and will throw tantrums around people he holds dear. His mood that flips at the drop of the hat seems difficult to stabilize on just affection alone.

He shrugs non-committedly. Just as you’re about to suggest a nickname he could use, your phone buzzes.

Five minutes away. Jade’s text is short and to the point. You stand and stretch, getting ready to play Peeping Tom.

“Remember, don’t say anything about the original plot, okay?” Floyd’s unpredictable nature worries you. You know that your reminder won’t do much if Floyd decides it would be fun to spill the beans anyway, but you can’t help yourself.

“I know, I know.” He frowns and waves you off. Laughing, you move to the room across the hall. He hates being told what to do, but he’s in a good mood right now. It won’t be a problem.

The front door creaks open. Through a crack in the door, you watch Jade carry (Y/N) in his arms like a princess and set her down on the couch. Smooth, easy, efficient, the way he likes to do everything. Even though you know he is acting, his movements, the soft look in his eyes, are almost believable to you. And you’ve known him for fifteen years. There’s an odd stirring in your chest. Guilt? Envy? You tamp it down.

For a fraction of a second, you swear you make eye contact with him. If he notices you, he doesn’t show it. He seems to redouble his efforts on acting sweet to (Y/N). It might just be your imagination.

Floyd pokes around at the two of them the way he always does when he’s curious about something new. His grating laugh fills the air while Jade bandages a scrape on her knee. Good, the scene is going exactly as described in the story. (Y/N)’s first colourful and memorable experience with her future family. Her new family must be fun, rich, kind to her, and love her unconditionally no matter the circumstances. Her new family has to be better in every way compared to her current one—a mother who passed away at childbirth and a scummy father who neglects her. For an author, these are simply lazy ways to give her a tragic backstory and simultaneously pretend her parents don’t exist for the rest of the story because they don’t add to the romance.

How horrible. How could a late mother and neglectful father not affect a person? How could they simply be written off as another thing the male lead “saves” her from? And for that matter, how can the author casually write in a scene where she is cornered by adult men who are physically far stronger than her, who harass her and make disgusting comments, just so she can meet the male lead? How can they just pretend that won’t lead to any trauma?

You know firsthand how (Y/N) lives her life, because despite the story labeling you as the disposable Friend A, you genuinely have been her friend for the past year. You’ve seen her live on plain rice porridge for days to cut grocery costs. You’ve seen her wear clothes until they are threads because she can’t afford to buy new ones. Oh, but isn’t it wonderful that she’s skinny and looks good in everything?

What a load of bullshit.

#disney twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twst fanfic #floyd leech #twst jade #(y/n)'s the main character but you aren't her #slow burn #you're gonna have to read some plot #before you get to the fluff #this is actually just my excuse to write something sort of meta

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sempersirens · 8 months

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so often i am just going about my day, getting on with something very academic and serious and then BAM the thought of joel miller fucking me against a wall

#it's a problem #dee's loins burn #a vivid scene of a fic i've read the night before will re-enter my head and i'll realise i've semi-disassociated for 30 mins

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suddencolds · 2 months

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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.

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #when i set off to write a slow burn h/c fic i don't think i expected it to be 28k words #this was a journey for me... thank you sincerely to everyone who's joined me for the ride 😭#i am not sure if this specific chapter feels rushed? or if it's too short? (if it does i'm very sorry 🙇‍♀️)#some thoughts... (spoilers ahead; pls read the chapter before proceeding)#1) this installment in particular is something of a turning point in their relationship development (and i hope that's not too subtle)#2) vincent not being like a traditionally 'soft' caretaker and having his frustration show a little more openly is something i've had in my #head for awhile :') it was fun to let that crystallize this chapter #yvverse #my fic

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staffs-secret-blog · 1 year

Note

tumblr blaze but whenever ur post appears on someones dash it sets on fire and burns up before they have a chance to read it

That's a great idea for a post that can be blazed to everyone on the site

#ask #anonymous #has a chance to burn before they can read

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thetomorrowshow · 11 months

Text

Joel thinks it’s stupid, really.

