#fic: the killing kind

[juliaswickcrs]

20-30 for Tessa & Peter

20. Choose one song that perfectly describes their relationship.

For Me It's You by Lo Moon

21. Who would get into a fight to defend the other's honor? Who tends to the other's wounds?

Peter gets in a fight to defend Tessa, and Tess not only joins the fight but takes care of Peter after he gets annihilated.

22. What reminds each of their partner?

Peter is reminded of Tess whenever he sees Sunflowers, the color blue, or anything relating to artificial intelligence. Tess is reminded of Peter when she sees red and blue, baby spiders, and oscorp.

23. Who's more likely to convince the other to stay in bed come morning?

Peter. Partially because he doesn't want May to see Tess leave his room, but mostly because he loves spooning.

24. Who's more likely to give the other a massage?

Neither of them are. They're both very touch averse, especially in moments of stress.

25. Do they have any hobbies they share?

Working on Technology, Science in general, and Crime Fighting.

26. What are their vices?

Oh god. Probably drinking and working.

27. Who is the light weight that needs to be taken care of after a party?

Tess is a definite lightweight. Once Peter gets a car he definitely has to drive her home.

28. What are there thoughts on pet names? Do they have any?

I don't think either of them have any specific thoughts on pet names, but they do have a few for each other. Mostly nicknames. Tessa calls Peter "Pete" and Peter calls Tessa "Tess" and occasionally "Babe"

29. Who is more likely to jump in an elevator? Who freaks out?

Peter would jump in the elevator only to be promptly slapped in the face by Tessa for doing it.

30. Your OTP gets to pick out each other's outfits; what is each wearing?

Tess is wearing some kind of sundress without a jacket and Peter is wearing a baseball tee and cap.

#ship: petessa #petessa asks #fic: the killing kind

[mp100days]

087 - reigen takes mob out to get ramen for the first time. from another fic i’m really normal about

#freaks GET OUT OF HERE !!! this is not ship art im biting you to death #mob psycho 100 #mob #reigen arataka #mp100 #mod 1 #i can kind of be normal about early reigen and mob’s dynamic. like . the fic writes it so well #reigen being standoffish to Not Get Attached to this small boy who makes being so kind and silly a sport #and whatever. the part abt not realizing how cold his apartment is until after he leaves the ramen shop #whatever GO READ IT !!! its so good alas i wish i colored this but that wouldve killed me

[theminecraftbee]

So, here's the thing:

Tango knows that Zedaph is this close to staging an intervention.

He lies against the wiring for Decked Out and stares at the ceiling. He should probably be more concerned about that. Early-season Tango would be concerned about that; a situation getting bad enough that Zedaph, of all people, is ready to stage an intervention is normally a sign it's gotten pretty dang bad. But he's close. He's so close. And it's not like he's worried, not anymore.

He'd been worried, once? Like, he'd been scared, at some point of what the Frozen Citadel was starting to do to him. But now that he's there--

If he's asked, Tango will say it's mutualism, and not elaborate, because if anyone stages enough of an intervention to stop Decked Out from finishing what it's started, he's probably going to scream. He's probably going to always wonder. Worst of all, he won't finish the game on time. So like, so what if it's eating him a little? Or a lot? Or basically completely, given that he's pretty sure the damage is irreversible at this point?

Anyway, it doesn't matter. Start of the season Tango probably would care more, but like, it's mutual. Decked Out gets to eat Tango. Use him as an appropriate game piece. Sometimes as a processor. To do repairs. Whatever. It's important for the whole process. And Tango gets a sick game. Which, for some, sounds like an absurd trade-off, but it's not just the game, okay?

It's not just--

If it were just "I need to let my accidentally very sentient and very large base eat me to finish the game", he might do it? But he wouldn't, like, be actively conspiring to hide the fact that he's starting to be physically incapable of breathing like, normal oxygen and stuff. He wouldn't be conspiring to hide just how literal the shop item allowing you to control the gamemaster is. He wouldn't be trying to hide how close he is to just--being another part of Decked Out. Not being a "Tango" as an individual, but being a part of the machine. Basically a really fancy redstone component.

If it were just "he's really proud and he'd be sad if it took longer", he wouldn't have hung a sheep on the outside of the building to make sure some part of Decked Out knows that Zedaph is its friend, once there isn't a Tango to remind it of that properly. He would have asked Zedaph to actually do that intervention he's planning.

He didn't. He acted like he had several more weeks than he probably did. But it's fine. Decked Out ate the fear, anyway, so he can't feel it, and whatever sense of desire to like, not be redstone component was probably eaten also, and. And.

He's not sure how to describe it in a way that doesn't make him sound insane, but--

It's so close. Decked Out is so close to eating him completely. And that should be terrifying, if that weren't the first thing that got dissolved away, if he hadn't been scared since forever. Maybe, somewhere, there's part of him that is scared. There's a lot of him that knows he should be.

But those moments, the ones he's having more and more, where he forgets he's Tango. Where he forgets he's anything but part of the machine. And he's part of something big, and great, and he has a specific use, and he's aware for all of it but not aware of being himself, and he can feel exactly how he's important to the great machine and he does his job and absolutely everything else fades away entirely and he is the Game Master and even that's not an individual identity it's part of a whole it's part of something beautiful it's part of something so, so alive while not being alive at all and, and then--and then he's not done being eaten yet. And the Tango comes in. The fear, the insecurity, the, the flaws.