Once they figure it out.

Soulmates, Grian messages them all. I think it’s soulmates.

Which makes sense, with the random pains shooting through his legs that he feels on occasion. He’s sharing a life with someone—or, three lives—and they feel each others’ pain.

Which is dumb. Because Joel doesn’t need or want a soulmate, and he doesn’t care much for the idea of having to share his life with someone and make sure they’re safe. He’s not here to be babysitting another player.

That’s what he would be doing, he’s sure. Babysitting someone. Not that everyone would be, of course—there are some players that he knows instantly will be paired up, because if such a thing as real soulmates exist, they would be them. Grian and Scar. Scott and Jimmy. Bdubs and Etho.

No one for him.

No one for Joel because he’s always been a loner. For as long as he can remember he’s been on his own in these games—in the first one he had his cottage on the hill (so long ago that he can barely remember what it looked like, he can only remember it burning and the flames licking up at him and melting his skin and the smell of his hair and he has to put it out—), and in the games since, he’s been alone. Alliances that last little more than a week, here and there, and somehow he always ends up at Grian’s side at the end of things, but he’s never actually teamed up with anyone else.

He doesn’t want a soulmate. He doesn’t want another player going through his things, walking through his space, just being near him when he’s angry and needs time alone to cool off.

But there’s a morbid curiosity, he supposes. Because he can’t help but wonder who on earth the universe would think to pair him with.

So every person he sees, he socks in the arm (and if he hits a little harder than is considered friendly, he can blame it on adrenaline).

He actually witnesses a soulmate pair find each other before he finds his own.

And, strangely, it’s Bdubs and Impulse.

For a moment, he thinks that can’t be right—he can envision Bdubs with Etho, or Cleo, but not Impulse. And while Impulse is easygoing enough, Bdubs is a wildcard. Impulse’s sense of order is going to be completely upturned by Bdubs and his harebrained ideals.

Maybe. It’s not like Joel actually knows either of them very well.

And then they’re all mining together, and Etho trips.

And Joel feels his knees sting.

Joel doesn’t want to settle down anywhere, at all ever, but after a bunch of fooling around with Grian and Scar (soulmates, just as he’d predicted, of course), he starts. . . .

Not laying down roots. He really ought to get something started, just like everyone else, but that’s just it: everyone else has something started. Everyone else has planted crops and fenced in some animals and set out to get building blocks.

Prime opportunity for raiding some new farms, and to his surprise, Etho absolutely agrees.

For a moment, Joel can forget that they’re linked—he’s just hanging out with a group of friends, laughing at Jimmy, stealing a bit of wheat when nobody’s looking, the norm. Then Etho takes an absurd amount of damage—Joel definitely doesn’t fall back against the crafting table they’ve set up for making armor, definitely doesn’t gasp and clutch at his chest, like he can stop his heart from leaping out of it—and he’s rather rudely reminded that his life isn’t solely his own.

Oh, he hates this already.

Etho calls an apology, but Joel can’t see him through the woods—if they die here and it’s Etho’s fault, he’s never going to forgive him, soulbond or no—so he heads forward, only to find Etho panting beside an enderman in a boat.

“Tricky getting him to walk into it,” Etho says offhandedly, and this could be ender pearls for them if they play their cards right.

Ender pearls are perfect for quick escapes, and if they decide to go with Scar’s absolutely insane plan of trying to take over that outpost, he and Etho are going to need an escape.

He swings with his axe at the angry creature. Easy. Easy pearls, the thing stuck in the boat like a sitting duck.

And then he swings again.

And he hits the boat.

Within seconds, he’s dead.

It’s dark at spawn, and Joel can barely keep from crying in frustration. The enderman had been in the blummin’ boat! All he had to do was hit it a couple of times and they were set!

“I’m so sorry, Etho,” he says, and he hates it. He hates that he has to say that.

He’d been worried about having to babysit another player, keep his lives safe in their hands, but here he is, having stolen a person’s life from them.

He lost Etho their first life, smart Etho who would never mess up killing an enderman in a boat, and now he has to own up to it and live with it.

“I know I messed up first,” Etho says, his eyes crinkling a bit in a way that, combined with the flat tone of his voice, tells Joel he’s definitely frowning. “But I think you messed up way worse there.”

Joel’s familiar with anger—very familiar—but it feels foreign coming from Etho. He ducks his head, runs back through the darkness to wherever it was that they’d died. Something akin to shame is curdling in his stomach, and it’s his fault that they died and Etho’s being weird about it and not yelling, meaning he’s the type to go all cold and calm with anger.

They gather their things from Impulse and Bdubs, then mess around a bit with boats—and maybe he’s just hiding it really well, but Etho doesn’t seem angry, it’s the strangest thing and Joel almost dreads the moment they’re alone together—before joining Grian and Scar on that horribly stupid plan to take over the outpost. It fails, of course, but no one gets seriously hurt and they get to lure a bunch of Pillagers into Bdubs’s stupid little house that he’s building for Impulse.

They hop around for probably a week, never alone, just watching everyone else start on their bases, before they finally set down a couple of chests and furnaces and get to work.

And Etho . . . isn’t mad.

In fact, as Joel starts laying out the foundation for his—their base, Etho comes up beside him, silently surveying, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t blame you for us being Yellow, by the way,” he says casually, and Joel almost chokes on his own spit.

“Sorry, what?”

Etho shrugs. “It was going to happen to one of us at some point,” he says. “And in my eyes? Better you than me, ‘cuz now I get to tease you for it.”

Is that. . . .

Was that a joke?

Etho leaves, and Joel’s left alone with his thoughts and a bunch of wood planks.

He’d thought Etho was boring. He’s always been the quiet, redstone-y kind of guy that Joel can’t stand—not that there’s anything wrong with that! Joel just needs somebody fast-moving, on his level, ready to burn down a building without questions or hesitation.

It’s just one joke. Anyone can make a joke, that doesn’t mean anything about their personality or character. For instance, Joel makes jokes all the time, and he’s a total jerk.

Etho can’t be likable. Sure, he was fine to wander around with for the past couple of days, causing general chaos, but he’s a bore and likes redstone. He won’t be able to keep up with Joel.

But Etho hovers there while he works, occasionally giving little suggestions to the build, and after he wanders off for the afternoon, he comes back with his eyes crinkled over his mask and bragging about some wool farm he’d built.

He doesn’t need help to build this ship. He doesn’t need to depend on anyone to get wool. He especially doesn’t need to depend on Etho, all dry looks and gloating and frowns.

Joel works alone. He always has.

But his indifference to Etho isn’t making him leave, so Joel decides to do what he does best.

Be annoying.

“I’m his biggest fan,” Joel boasts to anyone who’ll listen. “You guys know I looove redstone. Just like Etho. He’s perfect.”

Grian gives Scar a look. Scar doesn’t notice.

“We’re very happy—we have a lovely ‘Relation’ship, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the best pair on the server, actually.”

Scott gives Cleo a look. Cleo does notice.

“Etho’s probably the best at everything in the world. He’s so good at . . . redstone. And . . . all the stuff you do with it. That’s why we’re practically made for each other.”

“I’m gonna be honest with you, you sound kind of. . . .” Jimmy trails off, glancing over at Tango for support.

“Like you’re compensating for something? Unhappy? Inadequate?” Tango suggests helpfully.

“A-absolutely untrue!” Joel sputters, then clears his throat and turns away, nose high. “I’m going to get back to working on me and Etho’s perfect ‘Relation’ship, thank you very much.”

“You’re short!” Jimmy calls as parting words. Joel ignores him.

In total opposition to what he’s been spending the past couple of days declaring, once he finishes the bedroom space of the ship, he places his bed and Etho’s bed on opposite sides of the room.

“You stay over there, and I stay over here, all right?” Joel says that night, pointing to their respective beds. “I’m not a cuddler. I don’t like people in my space.”

“But Joel, I thought you were my biggest fan!” Etho wheedles. There’s a glint in those crinkled eyes that tells Joel he’s heard the stuff Joel’s been saying.