And he'd just lie there, and he'd feel it. The almost-just-a-part. The sense of just--being, and not being anyone in particular, but being. The lack of self. He'd feel the voltage from the redstone wires and try to capture it again, and be unable to, not on his own.

Not while he's left as Tango, at least a little bit uneaten.

So. Uh. He told you he didn't know how to describe it without sounding insane. But he'll never forgive himself. Never forgive himself if he doesn't find out what happens when it's done. What it's like to just--be a part of Decked Out and nothing else. What it feels like to give in completely.

Therefore. Zedaph. Intervention. Pretend he's better than he is so Zedaph doesn't do that. It shouldn't be long now. The amount of time he's aware and Tango is--less. The amount of fear is--it's entirely gone now. The amount he thinks "gee beginning of season Tango would say this is a bad plan" is almost zero.

The game is almost ready to open.

If he can just hold out that long, then there won't be anything anyone could do.

They'll be too busy having fun with the game, anyway. With any luck, no one will notice.

#hermitcraft #tangotek #a bee fic #hey remember the ficlets about decked out eating tango? well. #the thing is: the obvious way decked out eats its players is by killing them. but killing tango isn't the kind of nutrients decked out need #it needs his mind. it needs his hands. it needs him to play his part. #so the easiest thing for decked out to digest away THERE would just be tango's sense of self. #so he's broken down into the most useful component part of himself to the greater organism #and it got to the fear first so he wouldn't realize quite how bad of an idea letting it finish might be. #horror #idk what kind of horror so here take the tag #anyway. this thought won't leave my head so have fun!

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [3/?]

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

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

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

—

It’s fine, until it isn’t.

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

Yves wakes up coughing.

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

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

Fuck. This is not good. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.

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

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

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

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

“What time is it?”

Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”

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

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

“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”

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

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

“What?”

“Were you unable to sleep last night?”

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

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

“I slept fine,” Yves says. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Bless you.”

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

“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.

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

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

“What do you need?” he says, instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he shoots off a quick text—

Y: thanks for the cold meds :)

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

Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh

Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:

V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon

V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch

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

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

Y: jealous! have fun! 

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

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

V: Do you want me to bring anything back?

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

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

Then he sends back to Vincent:

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just because he’s funny?”

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

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

“Coming,” Leon shouts back. 

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m terrified,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess,” Genevieve says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

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

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

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

“There was never any doubt,” she says.

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

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

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

“That you wanted to be with her?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.

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

“They were very nice,” Vincent says.

“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”

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

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

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

“Do you believe in mbarriage?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yves—”

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.

[ Part 4 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #this chapter turned out to be kind of personal to me in some ways? #i am so sorry if it feels uneventful 😭 #i have done so much googling on so many things that did not make it in (and a few that made it in only peripherally) #work is killing me and i am stressed out of my mind so i am posting this before i get swept away and am unable to edit for a week #next chapter will be the wedding for real! #and i will be mean for real when i get to writing it 🙇‍♀️ #yvverse #my fic #thank you to anyone who has left nice tags/comments on previous parts :') it's hard to express the full extent of my gratitude but #thank you for making my life a little happier

[twistedappletree]

when you’re trying to get advice from your friends but you all share 1 collective braincell ✨🧠✨

#also this was for an idea given to me by #feralplantwife #where lsz intentionally kills jl with kindness to the point that he’s in constant crisis lmFAO #mdzs #the untamed #jin ling #lan jingyi #ouyang zizhen #fic wip #mdzs juniors #apple babble 🍎 #zhuiling musings #it’s Zizhen’s time to shine in this scene fr lmaoooo #also feralplantwife tried to tag but tumblrs being weird #anyhooooot #i am WRITING THE TH ING #actually think i might break my fic fast with this one since i haven’t posted anything new since 2024 started 👀 #junior shenanigans #i love writing junior banter fr it fuels me 😭

[byberbunk2069]

Somewhere in Tycho...

#Songbird #Song So Mi #Cyberpunk 2077 #Phantom Liberty #I imagined this as a precursor to that one body horror (kind of) fic I wanna write #but this also works as something between Killing Moon and From Her To Eternity #I think this went better than my Hackers shitpost #mostly because there was more room to move the camera around and I wasn't worrying too much about what I was gonna photoshop later

[crowfaraday]

DL-6 au - 12-28-2002, one year after

#“read my ace attorney fix it fic i promise i dont make miles actually kill a guy by accident” :] // #his eye shaking got kind of lost in the filter but you can see it if you look close // #also i didnt finish this in time for the actual 12/28 oops KJSDFHKH// #blood #gore #motion sickness #flashing images #miles edgeworth #yanni yogi #DL-6 au #ace attorney #gifset #bleeding #motion blur #flashing gif

[karkatbug]

does anyone else have a to do list that includes shit like:

leave nice comment on [davekat] fic

queue more [davekat] posts on tumblr

do laundry [think about davekat laundry scene]

buy groceries

tweet "is it the middle of february yet" to try and manifest an early hs2 update

#ive only recently built back my habit of writing to do lists #and man its kind of embarrassing to look at #i write the fandom stuff as messy as possible so noone but me can decipher it but i truly gotta remind myself to leave comments on fics man #or it doesnt get done and that kills me #anyways where is karkat #its been 3 years #im fuckifng dyinf gscoob #homestuck #hstext #davekat