Which is frustrating, and immediately takes all the fun out of it. He’d wanted Etho to be mad about his obnoxiousness, to refuse to speak to him, to mock him in return until their partnership inevitably dissolved.

But Etho—his eyes are crinkling, the way they did back when they first died and when he finished the wool farm and then later, when Joel showed him around the ship’s process and he silently nodded before walking off.

“It’s okay, Joel, I know you love me even if you need space,” Etho tells him now, mirth clear in his voice, and Joel realizes that maybe that look isn’t one of anger or disapproval, as he’d first thought. Maybe Etho is . . . smiling.

That’s not good.

It’s not good at all, because if Etho likes him, then Joel. . . .

Joel has to at least try to like him back, doesn’t he? It’s not like he’s the worst guy to be around, after all. He was actually a lot of fun in that first week, running around and stealing and bothering people together.

Maybe he was wrong.

As it turns out, when Joel decides he can like Etho, Etho becomes a whole lot more likable.

Etho’s brave—he goes out and enchants his stuff, and Impulse tells the story of them being chased by no less than three Wardens and Etho somehow surviving (Joel’s heart skips a beat in his chest at the most tense moments of the story, and Etho casually slugs his shoulder when he looks up to check his soulmate’s okay). He’s strong—not everyone can just run around the Deep Dark all day in full armor and live to tell the tale.

And he totally gets Joel’s sense of humor. He snorts at Joel’s contrived puns, mocks Martyn’s house relentlessly, finds Jimmy’s failures just as hilarious as they actually are.

Joel can’t remember, in recent memory, ever having someone like this. Someone he actually enjoys the company of, someone whom he appreciates and who appreciates him in turn. Someone to talk to, to listen to—and while Etho is a bit quiet, it’s not because he’s boring and isn’t thinking about anything. Joel thinks he just forgets to speak sometimes, and will gladly talk about anything if Joel asks him to.

Sure, he’s had friends. He’s always gotten along with Grian and Jimmy and, really, everyone on the server, when pressed. But none of them are Etho, exactly.

Which is bad. It’s bad because Joel is getting attached, he’s getting complacent, he’s getting happy—

That’s dangerous. This is a death game.

And maybe all that emotional-friend-love stuff works for the likes of Scott, but that’s just not Joel’s modus operandi. He can’t—he can’t be like that. He can’t get close.

“Redstoners and builders don’t work out together, you know,” he says to Etho early one morning. They’d both risen before the sun, for some reason (anxiety, perhaps, as more players become Yellow and fire proves to be a very useful tool) and had decided, without discussion, to sit in the crow’s nest, legs swinging in the air.

Etho hums quietly in that way that means he’s listening, the way he always does when Joel comes over to bother him. Patient, mellow, waiting to see where he’s going with it.

“Seriously, it never works,” Joel continues. “Their brains are too different. You’d think they’d work well, ‘cuz they cover different bases and all that, but it’s the opposite. They just butt heads all the time. It never works.”

“What about Bdubs and Impulse?”

Joel shrugs. “I mean, they both know a good amount of both, right? That’s different.”

There’s a smile to Etho’s voice when he speaks. “Tango and Jimmy?”

“Only if you’re calling Jimmy a builder,” Joel snorts. “In which case, you’re dead wrong.”

Etho makes a show of thinking—he props his chin up on his hand, taps his finger against his cheek. “Hm. You must be right. I can’t think of any other redstone-builder pairs.”

For some reason, something painful sinks through Joel’s stomach. He swallows it back, lets triumph color his tone. “Exactly. They’re too different.”

Etho drops his hand, lightly elbows Joel in the ribs. “Except for you and me, of course. We’re the exception.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry. He clears his throat. The pain vanishes, healed over with hope, surprise, a desperate need for attention filled—and he can’t even make himself disagree and argue, like he’d intended. Instead, all he can do is repeat it.

“We’re the exception.”

As he goes about his day, he barely even processes his actions—Etho thinks they work well together. Etho thinks they’re a match. Etho likes him, and his company, and his building skills, and his humor, and his bluntness, and everything about him.