[tethered-heartstrings]

I know that was a joke post but now I am genuinely curious what Hannibal would want (and be allowed) to have as his last meal.

let me start off by saying this started one place and took a huge turn (sorry) but... this got me thinking. my assumption is he was tried in maryland. maryland abolished the death penalty in 2013, but if he was tried under federal and not state, death penalty is still technically on the table in all 50 states.

unlike other states, maryland does not offer a special last meal to those about to be executed, and they are offered whatever is on the menu at the prison they are residing. i don't think that if he was charged federally it would have necessarily changed his food situation.

given that hannibal was held at bshci, he probably would have had whatever they were serving that day. we saw in s2 with will that it wasn't anything particularly exciting. canned/processed/boxed food. the more gourmet meals he got while imprisoned were definitely due to a special deal he had with alana. it's not directly specified in the show to my knowledge, but pretty sure he got special privileges for helping her and margot. but also if it means hearing him complain less, all the better.

that being said, there is a chance alana would break the maryland tradition and actually offer him a special meal. most requests deny alcohol or tobacco, but again, we're humoring a special meal.

now for the fun part. obviously hannibal wouldn't be given human meat. some inmates in other states asked not only for a meal but to share the meal with someone. and i think hannibal would definitely request to have a last meal with will since the last meal they had together (at least on screen) was the meal before mizumono.

and i think it would be well within the realm for hannibal to want to recreate this meal, maybe even going so far as to ask to make it himself. +/- if alana would allow for that, maybe if everything was precut and he wasn't near anything sharp. if he wanted will to share the meal with him, i'd be curious to see what will would do. he'd know hannibal was on death row, it'd be all over the news, jack would tell him, etc. and i think he would seek out the result of hannibal's trial if he was not sitting in the room as he was sentenced. knowing he indirectly put him there, and i'd place bets on him opening that hand written letter asking for his company one last time and he'd go to see hannibal and share that meal with him. to dine one last time together.

and i wonder how each of them would see it. will never answering if he wanted a sacrifice, yet one now sat across from him. how during the mizumono meal, will said "that'd make this our last supper" to which hannibal responds "of this life" which now truly is the last meal of this life, of hannibal's life. maybe for will, too, in a way. for how good could food taste or sate knowing your conjoined, blurred half is about to die, and that nagging guilt in your chest that it's your fault. and the question of if they could survive separation. and maybe the question was more up in the air when it was possibly hannibal who had to live without him, but now will is faced with the reality that he has to live without hannibal. and in some alternate life it would have been easier to stay with his wife and never see hannibal, but knowing he was alive was enough, and he'd no longer have that crutch.

but hannibal seeing it as almost a redo for before the slaughter in his kitchen. going back to a moment they had some peace, even if brief, life as he knew it was brief now. but still, someone he loved, the only person he loved, sitting across from him eating and drinking wine together. maybe in silence, i don't know. smiles would be exchanged; hannibal's genuinely happy and will's a bit sad. to be so fully and deeply and intimately seen. now there was no running away together anymore. will would leave and hannibal could only hope will would go to his execution.

and i think will would go. i don't know if it would be a "want" situation, but a "need". to see hannibal lecter taken down almost so effortlessly. the unkillable finally killed. the man he couldn't shoot the two times he had a gun in his face, the man he dropped his gun for and let himself be gutted and held by, the man he pulled a knife on and still couldn't take down. ultimately, in a way, will took him down. hannibal surrendered because will rejected him. will didn't need a weapon, he just needed words and a closed off heart. and within minutes, it'd be over.

but what happens after? the remains of inmates not claimed by family get kept in the prison cemetery. hannibal has no family to claim him, will is the closest to family he has. but what if will claims him, then what? will doesn't know what hannibal's final wishes are; to be cremated, buried? maybe he does know without hannibal having to explicitly say. to eat you like the sacrificial lamb you are.

my guess is a body executed via lethal injection (chosen method for maryland) would not be safe to eat. sodium thiopental is a barbituate like the one used for animal euthanasia, but it isn't the part of the "cocktail" that actually causes death. i know animals euthanized (with a different barbituate) and eaten can kill the animal that eats them, so there is a chance eating hannibal could do the same thing. consuming potassium chloride (the deadly part of the injection) in large quantities can cause a lot of side effects/health detriments and in theory, eating enough can cause cardiac failure, but i don't know the oral bioavailabity in comparison to iv.

as romantic as it seems, i don't think will would eat hannibal knowing it could kill him, and tbh, i don't see hannibal wanting will to knowing his death might be imminent. even if it meant being together in the afterlife, that wasn't how will was going to die. like yeah "death only by my hand" but it's not the same. maybe part of will's punishment is having to stay alive without him. i do think hannibal might if the roles were reversed, though.

if will ended up giving hannibal a graveplot (probably unmarked so it doesn't end up desecrated), or even sprinkling his ashes somewhere, i know will would visit him again. maybe not for awhile, maybe denial or anger, but he would go back. i know hannibal said he could never go back to lithuania, so maybe will takes him there and buries him next to mischa so they can be together, finally and forever. maybe he doesn't take him home, knowing how much hannibal stayed away when he was alive. there are a lot of things will could do, tbh.

#will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #hannibal meta #hannigram #hannigram meta #murder husbands #the curious clown #anonymous #did i accidentally write a mini fic or something jfc #sorry anon... #but i technically answered your question...?? #i think will might eat hannibal if he died or was killed outside of prison post fall #but not after imprisonment. bc i think their dynamic is inherently different and they didn't get the same kind of closure as twotl offered #this was such a clusterfuck of just data and info and emotions and meta(?) mixed into it

[avisisisis]

Something I love about ATLA is that it doesn't force the "forgive the villain" on all the characters. It's been left clear that Ozai is a bad person, and there's no chance of redemption; the only reason he's not dead yet is because Aang is a pacifist

The one episode where a character is supposed to forgive someone who has hurt them in the past is the one where Katara is off to kill a man (which, fair) and Zuko helps. In that episode, even if Aang is telling her to let go, she doesn't forgive him. She never will. But she spares him. Not because she thinks he doesn't deserve death (he does), but because she's not willing to continue the cycle of violence

Killing someone can have a very important impact in your entire being, mostly depending on who you are as a person. Aang would've never recovered from killing Ozai. Katara wouldn't be who she is now, had she taken her revenge on the man that killed her mother

And the best part of it is that Ozai doesn't deserve to die. Not in a "I'm defending him" way (ew), but in a "he deserves worse that than" way

Taking away his bending was the perfect punishment for him. He believed bending made you superior and he never cared enough to train something besides his bending. What a loser. Zuko and Azula wouldn't be restrained by something like that

He's alive. Nobody has forgiven him. Nobody ever will

#on a “ozai deserves smth worse than death” mood #which is. my everyday mood but we're not talking about that #read a fic where ppl were mad ozai was still alive #zuko clarified that he's still alive not only bc that's what aang wanted but bc death would be a mercy for him #that's the man who ruined everybody's life(s). you can't tell me we can just let him die like that #and they're not even torturing him. he's just in prison #but he's so fucking weak that not having his bending = torture #pathetic #honestly what did he even do? his entire family was better than him #zuko was better at any kind of fighting and he learned firebending from the fucking dragons #azula is. azula! she bends blue fire and is the best at lighting n stuff #iroh created a whole new bending technique and broke out of prison w no bending #ursa killed the fucking fire lord #i mean sure ozai can shoot lighting out of his hands. but so can iroh! so can azula! #his 14 year old daughter is better than him #she could kick his ass if she wanted #but that's her dad right there and the obssession she has w pleasing him is straight up unhealthy #man. poor azula #anyways back to the point: ozai is pathetic #loserlord indeed #atla #avatar the last airbender #fire lord ozai #zuko #aang #katara #azula #uncle iroh #avis' post #avis talks

[greenerteacups]

hi GT!

Lionheart had me the moment you kicked it off with “it’s a nice day to start again.” Might i ask why you chose that particular line?

And, if you havent already answered to this emoji:

❄️

P.s: you have my eternal gratitude for creating the most brilliant piece of writing i’ll ever read. I shout about it from the rooftops, share it on my socials, requested my spouse to read it so we may discuss it together (in lieu of a present for my 30th birthday), et cetera.

I see from your URL you are a fellow lad of taste.

There's a couple things going on in the epigraph for Book 1. On one level, it's a lyric from the first muggle song I picture Draco listening to on his walkman at the end of the book, so there's a cute full-circle thing there. The second layer is the theme of change and redemption, which, in Lionheart, doesn't so much come from major moments or self-sacrifice, but from the slow, grueling, everyday work of living, and living better. It's a nice day to start again because every day is. You always have the opportunity to start making better choices, no matter what lies behind you. That's the thesis of any Draco redemption arc, right? You have to imagine that he could have chosen to be better.

And then thirdly, there's the audacity of doing a full Hogwarts canon rewrite, a good 30 years after the original books came out, millions upon millions of words of fanfic later, and basically asking everyone to read the same story they did the first time around, only different. So it's a kind of winking entreaty. It's saying to readers, many of whom are understandably wary of doing it over, zeroing out the characters to starting positions, and starting from the beginning with 11-year-olds all over again. It's going: "hey. That was fun, right? Why not do it again?"

#thank you so much for the compliment -- honestly it's terribly kind #i hope your spouse likes it. for their own sake also because by god that is so much assigned reading #you're iconic for that tbh. all birthdays should come with a syllabus #oh! and ❄️ ⇢ what’s your dream theme/plot for a fic #and who would write it best? #tbh i've wanted someone to write a really good pacific rim AU for years and years #and it has always fallen juuuuust low enough on my writing pile for me to never get around to it #like it's always the thing i want to write 3rd most and i only let myself have 2 projects at a time #not sure who would write that best - I think anyone who loves and Gets the movies #the premise of which is 'what if you and your soulmate could pilot a 50-foot mech by having mindsex so good it killed godzilla?' #and if you don't want to stand up and cheer just thinking about that i don't know what to tell you. perhaps you have never seen a movie #also like it's about love and trust and trauma and healing. AND killing really giant monsters #and it takes itself JUST seriously enough to nail all of that without getting mopey or goofy #movie of all time. someday i will kiss guillermo del toro on the lips #in my (delusional) world his oscar win was actually a belated award for pacific rim.