And Joel’s really starting to think that he likes everything about Etho as well, as hard as he’d tried not to at the beginning.

They go down to the Deep Dark together the next day, and Joel’s trying very hard to ignore whatever his feelings may be on Etho. They can just—they can just be friends, right?

Friends who install proper stairs, of course. The way down takes forever.

“Creeper, behind you!”

Joel spins around, axe up, ready to defend—nothing. Etho huffs a little (again something now familiar that Joel had once taken to be a sign of disapproval), eyes crinkled almost all the way shut when Joel whips back around to him.

“Just kidding.”

“Oh, you cheeky devil—we need to trust each other,” Joel says, no real anger behind the way he shoves Etho lightly.

His palms seem to burn at the contact.

“I just need to make sure you’ll pay attention to me,” Etho says, and Joel has to wonder for a moment if he’ll ever have the problem of not paying attention to Etho again.

He doesn’t think he’s properly ignored his soulmate once all game, and in recent days, he can’t seem to pay attention to anything but Etho. He feels like he’s constantly thinking of him, wondering whether or not he’ll like the touches on the ship, wondering if he’s safe and who he’s with and if he’ll come home all right.

He hopes, a little enviously, perhaps, that Etho has similar worries.

“I am paying attention,” Joel says, and it’s perhaps the most honest thing he’s ever said, in all the games. “I always pay attention.”

When Etho responds, the mirth feels forced, and for a moment Joel feels almost as if he’s seeing Etho without his mask on. “You won’t ignore me in our ‘Relation’ship?”

“No, no, no. I never do.”

It’s true.

It’s so true, it hurts.

Joel—he doesn’t trust people. He can’t. And he’s sick of having to tell himself it again and again, but this just isn’t meant for him.

And then he forgets about it all, because they go into the Deep Dark and it’s bloody terrifying.

(Well, mostly forgets. Because he does walk behind Etho most of the way through the city and Etho—well. It’s a good angle for him, is all.)

That night, Joel lies in his bed on his side of the ship, and stares at the other side of the room. Etho’s sleeping—he hopes, at least—curled up on his side, a blanket pulled up over his head despite the summer heat.

Etho’s always cold, it’s practically his trademark. He’s always got that coat of his on, and gloves, and a mask.

He doesn’t wear the mask to sleep—Joel’s caught glimpses of his face while getting into bed, but he always looks away quickly—, but Joel has no clue if he wears the rest of his ensemble. Just the covers alone ought to be sweltering. Imagine a coat on top of all of that.

If they shared a bed, Etho would have to do away with that extra blanket. Joel could maybe tolerate a bedsheet, that’s it.

If they shared a—where did that thought come from?

But . . . well, Etho’s asleep. And thought isn’t a crime.

So Joel lies there, staring across the room at his soulmate, and wonders. Wonders about what it feels like to hold Etho in his arms, whether his elbows and knees are as bony as they look. Wonders if his hair is quite long enough to grasp between his fingers. Wonders if he’d still be all smooth words after Joel pulled down his mask, grabbed his jaw, and kissed him on the mouth.

Joel falls asleep a little red in the face, and the next morning when Etho does that silent crinkly-eyed laugh, he can’t help but stare and turn red all over again.

He pushes it out of his mind, and it’s through a feverish haze that he even gets through the week, even as they sneak around looking for sugarcane and messing with Scar and running from a Warden on the surface, of all places. He’s really quite occupied, but none of it quite computes when Etho’s right there, being devilishly handsome with that quirked eyebrow and white hair ruffled by the wind.

And the night after they’ve run from the Warden, Joel comes in a bit later than Etho—he’d been out gathering wheat a bit longer—to find that his soulmate has pushed their beds together.

His brain short-circuits as he blinks at the sight: Etho, one hand on the back of his neck sheepishly; the other still holding the blanket he’d been throwing across both beds.

“Is this all right?” Etho asks. Joel turns his blinking gaze toward him. “I just. I wouldn’t mind a bit of cuddling.”