[makotonaegiunderstander]

something I’ve been thinking abt is how many people think Makoto is immune to despair. I don’t think he is. I think becoming the ultimate Hope was BECAUSE he felt despair. He wouldn’t have fully reached that point without Junko. Makoto becoming such a beacon was his last attempt to avoid completely falling and it wasn’t because he didn’t feel despair, it was because he was too damn stubborn to allow everything to go to waste and he refused to sacrifice his beliefs for someone else’s. His inner monologue tells me he DID experience the same new low the other suvivors did in the final trial, but at the point where he had the choice to give up and die, he looked at the others and he looked at Junko and he couldn’t allow it to happen, not out of self preservation, but because the idea that Junko would have control over their lives made him FURIOUS. and that utter refusal to die kicked in, wether luck or otherwise, and he made the concious effort for one last push while something in him was breaking. He had to be broken in order for the Ultimate Hope to come through so aggressively, bc it could only exist in the face of the Ultimate Despair. He snapped the same way she did, but in the other direction. In what could have been his final moments he chose to embody everything Junko wasn’t, and every single optimistic and luck fueled ideal in him suddenly charged forward and pushed him. It was a combination of the final straw and a choice. Makoto isn’t immune to feeling despair, he’s just too stubborn to fall into it of his own volition. I think that’s why I like that scene in DR3 so much. People were SO SHOCKED Makoto actually fell for the tape, that he actually became despair for a moment. I saw people getting mad or disappointed, saying it was pathetic and Makoto seemed to fall from some sort of pedestal for them. Honestly part of me wonders if that sort of mentality, which clearly people had in universe, affected Makoto a bit. Like he started to see himself as less of a person, subconsciously. Prompting him to take more risks, less self preservation, act way more bold. It seems he has to be reminded a lot not to put himself in danger by his friends, to not do something too reckless. All over the place I would see in regards to that scene either this frivolous ‘oh this was just angst drama with no meaning behind it’ or ‘he can do better than that. he’s so weak’ or ‘come on, there’s no way he’d fall into despair, he’s the Ultimate Hope!’ This kind of mentality, which was kind of ironic considering Ryota was there the entire time saying the same thing and treating Makoto the same way. Like Makoto was superhuman. Like Makoto didn’t feel despair the same way ‘normal people’ did. In a way that was also how Munakata saw Makoto. Makoto stopped being a PERSON to the world when he became Ultimate Hope, he became a concept, a belief system, much the same way Junko ascended beyond herself. But the difference is that treating Makoto that way is the opposite of the reason Makoto became such a representative for hope. He wasn’t doing something no one else could. He was doing something everyone had the chance to, he just… was a little more optimistic, a little more stubborn, a little more ‘gung-ho’ about things. He just took the lead where no one else did, where no one else knew they even COULD in the face of Junko’s unstoppable force. She had overcome the biggest threats and obstacles in the world, what could one person do? And the answer Makoto found was, anything. Everything. It doesn’t all rest on Makoto, he’s just the one that was inspired to try to do what seemed like the impossible. But as evidenced by the change in his friends after that trial, it’s clearly not something only Makoto is capable of. The others pulled out of despair thanks to Makoto, but it was their choice to do so.

“But… this world is so huge, and we’re so small. What can we do…? No, we can probably do anything. Yeah! We can do anything!”

#makoto naegi #Danganronpa character analysis #Danganronpa #danganronpa thh #danganronpa future arc #I fucking love Makoto Naegi man. #I think there’s a fine line of nuance to Makoto that’s easy to miss bc he doesn’t really make it known #he’s not a pushover and he’s not overpowered. he’s a people pleaser but he will say what needs to be said #he’s an immovable object and the exact opposite of Junko but he’s also just a normal guy who’s optimistic and (un)lucky #he isn’t invincible but he has immense power to his words the same way Junko did #if anything his superpower is being kind above all else. he’s compassionate to some of the worst people in the world. #he was even conpassionatr to an extent to Junko. he didnt want her to kill herself despite everything she’s done #and he still acknowledges that for years she was a classmate and friend. #I do think the more he learned abt what she did the more he’s come to actually hate her though #post the first game he always refers to her without a suffix to her name which is one of the most subtle rude things you can do #it means you have zero respect for the person you’re referring to #and he speaks about her with some venom he doesn’t use for anyone else in the future arc #he’s not incapable of feeling negative emotions #I really liked the future arc scene bc it showed that Makoto DID experience enough despair to have overcome him if he didn’t refuse #and that it still affects him deeply. people treat him like he’s either this perfect ideal Chad or this baby chick who’s so delicate #and no one really focuses on how makoto shoulders so much and yet is still vulnerable. #honestly that guy was DUE for a mental breakdown even without the tape. it would have happened eventually #I actually wrote one based on him finally hitting a breaking point after giving so much of himself away and keeping nothing for himself #that his issues that he shoves down constantly finally can’t be held down anymore. Hajime helps him bc he knows how that feels #it was a LONG time ago that I wrote that but honestly if I can remember where i was going w it I might finish it #it was initially an rp but I could make it a fic #anyway. the point is Makoto is SO much more complex than people give him credit for #the most fundamental thing about him is that he’s normal and that’s ok! that’s what helps him rise!

[amarriageoftrueminds]

fucked-up fic idea:

Y'know that one hannigram time travel au where they both travelled so far back in time that Will woke up as a 10 year old and Hannibal was able to rescue Mischa??

Well what if: A) Hannibal was much younger when Mischa died (more like 12), and B) they had the same age-difference as Mads and Hugh?

That would mean Will waking up, potentially, trapped in his infant body rather than his child body?? and being stuck that way for years until he can grow up again? 😬 And what if Hannibal knew that would probably happen, but did it anyway??

#hannibal nbc #hannigram #murder husbands #ficbunny #au idea #hannibunny #amotm this is my design #dat's me #meta: hannibal #you can't kill the meta #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal & will's terrible adventure #how do I tag this?? body horror? is it body horror? age dysmorphia?? #I'm not stoned I swear #like I just thought what a mind-bending fic that would make #the logistics of will having to handle that #being SO UTTERLY FURIOUS with hannibal for doing it to him/them when he catches him #[ cue scene of 8 year old will trying to strangle 18 year old hannibal who is beaming at how adorable he is ] #day care providers and teachers being like 'this child is either gifted or possessed' #will being like 'this is a living nightmare' #but also 'pls don't trap me in a room full of toddlers for multiple hours 5 days a week I can't stand noise' #knowing him he'd probably turn it into some kind of Hard Candy AU #I can see de-ageing not being a problem for hannibal #because being with mischa again would make the time fly #and also he would see it as getting to spend his WHOLE life with will this time #and also probably he would be killing SO MANY child predators y'all #SO MANY

[aparticularbandit]

imagine your favorite fashion guru on tiktok/instagram/youtube. very good about giving all the tips, about explaining things in a way that you can follow. shows cool ways to do make-up, how to sew missing buttons or replace zippers, to add patches to punk jackets, even hair dye tips - and the best brands for your buck! and very good about stories during the whole thing; you never get bored!

then you hear about something really bad happening in her country, and the videos stop for a while. you miss her, of course, but you get it. you wouldn't upload under the circumstances either. of course, you and a bunch of her other followers leave a lot of positive comments on her last video - the one that explains why she might not be updating for a while.

months pass. every now and again you check on her channel. you're subscribed, so you'd get an email for a new video, but. just in case, you know? and sometimes you go through the old videos. they're just so comforting. you wonder how she's doing. you hope she's doing okay.

one day, you get the email that she's been active again! you automatically check it out. looks like she and a bunch of her friends from school have decided to take shelter in an abandoned school building. they've completely locked themselves in, but she assures you that everyone is going to be just fine! it's just kind of boring in there and everything. but the headmaster has given her permission to do videos again; he doesn't think it's a threat at all!

so now you get a lot of videos. daily content. not just your guru giving her normal tips and tricks, but more real life stuff. she brings in some of her friends, and they all seem really sweet. they livestream video games every now and again, and sometimes she ropes them into doing jackbox stuff so even the viewers can get involved! it's entirely different, but you're addicted. especially when she has a set time every day for her streams and then others around that! and of course, it's so great to leave comments to make everyone feel better, what with everything they're going through.

sometimes, she cries on camera. it's really, really rough. but she thanks you - all of her viewers - for being there for her through everything. it's so nice of all of you. she'd thought you would leave after everything or that the abrupt change of content would cause her to lose viewers. then she says that, you know, given everything, viewer count's not so important to her anymore. she just wants you to know that she's still here, she's still alive, and that they're all going to try and do their best to survive together.

it feels like everyone you know is following her now, tuned into her life, the lives of her friends, their struggles. it's a weird sort of thing; you all have your favorites, but you don't really hate anyone either because...those are real people on the screen. you love all of them. but you love your girl the best. she was the first. of course, you love her.

one day, the live stream starts, and it's...different.

there's a bear? and something about murder? and none of your comments are getting through to anyone anymore. and it's just the bear playing moderator? and the headmaster is...gone? and so is one of the students?

only you look closer - you know what your girl looks like, you know - and that's...that's her sister dressed up as her, you're sure of it. which means your girl is missing.

something's...something's wrong. it's weird. you don't like it, but you can't stop following it. because...well.

there's a bunch of theories. maybe it's like when markiplier did one of his movies or whatever. maybe they were just so bored that they decided to do a movie series or something like that?

and then you see one of the students murder another one on screen.

and then the bear kills your girl's sister.

and you can't look away.

(junko enoshima trends on twitter for over a month, even through the other murders.)

#musings #bandit fic #danganronpa #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #dr1 #junko enoshima #sorry this just kind of immediately in my head #like - junko WOULD have a channel #and she WOULD do all of this #and then all of a sudden THAT is where the killing game is streaming #and all of her millions of followers just #glued to the screen

[fruitybashir]

i will not write a dick sucking stool oneshot i will not write a dick sucking stool oneshot i will not write a dick sucking stool oneshot

#im in the middle of a VERY sweet jance scene thank you very much but the images are too much sjfk #you guys are killing me i did not expect these kinds of discussions when logging on today sjfkd #rambles #def will not write it i dont think im capable of writing anything even remotely crack fic im sorry but. its happening in my mind

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

“It looks like you’re in trouble there. Can I help?”

Tom has had the unfortunate displeasure of ending up in a few uncomfortable situations throughout his life. Needless to say, he’d rather these situations stay between him, himself, and he.

However, that is not always the case.

He can remember his first year and how he sank into the small marsh area in the corner of the common room with startling clarity. It did not matter that it was nearly a rite of passage to fall prey to the trick carpet hiding the deceptively deep water. His embarrassment burnt like a cauldron fire. And the giggling of his schoolmates still grates in the dark when his eyes have shut, and he tries to drift off to sleep.