There’s something in the way his eyebrows raise that tells Joel Etho knows exactly what he’s saying, exactly how Joel feels. The part of him that realizes that, that knows that Etho knows, wants to clap and holler and kiss that sexy man.

The rest of Joel, the main part of him, is trained to survive.

“Sure, whatever,” Joel shrugs, trying to affect an air of nonchalance. Etho can’t know. Etho can never know—and not that Etho can’t know just because he has a crush and it’s awkward, but because liking Etho is a weakness and Joel doesn’t have weaknesses, thank you very much.

And if Etho’s shoulders slump a bit at the response, Joel pretends he doesn’t notice.

And then the problem is, Etho doesn’t stop.

Joel makes it clear that he wants his space in bed, and Etho doesn’t encroach on that. But he does steal bites of Joel’s food, and sling an arm around his shoulder when they’re visiting the others, and boop his nose playfully when Joel starts to get angry at Grian for hoarding the sugarcane, and slowly look him up and down with a wink whenever he gets up for breakfast—

It’s maddening. It’s maddening, and every single night Joel lies there stiff as a board, inches away from Etho, trying to not let his thoughts wander to where they have so many times before.

He’s right there.

Every time Joel gets away on his own, he lets out a short, frustrated scream. And then he jumps off a hill that’s maybe a bit too high, if only to try and get Etho back for his teasing.

The fishing rods are possibly the stupidest thing they’ve ever done.

Not surprising, seeing as Grian’s at the head of this whole thing.

But Joel’s never been one for playing things safe, so he stabs the hook through the back of his shirt (he tugs on the line a few times, just to make sure it’s secure), then waits for Grian’s signal.

The first time is thrilling. The first time he flies up into the air, lands hard and laughs from the sheer adrenaline. Then he hooks Pearl, and Pearl hooks Etho, and they go up—

And Joel knows he’s in trouble for a split second before he’s dead on the ground.

He wakes up gasping, and there’s fire in his veins, there’s fire spreading all across his body and he wants—he needs to kill Pearl, needs her blood—

He rolls out of bed, scrambling for his chest and spare stuff, and then he hears someone else roll out of bed with a groan.

Joel turns, and Etho’s there, hungry fire in his eyes, and Joel needs him.

He practically tackles Etho, yanking down his mask—his lips are pink and soft and hot against Joel’s mouth, molten and perfect and everything he needs to stoke the burning inside—

Etho pushes him off (gently, somehow), and holds up a hand. Joel, somehow, manages to hold himself back. Etho’s—Etho’s right there—

Etho takes in a deep breath, and when he looks up, his eyes are crinkled in that perfect way and he’s smiling.

“Took you long enough,” he teases, and Joel lunges for him again.

Their next kiss is slower than that.

After they kill Pearl, and the pounding bloodlust in his head has quelled a bit, Joel leads the way back to the ship. He leans against the railing—and Etho leans next to him—and they kiss.

It’s lazy, Joel thinks he would say. But not lazy in the way he might be with a build—skipping details and panning over mistakes—, lazy in a comfortable, staying-in-bed-late kind of way.

He kisses Etho, lazy and lovely, warm in the evening sun. And he really, really doesn’t care if anyone’s watching.

Let them watch, he thinks, with an almost vicious pleasure. Etho’s mine.

That makes something deep in his chest silently purr, almost, and when he pulls away to breathe, he clears his throat in a contented kind of way (not a growl, not a purr, but the closest he can get without outright embarrassing himself). Etho perks up at the sound.

“I forgot to tell you, I figured out what that sound you make reminds me of,” he says, and even the excited way he speaks sounds lazy and perfect.

Joel clears his throat again—and yeah, he does do it a lot, come to think of it. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Etho sighs a little bit, tips his head onto Joel’s shoulder. “A tiger. Have you ever heard a tiger chuff?”

Joel laughs at that—his soulmate thinks he sounds like a tiger chuffing, and it’s the most stupidly adorable thing ever.

“Why are you laughing?” Etho asks playfully, nudging Joel. Joel doesn’t answer, just chuckles and clears his throat—or, chuffs like a tiger—and plants a kiss on Etho’s head.