Tom can even remember that time Amy Benson was dared to kiss him. How he’d flinched so badly, his head reared up and back with force strong enough to make her nose bleed. How she cried and cried and cried, dripped blood everywhere, and rubbed her arm harshly across her lips. Tom can hear her shouts, “So gross! Whatta monster!” as loud as the morning rain when it pelts against his room’s window panes at the orphanage.

More recently, Tom remembers the harsh face of rejection. So much like his own… but he feels the sting of that soothing with time, and with each turn of the family ring he wears with vicious pride.

And today, when Tom decided to patrol the castle’s upper levels once curfew set, he hoped his small and insignificant blunder would stay just that: his.

And yet.

“Seriously, are you alright down there?”

Tom looks up, a frown tugging at his lips and a glare sharp enough to cut. “Clearly,” he starts, sarcasm scathing, “I’ve never been better, Potter.”

And Harry Potter merely stands there, hands on his knees, smiles his stupid crooked smile and cocks a brow. “Oh? So I can go then?”

Tom hates him. Tom hates him enough to curse him. Maybe even curse him dead. “Yes. I don’t need your help,” and knowing you, you’ll just make everything worse, Tom doesn’t say.

But he’s almost confident that’ll be the case. Potter has an odd habit of ending up in odder places and dealing with the oddest circumstances. Though, even Tom can recognise that he has a natural talent for wiggling his way out of them. Abraxas has a running gag, keeping a ‘comprehensive list’ of situations the new transfer student has wound up in and a matching list of dramatic and ridiculous things he thinks Potter will do next.

Surprisingly, Potter has managed to cross three things off that list.

Most of Slytherin agrees it’s his Gryffindor nature, and the red tie certainly contributes to that argument. But there have been moments. Quiet and scarcely there, barely under the surface, something that flickers when Tom catches Potter at just the right instant, just the right angle… that has Tom wondering.

Even now, when Tom blinks, he swears the stripes on Potter’s undone tie, thrown carelessly over one shoulder and dangling down as he looks over Tom, is a green that rivals his eyes.

“Come on, Riddle. You can’t mean that.” Potter huffs, exasperated, “I mean, look at you.”

Ah, yes. Tom can admit that falling off the astronomy tower and dropping his wand in his panic to grab the ledge was not something he’d anticipated.

That didn’t mean Potter had to rub it in.

“I don’t see a problem,” Tom grits out. Just go away, his eyes scream. As though Potter is smart enough to know legilimancy, laughable. Please. He’s hardly aware enough to pick up common social cues.

Potter lowers further, squatting on his haunches. His hand reaches out and traces the tower’s edge like he can’t help himself, like flirting with danger. “So this was part of your plans this evening? You decided to run your rounds and thought, Goodness! Do you know what would be lovely? A nice little hop off the astronomy tower!”

“Was that irritating voice meant to be an impression of me?”

“Not to you’re liking? That’s a shame; I’ve been practising since I was twelve.”

Tom rolls his eyes so hard he sees spots. “You didn’t know me when you were twelve.”

Potter just keeps smiling.

Tom snaps, “What exactly is it that you want?”

“I already told you. It looks like you’re in trouble, I happen to be an expert on trouble, and I’m offering you help,” Potter says and crawls forward until he can comfortably stretch his arm down to Tom.

And Potter, with his stupid quidditch body and toned arms, could probably lift Tom up easily. It just infuriates him more. “I would rather fall.”

“And die?” Potter asks. There’s something off about his smile when he says it. Something that sends a chill down Tom’s spine.

It’s said with a little too much knowing for Tom’s taste.

His disquiet lingers long enough for Potter to speak up again, “What were you doing up here anyway?”

Given the placement and fullness of the moon and the fact they are nearing the dawn of Capricorn’s sky, Tom thinks it rather obvious what he is attempting to do at the top of the astronomy tower. Admittedly, rituals of this nature may be a league above anything Potter is aware or tolerant of, so maybe obvious is too generous an assumption.

Regardless, it’s not something Tom is going to brag about. “Prefect rounds.”

Potter actually laughs in Tom’s face, “Yeah, right. And I’m just here to gaze at the pretty little stars!”

Tom’s eyes narrow, “And what is it that you are doing here, Potter?”

Potter grins a wide closed mouth thing. “Stalking you, of course, Riddle.” Tom frowns, unamused, as Potter carries on, “It’s one of my favourite pastimes, foiling your small schemes.”

And for a moment, Tom almost rolls his eyes again, annoyed and fed up with Potter’s antics and this ridiculous position he’s found himself in. But there’s something about the tone of Potter’s voice, the way he says it so carelessly, harmlessly, that has the hair on Tom’s neck standing straight up. Like a warning, like danger.

With an outside awareness, Tom carefully reviews memory after memory of his recent string of (he hesitates to use the word, but) failures. How one too many times this past week something has gotten in the way of his budding connections with purebloods, or his ability to meet with his knights, or his evening strolls through Ravenclaw territory to sweet talk the Grey Lady into revealing the hiding place of Ravenclaw’s lost Diadem.

It startles Tom to realise that these strange and unaccounted-for mishaps all have one thing in common: Harry Potter.

Potter, who has recently taken it upon himself to spur on cross-house relations. Encouraging people of all ilk to get along even if it means dragging them into conversations (or casual quidditch matches) kicking and screaming. Thus causing Tom’s carefully planned run-ins with certain influential and affluential children of ministry officials and the scared twenty-eight alike to miraculously not be on their habitual routes that Tom has spent years learning.

Potter, who was responsible for the prank flooding in the room Tom’s knights used to meet. His insistent apologies profused left and right— not for the flooding itself, but because he flooded the wrong room. Tom gave it a pass at the time because they were so close to the Gobstones Club, but what if it was intentional all along?

Potter, who was often seen prowling around the fifth and fourth floors due to his frequent visits to the hospital tower. He had struck an unlikely friendship with the normally timid Grey Lady, and Tom had found them in soft blue evening light, Potter’s form stark through the Grey Lady’s transparent hovering, talking quietly a few handfuls of times. And how has Tom not realised all of this sooner?

It’s not like Potter is trying to be subtle, after all.

Suddenly, Tom feels very wary. “Potter…you wouldn’t have anything to do with my current predicament, would you?”

“I would never come up here an hour before you and cast aguamenti on the stone to let the naturally brisk December evening work its wonders and produce a nearly invisible sheet of ice for you to slip on, Riddle. And I’m offended you’d ask,” Potter deadpans.

Tom feels his eye twitch. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You really need a new hobby, Riddle.” Now Potter is the one rolling his eyes. “Just take my hand, and I’ll help you up.”

Tom scoffs, “You orchestrated my near catastrophic fall, and you expect me to just trust you’ll not drop me?”

Potter raises a brow, looks left, looks right, and back to Tom. “I’m sorry. Did you have any other way out of this? Because from the looks of things, you’re pretty fucked. And I don’t believe I have to remind you that it’s Christmas Hols, so no one is likely to check on the tower till after the break. Which means you could be here for days.”

Tom, for a moment, can’t find the words. He just stares in open mouth horror at Potter. “You… how did you sort Gryffindor?”

“I asked,” Potter smiles like that absolutely ridiculous answer is something very clever. For all Tom knows, it probably is.

Insanely, all Tom can think about is how Abraxas would be able to cross attempted murder off his comprehensive list.

Tom knows he doesn’t have the time nor energy to mull over Potter’s offer of help any longer but does so anyway just to watch Potter shake his head in growing disbelief. Then he sighs and says, “Fine,” with much reluctance.

Potter reaches down, stretching as far as possible, and Tom makes the risky decision to drop hold of the ledge with one of his hands. He wills himself to ignore the painful burn of the reach and the paranoid feeling of numbness from the cold on his remaining grip and meets Potter halfway. Their hands touch, and Tom feels an instant relief.

The relief is short-lived.

“Swear to me,” Potter starts, not pulling Tom up, “Riddle, swear to me right now that you’ll never make another Horcrux again.”

Tom rears back in shock, the jerked motion tugging harshly on Potter’s hold. He sees Potter’s brow furrow at the pain, no doubt, and feels vicious satisfaction through the raging scream echoing loudly in Tom’s very being.

“What?” Tom hisses, and it dawns on him quickly that this had been Potter’s goal all along. Potter wasn’t some annoying idiot attempting to be a thorn in Tom’s side; he was a Slytherin in Gryffindor’s skin, plotting and crafting and scheming his way to tonight, to this moment. To Tom’s ruining.

“I know I’m too late for the others,” Potter grimaces, and his displeasure is an ugly taut thing that Tom wants to see and cause a hundred times over. “But I can stop any more you’ve planned. I can at least do this much.”

Tom feels a bubble of laughter building and is helpless when it bursts hysterically and loudly in the quiet winter night. “Potter, if you know oh so much about my supposed Horcruxes, then you know what they do. You know what they’re for.” Tom deliberately loosens his hold and feels a rush of heady elation at the panic in Potter’s eyes, at the sudden tighter grip he holds Tom with.

“You know that if I fall, I’ll just come back.”

Potter nearly snarls, his lips pulling back to show straight white teeth. Tom’s sure their bite is as crushing as his bark. “Yeah, sure, Riddle. And you’ll just be a wraith or whatever until you somehow get a new body.” Tom tuts, disappointed and wildly pleased that Potter had clearly done his research. “Call me crazy, but I doubt your current little followers have enough wits about them to build you a whole new body from scratch. And I doubt you’ve had the time to actually prepare such a failsafe yourself while stuck at Hogwarts most of the year and at your Orphanage for the rest.”

It’s the most Potter has ever said to him, Tom thinks, and it’s dizzying. But he isn’t done, “I’d say that’s plenty of time, wouldn’t you, to find your other Horcruxes and make sure you can never come back.”

Potter says this like a promise. Like it would be far too easy. Tom’s terrified. But, madly, a blistering heat crawls up his neck and to his cheeks, pushing through all of his coursing fear—or worse yet, instigated by it—and his stomach lurches like a swarm have taken home there; he knows it’s not from his anger.

With a dry mouth and eyes only for the wild, determined thing clutching his hand for dear life, Tom nods. “I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, vow to you, Harry Potter, to never make another Horcrux again.”

And when Potter promptly lifts Tom up and back into the tower, safely and gently, and shortly abandons him to its stark winter quiet, he makes another vow. Just to himself.

You will be mine, Harry Potter.

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #pov: tom #my fic #2.2k words #fic: like a parasite (kill my butterflies) #hi hello #i'm back so soon #this one is for racfoam because you are far too kind