“We could go threaten Scar,” Joel offers after a moment. His blood is starting to boil again, and he knows from lonely experience that only violence can scratch the itch.

Well. Probably only violence. He does notice that it’s a decent bit quieter when he’s aggressively kissing Etho.

Etho stands up straight—taller than Joel when he does that, which is blummin’ obnoxious of him—and slowly, gently, lazily kisses Joel. It’s warm and measured, his tongue teasing at Joel’s slightly parted lips, and it seems to Joel that he only pulls away when he’s memorized the feel of Joel’s lips.

“That sounds like a good date,” he murmurs.

Joel grins, and Etho grins back, his eyes all crinkled, and Joel takes off at a run to swing himself over the opposite railing and climb down the ladder.

Etho catches up moments later, mask fixed back on his face, and Joel pulls out his spyglass to check out where the residents of that giant cake-thing are.

They’re right beside it, as it turns out.

“Scar’s holding a flint n’ steel,” Joel warns, shoving his spyglass in his pocket. “He already took down the Ranch, we might want to be careful of that.”

Etho only scoffs. “If the ship burns, everything burns.”

Unsurprisingly, Joel finds he agrees with that—not that he can ever imagine disagreeing with Etho. He nods.

“If the ship burns, everything burns.”

And after everything burns, they burn too.

They’re dying, Joel had come through the portal to find lava and pain, and he screams for Etho to turn back but even if he had they’d still be dead—

He doesn’t even have the chance to glance back at his lover before he burns.

He drifts for a little while, the bitter disappointment of his loss somehow distant when compared to the loss of Etho. The next game will start eventually, and when it does, there’s no way of knowing that Etho will even be there. After all, it’s picked up new players and dropped others as time passed. Joel can’t even remember the original line-up, it’s shifted so much and so many times.

When he lands in the next game, he doesn’t even check his comm before punching apart a tree.

The gimmick isn’t soulmates again, he knows instantly. He’d grown so accustomed to the pull in his chest of Etho that it aches now to not feel him.

(Or maybe that’s just his heart. Same difference, really.)

So Joel tries to put Etho out of his mind and move on with his life. They were never meant to last, anyway. That’s the thing about redstoners and builders—they never work out.

He knew that. He knew they never work out, and he tried to do something with Etho, anyway.

It had been fun while it lasted, of course. It had been . . . perfect, even.

But Joel’s always been a loner, and now that he’s got that Green-life clarity, he can go back to it.

He takes down another tree and has a crafting table and some basic tools put together when someone clears their throat behind him.

Joel jumps, spins around—

Etho’s there, leaning lazily against a tree, and—his eyes are crinkled in that way—

“Miss me?” he teases, and Joel barely has time to drop his wooden pick before he’s storming over, pushing Etho against the tree, tearing his mask down—

The kiss is hard and messy, teeth clicking together and lips sliding apart, and when Joel pulls away to gasp in some air, Etho’s cheeks are flushed and lips bruised and he’s still got that blummin’ smile.

“Right,” Joel breathes.

“Wanna build us a house while I go mining?” Etho offers, and forget whatever loser thoughts Joel had been moping about with! He’s got Etho, there’s no need to be on his own anymore.

Maybe they can even win it, this time. After all, they’re together from the start here. No more acting like an idiot about wanting to be alone or whatever.

Joel watches Etho head off into a cave, stone pick hefted over his shoulder, and can’t help the way his heart skips a beat.

Etho’s his, and when everything burns, they burn together.

#double life smp #traffic smp #trafficblr #smalletho #THE SMALLETHO IS ROMANTIC!!#BEFORE YOU CONTINUE READING THEY MAKE OUT A LOT!#double life fanfic #mas writes #061323 #this will be uploaded to ao3 under the title 'when everything burns'#idk why but after a dlsmp rewatch i had a bad smalletho itch #dlsmp #again this was queued in december #so while i very much appreciate comments and will love you forever #i won't see em immediately #and also i'm not back yet from my break #but lmk what you think!#love you guys

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